I Did Not Have Sexual Relations with That Woman

Is it weird that I just woke up from a dream in which I was some kind of volunteer at the Democratic National Convention and I had to take Bill Clinton to his seat with another volunteer and when we turned a corner he totally groped me?! He said something fairly gross too, but it has flitted out of my barely awake brain. And Hillary kept screwing up her speech. Guess it proves I am an Obama Girl after all.

...the IMOL saga continues

Last Saturday night I was out with my pals for a little holiday cheer when we decided to hit up our favorite local dive bar. It comes complete with pool tables, a shuffleboard table, an excellent juke box, TV screens, beer flags, banners and neon, insanely dirty tap lines, surly female bartenders and patrons ranging from the likes of my yuppified group to the regulars my dad lovingly refers to as Furniture. He'll often say, "Oh you're going to that Furniture Bar?" Yup, I am headed to the upholstered sewer.

Me and the gals finished up a sushi dinner which included much alcohol to wash down the raw fish and met the rest at the bar. Rounds of bottled beers, some tragically bad games of pool, and much DJ-ing the jukebox had us all silly and drunk. We then spied a group of guys coming in including a very tall, athletic, red-haired Irish guy who we decided I had to meet on height alone. Chit chatted with him and then one of the guys in our group came to say hi to him as they knew each other from the gym. Perfect, I thought, he's already been vetted by my friend's husband. Card trading ensued and he hands me a card with a cheesy photo of a sailboat that had his name, number and title on it: International Man of Leisure. We laughed our ASSES off. I gave him mine capitalizing on the flirty vibes and he said he'd give me a call. Cool, score one for the tall chick.

The next day I was transferring the contents of my go-out purse (basics include: money, ID, lipstick, key) back to my daytime schlepper while my dad sat drinking his coffee and doing his crossword. I pulled out the IMOL card and had a chuckle, then showed my dad. His response was non-plussed, "Watch out for THAT guy." To which I countered, "Daaa-ad. Well he's a big, tall Irish smart ass." My Irish smart ass father goes, "Figures."

Then, he emailed me. =) Chicks loooove this part. We loooove getting the call, the email, the validation of the nighttime flirt, the possibility of a date that you didn't meet while trolling through pages of PROFILES. A real, live, human man is emailing me! We traded a few back and forth including The One where he asked me on A Date. We were just getting into the scheduling issues, but were corresponding at a now predictable pace. [I know, never use the word "predictable." It make an ass (out of) u (and) me.] Monday afternoon rolls around and NO EMAILS. Nothing. Crickets. Radio silence. The re-reading of my emails begins, the forwarding to the girls for analysis like some dating post-mortem. Find the clues, see where she murdered the hint of a happy date with the Irish guy. Ugh, I was so annoyed, but felt irritatingly comfortable having been in this very limbo countless times. Another day went by, and I knew I was going to make it when I started to plan outfits for my upcoming trip to NYC.

Wednesday morning as I climbed the stairs to the start my day, first with a much needed cup of tea, my dad called my NAME from the Den of Iniquity. A scary, dad-style baritone, "Madeline?" Oh fuck, here it comes, he is kicking my broke ass out on the street. Here's how it went:

"Yeah...?"

"Uh, the International Man of Leisure...? Wasn't his name spelled with two Ns?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, it looks like he was arrested last night with three other guys for growing pot in a warehouse down by the water."

"WHAT, SHUT UP?!! WHAT?! Let me see that paper!" I grabbed my computer and sat down next to him and his and read the article aloud through fits of laughter.

Yup, ARRESTED for growing over 1300 pot plants in a warehouse in a business district with irrigation, and grow lights, and ventilation and HOLY OH MY GOD, ARRESTED!!! Now I know why he did not email me back. Gotta say, of the three reasons we ladies list for the only adequate excuses for lack of communication when in the middle of flirting/planning/dating/marriage etc., getting arrested is ON THE LIST.

I then reminded my dad that I was supposed to go on a date with the IMOL and he, pardon the expression, fell off the face of the Earth, and now we know why. Dad goes, "So he's not a flaky, insensitive guy, just a drug dealer." We fell into a pile of giggles and there was no place I'd rather have been than with him at that moment.

Not a Grinch

I have decided not to get a Christmas tree this year, not because I am willfully rebelling, but because it feels liberated. Or maybe I am feeling a bit like a bachlorette and would rather lie around and watch football and Christmas specials with a hangover in my PJ's without having to remember to put water in the tree. I still put the jingle bells on the dogs for their walks and THAT is festive.

It's okay, I am feeling good about it. Maybe my dad is rubbing off on me...

I Was Saved by Rock and Roll

After having a shit day at work, massive self pity and a crying breakdown to my BFF on the phone, all while in the midst of horrifying PMS and trying to recover from being the victim of some asshole's road rage on Thursday evening, I finally made my way to the Wilco show on Friday night. I bought the tickets in the fan-geek presale in June. I worship Wilco and was thrilled that I got to see the show with said BFF who came up to visit a variety of family and friends over a long weekend. When I got the newest Wilco album "Sky Blue Sky" in the spring and was listening to it on a loop in the car, I would call her and scream into her voicemail how fucking great the album is and that we are so going to this concert together!!! Well, my wish came true. I love seeing Wilco with her as she introduced me to them back in 1995 and we have been to nearly every tour and incarnation of the band. Even the Dreaded Ex respected my Wilco worship and when he was Dr. Jeckyll-style he got us tickets to see Jeff Tweedy's dad band in Chicago. The D.E. was on location in Chicago (I was visiting), Wilco's home town and Tweedy had a band called the Wiggle Worm Dads playing at a local community center. The show was in the afternoon for kids and families and I was about to throw my panties on the stage.

After having such an emotional 36 hours, I did not know how I was going to get out of the funk. Thankfully traffic eased up, parking was a $20 breeze and my other friends secured bitchen seats for all of us at the venue. Beers, hot dogs, Wilco and... ANOTHER high school run-in!! I could not believe it! Ran into a guy who I also used to, um, date and he was there with pals celebrating his bachelor party. This guy however, was the music fan of all time and true to his teenage self was thrilled to be seeing Wilco. Had a moment of nostalgia for all the concerts we saw together, stoned, silly, young and partying, but always with him, loving the music and the performance. We traded phone numbers, he gained weight, blah blah blah.

They played for about two and a half hours, and with each note I could feel my shoulders drop, my chest enjoy a breath (one filled with adjacent pot smoke natch), and my smile spread. My grin never stopped, even when I bawled during "On and On and On." All my bullshit whining was eradicated. I hugged my friends and then I floated out of there, and am grateful for my Wilco.

Morning Bitch-ual

When you live with your father, don't expect to have a lovely morning ritual, like say, QUIET.

I am not one of those cranky, I-cannot-be-spoken-to-before-coffee-and-a-shower-and-whatever-I-decide-I-need-and-I-might-bite-your-head-off-while-you-guess-my-morning-mood people. I was married to that guy. No, I simply like to eeeeeeaaase into my day. And that mostly means listening to the quiet. Perhaps with a cup of jasmine green tea. Nice. I think I will try that.

Here's exactly how I was greeted at 7AM when he heard my footfall upon the upstairs outside the Den of Iniquity: "THERE'S A POLL THAT SAYS 45% OF PEOPLE BELIEVE WHAT WE ARE DOING IN IRAQ IS RIGHT!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!?!?"

"Oh my god, Dad, your voice, so loud." (And then I add inexplicably, weakly, "what?")

"THERE'S A POLL, I MEAN DO YOU BELIEVE THAT?! I MEAN I DON'T REALLY BELIEVE THE POLL..."

Like any good pseudo-teen, I retreat back down to my room, keep it dark, and quietly relay my seething hatred to my computer. Then I hear the clanging drop of the toilet seat onto the porcelain from the bathroom over my room, the kind of toilet seat drop that temporarily stuns one of your eardrums into deafness when you are the one who let it fall from your grip. My eardrum just twinged.

Still High on Mountain Air

Lots of good stuff slogging around in my brain since I returned from vacation to of all places, my home town. Went to celebrate a friend's wedding, but for me, the celebration was just in being home. Odd too, since my dad lives here, not there, my brother lives here, not there, and my mother lives elsewhere, not there or here. So there. Good thing my parents have always had a knack for picking stunningly beautiful places to settle, where others vacation, and few live. Therefore, I always feel like a local no matter where I go. Even in the face of of my current upheaval, it will always be home to me. And all the good stuff trapped in my noodle and not getting typed out, is getting closer to freedom in cyberland.

I need to get something to eat and consider cleaning up the cooking destruction dad has left in the kitchen. Sigh.

Yes, Do Adjust Your Set

Living at my father's house has been fodder for many jokes, much soul searching and the required practice of Attitude Adjustment. I find myself using the humor to deflect expected judgments from people, which is a nifty and effective way to distract someone. I am usually successful with this tactic.

"So where are you living now?"

"Well, I am staying at my dad's house with my two dogs while all my worldly possessions are in storage. And bonus, we work together!!"

Quizzical look followed by, "Oh, well, how IS that? Is it hard? Does it suck?"

Here are my stock answers:
1. "I figured since in most European cultures, take the Italians for example (one half of my heritage as well), it is totally normal for unmarried adults to live at home. And since I am an unmarried adult, why not be like the Italians?? They seem to have a zest for life that we all want to emulate, so I am taking the chance to do it! I love it!" Big smile and hearty laugh.

2. "You know, I went online to one of theose carbon footprint calculators, and I am apparently some kind of carbon hog, so living at my dad's house truly reduces mine and his carbon footprint! It is fantastic!" Big smile and a gulp of wine.

3. "No it is great, really, I mean he is crazy as hell and smokes a lot of dope, and rants and fucking raves about politics and even more about shit he knows nothing about like The Sopranos which he has never seen yet has clearly defined opinions, and has a LOUD LOUD LOUD voice especially early in the morning, and did I mention the pot, oh and he is a slob and leaves crumbs and a wake of stains on every piece of furniture, couuntertop and carpet he touches, and he doesn't have garbage pick-up, he takes the offings and dumps it in other people's cans, oh and gets shit-faced a lot, and don't get me started on how he doesn't sleep in his bed, but on a couch, and now I understand how I got so screwy during childhood and was jacked up enough to marry my now ex, but other than that it's great! I do have a great view and he picks up the tab on my utilities!!" Person would then be gobsmacked and run away from me in terror.

Any more, and I start to veer into bullshit, or worse, actually rant the truth as evidenced in #3. This is when I realized that the Attitude Adjustment was critical, especially to tap into the all the years of therapy and take advantage of my youth (yes god damn it, I still consider myself young) and spend some time with my dad as an adult before he is really old and really-really crazy. So, I Adjust. And write about it... a lot.