However, when it comes to the choice of having children, I’m very, very…very White.  This becomes most apparent when I’m discussing my single, childless status with Latino people who inevitably ask me if I have children within the first five minutes of conversation. (White People rarely do this).  When I inform said Latino people that I don’t have children they respond with something like, “Then what, pray tell, have you been doing for 20+ years?”   (They don’t actually use the term, “Pray, tell….” does anyone?)   I’m always a little abashed.  (Who uses the word “abashed”? This blog is a subtle tribute to Oscar Wilde).

So what have I been doing all these years?  Seriously, good question.  What the hell have I been doing while Not Having Children? Watching the cracks on my ceiling grow into interesting spider shapes?  (I, actually, just had a guy repair them).  Blogging?  Not enough to equal child rearing time.

There’s a good chance that I’ve spent some good child bearing and rearing years on the dance floor.   And the one indisputable truth about dancing instead of pushing a  watermelon sized human through a hole the size of a lemon, is that dancing is infinitely better for your butt.   Especially, if you have issues in that area.   But what’s a good butt in the face of boundless love?

I think I need to spend some quality time with my Inner-Chola. Maybe get out the Aqua Net and some blue eyeshadow. (Chola circa 1985).

Just for today, I’m re-considering childlessness.

The only way I’ve ever gotten a man to fall in love with me was by  being myself. Imagine that.  Unfortunately, this behavior – being-myself-ness – has also led to the relationship’s demise.  I didn’t always get that somteimes you have to act like the grown-up you wish you were…yes, it’s kind of fake, but, ultimately, leads to the building of more trust, respect and consideration than saying the first thing that pops into your head.

One Valentine’s Day year ago, my Then Boyfriend, a music attorney took me out to dinner in honor of this glorious holiday. Lawyer Boyfriend genuinely cared about me and was/is a good guy, but had what I’ll tactfully refer to as “issues” (as do I).

We got in a big fight on the drive over to the restaurant and he threatened to call the date off.  I remember thinking, “What cruel twist of fate would have me stay home on Valentine’s Day?! Oh, the horror! ” So, despite an explosion of Valentine red flags, I insisted we celebrate our relationship…damnit.

Once we arrived at the restaurant we discovered that our reservation was lost, so we had to wait till 9:00 PM to have dinnner.  I’m sure I ordered salmon because that’s all I knew how to order in my twenties.  Salmon and chardonnay.  (Today, I would rather drink Aunt Jemima syrup with dinner than Chardonnay).  A few hours later we ate dinner with the weight of a hundred ton stoney silence.  I received more love from the AAA guy who rescued me from my car failures on a weekly basis.

It was then that I looked around the restaurant and wondered if every other couple was having as equally a crappy night. And, if so, short of taking a survey, how would I know how many couples genuinely felt in love?  Surely, we looked like a happy loving couple, enjoying our stony silent meal.   And that’s when a big boulder of my youthful illusions and idealism crumbled like the Berlin wall.

Nobody know what’s really going on in any relationship.

My Valentine’s Day/Night was bullshit.

I came home that night a wiser, more mature woman.   We broke up six months later (I was extremely codependent).

Just for today, I can remember Valentine’s Days of yore.

Please send a prayer for my mother to get through this time.

I love my mom.

Just for today, I’m sad.

I’m bailing on my jokes.  Even when the writing has some “Pow!”, my energy is like the last whimper before a tired kid goes to sleep, a death throw.

To be fair, it’s a self-protective defense mechanism.  This shit is hard.  And the thing about punchlines…is that they have the potential to torpedo down in an explosion of dissappointment and defeat, leaving audiences wondering why the hell they bothered to waste three-ten minutes of their lives on your boring drivel.  (Note: It’s my opinon that even a failed comic is better than 90% of speech makers who are attention-whores without even attempting to pay full returns.).  Nonetheless, when a joke tanks, everyone feels like they lost a piece of their soul.  Who wants that?  Not me. So instead of crashing at 100 mph, I just pull over to the side of the road and go to sleep.

In comedy (and life) people will often “not get” you/me.  Or, more often, not care.  Especially, in our shopping-sex-crazed culture.  Most people are thinking of themselves (I know I am).

But I gotta fail bigger.  Courage.

Just for today, I can commit to my material.

Back in the late 90′s it was a lot geekier, and not in a cool Steve Jobs kind of way.  Now it’s all very hip and glam.   I have to use Google in order to understand jokes. And I see a lot more hot jock looking guys and modelly-actressy girls.

I never thought I would think of the 90′s as a feminist heydey, or of Janeane Garofalo as a pioneer, but the truth is that I saw a lot more powerful, angry women who said things like “fight back!”  (If I’m ever in a room with her, I’m going to walk up to her and just say, “Thank you!”)   They were a little cray-cray, but kept the  scene safe for deer-in-the-headlights girls like me.  I don’t see those women now.  I see dudes.  Sometimes, I feel like I wandered into a frat house on the non-party night.

I’ve come to the conclusion that women comics can’t develop in predominately male environments.  Clearly, many amazing female comics have (Joan Rivers, Phyllis Diller) but  I think there’s a reason why I see female stand ups all sort of huddled together.  With some exception, dude comics focus on male bonding and quasi-gay rituals, substitutes for the missed rite of passage that our society has failed to give young men.  But mostly,  there’s an impenetrable stigma.  Dudes simply don’t look at a woman standing on stage and think, “I wonder what funny things she has to say?”

However, if and when a larger percentage of women are present in the room (and I’m talking like 25%) the energy shifts, becomes less pervy, a little more generous.

Personally, I’m not cut out for environments were men are trying to be men.   I’m not even remotely a man.  Not even on a good day.  In fact, I understand men less and less every day that I’m alive on this planet.  If I live to be 80, I will probably speak another language than they do altogether.

Just for today,  I’m a stand up comic.

I can hardly read the masthead with all that stuff going on.  And why are the O’s and D’s filled in?  Beats me.

My new masthead was illustrated by my friend Emily, an amazingly talented, kick ass, ball busting creative director in advertising.  She’s my hero.  My amazing friend Jared (he doesn’t have a website…where’s your website, Jared?) moved me out of the dark ages of Moveable Type’s craptastic CMS ($500 for an upgrade?!) and into the era of enlightenment. (Did you know you can upload photos without resizing them and coding HTML…? Amazing!).  Wordpress kicks ass.

Also, I’m not Stella anymore.  Or, rather, this is no longer her blog.  I’m going to be 40. Seriously. Enough’s enough.  I had this whole thing about how I killed Stella and stole her website, but that seemed kind of mean.  She’s really sweet.  Even if she’s my desperately co-dependent alter-ego (instead of hyper-consciously codependent, like me), she deserves a peaceful passing.  Now I’m writing as Solange.  But it’s still “just for today.”  That’ll never change.

Just for today, I love my new design and am grateful for my amazing friends.

“You are an obsession…you’re my obsession…”

“One thing leads to an-na-nother…”

“Urgent…urgent, urgent…”

“Lying beside you, here in my arms…”

Because I try to be kind and generous, I have thought about her life. I think she had a good time in the 80′s. It was her decade. She was in love. Felt young and free. And now, somewhere in middle age land, all she has are some tunes that she’s going to SING…DAMNIT!

Just for today, I can listen to 80′s music.

Just for today, I have the Crazies.

I spent the New Year weekend (after Saturday) allowing my hair to regain it’s natural oil balance (i.e., no shower). It’s great once you get past the homeless person phase. Unfortunately, I had to go to work today and, thus, introduced chemicals back into my hair.

I went to a party on New Years where we wrote down what we wanted to let go of on biodegradable helium balloons and then released them to they sky. I wrote some really boring items to let go of on my card, like “Fear” and “Lack of faith.” So unoriginal.

Fortunately, the balloon I actually released contained a message I needed to hear, “Let go of negative self-talk and resentment.” At midnight we let go of all the balloons and watched them fly up into the sky. It was beautiful.

Just for today, I can release the old.

She also gave me a tin of homemade cookies. It doesn’t matter how much I tell my mom that I don’t eat sugar or flour (total lie) she will employ her CIA tactics to get me to ingest anything. (She didn’t really work for the CIA…but she should). The process goes something like this:

“Would you like a cookie?” she asks innocently.

“No, thank you Mom. I’m trying to cut down on sugar.”

“Are you sure? I made them….”

“Mom, sugar is a drug that leads to an addictive process,” I reply. I attempt to educate her.

“Oh, ok…But they have [INSERT DELICIOUS INGREDIENTS] in them.”

“No, Mom. I said I’m not eating sugar!”

“Oh, Ok.”

Silent pause. [NOTE: This is part of her tactics].

“They also have [INSERT SOMETHING HEALTHY...EX. RAISINS].”

“No, thank you.”

She eats one.

“These came out really good.”

“Fine! I’ll eat a cookie!”

I tell myself that I have no choice while enjoying my [INSERT HIGH CALORIC DESERT] and that my metabolism processes food made from my mother faster while retaining more nutrition.

And then I have three more.

Just for today, I can eat my mom’s cooking.