Sometimes I need to make statements to the universe to affirm what I want the universe to bring me, whether it be money, love, a career or any other material objects.

"Attention, Universe! I want a loving relationship with an attractive man in a high income bracket who has worked through most of his issues in or out of therapy and who doesn't mind spending the occasional holiday with highly dysfunctional in-laws!"

Making statements to the universe allows me to practice thinking about what I want.

"Attention, Universe! Please deliver me a career that allows me to have my own schedule, make lots of money, and make use of my many creative talents!"

What I have learned through various chanellers is that it is my job to ASK the universe for what I want, it's the Universe's job to DELIVER the goods, and then it is my job (again) to RECEIVE.

"Attention, Universe! This is the last request for now. Please lead my family into a very skilled, loving therapists' office so that they can learn to love each other and have more fulfilling lives!"

Just for today, I can ask the Universe for what I need.

9:00 am - Keyboards don't work very well when you spill coffee on them.

11:13 am- I wish I didn't know that human beings are dandruff machines and the latches in toilet stalls most likely never get cleaned.

12:48 pm - I think I need a hug from my mom. I'll even take one from someone who looks like her.

2:19 pm - Having a bad childhood and going to therapy does not make one deep. Neither does having a good childhood, not going to therapy, smoking pot, getting sober, meditating, or doing Yoga. I am happy to be the judge of all depth.

3:30 pm - There's absolutely no way I'll ever find out if my college boyfriends have googled me (unless, of course, I run into them and they tell me).

5:00 pm - The world will never know the extent of my ignorance of history, politics, and the history of politics because I'm so good at nodding.

5:30 pm - My future husband will have to be comfortable with my random, apparently sourceless burstings into tears.

1. Win an Academy Award.
2. Win an Emmy.
3. Buy a new bra.
3. Own a house on the beach in Mexico.
4. Take a trip around the world.
5. Learn how to change a tire.
5. Have two kids
6. Find someway to become a millionaire
7. Wash comforter.
6. Learn to cook like a gourmet chef
7. Have floors of house (or mansion) redone with Brazilian wood.
8. Learn to appreciate the flavors of kale.
9. Save the country from fascism.
10. Learn how to play "The Rainbow Connection" on guitar.

Just for today, I have many goals for my life.

Let go and let God. I'm a human being, not a human doing. Live and let live. Whenever I point a finger, there are three pointing back at me (or something like that). Wherever I go...there I am. The mind is a dangerous neighborhood, don't go in there alone. I'm part of the solution, not the problem. We are as sick as our secrets. Life flowly. More will be revealed.

Just for today, I can regurgitate recovery slogans.

I got a really nice e-mail from a friend/reader-of-my-blog who wrote about taking new chances with his life. I felt happy to read it because it mirrors what I'm going through in my own life. I have never felt more terrified and excited and depressed and hopeful all at the same time. But I think this is the way life is supposed to feel. It's not supposed to be a routine driven by the timely consumption of lattes and Krispy Kreme donuts. Life, when lived properly, is perpetually uncertain, surprising, and revelatory.

And if you really want to know just what I'm talking about, try being self-employed (if you aren't already). OR, if you've mastered the aforementioned task, try pursuing your deepest desires. Both are teaching me to live in the present moment like never before.

Just for today, I am boldly stepping out into my life.

It started out as a rudimentary cleaning out of 2005 receipts and bills, and became a full-on decluttering frenzy, the kind you have to run with when the spirit moves you because it only happens once every few years. Sure, my apartment looks organized and spotless on the outside, but all you have to do open up a drawar to see the last 33 years of my life explode onto in all of it's 80's, 90's, and 00' splendor. Despite my wanting to believe that I am above the obsessiveness of the average American consumer, my decluttering session has taught me that I am indeed a magnet for useless crap and other odds and ends that I have either purchased or that was given to me by some of my many relatives and friends (who, no doubt, love me and whose generosity is not to blame for the way I store my belongings).

To my own surprise and chagrin, I own the following:

1) A giant case of eyeshadow (when and how I came to obtain this, I couldn't tell you...but all I can say is that I there was no need to purchase eye shadow back in November).
2) Enough emory boards to supply the Vietnamese owned nail salon down the street for a month (I dated a lawyer who tried a case for an emory board manufacturing company. The relationship didn't last, but my supply of nail filers did...it was four years ago!)
3) About five cute little cloth bags for jewelry and four little boxes filled with earrings (what can I say? I am loved by people who like to buy me earrings that may or may not match my tastes...What are my options? Re-gift? Or hope my tastes change? I think I'm headed towards a garage sale...)
4) Five packets of incense (these were all given to me as gifts...is this a hint? Does my apartment smelll?).
5) One scary jewelry box that I'm afraid to open because it's the land of lost earrings from high school till college (I vow to someday take everything in there and create an art project dedicated to the beauty of the lost pair of an earring...I suppose it's some kind of metaphor about singlehood, but I'll wait till it's finished to figure it out).
6) About 4,345 books of matches (I don't smoke, so how I collect books of matches is a true mystery...)
7) 40 extra Christmas lights.
8) Five chapsticks or lipsticks.
9) Five hair clips, three head bands, and two 1950's style hair rollers that belonged to my grandmother.
10) Five samples of hair gels and shampoos that I picked up and never actually sampled (is this fun or what?).
11) Three sets of forks and napkin that came with take-out (I saved them for lunch, but unfortunately in the wrong drawar).
12) A miniature bottle of tabasco sauce and Fanta drink that once were attached to magnets.
13) Two pairs of Sally Jessie Raphael style glasses from high school (WHAT was I thinking?!)
14) And lots and lots of little paper clips, nails, and pins!

Boy, I'm really glad that's out of my system. Is it really 2006?

Just for today, I can declutter.

...which surprised me. Because that's not what "mature" people do when they get annoyed (so I hear). However, instead of acting on this thought, I felt my feelings and reflected on how right I am. I've actually never bitch slapped anyone in my life and really wouldn't know the first thing about it. I just thought it was interesting thought...have my hormone levels have gone up?

Just for today, I can self-reflect.

I had a dream a few weeks ago that I was traveling North on the 101 on a unicycle at the speed of 70 mph. The wind was in my face (somehow I was cool with no windshield) and I kept thinking, "I can't keep going this fast, I can't keep going this fast." And so I got off the freeway even though I hadn't yet arrived at my destination. I was scared I would crash and then never reach it. Sometimes I'm not sure if life is moving that fast, or if it's me. Everything is coming at me and it's all I can do to look for an off-ramp. The closest I can get to one involves spending far too much money at the Nine West, Targae, or the MAC counter. All I can say is that there are places I'm destined to arrive at whether I want to or not and it takes all the courage I can muster to stay on the road.

Just for today, I can have the courage to travel at the speed of life.

Ok, so I finally got my ass on MySpace.com along with the masses of humanity under the age of 30 (trying to keep up with the kids)....So, what's the big ole deal, anyway? A bunch of people yappin' about themselves. I've been doing that for ages over here. I mean if everyone jumps off a bridge, does that mean that I have to?! Well, if the alternative is a creeping existential loneliness that makes me question my self-worth and ability to connect with the humanity, then the answer is "Yes!"

I've decided that it takes a lot of inner-strength to be yourself in this world. It helps if you're weird (well, it's helped me), but in the end we are social animals.

Just for today, I can conform to mass culture.

No, I don't want to be friends with Maniac or Biff or Magic or any other lonely male haunting the proverbial hallways of this cybermall. They kind of remind me of the guys in junior high and high school who lurked around the bathroom and never went to class. Except now they are grown and have jobs and Internet access...it's dangerous out there! It's like a 70's bar scene exploded in cyberspace. It's way too much information, much more than I need to know about any acquaintance, let alone a total stranger. I think I'll have to be a casual user, as ignorance is bliss.

Just for today, I am stepping away from MySpace.com.

I went to a party last night. I wasn't really in the mood to socialize because I was feeling a little unfabulous. But since I'm single and must appease the Gods of Youth and Fun (as well as meet potential relationship prospects), I dragged my friend and my ass across town to the 323 area code (I may as well have been flying to China). I also needed somewhere to wear one of my fabulous new sundresses. If there is ever a place to wear a sundress, it's in Silver Lake in the summer (I could wear them to work, but I'd freeze under the air conditioning).

So there I was riding on the energy of my fabulous sundress from H & M (this store, by the way, is the perfect ice breaker topic with any woman in the Western world), but not quite feelin' the magic, when I meet the Perfect Couple. Mind you, most people in a relationship without any overt signs of abuse seem like the Perfect Couple to me. I keep meeeting these people lately and they generally annoy me with their understated, loving connection. But what made this couple seem MORE perfect is that the female portion of it had the career that my mother would KILL for me to have (fortunatley, she hasn't killed anyone, yet). So, there I was in my H & M sundress talking to the Perfect Couple Female Half Who Has the Life I Was Supposed to Have (or thought I was supposed to have) and writhing with jealousy and envy (what's the difference, really?) in Silver Lake on a hot summer night...this is why I don't go out. This is why I also lived in under a rock for so many years.

I consoled myself with some chocolate ice cream and a lovely fruit cake (a veritable Kiwi and strawberry work of art) that I waited around for someone else to destroy (who wants to be the person to cut the lovely fruit cake?) before I had the epiphany or realization or awareness, or whatever you want to call it, that maybe...just maybe, I was not living the Perfect Couple Lady's life for a reason...as fabulous as her life looks, it's not mine. Weirdness ensued.

Maybe I never wanted that career, maybe there is no such thing as the Perfect Couple...maybe it's all a giant mind-fuck whose purpose is to obliterate all sparks of confidence...A giant paradigm shift followed and a large trunk of baggage got dropped off in Pheonix (I know this is a weird metaphor, but I'm just going to go with it).

Just for today, I can be social.

I went Salsa dancing with a male friend last night and heard for the tenth time the following words:

"Let me lead!"

Putting aside the fact that salseros (male salsa dancers) have serious control issues (let's face it, it's a great way to meet women), letting myself be led is a very big challenge for me. I've spent much of my life trying to figure out how to live, do the right thing, and make life work for me. What I didn't get is that you can't get life to work in the same way that you can't get a wave to work. All you can do is ride it out. If I can't salsa with life (can I mix anymore metaphors?...I seriously started this blog with the best of literary intentions), the last thing I'm going to trust to lead me is a guy (I just wasn't raised that way...right mom?). But now I see that it's about letting go and trusting something...anything.

Just for today, I can be led.

P.S. Can I just applaud my awesome consistency at blogging of late (except for Saturday)?!

I came home tonight and crashed on my couch and did nada. Why? Because I can.

Just for today, I'm glad I don't have kids.

Last night my good friend suggested that perhaps I'm over-indentifying with the label, "S.I.N.G.L.E,"... even if I do qualify it with "and fabulous" as stated so eloquently in Season Two of Sex and the City (LOVE THAT SHOW!)

In truth, I have a hard time walking around just telling people I'm "fabulous" (even though I am). So, why am I so comfortable advertising my single status, an act driven by my less-than-fabulous feelings about myself? Because I'm extremely co-dependent and I'm trying to connect with my "audience" by being down-on-her-luck single girl (hey, it worked for Bridget Jones). Sadly, I think I've been supported in this view by culture. Being self-deprecating can be very disarming in our hyper-active, super-competitive, 24-Hour-Fitness, $400 jeans, culture. That's why we have magazines devoting to tearing down absolutely fabulous beautiful people and ripping out the various manifestations of their humanity...divorce, addiction, and cellulite...because nobody wants to feel that their life would only be different without that weakness for Krispy Kreme (though, I, personally, don't get it...for me it's Bran Muffins and soy lattes...which will still do a number on my thighs). But it's not my job to make everyone around me comfortable.

Just for today, I'm more than just single and fabulous (though, I am that, too).

I had lunch with my friend and her new infant this morning. It always happens when I'm around new mothers. My attitude towards child rearing swings dramatically from a pat "She's cute and all, but I just don't get it," to "I wonder if ______ would be interested in being a father?" It must be hormones because nothing else could explain how my feelings towards children could change on a dime. One time, I woke up in the middle of the night and made a mental note to call my favorite Gay Boyfriend and ask him if he would like to have a child with me. When the morning came, the idea seemed ludicrous. The hormonal surge must have passed. I guess it makes sense. What else but biology would compel anyone to sacrifice their personal freedom and the next twenty years to the care of another?

Just for today, I'm contemplating having children.

During the day I work my self to the bone in the frenetic mostly caucasian highway of corporate America. At night I dance myself into a whirling dervish (as my salsa chica calls it) in the largely Latino world of hyper LA salsa. The harder I work, the more I want to dance. The more I dance, the more energy and passion I can bring to my work. Perhaps, at some point, I'll explode and there will be nothing left but some salsa shoes, glitter, and project schedules. But for now, my vida loca is definitely more interesting and and exciting than ever before. If I've learned anything (and chances are good that I haven't), it's that life is too short to play it safe and wait for the right time, the right perfect circumstance, or the right age to do what brings me joy and to give all I have.

Just for today, I feel alive.

I just wrote a note to myself to make sure I buy a label maker and grain jars this weekend. So, I guess I really don't have a life (I'll blame it on hormones).

Just for today, I accept my obsessive compulsive nature.

My cube is right by the snack table and I practically went deaf today with the sound of chips crunching in my ear all day...damn software engineers and their guacamole. Thank God for Evil Flash Programmer (he's only evil with code) for making my work life sane. He called me this morning to tell me that he was running late. He had tried calling his manager, but he hadn't arrived at work yet (people come in late...thank God). He thanked me for answering my phone, thereby, acknowledging that he's alive and breathing. A fact, he went on to tell me, that he reminds himself of every morning when he wakes, right before asking himself, "Is this what life is supposed to be like?" I suppose a lot of people ask themselves that question, right before putting on a steely face of confidence and venturing out into the world. But how many people admit it?

Just for today, I love Evil Flash Programmer.

I don't have to report in for jury duty on Monday...so, there is a God (he/she just doesn't always see the big picture...).

I sent my office a message asking them to send a little prayer asking the universe to make sure I don't have to serve jury duty. I know there are more important things in the world to pray for, like maybe the end of violence, hunger, poverty, and global microwaving, but it felt like the universe was dead set on making sure nobody showed up at work during the busiest time ever in a grand conspiracy to make me start my long-overdue drinking problem (I'm always behind schedule). Next week Evil Flash Programmer is flying his bride in from Brazil and getting married (so inconsiderate...where are his priorities?!), and everyone else is on vacation or on some fun company-sponsored trip (so, if I'm going to miss work, it sure as hell isn't going to be to serve the state of California!)...Besides no competent lawyer would pick someone as judgemental as myself to sit on their jury. I would absolve a murderer because I thought he was cute (my therapist is on it), and convict a seemingly innocent person because I didn't like his shirt...(not really, I'm just practicing in case I get called in on Tuesday)...

I tried getting an appointment today to get my hair trimmed, thereby, letting go of the last annoying strands of blond highlights that are hanging on in a nagging reminder of my pathetic betrayal of self. It was really a temporary rebellion against my mom's prejudice towards blond hair (or rather society's institutionalized preference for light skinned blond people). Since I started dancing salsa the power of blond hair over Latino guys has become strikingly clear. It's like some magical magnetic power. Not to make a political statement out of hair (because if you're blond you're blond, more power to you) but I don't want to be noticed because I'm fair skinned in a dark skinned community (and I do think more Latino guys asked me to dance because my hair dresser put some chemicals in my hair and made me sit under a hot dryer for $70 bucks...thank God I don't have to do that anymore...).

Just for today, I can be brunette and jury duty-free.

I think it's a combination of the bagel I ate this morning, the sudden slow down of an over- stimulating summer (stress, salsa, more stress, monstrous loads of caffeine, more salsa, and, lastly, even more stress) and some personal drama (I'm saving it for the novel I'm planning to write when I'm 82). Since we completed all the loose ends of the THE PROJECT and Evil Flash Programmer abandoned us (did I mention everyone left LA...can you tell I have - big therapy word coming up - "abandonment issues") in order to get married in Vegas (where are his priorities?!...at least he opted out of the Vampire wedding), I've been happily bored (the way God intended August to be). Lately, I've found myself doing some outlandishly out-of-the-ordinary things like reading books, riding my bike on the beach, and chatting with my neighbors about The Parking Situation...here it's almost Labor Day and I feel like I just woke up to summer. The lesson: there's a fine line between being chill and in a coma, and I finally get why old people sit on the front "stoop" (the best word in the English language) and watch the kids play ball or text message their agents...

With that said, I will admit that I've been feeling a little bit lost lately...(work and stress is a great distraction from finding one's purpose in life). It's actually a place where I've spent most of my life, marked by the occasional moment of clarity when everything seems laid out like the first day of school syllabus that your English teacher hands out...despite the fact that you know he's never going to follow it, it gives you a sort of comfort. But then there are times like Now, when all I can do is make sure I like the cup of coffee I'm drinking (I will drive my ass to Peet's if need be), pay my bills on time, floss regularly, and try not to spend too much time in the frozen food aisle of Trader Joe's...

Just for today, I can be in another coma.

I spend so much time whining about my imperialistic life that I thought I would take a moment to inform whoever cares and/or is judging me and/or could use such judgement against me (Santa Claus?) that I am capable of momentary (however fleeting) happiness [and it's not related to my new purchase from The Gap (don't ask) and afternoon chocolate...k' maybe a little].

No, it's because I feel loved.

There's this Salsa Guy who hangs out at my dance rehearsals who shared with me an abbreviated version of a quote by Mother Teresa.

"It's about the poverty of the west," said Salsa Guy (Latinos have no interest in accuracy...yes, I am judgemental).

I later found on the Internet. It goes:

"In the West there is loneliness, which I call the leprosy of the West. In many ways it is worse than our poor in Calcutta."

Right on, sister (literally)!

She also said:

"There is a terrible hunger for love. We all experience that in our lives -- the pain, the loneliness. We must have the courage to recognize it. The poor you may have right in your own family. Find them. Love them."

I knew there was a reason I never felt too sorry for poor people. Sure, they don't have food, shelter, or The Gap...but, in my limited experience, they do seem so much happier than 90% of CostCo shoppers (except for the ones in line at In n' Out...). Nothing personal against the west...we're just way overfed, overshopped, and under-connected.

Just for today, I feel loved and in a good mood.

Sorry, my blogs have been very short and not that sweet. That's because I've handed my soul over to The Man. It's far less emotionally exhausting than writing, yet much more time consuming. Not to mention, it's hard on my butt. I haven't sat this much since my last gig.

I'm wondering if principals (i.e., integrity) are a myth in 2008 America. Or, never existed. Certainly, one can't make a living in 2008 America with them. OR, I'm just a shallow, American consumer looking for the best shoe deal at DSW.

Just for today, I've left my integrity in the unemployment line.

P.S. I never stood in the unemployment line (I even lie in my blog).

Without being too explicit, I'll just say that I have recently encountered a group of people who are living in 1990.

I've said it before (and I don't know if I'll say it again...), that if there's one thing that I've learned in the past 36 years - and is a syndrome that I live in fear of - is that we are all susceptible to a little known disease that I refer to as the Stuck In A Previous Decade Syndrome (I'm working on a shorter name), whose symptoms consist of embodying the spirit, customs, music, and, in a worst case scenario, fashion sense of a previous decade. It could be the last one, or it could be three decades ago. Usually, as someone once told me, it's the decade in which said person had the most sex and felt the hottest. If life is good the way it is, why be open to change?

For this particular group, mostly men in their late 30's and early 40's, that decade was the late 80's or early 90's. These guys are like the hot cool guys that Ralph Macchio fought in Karate Kid, only twenty years down the road. I'm not saying they would swipe anyone's foot in a championship karate match, but they might shed a tear or two listening to Survivor.

Ok, 'nuff said. Because I feel like I'm being mean, I will qualify that I am PMSing...

Just for today, I can hope and pray that I never suffer unknowingly from SIAPDS.

Last night, in an effort to further decompress from my compulsively over-busy, over-extended and over-salsified lifestyle, as well as to bond with La Familia, I saw Twilight with two of my aunts and my 13-year-old cousin. She had already seen it once and while admitting that it was "pretty stupid," but had no problem sitting through it again. I was never one to let bad acting keep me away from charming, HOT guys, forget about a vampire. Talk about the perfect bad boy! Talk about unavailable! You don't get much more unavailable than an immortal consumer of human flesh. Needless to say, Edward Cullen is my kind of guy. Yes, as a movie it held together with the same consistency that cotton candy stays on that paper holder. However, I would judge it more harshly if it weren't for the conversation that ensued between my aunt and I in the lobby afterwards:

"Do you think vampires are real?" I asked my aunt.

"Oh, absolutely! I've seen them in Romania."

"Really?!

"Oh, yes!"

"What do they look like? Are they really pale? Do they have fangs? Are they integrated into the society, or do they keep to themselves? Have you talked to any of them? Are they usually pretty hot?

I even started to consider fossilizing myself at 36 (I would have done it sooner had I known), by putting an ad out for a hot vampire to bite me (because according to Twilight that's how you become a vampire). I don't know what payment I could offer him (I want a guy vampire), as money doesn't hold much weight to immortals who don't eat food...but, truth be told, I really hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Of course there's no such thing as vampires...!" she threw down.

What?! Disappointment. I went through the five stages of grief in the next few moments, and saw the world shrink back another dimension.

Oh, well. Back to Plan B.

Just for today, I can consider becoming a vampire.

I'm taking it up a notch. I'm turning up the Bitch Volume to 11. I'm now officially entering bi-otch territory. I wish I had started this sooner. However, at this rate, I'm still on schedule to becoming a crazy free-spirit old, like Ruth Gordon's character in Harold and Maude (except, hopefully, I won't be sleeping with 16-year-olds...or maybe?...I'm not going to stand in judgment of my future old lady self).

I definitely want to be dancing salsa like this 87-year-old Salsera..

Just for today, I hope to age bi-otchily.

My therapist is tired of hearing me complain. She wants me to finally take responsibility for my life, and admit the truth that everything is my fault.

It's not her, or them, or you, or anybody...it's me. It's all me.

Hey, I can do that. I can take responsibility all day long. No relationship? I have issues with men. Still coughing? Eat too much sugar. Loud drunk people who yell in the alley outside my window? I chose to live by the beach. Unemployed? I quit my job. Hot sun? I drive my car, when I could take the bus, thereby, aiding in the destruction of the environment through fumes (or something like that).

It's just...why does she get to come off so squeaky clean? Where do I sign up for her job...?

Just for today, I can listen to my shrink (sort of).

My ballet teacher has us pick a word out each class. On some days, that's the only reason why I'm there. I don't know if they help my ballet, but they certainly influence my life.

One day, I picked the word "grow" and after class bought a new plant and some orchid food. I didn't make the connection until later.

Another day, before I had paid for the class because I was afraid I couldn't afford it, I picked the word "enough." I paid the next day

Last week, on Monday, I picked "let go," and I spent the whole class in a foul mood. I wasn't a big fan of that one. The following Wednesday, I picked "sustain." It seemed kind of opposite. I took it that I have to just keep on the same course.

I've picked "dig" twice and have no idea what that word mean to me, except maybe, as my therapist accuses me, I don't really want to go deep (bitch). I've picked "embrace" twice as well. Hey, I embrace my unemployment checks every other week!

And another day, I picked "fly." That one probably made more sense than anything.

Just for today, I can understand the power of words.

For starters, I watched season 5 of Weeds last night. If you haven't seen it, there's a riveting episode where Nancy Botwin gets raped by her drug dealer Mexican mafia boyfriend and reacts with the same detached aplomb she gives her brother-in-law. "Oh, gee, now he's raping me...men!" Another great female character, washed down the toilet of self-destruction. (And don't try to tell me that great male characters self-destruct as well because they don't...unless they're Mel Gibson).

Then, today, I read about this lunatic, Lori Gottlieb, author of Marry Him: The Case For Settling For Mr. Good Enough. Ms. Gottlieb, an apparently miserable woman, who has no problem blaming her misery on her single status, has, apparently, given up completely on romantic love and, while she hasn't done it herself, espouses that any woman over 35 marry the next Match.com date who doesn't make her puke, and, if she's 40, even then. Because being left alone with your fears that you aren't worthy of deep and abiding love is a worse state than babysitting a man with whom the idea of sex is repellant and, thereby, never finding out.

I'm used to being condescended to by men in regards dating and sex. Whether it's in the form of books, ("He's Just Not That Into You") or just your standard "you're a nice girl, you need to find a nice guy." (i.e. "Your life is over just be lucky you can find someone"). It's just when it comes from women's mouths it's like the last scene in "The Invasion of the Body Snatchers" wherein the last non-possessed guy thinks he sees his friend with whom he's survived this big ole bodysnatching ordeal, and then the guy open his mouth and raises his hand and we all get to see how exactly the soul is sucked out of the body and replaced by zombies (I'm going to rent that film from Netflix). Well, this is exactly what happens to women, and I know because, believe it or not, I know people who are women.

I have a habit of relating to women, as if we've survived this big ordeal of living in a world where the rules are created and policed by men. But, inevitably, I find that she any given woman opens her mouth, and says something like, "Women need to settle because all men want to be with younger women," and I, suddenly, realize that she's complicit in her own demise, and doesn't even know it.

Usually, the way to know that a woman is under the spell is that she's dishing out all sorts of advice to other women, writing books, going on talk shows. She's spending more money and time on skin care, than on her friendships or self-esteem.

Am I the only one who secretly looks forward to getting and looking older because it will help me discern when a man really loves for me? Is it too much to ask for a man to fall in love with me for who and what I am?

Fight back, Bitches! Or, keep your mouth shut.

Just for today, I feel sad about the state of women's self-respect.

I had a hard time making it out of bed this morning. Actually, I didn't make it out of bed in the morning, but I can blame that on daylight savings time. What is a beautiful day by the beach when you can curl up in the fetal position under a 500 thread count? (Ok, it's not really that high...but they are nice sheets).

Depression.

I opened the fridge a bunch of times, but in addition to not wanting to drink beer or eat anymore frozen pancakes, decided it was in my best interest to just feel depressed.

I've come to see depression as that ass-kicking friend, like Robbie Benson in "Ice Castles" (could I possibly find an older reference?...how about Beowolf?). Ok, let's say, like, Anna Kendrick's character in "Up In The Air" (the only movie-going experience I've enjoyed since "The Titanic").

It's when I try to run from depression that I find myself having finished a whole box of chocolate mochi balls from Trader Joe's (da bomb) in one sitting and spending $400 on a Target shopping trip for paper towels and advil. No, accepting and embracing the edge of emotional turbulence, that's what keeps me from putting back on the 20 lbs. and dating a man who thinks that being with a woman with large boobs is "really taking care of himself."

Actually, feeling really depressed has been the pre-party to some of the biggest moments, and almost big moments in my life. When I look back at my most depressed times, I can see that they came because I was...almost...there. Almost where? The Next Level. That place that's five steps ahead of the masses. It's where artists want to live, if they can find the courage to walk into the space ship like Richard Dreyfuss (more ancient references...have I seen a movie made in the last ten years?). It's really lonely. But you're either a lonely wolf or a bored sheep, and if you take enough Zoloft you can convince yourself that you enjoy the herd and taste of grass. But if you're a wolf, you pay for your integrity with fear and loneliness (Just don't be a sheep in wolf's clothing).

Because I was young and didn't know any better, I had moments in the past in which I actually took that extra step and went out into the abyss because I had nothing to lose and didn't know the comfortable bliss of mediocrity. And, for like a milisecond I was in new territory. But then I would get scared and retreat from The Magic Of Being Myself, and find a herd to graze with. Some might say that it helps to be crazy or drunk, but those are passing states that usually alienate people. It's best to just try to get to the waterfall stone cold sober, because then you have a greater chance of remembering the path you took.

So, today, I tried to see depression as a push to get me to The Next Level. Although, sometimes, there's no turning back, anyway. It's either the old boyfriend who you're totally over, or the unknown.

Just for today, I will embrace feeling depressed.

I think I need to qualify my last blog. Talk about dramatic, geez. Who wrote that? I must have gotten temporarily possessed by the ghost of Dorothy Parker (I wish). More like [insert latest provocative celebrity]. I'm too lazy (old) to keep up.

The truth is I suffer from Over Dramatitis. Let's face it, I want my life to be much more interesting than it is. If I can't name my fourteen kids from three marriages to various bi-polar geniuses after fruit, Greek Gods, and the person I share the Nobel Peace Prize with, then at the very least I can make my trip to Target sound like a cultural land mine. If age hasn't brought wisdom, it has made me accept my own refusal to accept the inherent boringness of my life. I can't just say decide to eat a hamburger for lunch. I have to write a dissertation about the benefits of read meat for anemia. Good thing I don't do anything important.

Just for today, I can accept myself.

I've spent most of my adult life avoiding any social event that involves name tags and flowers, but for the sake of friendship decided to be a Girl in the Martha Stewart sense (as opposed to the Forever 21 sense) and for the second time in my life attend a baby shower. Truth be told, it was kind of fun (though, I left before the Presents Opening Ceremony). I sat by two cool women in their 60's. One wore lots of purple eye shadow and a spiky 80's style hair.

"Have you ever been married?" she asked.

"No."

"Good for you! Congratulations! I was married for 17 years...never doing THAT again."

The other one sat across from me and spoke to me through a bouquet of baby blue flowers, so I could only see the top of her head. She totally cheated on the game and told us all the answer.

I love talking to older women. You could preface anything they say with "Fuck it!" and it would make perfect sense.

Just for today, I enjoyed the baby shower.

I spent the three day weekend appropriately stuffing my face and catching up with Friends With Kids. Strangely, a lot of my friend's kids seemed to have been replaced with bigger kids.

Towards the end of the day, I got my ass whooped at chess by an 8-year-old. Of course, I have no idea how to play chess. But still...he's 8! Not to mention, I had a secret weapon (Friend Who Rocks At Chess) whispering in my ear.

"Why do you have to wait for him to tell you what to do?" said 8-year-old Chess Champ.

"Because you're kicking my ass...I mean, you're going to beat me."

"Haha! I'm going to kill all your pieces!!!"

The thing about 8-year-olds is that you can't offer up condescending, eye-ball rolling comments about their lack of sportsmanship. It's one thing to deal with grown men who act like children. But any psychologist would classify his behavior as "age appropriate." (Why can't I be 8?) Nonetheless, I kept wanting to revert to my usual, "You're acting like a child. What are you? 8?!"

"Gosh....why are you taking so long?!" he kept asking before my deft (and instructed) moves.

"Because I'm a rank amateur," I told him.

"But you're not even good."

"Haha...you don't know what 'rank amateur' means."

I didn't exactly maintain a demeanor of mature stoicism.

But he was ruthless! Stopping not even at employing his own transparent version of psychological warfare techniques.

"If I were you," he said at one point. "I would move the queen to the right."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm trying to teach you how to play."

"No, don't do that!" said my friend.

His dad told me that he lets him win sometimes because if he loses he will cry.

"But that's what life's about," I told The Dad. "Better that he learn it now."

Giant sigh.

Just for today, I can play with kids.