Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Dance More

Today is a dreary day in Atlanta. I've been told it's the beginning of 4 to 5 days of rain, which we desperately need, but I will find totally depressing. In order to be more proactive with my somewhat tempestuous mental health, I was contemplating how to battle the little black clouds that will soon be swirling around my head. Since it's inappropriate to have a cocktail at noon on a workday (which creates swirling of another nature), I've decided to dance more.

For those of you that don't know me - I don't dance. I move my feet, swing my arms, nod my head, etc., but I definitely don't dance. Rather than moving like Beyonce' or Janet Jackson, I move more like Kevin James in the movie "Hitch". It's a series of movements that have been known to leave some people speechless, others snickering and my daughters totally embarrassed. In my defense, I haven't injured myself since Line Dancing was popular.

Which of my female friends hasn't felt the inexplicable high of dancing to "Mustang Sally" in the dingiest of bars? There's something about the about the way that song begins that just summons my feet to the middle of the dance floor. Forget about the fact that the last "modern" dance I learned was either the Macarena or the Hustle. I hear the first chord of that song and I surrender the urge to fight. My sister, my girlfriend(s) and any other person of the female persuasion suddenly join me in my plight. Arms are in the air, booties are shaking, hips are gyrating and we're singing to each other at the tops of our lungs. During this daring show of female fortitude I, we, forget the boyfriend (or lack there of), kids, laundry, conference calling, blow drying, nail breaking, menial tasks of my day to day life. Instead, my life becomes all about the music, the dance and sheer unadulterated joy I have in not giving a hoot about who's watching and what they are thinking.

Dancing is good for my soul. It inspires me. It leaves me feeling like I can survive another day, hour or minute. It chases my blues, and sometimes the men who take me to the dingiest bar, away. It refreshes, reminds and requires me to be happy. What better way to survive!

Sorry, but I have to go. I hear Boot Scoot Boogie in the radio. Time to DANCE!

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Mr. Wonderful

They say there is someone for everyone and I have been thinking about that a lot lately. Not sure what has brought it to the forefront other than the fact that I have no life. My normal day consists of getting up way too early, driving literally across town to my job, finding creative ways to keep smart people from doing or saying things they will regret, driving back across town to my little home, entertaining my grandson for a few hours a couple of nights per week, attempting to have a meaningful conversation with whichever daughter may be in the vicinity, finding cereal and milk that isn't spoiled, enjoying a glass of inexpensive (read cheap) wine, then finding my way under the covers. Granted I don't follow this same path every night, but I do follow it frequently. Which leads me to the question, would I have time for Mr. Wonderful if I did meet him?

Who is my "Mr. Wonderful"? I have no idea, but here are some examples of who he is not. In the past year I've had the opportunity to date four men. Contestant #1 was a successful business man. Good looking, one year my junior, kids, an ex-wife (who appeared to be content as an ex) and a drinker. Now mind you, it's not my place to say he drank too much and I did match him drink for drink on our first date. But given the fact that he passed out on our 3rd date, I hollered "next".

Contestant #2 was Santa. No, really, he was a professional Santa as well as a massage therapist, electrician and Harley dude. I'm a fan of Harley dudes but was taken back by the fact that he only talked about his work. He had kids, which I rarely heard about, two ex-wives that I didn't want to hear about and a need to get married sooner rather than later. Next!

Contestant # 3 was a Cajun. It was my first experience with the accent, which was challenging but fun. However he was a never married, kid-less guy living in a bachelor pad at the age of 47. Plus are flip-flops ALWAYS appropriate? I'm thinking not so much. Next!

Contestant # 4 doesn't really count because it was only one date. I liked him. He said I smelled like coconut. I guess he yelled "next".

So who is my Mr. Wonderful? I suspect I've met pieces of him time and again. He's taller than me, has a wonderful sense of humor and is tolerant of mine. He isn't married. He doesn't care if I drink wine and he can hold his liquor. He no longer finds it necessary to smoke pot. He believes in God, encourages prayer, has a car that works, and he works as well. If he doesn't have kids, he's okay with the fact that I do and supports my strong sense of family. He doesn't let his dog sleep on my bed and he picks up his underwear because I won't. He finds the fact that I'm nutty part of my charm. He allows me to cry when I watch Steel Magnolia's without making fun of me. He understands stretch marks, ta-ta's that aren't what they used to be and the fact that sometimes I wait too long before I color my hair. He enjoys music, allows me to sing in the car and respects the fact that when I have a song stuck in my head, I sing it out loud until it's stuck in someone else's head.

Have you seen him? Do you know him? I'm currently accepting applications.

Thursday, March 12, 2009


Yesterday was my annual smashing of the ta-ta's a.k.a. my mammogram. I go every year, somewhat willingly, even though it's about one my of least favorite things to do. Since I'm 46, I am no amateur at this surprisingly mean and uncomfortable test. However, no matter how many times I go, it still surprises me. With the advancement of medicine in the past 100 years, you would think someone would come up with a method to look at breast tissue without requiring you to have your breast compressed in a vice. Here is a recap of my recent visit...

Hello Miss Meandering Mind. My name is Squisher. I'll be conducting your breast exam today. Please remove all clothing from the waist up, then allow me to place this band-aid like tape with a b.b. in the middle right on top of your nipple. Oh wait, is that a skin tag I see? I will need to place b.b. embedded band-aids on all of those too. Now, step up to the machine, rest your right breast on the plate, relax your shoulder, tip your head back, turn toward me, step in closer, drop your left hip, do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around. Ready??? Hold your breath and don't move. Now not wanting to be rude, I think to myself you have my boob in a vice! I can't even begin to breathe much less move from this god forsaken position so just shoot the film why don't you. If, by some miracle, they manage to get a good "picture" - which translates into the fact that my body didn't begin spasming out of the sheer pain of being held in place by this horrendous machine - I get to remove my now flattened breast from the plastic plate. Don't leave it up there too long Squisher says, or it will stick to the plastic. Are you kidding me? Leave it up there too long? I just want to grab it before it detaches itself from my rib cage. Now, we need another view.... and so it goes. Just to add insult to injury, as I get out of my gown and into my clothes, I cannot find the b.b. embedded tape that was placed on my right nipple. I suspect it shot off and flew across the room when I was holding my breath.

I complain about this procedure but go willingly out of respect for my body, my daughters and my remembrance of Maw-Maw, my wonderful neighbor. However, if I hear one more guy complaining that they had to bend over and cough, I just might put them in a vice!

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

It's Only Television

It's been an interesting week. First, the Atlanta area was hit by a freakish snow "storm" on 3/1/09. I use the term storm with some creative license, but for Atlanta, anything more than frost in the morning is cause for concern. Since there was actual snow on the ground for more than 24 hours, apparently all we had to do was watch television.

Monday night was the season finale of "The Bachelor". I have to tell you that I followed the show the first two, maybe three, seasons. I watched until Trista found her true love and my almost true love, Mr. Former, emailed me wistfully how he so would like to be like Ryan. He discreetly told me how he longed for the ability to open up and pour his feelings out for me like Ryan did for Trista. My remembrance of the show was that he drew her a picture. Regardless, I stopped following for a while.

This season, Jason (last season's reject and a cute guy from Seattle) and the first single parent to ever be on the show, was there to find true love. He had the garden variety contestants, which contained a few weirdo's, some lovely ladies, one or two psychos and at least a "ho" or two. In the end, it came down to Melissa and Molly. Everyone at work was rooting for Melissa and quite frankly, by T.V. standards, they looked like the perfect pair. She was charming, beautiful and had a pretty good day with Jason's little boy. In the end, he dropped to one knee and presented Melissa with a fantastic Neil Lane engagement ring. Unfortunately, the next thing we saw was him breaking up with her on national television, a mere six weeks later. Oh, the horror! Not only did he break up with Melissa, he told the host he still had feelings for Molly.

Now, I am far from perfect and I have never had the opportunity to have my pick of 25 men at one time, but I do know that finding love, for me, has not been easy. Is it possible to fall in love with the two people at the same time? I honestly do not know. What I do know is that it sucked to have my marriage come apart in my "public arena", which included family and a few close friends. I feel bad for Melissa but suspect at the tender young age of 25, she will have many opportunities to find someone who takes the time to get to know her, outside of the TV arena, and fall in love. My best guess is he won't propose to her in New Zealand, but more likely over a romantic dinner or maybe at the beach. Melissa needs to cut her losses and run. The saddest thing isn't that Jason was conflicted and changed his mind, it's the fact that the Neil Lane ring was to die for!