Creative Planning

Last Thursday I went shopping with Sarah and spent money I didn't have on things I didn't need. I justified this with the fact that the weekend was coming and I couldn't possibly live without a new outfit to greet it in, plus I got paid on Monday so if I wrote a bum check it surely wouldn't clear until I had funds available. Over the years I have gotten quite creative with ways to get what I want. It's all a matter of planning. If I want a new pair of shoes, I send my cable bill on time but conveniently forget to sign the check, they send it back to me and I return it with a signature and a sincere apology all before the grace period is up -- no harm no foul, everyone gets what they want.

Sometimes though, no matter how sly I think I am, or how much energy I spend in the planning stages, I get caught in my own web. For instance, when I try to pre-prepare an argument with my boyfriend. I map the whole conversation out in my head -- I'll say this then he'll say that then I'll really tell him off. Good in theory, not so good in practice. We can guesstimate certain things in life, like how long a check takes to get from A to B, but can we really plan for an unpredictable future. What if things aren't traveling alphabetically, but rather along some uncharted path even the cosmos isn't sure of? Just because you've creatively paid your dues, will the universe grace you with a desirable outcome, or will it just tell you off?

What a Drag

Last week my friend Joel Jones nearly got arrested for drag racing. Even with a bit of Dukes of Hazard know how and a little luck he was unable to escape the law. This isn't the first time the law has intervened in Mr. Jones' life. Joel likes to live on the edge and push the envelope just a bit more than the law will allow. I suppose we are all running from something in our lives. It may not be a policeman or Boss Hog, but what about the taxman, our own boss or even the fear of stopping? We keep on keepin' on in an attempt to keep up with the Joneses. We have a drive that tells us we must work more, get more, be more, but where does it end? When is enough enough? What would happen if we just stopped? Would life really pass us by, or would we be the only ones smart enough to enjoy it? If the Joneses can't keep up with the Joneses why should the Smiths, the Andersons, or anyone else even try? Why can't we just be good ol' boys meaning no harm?

Cease Fire

Last week Sarah spent the night at my house in an attempt to break away from her boyfriend whom she had been fighting with. We spent seven hours drinking and watching old war movies on the History channel. We bonded over Okinawa, slept through trench warfare and popped corn through much of the late 60's. This wasn't the first time we had spent such a night together. She and her boyfriend have a history of their own, and since I am a close ally, she knows she can always count on me to stand by her side and open her beers. That's what friends do -- they hold your hand and help you plan a cease-fire.

As we neared the end of our movie marathon, and peace was once again restored to the world I got to thinking about history. World War I was once called The Great War because it was supposed to be the only one, then came WWII, the Korean conflict, Vietnam, and so on and so forth. It seems there has never been a time of peace. It's the same in relationships -- we break up, make up, but when will we wake up and see how history repeats itself? Will we ever learn our lesson or will we continue making the same mistakes? Is it possible to have peace without confict?

Broken Romance

I've always considered myself idyllic. My personals ad would read, "Single white male seeks same for long walks in the rain, cozy fireside chats and midnight romps." In addition to quiet solitude in a lover's arms, I've continually enjoyed engaging poetry, chick flicks and dainty chocolates. But lately I've been feeling less than dainty -- in fact, I've been feeling down right vicious. I'd like nothing more than to bite the head off a budding rose and spit it at the one who broke my heart. Of course I have too much decorum to actually do this, but it is nice to dream. Still, I wonder if I'll ever regain my passion for love. It seems once a person has been jilted, the damage is always visible. Sure he can move on and perhaps he'll meet a decent mate and have some fun for a while, but what do you do when you don't love love? Is there a 12-step program that can teach us how to regain our powers of passion, or is romance simply a romantic idea?

Burning Hearts

When I was a kid I dreamed I was a cowboy, an astronaut, a hairdresser. My friend Rob imagined himself a firefighter. We'd play together warped versions of "rescue" where he'd save a princess and I'd do her hair. As we grew older and our lives became more narrow, I abandoned my various dreams, while Rob went on to become a dashing fireman.

All was well, if not quite perfect, in our lives when Rob was involved in an accident. Though not fatal, he was injured extensively and unable to continue his tenure as a fireman. The thing is, Rob has and always will have the heart of a fireman. He now has a desk job with the department. He is still holding true to his dream. Me? I've wandered from place to place and left my dreams at every stop. Does this mean my heart isn't true? Is it possible to love more than one thing whole-heartedly? Some people dream of bright futures, others simply dream. Is it possible to do both?

Tourists

My boyfriend and I had been planning our summer vacation for about nine months. We thumbed through brochures and took virtual tours of every beachfront hotel from San Francisco to Singapore. We deserved this after all. We cut back on entertainment costs, adjusted our thermostat, we even switched to the generic brand of macaroni and cheese. Sunshine and crashing waves were going to be our reward for a job well done.

After nine months of bickering with airlines and cursing hotels, I was ready for the promise of paradise to be delivered. And it was, but not before a six hour plane delay and a one and a half hour cab ride through the slums of the island. Driving past the dilapidated buildings and unkempt children made me feel dirty. Not because the surroundings were substandard, but because I assumed they'd be immaculate -- like the brochures, like my under appreciated home. I thought to myself, do I deserve a vacation more than these people deserve clean water? Is it even fair that while I'm basking in the sun at a resort six miles down the road, a woman is giving birth in unsanitary conditions at the very spot I had just past? Sure I labored hard, but so too had these people. I wasn't sure if I should carry out my vacation or abort my plans altogether. It made me wonder, if all men are created equal, why do some have so much more?

"A" is for Age and Adultery

Once upon an English class I found myself oddly attracted to a man almost half my age; he was handsome and fun and seemed a more exciting version of myself -- what's more, he found me desirable. I'm not one who suffers from either low self-esteem or delusions of grandeur, I know exactly who I am, yet I still felt this young fella was out of my league. We met in college and bonded over Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. Not far into chapter two we began a harmless flirtation that blossomed into an intense, short lived affair. Every time we met we engaged in stimulating conversation that eventually led to a stimulating make-out session. All of this was quite exhilarating for my aging self, but like all good books, our fairy tale ended as we both knew it would.

As the memories of my rendezvous faded from scarlet to pink I began to wonder what attracted me to my playmate to begin with. I'm not one to pine after youth, nor do I have a particular "type" I lust after. There was just something about him that drove me a little bit crazy. Was it his good looks? Was it animalistic chemistry? Or was it something so complex and indescribable that not even science could explain? When it comes to laws of attraction, are there any rules? And if there are, what happens when you break them? Are you branded for life, or do you simply go on to the next chapter and hope for a better conclusion?

One Ticket for Life

I spent a good portion of my twenties in the darkened womb of the movie theatre, and like the womb, the theatre provided me with all of life's necessities: food, shelter, a place to pee and a reason for living. As one who chooses to remain numb and oblivious to the chaos of the world around me, the movies provided a release of sorts. It was okay to cry or laugh or scream because it was all make believe -- a two hour fantasy replete with music and mayhem. But eventually I would be pushed forth from the womb, kicking and screaming, and into a world I cared little about. Where was the daunting music to warn me of danger? Who was going to cue the rain so I knew when to be sad? How was I ever to find an emotion of my own without an Oscar nominated cast? These questions plagued me as I entered my thirties and realized life isn't' a movie and not every thing works itself out nicely. So where does that leave us? No director to tell us what to do, no editor to fix our mistakes. Just a blank screen and a whole lot of people counting on us to deliver a stellar performance. Now. . . can we live up to the audience's expectations? Can we give a performance worthy of the academy? And most importantly, can we give this performance all on our own?

What's Your Sign?

A friend of mine introduced me to a friend of hers we bumped into while shopping. Her name was Kari and she was a schoolteacher. Kari, I thought -- married, two kids, drives a small S.U.V. probably tan. I didn't hang around long enough to find out if Kari drove a tan S.U.V. or not, but I did realize we all subconsciously create an image for people based solely on their job titles. Dan, doctor -- tall, brown hair, early 40's, wife, girlfriend, golden retriever. Gina, executive -- thin, 5' 6" cropped hair, power suit, probably a lesbian. Romeo, artist -- I say no more, I don't have to. You've already filled in the blanks. But how much of what we assume is true? Do people become the parts they play? After all our work takes up more than 50% of our waking lives. Is reading people based on their occupation like reading your daily horoscope? Am I in my house of work?

Protesting

I once read a magazine article that said people who protested are happier than those who merely watch the news and let life happen around them. Always looking to make my world a little more jolly, I decided to experiment with this theory and protest against the evils of the world like right-wing conservatives and the makers of acid washed jeans. Feeling the rush of belonging to a group that sought to make a difference, I found myself marching for gay pride, black pride, Harley pride, poodle owners pride. I worked tirelessly with a team to make certain there really were two scoops of raisins in Kellogg's Raisin Bran.

All of this left me elated but exhausted. Somewhere in the midst of banner making and paint throwing I forgot why I started protesting. Was all this hoopla really making me happy? Did I even believe the things I shouted? Between same-sex and Malcolm X, I lost a sense of being. Sure, it was nice meeting new people with a collective idea of what was right and wrong in the world, but what about me? What do I believe? In this great bit, confusing world where the next big thing is yesterday's news, how do we keep a sense of self when we have so many choices?

Karma for Sale

I've spent my whole life doing good deeds. I stand so others can take a seat, I hold the door for anxious holiday shoppers, I even forgo my morning java fix so some child in Africa can feed his village with my seventy-three cents a day. All this good deed doing is supposedly building up in some karma bank in Switzerland so that one day I will reap the benefits of the greatness I have sown. In the meantime I suffer from caffeine headaches and fallen arches.

As I progress down this journey of life looking to the horizon for my payback and seeing nothing but empty roads ahead of me, I find myself drawn to the review mirror wondering if there was more I should have done, if there are doors I've left unopened, and are there children I could have saved? Then answer, of course, is "Yes." I have learned, through much travail, that there is always more -- more to give, more to do. If the answer is always the same, maybe the question is wrong. Maybe we shouldn't be asking at all. If seventy-three cents can't buy our way to a comfy karma, can it at least buy peace of mind.

Cult of Love

Growing up I was a very small fish in a very big pond which made my dating pool virtually nonexistent, after all everyone knows the guy is supposed to be bigger and more masculine than his female counterpart. As a 5 foot 80 pound freshman my pool was so shallow it only contained two guppies: LeAnn and Amy. Since LeAnn's mom was the school's secretary and therefore had the divine power to make my life Hell, I prayed the 3/4 inch shorter than me Amy would fall under my spell. She did and thus began a four plus year courtship reminiscent of Dante's inferno. Amy dragged me to church and family functions as well as the other seven circles of Hell.

By the time our relationship ended I had grown up physically, mentally and sexually, and was therefore feverish to surrender myself to another, gayer ocean -- one filled with a wide variety of datable creatures. As I made my way through the turbulent waters of romance searching for love with the kind of urgency usually reserved for the sinning Catholic seeking penance for unspeakable crimes, I began to wonder if the institution of Love is a religion all its own. After all, Love has its own believers and non-believers, its devoted followers and the process of falling in Love often involves sacrifice. If Love, like religion, is a cult, are we willing to devote our lives to Love's worship, knowing there will be suffering? And if we do commit to Love, will our pain be greatly rewarded, or will it all end in Hellfire and brimstone?

Heroes

When I was a kid I idolized Alexis Morel Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan from TV's Dynasty. She was savvy, suave and scintillating. She was one of those characters you loved to hate, secretly rooted for and wished you could be. I loved the way she back stabbed her way to the top and stayed there through sheer will. She could carry the weight of the world on her enormous shoulder pads and grin her Cheshire-like grin while doing it. Of course not everyone agreed with me, they were more than glad to see Crystal Carrington beat the snot out of dear Alexis in the guest cottage, or lilly pond, or wherever else the two arch enemies felt compelled to duke it out. A mere difference of opinion I figure -- some like 'em sweet, some like 'em saucy. Regardless of how you you like your heroines they always seem to have some sort of Achilles' heel, a weak spot that can be exploited. For Alexis it was her secret love of her ex-husband Blake, a bit hokey, true, but still I have to wonder if everyone has a soft spot in their otherwise polished persona? Even Superman is defenseless against kryptonite. If our heroes are heroically flawed, can we expect perfection from us mere mortals, or are we too hopelessly imperfect?

Gimme, Gimme

Last weekend, after a grueling workweek, I came home to a brand new plasma TV. It was big, impressive and totally expensive. "But it was on sale," my boyfriend informed me -- as if I was supposed to get excited over the $200.00 savings on the $4,000.00 bill. "But we don't need it," I rationalized. "our TV is perfectly fine," This concept seemed foreign to him. Why settle for fine when you can have extraordinary?

After much debate we settled in front of our new TV for a night of silent viewing. Much to my chagrin, on my plasma, larger than life, was a certain nameless actress who had recently undergone much unnecessary plastic surgery. It seemed I was surrounded by a world hungry for the next best thing. My theory is, "If it ain't broke, why fix it?" Why is it we are compelled to have something just because it exists? Can we be satisfied with a terrific TV, a fine face or a spectacular self? Does more mean better, or just more?

Bachelors of Living

Having been on the ten-year college plan for about twelve years with no degree and mounting debt, I've begun to notice a few things about higher education. Books are expensive, classes are long and the most valuable thing I've learned is how to cheat better. In a time when bachelor's degrees are the new high school diploma and forty is the new twenty, it seem being a student for life is totally chic. What isn't so chic is how education fails to prepare people for the real world. In the attempt to make students well rounded by forcing them to perform quadratic equations and to decipher Shakespeare's psyche, we've lost track of what is the most important aspect of success -- happiness. As I near degree completion and prepare to head out into the wide world of life I have to wonder if Einstein's theory of relativity is relative to anything, and if "e" does in fact equal "mc" squared, Y is there so much misery? Does higher education equal a higher propensity for happiness? Are the fundamentals of learning fundamentally different from the fundamentals of joy, and if so, why aren't we taking more classes in deciphering our selves?

Merging Traffic

Last Friday night I had a date with my friends to see the traveling production of the Broadway smash Rent. We had decided earlier in the week that we would all meet in front of the theatre twenty minutes before the show began since each of us was coming from a different part of town. I was the closest to the theatre and therefore had the most time to tinker with my evening's ensemble -- after much debate about which tie to wear, I headed out the door with plenty of time to spare.

Life was good, my hair was perfectly coiffed, my shirt was neatly pressed and my teeth were sparkling white. Everything was going as planned until I came to a construction zone. Traffic was at a standstill as three lanes tried, unsuccessfully, merging into one. As time ticked by and my crisp shirt wilted I became more and more frustrated. Was it really necessary to close off two lanes when only one was being worked on? It seemed unlikely and I was certain the world was out to get me personally.

I finally arrived fifteen minutes late and with no friends to greet me. As I stood in the back of theatre cursing my friends and unable to see act one, I wondered if merging lives was like merging traffic -- slow and not necessarily fruitful. When lives converge there are bound to be times when things don't go as planned; when this happens, should we call it quits and watch the world pass us by, or do we wait out the first act and hope the second is stellar? Should we consider these bumps in the road as mere frustrations or as signposts for future improvements? When conflicts arise, do we go with the flow, or exit stage right?

Vice Grips

My friend Tom has what I would call a slight addiction problem. Nothing serious like crack or crank or any other horrible "C" drug, he is, however, prone to buying TV shows on DVD that he can't always afford. Is it really necessary to purchase the complete twenty-disk box set of Sex and the City just to get the previously unavailable bonus disk which probably features commentary from season six's dog groomer and camera B's out takes of New York City taxi drivers? I think not, Tom thinks otherwise.

It's not as if I live a vice free life. I have been known to harbor a secret stash of home decorating magazines and unopened books featuring the words "whole self" in the title In fact, if left to my own devices, I would forgo necessary heart surgery for lunch with my fabulous friends at fabulous restaurants and have fabulous conversations featuring the word "fabulous."

We all have vices of some sort or another. It may be clothes, or books, or 12-step programs, or something more dangerous and secretive. But how do we know when a vice has moved from a curious notion to an all-consuming entity? Is it safe to have a vice -- even a petty one -- if we know that at any given moment it could spiral out of control and leave us in an un-fabulous poor house? Do our vices have a vice grip on us.

After Ever After

Last week was the Olympic trials for swimming, and as much as I enjoy a nicely built man in a Speedo, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor chaps giving it their all only to have their dreams dashed as they reached the wall milliseconds behind the winner. The losers dragged their weary bodies from the water only to return to their usual lives hoping next time things would be different. As for the winners -- they prepared themselves for rigorous training and lean diets. All this competition made me realize how much we compete everyday of our lives. We dress for success, train for the job and diet to snag a partner, and as with the Olympics, some of us win and some of us don't. It makes me wonder what the point of it all is. Even if you win the gold, land the job and find the mate, you still have to return to life in progress. Now what? What do we do after we get what we've been striving for?

A Would Be Life

My friend Teri is a talented singer / dancer / actress who has toiled away for years in local theatre and caravan productions for everything from Shakespeare to Mel Brooks; she's even been in a few local commercials hawking fresh produce and used cars. Her real life is one of an insurance agent and two-time divorcee. In high school Teri was voted most talented and most likely to succeed. We all kew she was goint to be a star, light up the silver screen, marry a director and have her name splashed across the tabloids declaring "Young Starlet Found Boinking Hunky Gardner." Instead, she's been boinking her chunky boss and composing her company's news letter -- not quite the success story she had planned. It seems as though fate has not smiled upon dear Teri even though she has the goods to be great, while other, less gifted actors, flourish in cinema. I won't name names, but I will say it certainly must help to have a famous parent. This makes me wonder if it's what you know or who you know that really matters? If Teri had been the daughter of an acclaimed actress would she be accepting an Oscar instead of overtime? Would she be making millions of dollars instead of a measly salary? And. . . would she put in a few good words for her old pal, me?

Hunting for Help

I've always prided myself on being self-sufficient. I don't mind my meager existence because I know I can afford it. This isn't to say I wouldn't trade my hubris for the chance to marry an independently wealthy older man who spends his time doing business in China's asphalt jungle -- in fact, I'd like it if he frequently roamed far from home. How else am I supposed to ignore his sixth toe or age spots or whatever other ailment would befall my cougar companion.

Since this wealthy prey appears to have escaped my clutches I must do whatever is necessary to make ends meet. Sometimes this involves skipping my morning brew or lunchtime cocktail, other times it means disconnecting cable once my three months free trial has expired. And sometimes, as was the case last week, I am forced to give myself my own bikini wax. This task is rather difficult as it involves many awkward angles, but I am preternaturally flexible and should have had little problem removing any unwanted hair. All was going well until an overzealous tug pulled something in my back. For two days I lay in bed admiring my perfectly coiffed landing strip and watching Animal Planet. All this time alone got me wondering if self sufficiency is such a great thing. In nature some animals go it solo while others live in packs; each grouping filling their niche and becoming perfectly adapted to their environment. But what about people? Are humans meant to be lone hunters or cohabitants? Can we be a little of each? Can a lonely hunter ever live peacefully among the embittered hunted?