It's PARTY TIME!

Yes, the moment has arrived. Party time is here. The new place is presentable (mostly) and it is being christened tonight with its very first shin-dig. My roommate and I have been frantically preparing, inviting, cleaning, cooking, and sharing general jubilation over the event.

This is the first party I have hosted since college, and the first where beer pong is on the agenda. I know, many of you are wondering how I have made it through 23 years of life without hosting a party with a beerpong table, but if you went to the school I did, where there was no greek life, I was the RA, and it was located in the middle of the bible belt, you might not have either. For the record, I have also never used a keg. Please, contain you laughter and shock. In my own defense, I didn't gain the freshmen 15 as a result of keg drinking, in fact, I lost 15 pounds. Sounds like a good trade off to me!

But anyway, back to this evening's event. I am hoping for a big turn out. And I am pretty sure it is going to be the most eclectic group of people ever. The combo of my friends, my roommates friends, my sisters, my bosses (who are young, hip, and cool and already informed of the fact that they are not to hold me accountable for any of my actions outside of the 9-5) and some other random invites, it should make for an interesting night. And what is even better, when we want everyone to leave, they only have a three block walk to the bars where they can continue the party into the wee hours.

I love throwing parties. The excitement of making good food and compiling itunes playlists to set the tone, just can't be topped. Especially when everyone has a great time. What a thrill to see people laughing and dancing and talking the night away at a party you're hosting. It's great. I can't wait to post pictures of the event. And maybe brag a little about my stellar pad. But now, on with the preparations!

Happy FRIDAY!

Is it wrong to be hurt, or should I just be mad?

I have the privilege of working in an office of fantastic, creative and big brother-esque graphic designers. These men, their families, and the business they created have made coming back to my hometown after four years away at college a bearable transition. Day in and day out we laugh, crack jokes, poke fun at each of our ridiculous qualities, and do a little work on the side. Because the office has become a bit of a family, we make efforts to appreciate and encourage one another. The guys always say I look nice if I have made obvious efforts to appear business like or fancied-up a bit and make sure to let me know they appreciate the work I do for them. I bring in baked goods to share, and give the credit to the "banana-bread elf" who comes in stealth-like in the wee hours to leave slices of banana bread on the desks of each designer.

Yesterday, I did just this, having made some delicious banana bread with chocolate chips the night before. I cut three healthy slices before work, packaged them up in sandwich bags, and carefully placed one in front of the keyboard of each designer, as well as one in front of the keyboard of our new intern.

I received mumbled and earnest thanks through the full mouth of the first designer to enter the office that day. Then the intern came in and asked about the bread. I explained about the elf, and continued with my work. The other designer said nothing this time, but by the end of the day, the bread was gone. The intern left the bread on his desk, not eating it while I was in the office.

So this morning I am taking out the trash, and what do I find in the trash at the intern station, but an unopened sandwich bag with an untouched slice of banana bread. As lame as it is, I was a little hurt. If you don't like banana bread man, just tell me, I'll give it to someone else. No problem. Don't wait until I leave the office to put it in the garbage, right on top, in plain site where I would see it.

The intern keeps m + m's on his desk and I have a few small handfuls during the day. Of course I asked first and he said that is what they were there for, so I only felt bad about eating the m+m's because they are not something I need to be consuming at the moment as I am trying to get in beach shape. But today, out of spite, I said to myself, though I would have loved to say it to the intern, "I don't want your stupid m+m's you big jerk. If you are too good for my banana bread, I am sure as hell too good for your lousy store-bought m+m's. And so now I will no longer have the m+m's. Not that it is the best form of retaliation, as that just leaves more m+m's for him, but in my mind, he is no longer worthy of office food sharing. No more friendly elves will be stopping at your desk, Mr. Intern.

I may be over-reacting, but the way I see it, I am allowed a few moments of juvenile pettiness in my life and I am claiming one right now. Stupid, banana-bread-hating intern.

On a brighter note :)

Ok. Upon reflecting on yesterday's rather melancholy post, -which I really struggled over posting at all, and just prayed to god no eligible and attractive potential dates read it, (yikes!) I would like to take this opportunity to clear up one point that I neglected to mention in the post. Despite my dating circumstances, I am in a very happy place in my life right now. And that happiness is on my own terms. Having found that within myself, I think, is a huge gift.

I really know who I am. I can listen to my gut and trust my instincts because I have learned to be independent in a way a lot of girls my age are not. All my decisions are my own, my acceptance of my body and all its qualities is because I came to that peace, not because a man told me I was beautiful (though like any girl, I love a well-timed compliment). So though there are things I greatly look forward to in a romantic relationship and will learn from by dating men I am not meant to be with forever, I have learned a ton by not being with someone.

I will find love. I know this because I know how to love, and I do so with great devotion and loyalty. And the rest of the relationships in my life are strong and healthy, it's not like I am a social outcast or something. My main problem is getting past that first hurtle of getting myself out there, and not being afraid of having my heart broken a little, or of dating men I am later, a little embarrassed to remember. I am cautious. I know. But I am getting to a point where my caution is holding me back from experiences I need and want to have. I think my new found sense of youth and carefree fun will help a lot in this regard. Not to mention the fact that I now drink alcohol. Though I have a great time without it, when it comes to matters of the heart, I am better off with lower inhibitions seeing as my natural course of action is to clam up.

My goal this summer is a fling. Nothing serious, nothing lasting, something to "break the ice" so to speak. I am currently taking applications. If there are any attractive and eligible men reading this (doubtful as that may be) ask me out. I'll say yes, and I will probably laugh at your lame jokes too. So if you are looking for a fun red-headed, too gullible for her own good date, I'm your girl. And despite what you may have read to the contrary, I am mostly normal and well balanced. Plus I promise not to mention any of this ever again. A winning combination if you ask me.

An unspoken fear

If you don't already, I suggest you check out the blog of Lara, a lovely person living on the other side of the country and one of my first blogger friends. Her stories are not only well written, but also laced with delicate and sometimes coarse strings of honesty and courage. Her most recent post has inspired me to put on "paper" one of the fears I struggle with every day.

I think we are each equipped with a certain amount of pride. Pride can serve a wonderful purpose. It can see us through moments when we want to give up, but couldn't bear the thought of appearing a failure in the eyes of those we respect. Once through the storm however, we can look back and gain wisdom from our perseverance, realizing we had the strength to withstand all along, we just needed a little extra incentive to push through. And then there is the damaging sort of pride. The kind that stops us from asking for help when we need it, prevents us from healing because we never allow ourselves to fully embrace feelings of hurt or shame or anger- instead choosing to push it back into the corners of our hearts, hidden from public view, but always there, lurking in the shadows and poisoning our thoughts.

Which leads me to the title of this post. My pride holds me back from making public a fear that has been present in my heart since I was probably about 16. And as cliche as it may be, it revolves around "boys" and more specifically, the lack thereof. I hate filling that stereo-type, but there it is. I am afraid I will always be alone.

I am 23 and I have never had a boyfriend, in fact, I have never even been asked out. Ever. I find this horribly embarrassing and though I try to brush it off as circumstantial, there is a part of me that can only look to myself as the cause of this deficiency. In high school I could more easily accept my lack of boyfriend because I wasn't alone. There were lots of other girls who didn't have one. I also recognized that most of these relationships were destined to be short-lived. Though there were times when I felt it acutely and cried chest heaving sobs on the drive home from New Year celebrations, aching for the loneliness, I held onto the hope that college would bring better times, and better chances for finding at least one guy to ask me out.

Generally a happy and optimistic person by nature, I stuck out my chin and kept happy, reminding myself daily of the quality of my being, there was no integral flaw preventing guys from having an interest in me. I was just in a small school, in a small town, and I didn't fit the high school fantasy of a perky girl in a tiny body, content to flatter the arm of her boyfriend in the hall between classes. So I focused on other things. I played year round volleyball in a traveling league, found great success in all of my classes, and had a ball at dances- despite having to ask every guy I went with. I spent time with my friends, went to basketball games and football games, joined clubs, had dinner parties and Christmas parties. I filled my time with friends and laughs and things I enjoyed. Looking back, high school was a good experience for me, even without a boyfriend or a first kiss. And there was college to look forward to.

When the time for college did come, I chose one that captured my heart. In Virginia, it sprawled long and narrow across a mile of campus. Brick buildings with tall, white columns and surrounded by winding brick pathways, the epitome of southern architecture, dotted the map of Mary Washington College. First established as the sister school for the University of Virginia, a men's university founded by none other than Thomas Jefferson, Mary Washington was a women's college until the 70's when it went co-ed... sort of. During my years at Mary Washington, the ratio hovered around 70/30. I suppose I didn't consider the male female ratio when choosing a school, there were other things more important to my decision; how I felt on the campus, the art department, the professors, the cost, the education. It didn't occur to me to that my lack of concern would cause me to experience another four years of boyfriend-less, kiss-less single-dom.

Again however, I surrounded myself with people and activities I enjoyed, the end result being an incredible college experience. My classes and professors inspired me, my friends made me laugh, laugh, laugh, and though I wasn't a big partier, I had a ton of fun. I ignored the feelings of loneliness that tried to creep in and pushed away the ache in my heart, keeping myself so busy that I didn't have time to think about it. But there came a time just before my senior year, when no amount of time-occupying activities or cheery attitudes could cover up my growing feelings of worthlessness or make up for the lack of at least one person thinking I was the cat's meow. The thoughts of "what's wrong with me" and "I don't deserve to be happy" began to take hold. When you are alone long enough, you begin to believe it's what you deserve, that no one will ever be interested in you. Why would someone want to date me? I am not special or all that exciting. I am "damaged goods". These kind of thoughts, once allowed, can spiral out of control and lead down a long and painful road of self abuse. And the pot boiled over that summer before my final year of college.

I maintained my wits enough to know, (even if it came from somewhere within me that was almost out of reach), I could be happy and I could define my worth by more than a man's affection. I come from a family where we don't sweep things under the rug. If we have a problem, we lay it out on the table and stare at it until its dealt with and move on. So I took action and I began seeing a counselor at my college. It hurt quite a bit, and I won't say there weren't times when I wanted to go back to the dull ache, it was more bearable than the heart wrenching alternative. But I stuck it out. I made a decision to love myself enough to take this on, even if it hurt. And in the process, I learned how to ask for help, and how to lean on friends for support and encouragement. I didn't have to go through this alone. I put the shoe on the other foot and realized I would want to help if one of my friends was in a similar situation, so I should let them help me. And they did.

On the whole, the investment paid off. I can look at life's ups and downs with more clarity and perspective and though there are times when I still feel blue and lonely, gone are the days of my worth hinging on my date-ability. But now a year out of college, my situation has not really changed. Despite the fact that I am genuinely happy, there are no men to speak of. Granted, I moved back to my hometown where the bar scene offers up a buffet of toothless Larry's and wife-beater-donning young stallions- not exactly choice options- but you'd think I would have found at least one date-able guy. My family says I am too picky. In my mind however, picky requires turning people down. If no one comes a knockin' I don't even have the opportunity to turn them down. It's a predicament. I am hoping my new location will provide some male companions of the non-male hooker type. I could definitely go for some lovin. The eternal optimist in me understands I will find someone someday, but I sure as hell hope it's sooner rather than later. For now I suppose I will look to the eternal wisdom of The Supremes "You can't hurry love, no you just have to wait. You gotta trust in good time, no matter how long it takes."

What weekends are made for, and freckled skin is not.

Beach lounging, sun bathing, lake swimming, lap racing, and sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen. What a Saturday it was. I was invited by my roommate and her sister to make our first voyage to the beach this weekend, can you believe I almost said no?! Yeah, I almost stayed home in my kitchen to...wait for it...... paint a table. Who would even consider that but me. Beach/table painting, beach/table painting??? Is that really a debate? In the end, my diligent, "just get it finished" mind was over ruled by the "It's SUMMER and a BEAUTIFUL day" mind and we drove 45 minutes to Bolton Landing where Lake George and all its Adirondack glory awaited us.

Lake George takes my breath away. I have lived 15 minutes from it my entire life and it continues to impress me with its stunning beauty. Surrounded on all sides by the rolling peaks of the Adirondack mountains, it is filled with cool, clear water and reaches depths of over 200 feet. Not to mention the fact that it is 32 miles long and narrow enough that on a quiet night, you could yell a conversation over the peaceful waters from one shore to the other.

Saturday found the lake in top form, with azure skies reflecting on calm waters. The beach lay out before us, graciously uncluttered with tourist and their coolers. A soft breeze kissed our skin but left the sand in its rightful spot, below our feet. We set up chairs, and I began the lifelong torment of "greasing up".

I will forever consider sunscreen one of the great injustices of the world. I feel it most acutly when beaching with bronzed beauties the likes of my swimsuit model-esque friends. While they are oiling with coconut scents, I am slathering on half a bottle of the highest SPF I can get my hands on and smelling like a toddler. I will apply much more than the recommended "shot glass" full of sunscreen, (that recommendation must apply to midgets because there is no way that amount would cover the square footage I bring to the table) and will reapply diligently every hour and a half and after swimming, and after beach volleyball, and after drying off, and then probably a couple more times just for the heck of it. What kills me though (both in literal and figurative terms) is that I still get a sunburn and I am still at a higher risk for skin cancer. To add salt to the wound, higher SPFs cost more! What the hell is that? All those people who roast themselves with oil and SPF 4, 6, 8, 15, can do it for $1.50 less than those of us trying to protect ourselves with 45 and ups. There is no justice. And to boot, I go from being burnt, directly back to my pasty white, do not stop at tan, do not collect $200 dollars-self. I worry about burns in March and in July, I require a dermatologist to inspect my every freckle, and I don't even get to experience the slimming and healthy vibrance effects of a tan. For real, what gives?

But my bitterness about suncreen and fair skin aside, I had a great time at the beach. Just hanging out, and having extremely competitive swimming competitions (I swear it was neck and neck the whole way), and lounging on the beach while commenting on the inevitable hilarities of fellow beach-goers, is a splendid way to spend a saturday afternoon. The company was grand, and we stayed long enough to enjoy it, but not so long that I would have wished for a book to read. When I got home, I took a nap in my cool un-airconditioned room (thank you old victorian houses that stay cool in the summer) went to see a movie with some friends and then out for drinks, my first time out since moving to the new apartment. All in all, it was a day living a life of luxury and ease, and I hope for many more repeats as the summer shuffles along.

You're as old as my dad!

Biker men, big ones, full of testosterone, among other things, and lady bikers, (some who may also have been full of testosterone by the looks of them) swarmed to the Village of Lake George this past weekend. There was a Harley on every corner, leather on every ass (in some cases leather-wrapped ponytails), and a perfect amount of classless hoodlumism (I know I know... hoodlumism is probably not a word, but what ev).

With all this fantastic chaos, it was practically a requirement to go to the biggest biker bar and dance dance dance. So we did. And I was the DD. Don't mistake this for me not having a good time. I have as good a time sober as drunk, the experience is just a little different, and I feel better the morning after sans alcoholic beverages. But the great thing about a busy bar with out-of-towners is that you can be a little crazy, a little less inhibited, and have a whole lotta fun.

Packed with people, my little Honda, GiGi as I call her, chugged up the northway toward a rucus that could be heard across the lake I am sure. First to Christie's, where you can hear each other talk (most of the time) a group of us met up with some friends. We hung around with the younger crowd, people my age out doing the same thing, relishing in people watching, scratch that, BIKER watching, big difference, and enjoyed the acoustic stylings of a one man band who did covers the likes of Margaritaville and commented on the new Poison album that is strictly covers of very un-Poison-like songs. Wierd.

After an hour or so, the girls and I were itching to dance, and thus convinced the guys to head over to Duffy's, a bar with a decidedly older crowd, this cute red-headed cocktail waitress who happens to be my younger sister, and... a dance floor. Clutch. It was hopping. Not only did we make it in without a cover, but the band rocked. I ordered a water, and headed toward the dance floor.

There are not too many things I am vain about. In fact I tend to be pretty hard on myself about most things. But one thing I at first learned to embrace and then to glory in, is my hair. It falls in long, loose curls to the middle of my back and is the color of captured sunlight and new-penny copper. It is my best and favorite feature, and the ultimate dancing weapon. I flip it and run my hands through it while singing the words to every song, let it fall in my face and imagine I am a red-headed Jennifer Lopez whose moves and energy attract eyes around the room. I am not a great dancer, (though I always have fun, and to me that is all that matters) but with my hair down and the music moving my body, I become lost in a world of sensuality I rarely visit. Such was the case on Saturday night as I rocked out to classic rock covers with my friends and about 300 leather-clad bikers.

Apparently, on this particular evening, my sultry moves did attract some attention. Having gone to find my sister and my poison of choice, water on the rocks with a splash of lemon, a man approached my friends and asked if I had a boyfriend because he thought he saw me dancing with someone. Being the great friends they are, they gladly informed him that I in fact, did not have a boyfriend, the person he saw was just a friend and dating someone else in the group. The man left and I returned shortly thereafter to hear the story. Later in the evening, when I was once again away from the dance floor, he approached my friends and this time, asked my name. And again they informed him.

So as I come back to the dance floor, I hear my name in an unfamiliar voice and look to see who it could be, perhaps a young handsome man, with a biker bad-boy edge and a bod to boot. And then my eyes fall on him. A man, probably close to 55, with a graying beard, something of a potbelly, and bandana wrapped around what I am sure was a very bald head. He points to beckon me over. I cannot help myself and laugh aloud, shaking my head no in a "are you kidding?" fashion, and proceed to walk toward my friends. Luckily the sound of my laughter was drowned out by the music that at this time is just the radio. He follows me over and asks me to dance. I try to say no nicely... but he is persistent, "why not"..... and then, before I can control myself, the words are tumbling from between my lips as if in slow motion.... "beeecauuse you aaare asss ollllld as myyy daaaad." Ahhh! I had done it. In one fell swoop, I had probably just broken this man's machismo in a way only a cute 23 year old woman stating the obvious can.

"Ahhh, you're breaking my heart!" he said. "Do I really look that old?" What can I say to this?! There is no graceful exit, no option but to rub salt in the wound I had already created.

"I am 23. You could be my father." I replied while continuing to sip my water through a slightly chewed straw.

"Do I look that bad? You won't dance with me then? he pleaded

"l'll think about it."

"That's good enough for me" and he walks away yelling promises to find me when the band starts again. I breath a sigh of relief... he's gone. I turn back to find my friends, who are at this point getting a pretty good kick out of the situation. Some friends...

As the band starts setting up again, I see him coming from the corner of my eye and faster than I can plan an escape he is upon me, once again asking me to dance. What the hell, I'll never see him again, heck I'll never see anyone in this bar again. So I consent and before I know it, I am slow dancing to Free Bird. It was a hilarious. He ended up being very nice man, and to my surprise, saying he could be my dad actually turned out to be a conversation starter. I heard about his kids (that are older than I am), we talked about my red hair and Irish heritage, and slow danced high school style, turning in circles for the duration of the song. We got some pretty funny looks, probably because I was laughing the whole time (it is my response to pretty much every mildly uncomfortable situation) and I definitely did not look like a biker. Not to mention the fact that I was probably 30 years his junior. But it really was fun and something I am almost proud of myself for having done given the fact that I had not an ounce of alcohol in me. And at the end of the song he gave me a bearded kiss on the side of the cheek and thanked me for the dance. Initial reaction aside, it was an amusing adventure for me. He was a perfect gentleman and I got a kiss on the cheek with no funny business. What more could a girl ask for? :)

Hands Free?

I recently purchased a hands free earpiece for my cell phone. A neat little gadget I've found, that plugs right into my phone and shoots concentrated sound directly at my eardrum. I until now I have been notorious for driving while talking on the phone, and quickly throwing said phone on my lap mid-sentence because I spotted the fuzz lurking in the shadows. With my new earpiece, I am offically hands free.

What I don't think the hands-free manufacturers realize however, it that being hands-free only means I gesture more vehmently with my "free" hands while driving. 90% of the time, you really only need one hand to drive, especially if you are on the highway as I often am with my commute. My roommate doesn't even need that, she uses her knees to drive. But without needing one hand on the phone and one on the steering wheel, my arm is given free reign to flail about the car as if detached from my body. I personally think this only increases the chance for an accident. People are probably very distracted by the crazy redhead who is talking to........ herself and waving her arms emphatically while driving. I mean, I would find that distracting.

But regardless, I am following the letter of the law and using a hands-free phone to talk while I drive. As a self-proclaimed, TERRIBLE correspondent, I have a tendency of letting weeks, ok, months go by without calling my friends. This is not because I don't want to talk with them or because I am too busy to call, but simply because I just never get around to it. My new apartment is about 20 miles from where I work and the commute to work about 25-30 minutes. I am making the grand gesture and using this time as "talk to my friends" time. So far it has been great, I know that Laura and I will be driving to Boston together for our reunion and that Anna has recently repaired her bike and will be using it (not getting hit by a car as she fears) to explore the streets of Boston. And it's great because it's time I can't be doing anything else, except driving, so I have a lot of incentive to call. Now I have absolutely no excuse for not calling:)

The Rhythm of Rain

Waking

Light and gentle, it taps out quiet rhythms
on the pavement and grass beneath my window,
speaking in whispered tones, beckoning, reminding,
saying softly and slowly; ebb and flow. My breaths, rise
and fall, even and deep.

Driving

A quiet ride to work, wipers on intermitten
drifting back and forth across the windshield.
Louis Armstrong plays a lazy trumpet, capturing
middle highs and long lows that float and swirl
with the scent of morning and early summer.

Walking

Cool rain scatters on my skin, matching drops
to freckles. Each stride, slow and steady, not quickening,
but pausing, delighting in drips that surprise my cheeks
with pearls of water- sliding from eyelashes
into the half-moon smile of my eyes.