Hairy Manipulator

He sits just there.  He has placed himself with great precision directly before me.  If my eyes are open, regardless the turn of my face, he is most often dead center, but at least quite present in my peripheral vision.  (Unless I sit backwards on the couch, which I have considered.)

His steady gaze is a softened laser beam of asking, telling, and strategically requested pity. Like a tiny trembling soldier, he awaits any indication that soon, oh surely very, very soon, I will rise and give him nourishment and release him to Nature’s call.  He sits upright, straight and true, while bravely and slowly dieing of the worst case of anticipation he’s ever had since last night when he began expecting dinner.  And yet, on the very doorstep of death, dangling by his last frazzled nerve, he sits just there.   Determined, rigid, and shivering with explosive patience, he anchors himself to my conscience.  Steve, my tiny sentinel of hunger, angst, and bladder control.

Oh dog, if you knew Can Opener and Door Handle, you wouldn’t need me.

In his formative years, Obi Steve Kenobi spent many hours honing his mindbending skills through fervent meditation.

Well, Morissette, it ain’t ironic. Or is it? (a Man Diet update)

So the Man Diet, right?  I guess it’s been about three weeks ago that with a shrug of my eyebrow, I let it go.  It just slipped off of me like a scarf, or something wispy like maybe an unoccupied cocoon or an eyelash.  Nothing triggered it, I was not compelled by any particular man or idea of a man.   It was more like a realization that it was over.

Hey, remember the yada, yada episode of Seinfeld?  Well, yada, yada, I have a date tomorrow.  The first official “breaking the fast” date, to be more specific.  And, not ironically, it’s a breakfast date.  And… guess where we’re going?  The Cheesecake Factory, of course.  So maybe it is ironic.

And yeah, I’ll be keeping an eye out for those pesky virgins.

Flow When You

Flirting for Sidewinders

You got that right, my homey.  Now get your eyebrows in ready-go mode, because as it turns out, I’m one of them.

Always having touted myself as ridiculously honest, I was surprised one day to find me pulling the wool over my own eyes.  I had marched like a troop on orders to the Employee Dining Room, and upon entering, a cloak of grace fell from the heavens and I was Miss Alabama in an evening gown, gliding across the floor wanting nothing more than world peace, and to eradicate hungry children (or something like that) and for that guy over there to look at me.  Not just notice.  Look.  I was about to give the performance of a lifetime, playing myself in “Me, the Package”, and I wanted him to catch every mouth watering morsel.  I mean, moment.  Every mesmerizing moment.  Oh, and there was about to be some mesmerization up in here, y’all.

But where was my audience? I wasn’t quite sure if he was over there or over there or not even in here, oh golly.  Having not mastered the art of aloof room scanning, I ironically did what other people do when stuck on a Game Show…  I phoned a friend, which gives me the opportunity to bullshit importantly while gazing about nonchalantly.  Sometimes I’ll laugh, and it’s the kind of laugh, were he but here to hear it, that he would surely want to hear everyday of his life, starting now.  And then, through the twinkling of Oscar-worthy mirth, my eyes lock on target.  It’s go time, honey.  Miss Alabama is back, sidling demurely over to the coffee bar.  The sash and world peace remain, but the gown has got to go because it’s Pants Time.

Once upon the coffee bar, I glance over my shoulder like I’m about to toss a quarter into the fountain in Rome and then, poor unsuspecting bastard… Whabam!  Check the left cheek while I put a little cream in my coffee.  That’s right, now let me turn just slightly this way, and Ahoy matey, she stands astern!  Oh yes, Adam took a bite of this apple and now everybody has to go to church.  Now that I have his attention, like a well brought up Southern girl, I turn the other cheek.  Mama told me it’s the right thing to do.  Whappow!  I certainly hope my gentleman friend is catching the show, ’cause it’s all kinds of tiring putting Miss Alabama in hypnotic ass pants while still holding on to a world peace please smile.

Earlier this week I had been afforded the opportunity to stand within earshot of him while sprinkling my conversation with important words that could only leave him awestruck at my staggering intelligence.  So, package complete, and coffee in hand, I turn to exit stage left.  Gotta make this good.  The best actress can convey a mountain of meaning, without ever opening her mouth.  And I’m all over mountains.  I mean, meaning.  And once again, I’m sidling, less demure, more provocateur this time.  I glance over at him, shyly smile in his direction but not too specifically, pop the door with my hip and I’m gone.  He’s a puddle in the floor, I’m sure of it.  He poured right out of his chair and under the table.  His friends are stepping in him.  He didn’t want me to go.  But I did.  And now he’s all wimpy and sad.

But he’ll live.  I’ll torture him again tomorrow.  His heart is like a Gummi Bear.  Soft and bouncey.  He’s like a cat toy.  And I’m an evil cat with cruel intentions.  But I never knew it until now.  I’m a sneaky, side-winding bitch cat who pretends she wants coffee when what she really wants is attention.  It’s embarrassing.

When I realized what I was up to, it was quite the revelation.  I have always considered myself to be stupidly honest, and never, ever, ever (!) a flirt.  Never.  At first, I was trying to figure out what to do about it… how to bring honesty to the situation.  Do I burst into the Employee Dining Room and make an announcement?  “Attention!  I’m having a great hair day, and I’ve got my good butt pants on today.  I am not here to get coffee, though I’m going to get some because I’m addicted to caffeine.  My true reason for being here is that I want that extremely handsome man over there to want me.  I do not want a relationship with this man, I just want him to desire me passionately.  Not like a stalker, but like, one step down from that.  Or maybe two, depending on what that means to him.  I don’t want to know what that means to him, or what anything means to him.  I just want him to want me, and to convey that through meaningful glances.  Thank you, please continue eating your crappy meal.”

See?  Stupidly honest.  I’ve settled for leaving public announcements to the professionals and naughty celebrities.  I’m going to focus on being honest with myself.  If I’m going to get coffee and smile at the cute guy, then that’s what I’m doing.  Now that I know I kind of view him as a toy, I feel okay with some light-hearted flirting.  I don’t have to lie to myself anymore.  I’m going to flirt out in the open.  And I’m okay with that.  And based on the cute smiles we exchanged yesterday, I think he is too.

For Demure Sidling lessons, please hit me up at  JK.  Just purse your lips, shrug one shoulder up, then slither.  But I don’t recommend it.

Secrets in the Kitchen

The kitchen is my battleground.  I whack meats, I grate things, I slice and shred and boil to the death, carving meals out of icy mounds and body parts and things ripped from the dirt.  I go out, and I bring dead and dying things back.  To the kitchen.  To finish them off with a little garnish on the side and some cheese on top.  And when I’m in the kitchen, doing these things, I like to be alone.

I’ve suffered guilt for not wanting or allowing my children to be in the kitchen with me.  Maybe it started out as a safety issue and then just grew from there.  Maybe, no matter where I’ve lived, the kitchens have always been small.  Maybe when I’m home from work and have to start cooking right away, I’m still “processing” my day.  I don’t know, I just know that I like to be unencumbered when I’m engaged in warfare.

So last night, standing just within the battle line, my teenage daughter tells me a secret. Over the roar of the blazing fire, knives glinting in the setting sun, vegetables dismembered and sorted, she tells me her secret.

Looking back, I realize that I had asked her to come in, right in to the middle of the fray.  I had asked her to take the bleeding meat out of the package it was in and wrap it carefully and place half in the freezer and half in the refrigerator, battles for another day.  She liked the raw bleeding meat, to hold it in her hands, she was a part of my world.

And now, I am a part of hers.  Both of us, the spoils of war.