Lasts

Today is the last day. Vacation ending tomorrow all of us returning home, I woke up to haze. Different shades of gray as far as the eye could see. Appropriate gloom for the last day. What a shame for tanning. As luck would have it, the day brightened, the sun pushing away the clouds. Yay, beach weather!

So what did we spend the day doing? Beaching it. But today was no normal beach day. Today was beach tumbling day. The nut that I am, I took to my most impressive gymnastics moves, joined by Elise, and later Nancy. And, yes, it was caught on film. Some good blackmail material, I'm sure. My fun ended with a little yoga. Covered in sand, I think the close of my day was the warrior pose. A girl can dream...!

The last night at the beach, the frig packed and divied up, we went out for dinner. Afterward, Elise & I hit Bud & Alley's for one last night out. I was the DD, dancing & not drinking. It was nice. I enjoyed! It was so fun to see what idiots we become (Elise excluded) when drunk. We scream, fall, belch and just generally make fools of ourselves. There was also a group of swingers at the bar as well. Yikes, my friends! I'm not one to judge, but I'm not one to...well, you get the idea...

The Boathouse

Another day at the beach followed by a trip to the Boathouse. A Destin favorite, Burt and Nancy (one of the couples in the family) got engaged there. So not only is it just fun to slurp down fresh oysters, drink beer and hang with locals, but it also holds a special meaning for 2 of us in the group. It's a dive. Floating on the water. But fun, fun, fun.

Burt had planned to take Nancy on a boat to ask her to marry him but was late...missed the boat. Literally. The way he describes that day, the ring was burning a hole is his pocket the entire drive down. He got stuck in traffic, got lost (yes, Burt is a man, God bless him) and ended up late on the big day. The 2 of them had met online. They had both been married before, Burt divorced, Nancy a widow, heart-breaking, and both were separately dared by friends to put up profiles online through AOL's dating service. They'd never met, started chatting, and that's all she wrote. So, no boat ride, they headed to the Boathouse. The inside is covered in dollar bills, including Burt & Nancy's, knick-knacks, license plates, and a bra or 800. They found their dollar, still hanging on one of the rafters. Here's to happiness, Burt & Nance. You're inspiring! And thanks for sharing. The Boathouse gets a thumbs up!

P.S. Can someone dare me to join an online dating service? And all of you who have cute, single male friends, can ya dare them too!?!

Mr. Never?

So maybe I'm not supposed to love one man. You know that Prince Charming crap and all, well, I always thought it applied to me. Granted, my Prince Charming would probably have tatoos, smoke cigarettes and ride a Harley or something (sorry, Mom!), but I guess I always believed in that whole one guy, one girl thing. So happy together...not so sure anymore. Matter of fact, maybe I'm not ever even supposed to be in a relationship. I do them pretty poorly usually. Maybe I'm supposed to have a series of beautiful moments with beautiful people, and then my constants, those friends who'll always be mine. Filling my heart. I wonder. Would I be satisfied? I think I might.

Marathon

I awoke this morning about 4:30 to watch a lunar eclipse. I've slept on the sofa a few nights, including this one. I had been awakened a few times, the full moon beaming in through the sliding glass doors that link the living room to the three-quarter wrap-around deck. The last time I woke, I couldn't see a thing, as though the lack of light had pulled me from my slumber. Turns out the moon was obscured by clouds, that once passed, gave way to a glowing rose moon. Beautiful, this earth.

Today we had the annual Miller Lite marathon. Competitive beer-drinkers from Alabama, Georgia and even New York gathered on the beach at high noon to start the race. Much like usual marathons, the progression, or shall I say digression, is quite a spectacle. With the random break for ocean dips, salty snacks and refueling, the marathons are known to last well into the night. Those who do make it to the finish line, a motley and stumbling crew, much like your typical marathon runners. A sea of beer cans left in our wake, I think I placed in third this year. A Georgian took the gold, an Alabaman the silver. One quick note, the Alabama was drinking Bud Light, and could have been disqualfied. Instead, he was simply given a six-beer penalty.

P.S. Looking back on the latest entries, there has been mention of alcohol, or at least pictures, in way too many. Vacation is great, but I fear a liver needs a break.

Heaven

Planes cut scars into the blue, their exhaust forming boomerangs in the sky. Seagulls glide above the water, their bellies green from the water's reflection. Icicle green and crisp blue, this beach is heaven. Clouds float by like couples on a leisurely stroll. In the distance inland, dark rumblings of storms have passed us by each day. The land-bound covered in rain, we bob in the water and cook in the heat untouched by the storms. The wind and waves our natural barrier.

Ladies' night

We went out last night for ladies' night. What a riot! People on vacation do things I'm not sure they'd do normally in their day-to-day lives. Take Naomi. I don't know the woman or her name but chose to call her Naomi after the one from Mama's Family. Shoulder straps of her dress at her elbows, shimmying about the dance floor, at one point she lifted her ankle length dress up over her head onto a man with whom she'd been dancing. Guess that was her way of letting him know he was taken. Bless her heart. And his too. The whole bar stood agog as the couple danced, the man under her dress, the woman's undergarments out there for all to see. We ladies laughed our heads off. I guess Floridians are their own breed. Or maybe it's just beach people. Nope. Sure haven't had a Saturday night out like that in the city for a while. Well, maybe never...

Vacation!

Back on vaca, people, I'm in Florida. The Emerald Coast. The water is the color of jade, the sand snow. I've been coming to this part of Florida for 10 years, and this year the water is like crystal. We're staying in Bobby Bowden's house, Florida State's head football coach, for those of you who may not know. My father has a pretty strong opinion of him and laughed out loud when I told him that's where we'd be staying. Just an FYI, Dad, the deck is overrun with its very own horde of yellow jackets. The irony!

Did you know that Miller Lite is union made? At least the cans are. I wonder: shouldn't what's on the can reflect what's inside as much as the can itself? I think yes. So then, that's some union made beer. Just feels better knowing that big, sweaty, balding men made my beer. Really. Seems much better. Who want's to be drinking beer made made women who used to, say, do pedicures? Apple blossom beer? No frickin' thanks.

Da plane! Da plane!

I love flying. Sure, the delay can prove a bore or just inconvenient, but once in the air, what a great feeling. Soaring through clouds and blue, it's other-wordly. I guess I'm just happy when traveling. It doesn't have to be on a plane. I'm overjoyed on road trips, in a car or bus. Hell, I'll even hop on a donkey for a change of scenery! It's official. I am an addict. But only to adventure. I love the feeling of trying something new, heading to a new place, a new challenge. And I adore the whole process leading up to the trip. The clothes you pack, fitting it all in the bag, which for me is decidedly easier these days. And inevitably, you leave things behind that you wish you'd brought. But in the end, it's nothing but stuff. What's in the bag mere formalities. The real fun lies ahead in the perspective change, the sense of unknown, the beauty of seeing a new place for the first time, or rediscovering an old haunt.

I'm headed to Atlanta and tomorrow will be driving down to Florida for the annual Bockman beach week. Not only a plane ride, but also a road trip. SCORE! The family has been renting a house the last week of August on the Gulf side panhandle of Florida for the past 7 years. I've joined the crew for 3 of those years. It's Mama & Daddy Bockman, Beth, the eldest & her husband Robert, Elise, the middle sister, Rebecca, the baby, one of my best friends & coincidentally the reason I get an invite, and Nancy, one of Beth's college friends, & her husband Burt. We are the Bockman nine this year. And it's fun. Building memories with family and extended family. We eat gourmet meals and drink cocktails, sunbathe and relax.

It's interesting too, spending time with a girl family. Three sisters, a mom and the dad. My family seems to have always lived in a "man's world," Sportscenter and, well, Sportscenter. But with the girls, it's different. Refreshing and different. We discuss books and movies, and boys, of course. Dating and sex and shoes. HA! In my family shoe discussions are jokes! My dad has been known, on rare occasion, to model his most recent flip flop, but that's about the extent of it. It's just different, and I like it. It's a nice to see how the other half lives. But more than anything, it's nice to be with family.

Home

My girl Lynn and her friend Chill passed through the city today. On a whirlwind tour moving her back home to Savannah, GA, she blew in to pick up her stuff and blew right back out. She's headed to Alaska next year, after a bit of time with family and saving cash.

People ask me if I miss it. Georgia, that is. And truth be told, I don't. Not that I have anything against it, I just don't miss it. I have nostalgia, sure. Anytime I smell fresh cut grass, I am seven years old again, a towel slung around my neck, on my banana seat bike headed to swimteam practice. Humidity too takes me back to Georgia. But I don't know if Atlanta has the same sense of opportunity that New York has. The pulse. The madness. The grit. The vibrancy. Whatever you want, you can make it happen in New York. They say that home is where the heart is, which makes my home a one-room East Village studio, complete with 2 windows, a broken buzzer, a couple of lamps, a bed, a futon, a fridge and a happy heart.

Bar karma

I just walked into a bar I have frequented for several years, just about all 4 years that I have lived in my neighborhood. I spoke to the host, fine, wanted to sit at the bar and use my computer, and he told me, "Sorry. That's not possible." Interesting. I have sat at the bar and used my computer in this very place before. So, actually it is possible. Not only is it possible, it's been done on several occasions. Then, he offered me a table in the other room, in the corner, away from any signs of life, which I refused. Politely. I will not be banished for wanting to use a computer. So I started down the block and then decided, bump that. I'm going back to that bar, will speak to the bartender and do as I please. Now, don't get me wrong. I get it. Me using my computer at the bar is dorky and it's inconvenient and maybe even an imposition. But I'm not taking over the bar with my evil Apple. I'm discreet and quiet. There have been times that the bartenders have asked to check email which I offer willingly. But, this place is a Eurotrash bar. All French and snooty, only this ain't Paris, honey. It's New York. So, just to call it fair, I asked the single girl sitting next to me if she thought it was rude for people to use computers in bars. She said, "Actually, yes," and spent the next 10 minutes that it took me to finish a glass of wine texting someone out there. Hmm. So a computer is rude but a handheld version is ok? Are we all just hypocrites?

It's just that I haven't been able to write so much lately and get it out there and I just really wanted to do so. No reason to be a jerk to a girl. And plus, people sit at my bar and use computers. So what is that? If I'd put bad bar karma into the world, understandably, that's what I'd deserve in return. But no. I give good bar love, computer or no computer.

In a pinch

So I hung out with a cop yesterday. A girl cop. Damn, cops are intense. And seem to like to drink. Always. Maybe I should become a cop. Yeah. Right. It was funny, too, because it seems like it would be such a mismatch. I've always felt like a trouble-maker. Or at least trouble. So I was a little nervous, I'll say, to befriend a cop. I met her at the restaurant. She's one of our bar customers. Of course. I gotta say, I'm so glad we didn't meet at her job. Doesn't seem like arresting a friend would be mad fun. Not that I've ever been arrested. Knock wood. So, the cop's cool. Same age as me. Not putting up with any more nonsense or bull honkey. Just living her life. Gotta respect that.

There are quite a few stories that I can't wait to share from hanging out with this chick. But we'll start with Mr. PCP. As a rookie cop, just out of school, she got the night beat in Harlem. And she tells this one story about a 6'4" man on PCP who has just broken his girlfriend's jaw, and my friend has to cuff him. Apparently, of drug addicts, PCP junkies are the worst. They have superhuman strength, believe that they can do anything, jump from buildings, fly, stop cars, bullets. So this 5'6" 120 lb. rookie girl has to get him restrained and handcuffed. In the midst of this, he mentions that there's no way he's going back to jail. Great. One who already knows the drill and is opting to put up a fight. Turns out the rookie has a secret tactic. Anytime she can't get the suspect to surrender and assume the position, she pinches. On the neck, back of the arm, anywhere. With both hands. And it works. Every time. Now that's thinking on your feet.

Tragedy

Just wanted to send love and support to those affected in the earthquake that hit Peru yesterday. Scary to think I was just there a few months ago. While disasters of this sort are always tragic, from what I remember, this region of Peru relies on the land, grapes in particular for wine and pisco production, and tourism for its livelihood. Thoughts, prayers and luck to you, Peru.

Deseó enviar amor y ayuda a ésas afectadas adentro el terremoto que golpeó Perú ayer. Asustadizo para pensar que alla yo estuve solamente meses atras. Desastres de esto la clase son siempre trágica, pero si lo que yo recuerdo correctamente, esta región de Perú confía en la tierra, uvas particularmente para el vino y producción del pisco, y turismo para su sustento. Pensamientos, rezos y suerte a ti, Perú.

Enchanted extinction experiment

When I think about my life, I have tough days and freak out some, but really, I am enchanted. I live an enchanted life. Even the things I don't always want to do--insert "work" here--I tackle with philosophical determination in my mind and blazing glory in my heart.

And sometimes, in my enchanted head, I think it's my responsibility to love people. To make people feel love, accept love and know that they are loved. As they are in this life. Not that I have some inflated sense of worth, or maybe I do, as though I am the lover of the world. But those whose lives do intertwine with mine, I feel like it's important that they know they're appreciated, loved. I guess I've been thinking lately, what is all this about? I was talking with my friend Paul about how many galaxies are out there in space and it's unimaginable to think that we're the only ones out here. And then I wonder: what's the point? Are we just another species, another creature, simply breeding, living, that may one day also become extinct? Who's going to fight to save the humans? Will we be the dodo in years to come? Or maybe all those extinct species once gone regroup in the netherworld to form a whole new species. Is this all an experiment?

P.S. Looks like the credit for the dodo photo is from a CA doctor: David L. Nelson. Thanks, doc!

Outside the limits

I'm in Tuckahoe, just a 40 minute train ride north from the city, in Westchester, sitting on the steps of the Masonic Temple. You can see the glow of the city even as far out here. It's pink in the night sky. To the east and west, dark, but toward the city all lavendar. It's crazy to think how much energy a 14-mile island can produce, create. Human energy, natural energy. Heat, combustion, chaos. What if you could bottle New York City? To collapse the energy of one day and from different parts of the city. Showing different types of energy.

But those in Tuckahoe are removed from the chaos. Kids are skipping down the street, the last days of summer. People outside, hoping the days of late sunsets and crickets will last just a bit longer. That days without school will last forever. A man just walked out of Bubblemania, the laundromat, with his laundry and got into a Mercedes. I guess he had enough cash for the car, so he had to forego the washer & drier. Guess if you have a car here you don't have to mingle with the riffraff. But anyway, it's just kids. In the suburbs.

So here I am kicking it with the Masons. I wonder what it's like to be in a secret society. Looking at your brothers, or sisters all of whom keep your secrets. And you theirs. And all the cool things you plan within that community. Cookouts and fun. I'd love to create my own secret society. I wonder what I'd call it. Guess ir should be related to work or have some grounding in a job or occupation. Like the masons. To be a part of something secret and clandestine.

What's in an ette?

Cigarette, kitchenette, luncheonette? I mean, really. What's in an ette?

Me, I want the real thing. Give this hussy a kitchen. A cigar. A luncheon. Don't come at me with halfsies. I just ain't looking for none of that. I want the real deal or I don't want none of it.

M.A.S.H.

I had a dream last night that I had an army jeep. It was really fun! One of the ones without doors or windows, just that collapsable windshield. I think I fell asleep watching t.v. and M.A.S.H. must've come on. I love me some Alan Alda. Hawkeye Pierce, God bless ya! And Hot Lips Houlihan, you, too. It's funny how much of your life is made up of things that you never really liked but just couldn't have helped. I had no choice but to be a fan of countless shows, Bugs Bunny, the Muppets, M.A.S.H. And music, Elton John, all things bluegrass, heavy metal, even tomato sandwiches and G.I. Joe. It's just what was meant for me, the baby and only girl, with two big brothers and two southern parents, Virginians, to be exact. It's as though you inherit their tastes. No matter how much of a hissy fit you may try to pitch, you end up liking things that were just forced upon you, like simultaneouly watching the Braves on t.v., the sound muted and a.m. radio on in the background with the "legit" sportscaster calling the game. To this day, I'm still not sure what the big deal is with that one. But no matter how much you may have sworn against liking those things, whether it's because they remind you of family and people you love or simply because you'e grown accustomed to them, they end up a part of you. Thank the good lord they had good theme songs!

Fulfillment

Sometimes I wonder if life isn't just a series of missed opportunities. I just talked to Tony who won't be staying in Manchester, NH or returning after his month job in Kentucky. He had gotten consideration to work full time for a theatre there and then the consideration got yanked. He's ok. Not too upset but maybe confused on what he's supposed to do. He's scared that returning to New York may mean assuming bad habits again. I can identify. I really don't want to get stuck waiting tables. Is that ever anyone's dream? And is it the destiny of my generation not to live our dreams? As though we can figure them out but not pursue them? Or pursue them but never be paid or able to sustain ourselves following those dreams? It just can't be the case.

And then I think of prior generations. There are those who had no opportunities. And those who worked whatever jobs they could to live and support their families. And I feel like a complainer. Eww. Like someone with a whole lot of luxury to be able to complain. But when to we get to deem ourselves successful? When we've paid bills and been able to survive? Is that the purpose of this life? Or is it when we've fulfilled lifelong dreams regardless of bills, regardless of survival? I vote for the fulfillment of our dreams.

Let your love shine

My mom wrote me recently that traveling changes you. I'm not sure if she's speaking from her own experiences lately. She and my father moved to Singapore in February. Or if this is a touch of wisdom passed unto her. Either way, it's right on. Things I used to love just don't matter so much anymore. Shopping? Eh...who cares? Shoes? Well, ok. Maybe...but now when I see all that stuff I think back to handmade crafts, the brilliant colors and the people who made them in South America. I've never been much of a brand girl anyway. Louis Vuitton? Did you know that those bags are made of canvas? You're dropping a grand, plus or plus, on a spruced up potato sack. And for me, it'd me more special with my own initials on it. And originality? I haven't seen that much that's all that original since back in the city. I'm keeping my eyes peeled. There's just no way New York could have lost its appeal for me. It just can't!

Ah, saving grace. Love Shine. What a fun funky store in my neighborhood: Love Shine. Thank the good lord. Keep your eyes open and don't forget the small stuff, Miss Anne. Love Shine is a pop & pop shop, the front showcasing the newest fabrics and styles of bags, the tail end of the shop awash in sewing machines, materials and swatches. They have laptop cases, fun handbags in all sorts of prints and styles, diaper bags even, yes, all of Manhattan is procreating, and most recently are venturing into sundresses and clothes. Phew. My faith in New York restored!

The vortex

New York city is an adventure. I woke up around 5 am to the sound of pouring rain. Lightning, thunder and a downpour. On my way to work, I found that no trains were running uptown. No NQR, no 123, no 456. *#()_)&@#$(!*@)##! Scrambling, scrambling, brain moving like a computer over the city's transportation routes. AHA! The crosstown bus, and now I'm on a bus uptown. I was supposed to be at work as of right now.

It took 45 minutes to get to work on the M11. That makes it a 15 minute mile, more or less. Funny to think I could have walked and gotten there faster! Why didn't I ride my bike today?!?!

I don't know what it is, but it feels like New York is a vortex. Things happen here that just aren't supposed to happen. At least lately. The roads exploading from heat. And a tornado touched down in Brooklyn this morning. In another dimension, New York would be the black hole that everything and everyone gets sucked into. Were New York an animal it would eat its young. The weaker sacrificed to feed the others.

I guess that means that there is something special about New Yorkers. The survivors, having eaten our siblings a distant memory, but a memory nonetheless, not matter how far back in the brain it may be lodged. And sure, a bunch of Yankees might not seem like the greatest thing if you're, say, southern. But the whole world is represented, not just carpetbaggers. Giggle. There is a determination, a fight inside each of us. And sometimes, the city is your opponent. Traffic is your sparring partner. Then, the train. Racing to catch the express. Then other commuters your opponenets. Women in suits and heels with sneaker prints up their backs from sportsters beating them out for the one available cab on First Ave. And then stoplights, and pedestrians. The bob and weave around strollers and those clueless ones behind them strolling. Always a competition. Then, add in nature? Today I lost, or more had to concede once Mother Nature entered the competition. Subways flooded, and me, one of the few proud chumps unable to take a sick day.

The flower pot

I live downtown. In Alphabet City, almost on Avenue D. It's pretty much as far south and east as you can live on the island. And Avenue D is considered, well, rough. Me? I love it. Characters in Tompkins Square Park, gardens tucked in between buildings, graffiti a patchwork piecing together the neighborhood. But all of that is changing, I fear. Gentrification. One block away from me, the flower pot building is going up. Million dollar apartments, yes, one bedrooms for a million dollars. And the demographic they're supposedly looking for to fill the building is mine. Young (er, cough, cough...sigh), female professionals. HA! If you've got a mil to drop on an apartment, what on Earth would inspire you to move almost all the way to D? There is no Starbucks. No shopping, except for a 99 cent store. No New York Sports Club. There are laudromats, Spanish and Chinese restaurants, grocery stores and pharmacies. But it ain't luxury. And I like it. But I'm not sure the neighborhood would suffice for a person looking to spend a mil on an apartment.

After three years of living in my studio, I feel a part of the hood. I speak to people on the street, pass things I no longer use on to neighbors, accept things others no longer need. One of my neighbors just moved out and left me his air conditioner! I'm not much of a window unit girl, but, man, was it hot yesterday! My street is built of a senior facility and community housing, interspersed with what was a squatters building, a couple of churches and a Habitat for Humanity building, created to house low-income families. What was once planned diversity seems to be getting pushed out into the East River.

So here are my questions. What young prefessional drops a mil on a one bedroom? Is this an alternate reality? Are there people my age bringing in that kind of dough? I guess if you have money to throw around, why not? But the neighborhood, this part anyway, is still mostly lower income families. How do those two dynamics relate? What happens when you put the have-too-muches and the don't-have-a-lots on the same block?

And me, I can't even seem to keep a plant alive in a pot, let alone see it through to blooming with flowers! Please see dead licorice plant at right.

Memories of Manchester

What I remember most is the sound of seagulls in the Manchester sky. They're loud and there are no buildings, no skyscrapers, no traffic to drown them out. One sole seagull, gliding through the air, crying. From such a distance, it rekindles family trips to the beach in my mind. A couple of kids on a deserted shore building sandcastles. Clouds only along the horizon, thin as gauze, the sun poking through bald spots. Old home videos in black and white. 5...4...3...2...grain and gravel on film. I want to be there.

And houses in Manchester are rumored to be haunted, the local theater, too. Given that the people I've seen roaming the streets look a bit slanted, even tortured, I can only imagine that once they've pass on to the other world, their ghosts continue to haunt the streets and buildings. One night, the gang had to pull together wardrobing for a show from the costume warehouse and left me at Becca's. Her apartment is on the top floor of an old house. I walked in and shivered. The doors open to a huge staircase with a weathered wood banister. It reminded me of Norman's house in Psycho. Great. Why did my brain have to go there? I bolted up the three flights, fiddling with the key in the door, of course, and made it inside. Lights. Lights! Just find a lightswitch! Done. Maybe even the attic apartment, it was pretty hot, so I opened windows. They slid open and stayed open, weighted or counter-weighted, those kinds of windows in old houses that somehow just stay open. Even the windows freaked me out. In the city everything seems to be set to slam shut, close, lock. To keep things, people out. Or in. Protected, secured. And in the city, you just don't get attached to a building. Who wants to spend an eternity haunting a studio apartment? So, I composed myself and got some work done. Even the wind blowing into the apartment felt alive. Spirited. I keep wondering, do I need to get out of the city more? And into the country? Screen porches, rocking chairs, climbing trees. Creating a game out of pine cones and needles. Have I lost touch with the simple things in life?

Pointer

I rolled my finger up in the window of Becca's car yesterday. Yes, like an idiot. I was peeling my toenails off, cute, I know, and decided to throw them out the window. They're biodegradable, right, Dad? My left hand on the window control, my right hand out the window, I guess we hit a bump or something. And my left hand jerked up and rolled my right index finger up into the window sleeve. Not so fun. In those 3 seconds, it's like time stopped. I tried to pry my hand out first, then realized I could simply roll the window back down. Have I'm mentioned I'm an idiot sometimes? And despite my many attempts at ambidextrousness, I'm still hopelessly right-handed. The funniest part is that when we got back to the car after the day at the beach, I could see my handprints on the window, the right one slightly smeared from being pulled up with the window, the left one above it. I had apparently tried to use the force of both hands, one of which was pinned in the window already, to push the glass right out of the frame. Silly girl.

Beachness

Day at the beach, people! Yes! With Tony, Becca, Shawn, Bobby and Flaherty, the yellow lab. The vacation of my life continues.

"New Hampshire is quaint." A direct quote from Shawn, a native to New Hampshire. Tony's got some good people up here.

I think my tan makes people uncomfortable. Weird to see what happens when your skin makes people uncomfortable.

Manchester

Explosive lightning just crackled to the ground. Momentary light carved in the sky, the negatives of vericose veins cutting into the dark. Striking, inspriring. There is no rain, it's only electrical, the storm. Sharp, jagged. When I was growing up, a friend's mother was struck by lightning. Burned all over her body, even from the underwire in her bra, they said what saved her were her rubber boots. I've never feared lightning but were I out in this, I'd surely run for cover.

Twenty minutes later, the rain has begun to fall. In buckets. And huge drops. I'm on my way to Manchester, New Hampshire, on a Peter Pan bus.

Manchester, ManVegas, Manchattan, whatever you want to call it, is a trip. There's a little bit of everything. A very little bit. My friend Tony says, "It's almost big enough." Or, "It's just a bit too small." And coming out of Tony's mouth, that's especially funny to hear. He's in NH for theater. Musical theater. I've never understood it, but hey. It's all him. Getting all dressed up, dancing, singing. I saw him in a show in college. He was the spirit of this kid who committed suicide. And Todd Studebaker made him wear feathers. As though they made it ethereal and other-wordly. So here was Tony performing a contemporary dance, portraying the spirit of this tortured kid, with plastic feathers pinned to his shirt. I'm no theater expert, but really, Todd, bad idea. I'm staying with the Tonester this weekend. On a quick getaway from the city.

Dia de nacimiento

So what do you do for the first official I'm "in my 30s now" birthday? I know. Who cares? Me. So, I went out for margaritas, then to a friend's for absinthe. Woah. That sure is some crazy stuff. Illegal here--or not legally sold anyway. And you serve it with water and a sugar cube. It's a whole process. And two of those and...TKO. Anita's down for the count.

When I woke up this morning, I giggled. Just inside the door was one shoe, followed by the next. Then pants, shirt and unmentionables. Looks like I removed an article of clothing with each step. Funny, too. I was home by 10 pm! That's when my mom passes out, not ME! Uh, oh. Not sure this whole 31 thing is going to work out...

Quick shout out: happy birthday to me! Thanks all of you who called this hussy. Love ya!

Good enough

Getting behind on this, I know. Busy at work. The owner keeps trying to get me to be the GM. I'm just not having it. I told her today that I'd do it for 6 figures. She gave me the finger.

I had drinks with some friends from my old job last week. They got a kick out of the name of the restaurant. And then I mentioned the yoga pants that say "Good Enough to Eat" across the tush. Got some good jokes outta that one...