I dined at a local sushi restaurant after work tonight.  The hostess cheerfully greeted me by saying, “How many in your party?”.  Umm.  It’s just me.  ”Take out?” she asked.  No, I’d like to stay for a bit.  Sake’ in a styrofoam cup is just as bad as beer in a styrofoam cup — a fact of which she was unaware.  My contribution to making the world a little better place.

Anyway, my adventures in dining alone is not the theme of tonight’s blog.  Rather, it’s sex with someone of Asian decent.  (No holding back, remember.)    I dated a guy that had an Asian fetish.  He could spot a hot Asian woman a mile away! Sometimes they were hot; sometimes… not so much.  So in listening to the waitress communicate with the sushi chefs, it got me to thinkin’:  What does it sound like when Asian people talk dirty?  Notice I said, ‘sound’.  I am not curious about what they say.  Rather, how does it sound?  Think about it… Now compare it to the love scene featuring a Frenchman, or a Spaniard.  

“Oui, oui, Senorita.”  

So why aren’t Asian men ever cast in the sweep-me-off-my-feet-and-rock-me-all-night-long roles?  Or even the make-sweet-sweet-love-t0-me-role?  And what about Indian men?  I’m not asking about Pacific Islanders or Scandinavians.  There are a lot of Asian and Indian men in this country!  Aren’t white (yes, I said white) women equal opportunity pleasers?  Aren’t we sleeping around with everyone?  Why haven’t I heard the juicy details?!

Just curious…thinking of Googling it.  If only I had an audience that could give me real feedback.  (Gonna work on that.)

I’m gonna give this whole blogging thing a whirl…again.  Only this time, I have a few disclaimers and confessions.  Back then, I only wrote on two different occasions:  When I felt like someone was looking over my shoulder (Who’s gonna read it?  What will they think?  Are they checking my grammar?) and when I was tipsey.  My favorite posts were those I wrote while intoxicated, I believe, because I was writing without reservations.   It’s easy to say how you feel when you have Tom Collins by your side.

I once had three followers.  If any of you are reading this, I’ve got a favor to ask:  please don’t post comments.  I know that you care, but this go ’round I’m going to make an effort to not hold anything back, and your comments won’t help.  It will remind me that someone that I will soon see again, in person, is paying attention and I am afraid I’ll start editing my thoughts.   The feeling of being on a stage, blinded by a spotlight so as not to be able to see into the crowd will help keep me honest.

So in keeping with the goal of layin’ it all out there, I’m fighting off a bout of depression.   In addition to feeling it in my gut, I just came dangerously close to paying a stranger halfway around the world almost $175 only to get the ‘permission’ to write how I feel, a password to enter some private chat room and the privilege to post pictures to a Flickr account.  What the fuck? you ask.  I know, I know.  So I gotta do something, other than drink, or spend $175 on ocean front property in Oklahoma, to self medicate.  I am thirsty for something to get excited about and I use to get excited about this little ‘ol blog called Monkey Hill.

So to the three original followers, please keep you seat, fight the urge to say something and enjoy the show.

The holy spirit of Mardi Gras has descended upon me.  I wear it like the headress of a Zulu chieftain.  

I pity the poor souls in my new country that intend to celebrate Mardi Gras at TGI Fridays where they’ll pretend they’re having a good time, however, instinctively they’ll dknow there’s something missing.  

Such as…

Reunions with dear friends
Cocktails, just because
A chance of plastic showers (a’la GB)
Dance girls and bass lines
Sweet Feet and the Mohawk Drummer
Brisk air filled with the sounds and smells of…happy
Not-so-formalwear
The Gator, performed on the Civic Center floor
The Masked Observer
King Cake and extra cheesy broiled Doritos
Hangovers cured by the hangover inducer
The wherewithall to do it again the next day, with…
Swollen feet, that feel so good.

Damn, life is good.  I just hope The Boy can keep up.

Our deep gaze would be interrupted by the pilot announcing that we were about to start making our decent.  He’d scramble to learn what connection I was making, and I’d offer a light touch of his arm and a heart felt ‘thanks for the cocktail’. 

Ahhh but this scene shall remain a fantasy, at least for now.  Formula One didn’t find his way to seat 6C. Instead he gave it up for Cathy the cartoon character. 

That’s okay.  There’s always the connecting flight.

Like books, our lives, (or at least MY life) has chapters.  And here I am, closing one chapter of my life and starting a new one.

For those of you that have followed this blog, you know that my, what I deemed sabbatical, began 9 months ago almost to the day.  (Go ahead, click here and stroll down memory lane) I pulled my car to the side of the proverbial road of life and I took a break. As much as I would like to say I took the last 9 months doing something productive, like, learning a new language or, gestating a child, I did not.  I partied.  And I partied my ASS off!  And if I wasn’t partying, I was recovering from said party by staring blankly out the window.  What a waste!, one might think.  And admittedly I thought that from time to time myself.  If in January I knew I would have been going back to work in October, I may have traveled.  Or taken a class.  Or I would have done…something.  I should have, could have, would have.   Bleh! Hindsight and the whole 20/20 thing.  We all know it’ll make you crazy.

But you know what…my life in 2010 has been at the complete opposite end of the spectrum of what it was in 2009.   I decided a few months ago, as I was fending off the veil of depression that was looming, that I would hold my head high, and be proud of the fact that I worked hard to afford myself the luxury, productive or not, of a 9 month hiatus.  SO “F*ck responsibility”, is what I said and partied on.

(…)

OK, time to be honest.  I had visions of a dramatic “chapter closing” blog entry but now that I’m sitting here, it feels forced.  Me being physically where I am right now is a BIG deal for me.  HUGE.  I have shared this sentiment with a few already, but this is the perfect end to a, ummm, to a very…pivotal (?) no, that’s not it.  To a very…what’s the word?  *sigh*.   I would have been fine landing a decent job at home.  But don’t you see?  The fact that I threw a bunch of stuff in my car and headed North is just the the type of ‘Syonara’ I fantasized about offering to said chapter of my life.  The Finger if you will. Yet I remain humble.  It’s weird.  I am well aware that this opportunity presented itself to me because I was in the right place at the right time.  So now it’s in my hands to make this opportunity work for me.  It really is that simple.  (Duly noted because I am sure I’ll have to reference this post as a reminder of that fact.)

[I am not getting my point across...time to wrap it up.]

There’s a line in Shawshank Redemption that played itself over and over in my head during my drive here today.  “I find I’m so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head.” Nothing rings more true.  I am so, so, SO, excited about this next chapter I can barely contain myself.  I only hope I can open my eyes wide enough to take it all in.

Turns out, it’s equal parts champagne and Pinot Grigio.  I know, I don’t have a lot of experience with champagne either, unless its accompanied with orange juice, but I’m willing to experiment, aren’t you?  For whatever reason I gave myself permission to drink champagne after 2:00p.m. but only because it was without the vitamin C additive.

So here I am, comfortably numb, surrounded by memories all sitting Indian-style, waiting for me to give them the reason as to why they’re all here.  I find myself standing in the middle of an unorganized circle with a stick, pointing to each representative, declaring to each tangible being what their presence means to me…

Now I know, dear reader, you’d like for me to share the details with you, however I have to keep a few things to myself!  So without going into the gory details, you can be rest assured I am having a field day explaining how each and everyone of them have made me who I am today.  The jock vs. the psycho.  The intellectual vs. the womanizer.  The Spaniard vs. the redneck.  I’ve got my hands full.  And while not ALL of them are getting along, they do share in the fact they’ve been touched by one helluva woman!

And for that, I salute myself!

photo credit:  VE c/o AE

Do y’all remember when this poster hit the mainstream?  That everything we need to know about living life and what to do and how to be was taught to us in kindergarten?  Some of us had what Oprah refers to as that “A-ha! moment”.  It was simple and it made sense.

Speaking of simple pieces of advice that make sense, I share with you today two gems that I learned from two different gay men.  It is necessary that I make the distinction that these two men are gay, only because I can’t think of many straight men that would offer up the following advice.

The first was with regards to fashion.  You see, I have this awesome pair of knee high boots that I positively love to wear.  Only, I am not sure what to wear them with, other than a skirt.  When the skinny jean phenomenon presented itself , I considered the idea, but only for a nano second.  I reminded myself that I am blessed with big, shapely calves and there would be no way I could stuff both my legs and a pair of jeans into these boots.  (Besides the fact that I am not a skinny jeans kinda gal.)

So I asked my friend, J Noveau for his fashion advice.  You know what he said?  ”Girl, it doesn’t matter what you wear as long as you own it,” as he offered up his best gay pose.  (If you know J Noveau, you know the exact pose of which I speak — diva finger, hip slightly forward and to the right)  He was larger than life!  Confident!  And his statement was spot on.  ”A-ha!” I thought.

The second and most helpful piece of advice came from my friend DZ.   DZ and I don’t talk often but when we do, it always proves to be very poignant.  This night would be no different.  I found myself in a hot mess over, you guessed it, a boy, one weekend night.  DZ brought over banana bread (like any good gay friend would) and the wherewithal to solve my latest crisis.  Now I know, this is a silly analogy (or would this be a simile?), but this is my playground and it’s exactly how it felt so bear with me.  It was as if all of my thoughts and emotions flew out of me like a deck of playing cards.  Like the game 52 card pick up, they swirled around the room for a bit and finally came to a rest.  Scattered haphazardly on the kitchen floor, he stood and watched as I aimlessly kicked them all about.  He slowly bent down and picked up one single card, looked me in the eye and posed this question, “Does it really matter?”

“Ho-ly Shit.” He was so right!  It really didn’t matter.  And just like that, I felt better.  Now I realize this moment is probably very anti-climatic for most, but it hit home with me.  There once was a time when I was pretty good about keeping things in perspective.  But lately my insecurities have gotten the best of me (hence the fashion advice above).  It really is as simple as asking, “Does it really matter?”  Things, don’t have to be so complicated.  Anything really…boys, work, family, friends, life…whatever.

So I share these two morsels with you dear reader:  If you find yourself over-complicating things, slow down, untangle the mess and simplify.  And if you decide to don your skinny jeans, just own them and you’re sure to look fabulous!