Two bucks gets you the guy.

Actually, two bucks potentially gets you the guy. Well, it gets you that much closer to meeting the guy, that is if you want to put yourself out there and then go the extra step when you see someone who catches your eye. Yes, my friends, a tall cup of calm at Starbuck's, which costs about two dollars, plus a buck tip, is the way to meet a guy. (I guess three bucks gets you the guy.) And no, the double meaning of a tall cup of decaffeinated tea called “calm” is not lost on me.

If it's not obvious, this is post 2 of my eating-out adventures, and, as it turns out, Starbuck's, a previously untapped resource, is teaming with cute guys. Since my last blog post, to get myself out of the house, among other places I’ve gone, I've hung out at a different Starbuck's in a few different neighborhoods at least four times, and between those four times there's been at least 6 guys I've seen who, just on looks alone, I would have let put a little sugar in my coffee.

True, true, I'm totally on the: I've-got-to-get-to-know-you track before I get a little sugar, let alone a cup of morning-after coffee, and I haven't drank coffee regularly in over 12 years, but with hot-guy ratio numbers like those, having only rotated between three different Starbuck's, and having gone on a different time of day and a different day each time, yet each time the boys abound, I’m just saying count me in. My advice to any single person: learn to like coffee, or learn to just buy anything that gets sold in a coffee house, because these joints are apparently the quiet, less obvious, place to meet and greet choice meat.

Did I just objectify the coffee houses of the world? Maybe. But are you really that disappointed in me? Have you not called a bar a meat market? Well, as I’m now sharing, coffee joints are simply kinder, gentler greet markets. No one really wants to disturb anyone else, so that extra inch does present itself as a bit of a mile in order for a meaningful exchange to happen—for two people to actually start taking—but trust me when I say it, people are mostly open, man, hoping some stranger will engage them.

Whether they are longing for just a quick conversation (craving human interaction), hoping for a new friend, a new love, or a new recipe, these folks are all there in the first place. People are at bars, at coffee shops, at libraries, at public parks, or wherever, so they can get in their time out where others will be and thanks to Starbuck’s (for turning coffee into a pastime), we all have a way to pass some time with others in a welcoming setting. The proverbial sign on the door says: Come on in. Sit a bit. Everyone here just wants to be around others, too.

I feel the need to remind that my reasons for being out and about primarily stem from my need to get myself out of a condo that feels so unlike a home that it makes me squirmy. No joke. I don’t regret moving, because everything feeds into a bigger picture—even if the view is blurry before it gets clear—but I am a little pissed that for some time now, I’ve not felt the sanctuary of being ‘at home’ at both my old place and this new place.

This edgy thing, where my physical home is concerned, has been going on for over 2 years, ever since those buttheads moved in next door at the old place. That’s why I have to ask myself: Has this unrest, this impatience, been sent to me by those I have yet to meet, as a way to get me out more, to do more, to get me more involved so that life’s serendipities can be unveiled? I hope so.

Those Universe Notes (the emails I get) sent me a message that said something to that effect, and added that feelings of uncertainly are reminders that we have options, so I’ll take that. I’ll also take what my new friend Cruz said: “If we don’t take the initiative to make the changes in life that we are meant to experience, life takes the initiative for us.”

But if the Universe and Cruz haven’t gotten my back on this one, if their message to me isn’t the truth, and the reverse is true, that it isn’t something outside of me getting me to where I need to be, but is instead something inside of me, unconscious to me, then something is gurgling up within me and, like it or not, I’m probably about to crash into an emotional glacier.

The thing is, when so much of my life has been in question with jobs, finances, etc., home was the one thing I thought I had nailed (well, it was nailed before the bad neighbors and the move). Now home is the thing I’m missing the most and I am a bit confused. How can I feel so powerful from this move, and so at home in my heart spiritually, yet I feel so strange in my physical surroundings?

I know that people and places carry their own energies, which can both positively and negatively affect us, but no matter how much a place can hold the energies of fights, depression, etc., of the previous inhabitants or the surrounding occupants (neighbors), I also know that when we’ve done the work we need to do, to heal our psychic wounds, we aren’t as affected by the negative energy that may surround us.

That’s why I am wondering what’s going on? Why am I so edgy in this place? Has the transitional nature of this place become that overwhelming?

Do you hear me, universe!? I’d like a “welcome home” again, so let’s go. Help me understand what lesson(s) I am to learn from this transition so we can bring me to my new physical home, one that matches how at home I feel in my heart. I can’t keep trying to figure out new errands to run just so I can get out of this dark house.

Anyway, on a lighter note, the other reason I’ve been getting out a lot is because I recently reposed a few questions to myself: Why can’t I bring into my everyday life that same bit of adventure and zeal I’ve experienced while traveling? Why can’t I be just as open and engaging whether I am at home or on vacation? Why would I be any different at home than those times I felt more like myself because I was away? What was I away from and what makes me more stifled at home?

My answer to these questions? I decided that there is absolutely no reason I shouldn’t be living the full me, no matter where I am, instead of waiting to be that full me just on vacation. And, I asked: Why can’t I go out as much as I want when I want whether I have someone to go out with me or not?

Well, there is one reason I can’t go out as much as I want, and that’s a lack of available funds. Getting a bite out does cost more than the bite in, hence the inexpensive cup of calm and the one drink and a salad minimum when going out to my here and my there. Cheap route or not, the colorful characters I've encountered, who are continuing to collect, are so worth the getting out part.

You know what else I’ve found out about myself? I always knew I loved people. I did. But now I’m positively schnockered by them. This going out by myself more, meeting new people, it is all becoming a bit of an addiction and it’s had the effect of making me drunk happy. It’s like I’m mainlining strangers and there’s no down side.

There have been some drugs, some people, I’ve had to say “no” to. Let me explain… Have you ever been so impassioned by something that the people around you can feel it? They are, therefore, attracted to your light and want to smoke what you got. Well, if so, then you’d understand when I say that because I’ve had so much fun meeting new people I am drawing a lot of people into me. But, not everyone I meet is someone I necessarily want to smoke out with. (I’ve got no idea where this drug analogy is coming from.)

For example, during one of my runs I met this gal out walking. I was on the cool down portion of my run/walk, and we ended up walking and chatting for a half of an hour. There was something about this older woman, who I would say was in her early 60s, which indicated to me that she might be a drain.

She kept asking me for my advice on things, really personal things, and while I appreciate that we are all here to learn from each other, there are some things and some circumstances which require a bit of time and decorum before we start to fully lean into someone. I felt the weight of her lean within 3 minutes and it seemed like it would be too much weight for me to carry for a stranger in the long run.

Another example, is that during one of my coffee shop visits I met a delightful and interesting woman. She, at almost 60 years of age, and being a product of the 60s, had a truck full of experience I’d have loved to have continued to soak in. But, as a twist of circumstance would have it, this gal, with her John Lennon sunglasses, her wavy, blonde hair, and her white t-shirt and faded 1980s jeans, would not be someone I would be hanging out with again. Nope. Just like I’d done with the other gal, I had to walk away and pretend I didn’t hear her say, “We should exchange numbers and get a drink some time.”

Why would I turn down the possibility of an additional engaging exchange with a fellow artist, a comrade creative and gung ho conversationalist? I walked away because I found out that this gal works where I work (too close for comfort).

That doesn’t make sense? How about if I tell you that there is so much bureaucracy and bullshit where I work that if anyone’s name is used in the same sentence with the word “scandal” you’re jacked if you have any association with that person and anyone else finds out.

When did I ever care if someone had scandal surrounding them, especially if they are the one using their own name and the word scandal in the same sentence? I started caring the first week I started working where I work, when I realized that if I didn’t care, if I wasn’t careful (about everything), if I didn’t protect myself, watch my step, watch other people’s steps, I’d be one of the people with the word “scandal” next to her name.

Seriously, I thought back when I worked in restaurants and bars that the rumor mill and the back-stabbing was bad. Restaurants ain’t noth’n compared to the stank of taint that hangs in the atmosphere where I work now. One move in any direction that is even slightly note worthy, bad or good, and bam, that’s your label, people are talking, and that label will probably follow you for the rest of your days at this place. How could it not? There are so many lifers, 7-20 years into it folks, and just as many slackers, that the two camps are constantly clashing, looking for takers to join their side. They gotta label you before you can be a part of their gang.

Gangs have rules, you know. Some rules I can follow. Others, not so much. What I do, whether I can or will follow the rules or not, pretty much depends on what will make it easier on me.

Hanging out with Chloe and her fiancé on Labor Day weekend for a BBQ, with some of the gang members (dinner-out participants) from my cheetah slut night, reminded me that sometimes I refuse to play by the rules when it comes to my personal choices. Every one of Chloe’s fiancé’s friends are awesome, and I mean stellar, but age is a gang, too, and when I am with this gang (who are all mid/late 20 somethings), this older, but not so old girl, who loves the 40 year-old skin she’s in, can’t follow all the gang’s rules.

That’s why, when, after an amazing shared hodge-podge of food and great company, the boys started playing video games and the girls settled in to watch them, I couldn’t stay. Sure, I played Frogger and Pacman at the skating rink when I was a kid, and I watched some boys play Asteroids, but I never liked it. I only did it to be near the boys. Now that I am 40, if I don’t like it, and my pay check don’t depend on it, I ain’t suck’n it up.

So, while I was sad to go because I wanted to hang out with Chloe more, I was happy to leave because I love how 40 feels. 40 to me is being the designer of your own time and not having to apologize. I am not going to design time that revolves around video games, no matter how nice the people playing and watching them are. (Did you hear that, universe? Don’t you dare send me a man who plays video games!)

The new design I’d gone with for my evening, after the Labor Day BBQ with Chloe, her fiancé, and his crew, was to get a glass of vino at yet another one of my favorite local wine bars. That’s where I met Steve. Now, don’t get your hopes up. Steve, while an attractive older man, was not someone I saw/see myself dating. But how bad ass is it that I chose to go out and I’d ended up having a great time having a very intelligent conversation with a smart, clever man instead of watching boyz play video games?

How extra bad ass is it that I figured out that I’d actually met Steve before? Much in the same way I met Watt, because I wanted to pet his dogs on a day I was stressed, I’d gravitated towards Steve’s dog about 6 months ago while work stressed and meeting friends after work for a de-stressing/post-work drink. (The dogs have it when it comes to releasing stress for me.) Steve was sitting in front of a coffee shop (go figure) with his dog, and up I’d walked to pet his dog. That’s how I put it together. Steve had a picture of his dog in his wallet, showed me, and then when I recognized the dog I remembered meeting him, the man, before, too.

The bartender serving Steve and me was also familiar. I figured out that he used to be a waiter at this vino spot and, when last I’d been there, he’d waited on my friend Joan and me. That past night, to my delight, as this waiter/bartender scraped the table cloth clean for Joan and me, when I’d remarked that I’d always wanted a crumber (a table scraper), he gave me his. (Cool dude.)

The only person I hadn’t met before was the bartender’s older brother. The bartender’s brother was a really nice man. I love that after a while had passed, while I was talking to both him and to Steve, instead of just buying me a drink, the brother first asked, “Are you having a good time?” When I answered, “Yes,” that’s when the second glass of wine came. (Smooth.)

Now that I think of it, there were more people I hadn’t met before that night who I also conversed with. There was the cute ass guy, who was dating a blondie who might have been too young for him, and there was this cute ass guy’s cousin, who was also cute but not as cute. (I’m so 12 years old with the word “cute”.) They were fun to talk to for a bit, but the blondie seemed to want to go somewhere else where she could have the two boys all to her self, and away they went.

Then there was this other cute-er ass guy who I flirted with on the way to going to the bathroom. I used the oldest trick in the book. I asked him, “Is your name Jim? Did I meet you at Jane’s party a couple years back?” Look, I was feeling frisky, he was a looker, and the best way to see if you have a taker is to give the guy the opening (the fake recognition, the whatever), then see where he takes it. He took it back to his girlfriend. But, I love that I’ve been working my mojo—that I’ve been bumping it up a notch to put myself out there with people and that I have been remaining, as Ava would say, open to the sky.

That same Labor Day weekend, the next afternoon, I was open to my refried beans and salad addiction. So I went to get me some. Per usual, when this addiction hits, I sit at the bar of one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. That time a guy, who was handsome enough, but not my type, sat next to me. He reminded me of one of those perfectly coiffed white-boy republicans.

Not that there is anything wrong with a republican, or being white, but when a guy takes more time than me to get himself together, or it appears that way, he’s not my thing. Look, I grew my bangs out because dealing with (blow-drying/flat ironing) bangs was entirely too much effort for me. Therefore a stiff, coifed, repub… ‘Nuf said. Plus, he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

Some of my going out adventures have included the company of others, as well. Remember my new friend from Sweden/Switzerland? The one I met in Target? It’s Switzerland; that’s where she’s from. Mystery solved. Anyway, we had a nice walk and talk hang out session. She’s such a neat gal, and she gave me an amazing tip on a place for a great, cheap, Chinese massage. (My back so needs it!)

Do you also remember when I said, "It was a pleasure going to a movie and to lunch with the girl Chloe and I met on our last girl’s outing" in one of my earlier blog posts? Well, this gal, we’ll call her Cella, she and I have been hanging out. Turns out, we’re very similar creatures in many ways so it’s been fun, this new friendship. (Every one likes someone just like them, there’s even a Latin saying close to that effect.)

So far Cella and I have taken advantage of our city and we’ve done the beach cruzer bike ride thing. We’ve also gone out-out, like back to the meat market bar where Chloe and I first met Cella. Cella met a cute boy she was interested in on one of our nights out. We’ll see how that goes. (That’s not my story to tell right now.)

I, on the other hand, being a great wing woman for Cella, and wanting to give her the chance to provide her full attention to her cute boy that night, didn’t meet a boy I liked. Instead, I chatted up some guy who made me eventually want to find a Q-Tip to force into my ears so I could bludgeon my brain and pass out.

Alright, he wasn’t’ that bad. He was interesting enough to talk to, but at the point in the conversation when he said, “I expect my girlfriend to wear…” I wanted to ram a Q-tip up his left nostril and inform him that he doesn’t get to expect any woman to wear anything. The only thing he said that didn’t scream insecure chauvinist pig was when he told me that he thought I was cute, and, when referring to my choice in arm jewelry, said, “All that shit on your wrist made me think you had attitude, and I liked it.”

Yeah, dude. You got that right. I’ve been wearing a thousand bracelets on my wrist, since before it was in style, mixing leather, sliver, and beads like only an artist dares to not match, and I do have attitude, so thanks for noticing. But, I can promise you that I don’t call what’s on my arm shit, and that this attitude of mine is going to keep you from getting anywhere with me with that mad-at-life attitude of yours. But, again, thanks for playing.

Next up? A beautiful Italian/white boy mix of a man who I could have gotten lost in his eyes. It was a Friday evening. My work week had sucked, BIG time (no surpiz there), and I had needed to get out. I wanted lobster bisque to bury the new bosses bullying in. Cella was supposed to join me. Then, she wasn’t able to meet up. I went anyway.

ENTER: Antonio. Hello, handsome. Talk to me Anthony.

I needed a seat at the bar. So did Anthony. We waited. We talked. I got even more lost in his eyes. I imagined kissing his lips. Two seats opened up. We sat. We talked some more. He asked for my number. He called me on the next Sunday afternoon. I went to hang out with him. Then, crash goes the burn of Mr. Handsome.

He’s poor. He’s a student. Yet, he’s got this serious apartment where I had to sign in to even get into the building. Then I’m sitting on his white leather couches, next to an expensive 6’ long fish tank, and his story is changing, changing, and changing, and I don’t know what his up from his down is, or why he can afford to drop cash on art, as he’s telling me and wants to buy some of mine (and I can see original art all over his walls), yet he can’t afford to entertain me outside of his 8th floor, high-rise, ocean view apartment.

Really? You lost your ATM card last night? No, wait. Your ATM account was frozen because you forgot to transfer money? No, wait. The cops showed up because you couldn’t pay your cab driver? What?

After a bit, all I know is I don’t care if a man is rich or poor, if he’s a student or has family money. All I care is if he’s a straight shooter. Soon, I don’t trust this Anthony’s up or down or his sideways. Something is fishier than the tank.

Plus, he kept asking me, “You’re one of those smart girls, aren’t’ you?” That’s when I decided, that whether I was smarter than him or not, as he kept insinuating that I was, that wasn’t the point. Plenty of people don’t know what we know and we don’t know what they know. That doesn’t make anyone more or less intelligent than we are. However, having common ground to share, when it comes to each person’s intellectual repertoire, can be just as important as having the same religion/spiritual beliefs.

What I am saying is, it’s fine to have different interests, but sometimes, as was the case with beautiful Anthony, when two people don’t share, or haven't sought out similar studies in life, be those street smarts and/or book smarts, and/or haven't collected some of the same data (trivial, spiritual, intellectual, or base), the places their conversations can go are limited rather than limitless.

Did that stop me from making out with Anthony? What do you think? I admit it. I had to know how his lips would taste.

To my credit, or discredit, I didn’t start making out with him until I had an exit plan. Once I knew we weren’t going to re-invent pizza together, I texted Cella to fake rescue me, to say she needed me ASAP. I hadn’t done that in years, but I thought the whole my-friend-needs-me-to-help-her-pick-up-her-car thing was a smash hit on my end and I am a firm believer in the white lie to save someone’s ego upon exiting.

Then, once I knew I was leaving, I gave in to his advances. I kissed the boy and I liked it. It was good. He told me I had pretty hair and that I was beautiful, more than once—on both accounts. Sure, he’d started drinking his beers before I even got there and was liquored up enough that he probably just wanted in my pants, but I was going with the flattery. I felt safe. He wasn’t an aggressive guy, at all. He was fine, just a lame/tame liar who wanted to see me naked while he was complimenting my hair. Since we both knew that wasn’t going to happen, the kissing was enough.

As I was leaving, I think somewhere in his buzz he knew what was going on, that there was no friend in need. But, he still managed to try and smooth talk me one more time. He said, “This could be the start of something really good.” Then he kissed me again just before I closed the door behind me.


Truthfully, I wanted to hear the nice things he had to say to me. Most of the men I've dated or ended up in a relationship with never told me they thought I was pretty or beautiful. That sometimes hurt. My parents never told me or my siblings that we were lookers, either. Their generation didn't know that might matter.

To both ends, when I was younger I never thought I wasn't cute enough, but I did question if I was that kind of pretty every girl wants to be to a man. Now, even if I am not hearing it from the man I’m with, I don’t question it as much. I realize that kind of pretty comes more from the inside than it does from the outside, and to everyone who really sees us, who already knows our insides, we’re beautiful. The rest of them, those who we don’t know, who don’t know us? They’ll learn that about us, too.

Still, there was that point in my late twenties where I wasn't fine enough with my looks so I stopped wearing makeup for a couple of years to push myself into learning to love my face as it is. It worked. I applied the same principle to learning to love my body, whether I am carrying extra weight or not. I just kept standing naked in the mirror until I appreciated everything I saw.

I’d advise every woman to do that. It’s an incredible thing when you realize that these vessels for our energy, these bodies we’re borrowing to carry our energy around in, are magnificent. Simply divine design.

Still, I don't know a woman alive who doesn't want to hear she's beautiful to a man, any man, even if she's a super model. So when Anthony let the compliments flow, I put a big cup under the faucet. I got my fill. More, please. And again, thanks.

Then when Anthony told me I was giving him a boner, me gots to go. That’s when me went, and when me started to miss Watt the whole way driving home. (Duh!) Watt would never have used the word “boner”. True, Watt is younger, so age is a factor, as Anthony is mid-30s and the word boner is so 1980s. But, also, Watt, has class.

Watt was raised with a grandfather who told him that talking on a cell phone, or reading a text, when in the company of others is rude. A guy who knows that doesn’t tell a girl he hardly knows that she’s giving him a boner. The guy who doesn’t get cell phone etiquette, which is far too many men, as I’ve noticed, they just text and talk away, thinking that just because time has changed and has given them a phone to carry around in their ass pocket, instead of one bolted to a wall where they can twist their fingers up in the cord, they can ditch basic manners. (Not true.)

Cella told me I’m still missing Watt because I’m still mad at Watt that he wasn’t ready. She’s right. (Damn you, Watt.) Shoot, damn me. It’ll be interesting if this blog ever gets big enough to make it to Watt’s world and Watt figures out he meant more to me than I might have ever let on. That doesn’t embarrass me, though. Good men are few and far between and I don’t mind continuing to admit how much I’d adored him. (I really don’t see the shame in praising anyone regardless of the situation.)

And, I’ve said it before, I'm going to keep missing Watt until I meet another great guy, just as wonderful as him in all the important ways, but even more wonderful than him in the most important way. Watt made my top 5 list of awesome men I've met/dated. He was up there. But the man who is going to be number 1 on this list, the One, the last one I've yet to meet, unlike Watt, that One, he’ll be ready for me.

Anthony wasn’t the only man I met that Friday evening. Once Anthony left, to get on with his original Friday night plans, and I still had lobster bisque to eat, another gentleman had sat on the opposite side of me. It was with this gentleman that I’d had one of the best conversations of my life.

This mid/late 50s fellow, who reminded me a little of Victor Kiriakis from “Days of our Lives”, was a computer programmer. He was also a musician. And, he was witty. I feel silly to even write it, because it may sound pretentious, but this Victor and I had one of those conversations people talk about having, about life, art, physics, music, energy, all of it, but rarely actually have. I was enthralled. I’d have given him my number, just to talk to him again, but because he was a bit older I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.

Come to think of it, I need a fake boyfriend. If I want to just talk, to not exchange numbers, or exchange whatever, I’m going to have to start using the fake “boyfriend” buffer block better and sooner.

Anyway, since I am on a roll, reporting all the adventures I’ve been having, I’m going to throw in an event I attended. I went to an absolutely amazing backyard party. I’m talking a 30 person wine/dinner party with a white-linen clothed table, placed under a grey tent, which was equipped with strung clear lights, where edible white-chocolate and mint name place holders set the scene for a menu that ranged from appetizers of fermented black garlic and gourmet cheeses to starters of a tomato, saffron, and garlic soup, which preceded a main course mixed with the likes of a yak slider, with wild boar bacon, to roasted vegetable enchiladas accompanied by a creamy tomatillo sauce.

The absolute best part? This dinner party took place in the back yard of my friend Fae’s husband’s aunt’s house. This aunt, who is regular folk, like me, knew how to take care of business. Man, I loved that. No one in attendance was uptight or hoity toity. The rules were: Don’t break a glass or you won’t be invited back, and, have fun. The repeat invitees, they each had their own wine glasses with their names etched and all. Tell me that isn’t awesome.

Of course the whole time I was thinking that everyone was completely chill, and that I was ready to be invited back again, I was hoping it wouldn’t happen, that my natural klutz wouldn’t surface. I’m the wine glass breaker, sober, so I was feeling like a bull ready to break.

That’s about it for my eating out adventures. Well, almost it. Yesterday, I got so jacked by the energy in this condo, and started to feel physically suffocated by the lack of natural light, I couldn’t get out quick enough. Once again, I resulted to my refried beans and salad addiction.

In I went. One stool at the end of the bar was waiting for me. The stool was next to a tall, fit, strong jawed, handsome man, who I’ve already mentioned and who we are calling Cruz. (Cruz rode his beach cruiser to get the restaurant so I like the name Cruz for him). Within seconds, Cruz and I were chatting.

Cruz is smart. Very smart. He’s kind. He has kind eyes. I enjoyed him. He asked for my number and then texted me within a couple of hours of us having met. I like that in a man, someone who doesn’t wait around to touch base.

I also like that he owns his own business, yet he’s living instead of worrying. Meaning, he’s taken some risks in life, but has figured out how to live in balance rather than be consumed by responsibility. I admire people who take risks. I don’t think I take enough risks. Emotional risks, yes. I’m a cliff diver. Other risks? Not as much.

I also like that, because I said I was starving, Cruz had offered me some of his chips and salsa while I was waiting for my food to arrive. Cruz even offered me a sip of his beer, then he ordered me a beer of my own so I would sit a bit longer with him. There’s something about a man who is willing to share.

Is he the One? My intuition says probably not. But, we’ll see. I can say that I can’t wait to hang out with him again. There’s just something about a smart guy. They’re hot.

There’s also something about a man who just broke up with his girlfriend of three years only three months ago. So there’s that with Cruz and why my intuition is treading lightly. I already went through that with Watt.

Remember? I want ready for me, not ready for me to fix before the next girl.

Oh, and if you’re thinking that this entire post has a decidedly boy-pointed direction, yeah, it does. That’s because October is coming and to me October is the beginning of the end of the year. I started this blog in January with saying I had a feeling I’d meet The One this year, so I wanted to address that. What I am saying is that I don’t know what the rest of this year holds for me. I don’t know how my story is going to go. That I’ll have to see and I’ll share as much of it as I am comfortable with.

In the mean time, all I know is that, come what may, I am excited to see what happens next. I’m open to the sky, so the sky is the limit, or shall I say the limitless, where mind, body, and spirit can go.

I’m steeling material from the Universe.

Have I ever told you that I signed up, on www.tut.com, to get notes from the Universe? Can’t remember? Me, neither.

This is what I got today:

September 14, 2010 12:38:30 AM
TUT... A Note from the Universe

From: The Universe

To: Levan

If there's something you want, Levan, anything at all, or if there's something you need, no matter what it is, or if there's something you'd like to change, please remember that all the bells and whistles of time and space were first hewn and blown in the windmills of one's mind, long before they were ever dung or heard by hands and ears.

Whatever you dream of, live it, live it now, as fully as possible, to whatever degree you can, in your thoughts, words, and deeds. And sure enough, as day follows night, as rains fall from pregnant clouds, and as melodies float from bells and whistles, your dream will come to pass.

It's a sure thing,
The Universe

What’s my point? I’m just saying, once again, because I like to remind others of what I myself need to remember, SIGN UP to everything life has to offer.

I'm a good artist. I'm also a great lover.

If you do something, if you like doing something, does the doing of that thing make you the thing you are doing? That’s convoluted; I know. So let me put it this way, if you create art, are you an artist? If you write, are you a writer? If you love, does that make you a lover? If you question things, does that make you an interrogator?

What if you are good at doing something? Are you allowed to say so? If you are allowed to say so, or you shouldn’t, why and why not? How, why, and when did we learn that we were and/or were not allowed to say: I can do this and I am good at it?

Think about it. If you’re a good cook, do people mind if you say so? Usually not. They want a bite of whatever you’re serving up. And, we all gotta eat. So good for you if you can make a necessity tasty. But what if you say you are a great musician? Isn’t that for us to decide? How dare you know you’re talented?

See? This is what I am talking about. Is it only okay to say you’re good at something if a lot of people can do it too, like cook? But then, if your talent is for something many people wished they could do, longed to be as deft at it as you, then…what? No? Maybe you shouldn’t tell others you’re kill’n it? Are you supposed to let others decide if you’ve excelled, and then they can let you know?

A lot of people can love… So? I’m just saying: Why not say we’re good at loving? But we don’t. Do we? Don’t we think we’re good at loving? Is that why we don’t think we deserve love? Who told us that?

Think about it some more. What if you really are pretty amazing at something and someone else, who doesn’t know crap about that thing, tells you that you’re bad. Yer just not up to snuff, they’re tell’n ya.

What if you start to believe you’re no good? What if you already believe that? What about when a good child has a bad parent, and that parent tells the child they’re no good at being them? How is that different? No, really. I want to know.

Seems like the system sucks. This time it’s wrong to say you’re good, another time it’s okay. Wait. No. Now that’s arrogant. Nah, in this case it’s cool. Okay no. Okay go.

Come on, people.

How about this? While I have created art, I have drawn and painted and, at times, sculpted and carved, and have done so since I was old enough to pick up a crayon, because of some rules no one really laid out for me, but I implicitly understood, I never even allowed myself to say that I was an artist, let alone a good one. It wasn’t until after I thought I’d earned the right to say it that I could even utter the words. That right came in waves and took a long time.

Wave number one: During my first semester of art school an engineering student, who had a bright blue streak in his mid-night black Mohawk, told me, after he learned I was an art major, that I didn’t look like an artist. “What do most artists look like?” I asked. “Like me,” he said.

“Well, I’m still an artist, even if I don’t look like one,” I said.

Harrumph! Who was he to decide? I was putting myself through school on student loans, which I am still paying off. If I’d wanted the education that bad, I figured I must be an artist and I was allowed to say so. So there!

Wave two: During my art education I learned that while many struggled to create, fought harder to make something good, I wasn’t struggling.

Wave three: Once out of school, after my education had also taught me that, in art, as in many things, some skills are learned and others are natural, I came up with another conclusion. When something comes more naturally to one person than it does to another, and/or when a person loves what they are doing (so they keep, keep, keep doing it), they’re usually pretty dang good at it. Or, they get good because they refuse to stop practicing.

So now I tell people that I am an artist, and that I’m good. I say, “Whether you like my art or you don’t, I am still talented.”

I know what they’re thinking when I say this. I can see it on their faces.

A) Wow. WTF! This chick is A-RRO-gant!
B) Man, since she’s bragging about being a good artist, I hope she’s at least a decent artist because that would suck if she sucks. Poor, delusional girl.

Want to know a secret? It’s because of the way people look at me when I tell them that I am a talented artist that I tell them so in the first place. So what if I did suck, which I don’t. Why can’t I think and say I am good at something? What? Because I was told I shouldn’t? They need to learn, as I have, that it’s my right to like me and what I can do.

Those young, hopeful singers who audition to be the next American Idol all think they’re good and say so. No matter how delusional some of them may be, aren’t you just a little bit jealous that they have something you might not? No matter what someone is telling them, they can’t hear it. There’s nothing wrong with them, damn it, and they’ll tell you so.

Good for them! Really. That’s why I love the beginning auditions of American Idol. Not to see people make asses out of themselves (okay, that’s funny, too, because we all need to laugh at ourselves), but to witness the strength of the human spirit. Those auditioning, bad or good, they’re telling the world: I want this and I think I am worth it.

We've all paid our dues. We get to break the rules. Society, or our parents, or someone (who knows who is saying it anymore) told us that we have to hold back, that we can’t tell people we’re great. Screw them all.

I’m going off road and coloring outside of the lines. I’m forgetting it all, what I’ve been fed about proper form and the right ratio and proportion of color in my life. Let’s all kick some serious making-our-own-way-of-it ass! Let’s tell people we’re awesome and let’s work it.

Who cares if every person you come across may not be buying what you are selling. That shouldn’t change the art, the creation, the beauty that is us. Let’s not let some dealer, who’s like an art snob or who thinks they know better than us, sell us the wrong goods. No one has the right to tell us that the creation of us is less.

I’m serious about this. Let’s call BULLSHIT. Cough it under your breath, cough out loud and clear. Just make sure you’re the one calling the shots when it comes to knowing how fabulous you are. If you’re the one telling yourself you’re less, call bullshit on you. And, until you’re not full of it anymore, gravitate toward those who will remind you what a great creation you are. That’s what I do.

I’ve met another great creation, by the way. We’ll call her Rynn. I wasn’t surprised to find I was hitting it off with Rynn, who I had the pleasure of meeting and hanging out with over the holiday weekend. Rynn is Ava’s best friend. Since I know I already adore Ava, and she inspires me, it was a slam dunk that Rynn would be wonderful.

I’m telling you…the good ones gravitate towards each other. My mother was smart to tell me, very early on, to surround myself with the kind of people I wanted to be. That’s why I’ve befriended smart, funny, amazing, strong, kind, and spiritually generous women.

Rynn didn’t flinch when I told her I was a good artist, which makes her among the few who haven’t. True, both Rynn and her mother are artists, so she knows artists and art. But, as Rynn, Ava, and I have all agreed, while art is up to the viewer once the creation is offered, when it comes to loving ourselves, we are the creation and it’s up to us to have the right view of ourselves regardless of who is looking.

How is what I am saying now any different than what I always say, in some variation hereof, in all my blog posts? It’s not. Not by much.

But lately, I’ve really been feel’n my skin. Sure, I might kill Little Miss Sunshine again, perhaps tomorrow, or some other day (a bad day) especially because I’m still not dig’n my job and I can’t stand where I live because I miss the natural light of my old place. But right now, I’m here. Dark-ass condo on a buggy golf course or not, I’m ready. I know my life, every life, is designed by love and connections.

I know it’s up to us to tell the world that we deserve love and that we're worth it. They say no one gets out alive. I say no one gets out unloved or unconnected. As such, we know what colors work for us. We know what we feel connected to and what we should pull the plug on because it turns us off. Every person, every lover, and every experience is just another shade of paint we get to choose as the artists of our lives. We even get to decide when the muddy of indecision works for us.

You know what else? We also get to love ourselves enough to tell everyone how great we are and that they should love us just as much. Should we consider what has been said: No one can love you until you love yourself? Is it true? Yes and no.

Anyone can love the hell out of you. You can love anyone all you want, even if they don’t love themselves. But, chances are, if you don’t love yourself, or the person you love doesn’t love themselves, the love being given probably won’t get in. If it does get in, it might not stick because it won’t have anything to connect to. I think that’s what that saying really means. It means give some Velcro. Be the soft side or the sticky side, but either way give love hooks and loops to hang onto.

I didn’t used to get that. But I do now. I mean I really understand that more than ever. I so get it, that it is the most amazing feeling I've ever felt. Regardless of bad days, of annoying things that come my way, the feeling doesn’t go away. I know I got a lot of hooks and loops for love to hang its connections on. It’s awesome, this feeling.

The difference between getting older, being me Now versus being who I've been when I was younger, is that I used to question if I deserved the love I wanted. Now, it seems weird that I wouldn’t get all the love I want or all the love coming my way.

And, just like I am not afraid to tell people I’m a good artist, I’m no longer afraid to tell people that love is mine for the asking. I've never felt more deserving of love. Feeling this way has nothing to do with me becoming a better person or good-er human being. This is how every person should feel, and by practicing this feeling, it’s here more Now.

The truth is, I cannot wait to see what love Love has in store for me now that I know I have always been love. I wish this knowledge, and the feeling that comes from knowing this, for every woman, for every man. I wish everyone learns to recognize their talents. I hope we all find the connection to Being who we were all meant to be.

Being and loving ourselves is the real true love. It’s our talent, our biggest asset, and our most precious gift to give. So let’s all be the great artists of our lives and be even better lovers.

Are you turned on yet?

Remember the lecture I said I went to the other night, where I came home and posted, very gleefully, that I was buzzing on air, or something like that? (I can’t remember half the shit I say, and I never go back to see what I’ve written with these posts.) Well, I think I am just buzzed period. This time it isn’t from drinking wine.

In fact, I can no longer claim to be a situational alcoholic, or a wino-holic, as since I’ve moved my wine drinking is now back to my normal, which is about 1-2 glasses of wine here and there on the weekends, and/or 1-2 glasses if I go out with a friend(s) and I am not driving.

I liken this buzz to the electrical charge of plugging into life. You can thank both Ava and Dr. Brian Clement for that allegory—that fusion of borrowed words. During one of our work-break walks Ava shared with me some of the recent wonderful experiences she’s had with her little man, her young son. She said these times they’ve been sharing, her and her son, along with some other recent experiences she’s had, have made her feel plugged into life even more. And, at one point during the lecture Brian Clement gave, to describe what it’s like for someone when they finally see the light, when they finally get what they need to get, he said it’s like a person walking around with a plug all their life and then finally finding the socket.

And there it is, folks. We’re all walking around with a plug, aren’t we? Palms up, shoulders shrugged, we stand still and we wait to get plugged in. We wonder what’s going to get turned on and we think to ourselves, as we wait: Okay, I’m here. I’m waiting. What’s next? When is my life going to change? What’s coming my way?

We’re all looking to get an electrical charge out of our lives, yes? Yet, sometimes, instead of plugging in, instead of letting ourselves go out and get into the buzz of things that can happen Now, we hide from the bright, we power down, sometimes turning our voltage off altogether, and we wait some more, usually in the dark.

That kinda dark just ain’t working for me lately. I want to circulate and see where I can cross my wires. I want to mingle and experience the magic of the magnetic forces out in the Universe just waiting for me to bring my plug. I want to keep eating out and go to more lectures. I want to, as Ava says, have my own local version of Eat, Pray, Love day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute. After all, when one is on a journey of self discovery and seeking life's truths, one need not travel to find what one is looking for. I can get turned on without going anywhere. My inner light doesn’t need to wait to shine.

The only thing I don’t want to do, again, is feel like a cheetah slut at a Middle Eastern Restaurant in the middle of Little Arabia in Anaheim. Yes, I am well aware that previous statement needs qualifying and that it’d be nice to know what a cheetah slut is.

A cheetah slut is me. Well, it’s not me, but it’s how I felt when I was wearing an above-the-knee, cheetah-print skirt with an off-the-shoulder, black tunic and a pair of mid-height cocktail heals. While I thought I looked like hot shit, and only meant to bring out the good dishes, this totally bang’n outfit was, as it turned out, wildly inappropriate for a particular Restaurant in the middle of Little Arabia. See, most of the other women, who weren’t school-age children, were wearing Burqas (or, as I think it is sometimes spelled, Burkas), those long, black, garments which cover the entire body and face of extremely religious Muslim women.

BTW, bringing out the good dishes is my way of saying that I’m sick of saving my fun and girly shoes and pretty clothes for special occasions. I’ve decided that every day is special so I am going to wear The Good China, so to speak, on a Wednesday if I feel like it.

Other BTW…I might have totally blown the description of Burqas and the type of restaurant we almost ate at, as I had to look up the restaurant on Google to even find what I hope was an accurate description of where I was. The only reason I think the women were wearing Burqas is because I told some gal at work about my experience, of where I was, and of that all the women looked like they were wearing, nun habits, and she told me what the traditional garment was called.

Of course had I known, or had Chloe known, or had even three of the other gals, who had been assembled as part of Violet’s dinner party of 15, known that it would have been disrespectful of the neighborhood restaurant’s culture, and its regular patrons, to show so much skin, we’d not have pulled out our good dishes. We’d not have gotten our usual gussied up for a Saturday night out.

But, there we all were, two blondies, myself and Chloe, two adorable Asian couples, a beautiful black girl, who looked and was dressed like the super model Naomi Campbell, and the rest of our group, which made up 15 people diverse enough to be called true southern Californians, waiting. But we weren’t waiting for our lights to get turned on, nor were we waiting for a table.

We were waiting to see if Scarlet, Chloe’s fiancée’s friend, the organizer of this dinner, was going to steer us all to the white, outside, parking-lot tent, the eating over-flow. This tent, based on how we were dressed, is where we’d have been relegated to eat had we decided to stay. But, no. We were about to leave.

Between hushed exchanges, I could barely hear, and wasn’t comfortable enough to strain my ear in, that Scarlet was preparing to announce, on behalf of the group, and the silent cheetah slut—who only knew Chloe and her man—that we’d take our appetites elsewhere and sit inside, somewhere less chilly…on all accounts.

Big sigh! My weary cocktail-shoe-squished toes were more than happy to take one for the team and trek the block’s path up the road by foot to get to another eat spot. The new place was more on the pay-and-sit and/or wear whatever the f’ you want side. Phew. Plus, now, having eaten there, I have another notch on my I-got-flirted-with belt. That’s far better than having a woman turn her son’s head away from gazing upon me.

Yes, that happened at the other restaurant. And, while this little kitty doesn’t usually have a problem speaking up or out, and I normally would have raised my hand high and would have said, “Um, can we go now? The natives are protecting the eyes of their young from me…feel’n kinda uncomfortable,” I kept it buttoned.

Yeah, when you are basically a last minute addition to a dinner party, and you’re an invitee’s invitee, and you’ve only hung out with that invitee (Chloe’s fiancée) twice, and you see right away that you’re the only 40 year old amongst 14 other mid-twenty-somethings, you tend to keep it zipped.

You swallow air. You pull your skirt down as close to your knees as you can get it without your belly flesh being exposed. You hold the over-sized v-neck of your tunic tight, and you wonder if this is how the youngings are doing it these days. Are they, in effect, custom crashing? Do they pop in and out of neighborhood food spots just to see what they can see?

It didn’t seem like they, this group, meant to impose, at all, as Scarlet was polite and subdued in her whispers while she explained to us that we’d be leaving and further clarified, along the way to our next destination, why it was best for the group to flee. Yet, before we’d gotten on our way, as we all stood around as uncomfortable as a bunch of hookers in church, I’d found myself wondering how this plan to go to dinner at this place was hatched in the first place.

No matter. Those women wore their garments to fulfill their Muslim religious strictures regarding modesty, and I wore my digs to fulfill my need to own it. Truth is, while you may have thought that I was just being conceited in earlier posts, because I did some light bragging about the bus boy, from the refried bean and salad lunch, who hit on me, or because I may have remarked about some other guy flirting with me (again, can’t remember all that I’ve written), I’m not the girl who gets flirted with or hit on.

It appears that I have been that girl, most of all lately. But, even when it turns out to be me that a guy is smiling at, I’m clueless. I’m daft this way because this is a recent development, getting male attention. This newly found consideration coming my way seems to have less to do with what I’m wearing or what pounds I’ve recently dropped, as it seems to have to do with who I’m settling into for myself. In fact, I first started to notice, about 6 years ago, while I was 35 pounds heavier, that the bend in the male energy I was receiving was aligning with the paradigms in my life and in my mind I was shifting.

I can’t say for sure, but I think once I got through the personal ignorance of my twenties, the blues of my early thirties, and I started to truly feel strong, and also came to realize that independence shouldn’t be a shield against interdependence—because admitting you need others takes a lot of strength—that’s when it started to happen.

That’s when, rather than trying to prove to myself, and to the world, that I could take care of myself and didn’t need anyone, I accepted that I did (do) need others and I probably stopped sending out the signal that I was unavailable. I think when I let go of the need to prove I was more and just started to Be more, and be Here, Now, more. That’s also when I probably stopped feeling like I wasn’t enough for others.

And, here we are…where, from one minute, if properly prepared, I would have been more than happy to respect the culture of others and dress more appropriately to eat up all their yummy food, to the next minute, where I was eating the best falafel I’ve ever had and getting hit on by the cashier (who I assumed to be the son of the proprietor).

The funny part? I must have been in such shock, after feeling like a cheetah slut, when I’ve never felt like I looked like a slut in my life, that I had no idea I was being flirted with. When I told the cashier that the falafel was the best I’d had, and he responded by asking me my name, introducing himself, then saying, “Next time, come alone,” I thought, because he leaned in and got all serious, that he meant: Next time, keep all your crazy friends out of here, you pack of noisy 15 people, you. Chloe had to explain to me that that his come alone meant; Come back, you’re hot.

I won’t go back for him, because he appeared to be in his twenties and I’d like to date in my age range again, thanks. But I’ll totally go back for that falafel. Who cares if the bright, cafeteria-style florescent lights, the uncomfortable get-in-get-out hard chairs, and the red and black press-on letters pushed into the chrome-silver framed white menu board above the cash register, and above Mr. Jihad-something-a-rather’s head, didn’t scream: Come, relax…chill out in this atmosphere. I’d drive the 20-ish minutes or more for the falafel craving I’m going to have, for sure! (Seriously, that falafel kicked serious ass.)

Maybe I’ll take my new friend from Sweden to get falafel. Shit. Was she from Switzerland? She did make some remark about people confusing the two, and confusing the language spoken from each, and in that moment I think I’d just made the mistake she was mentioning, so I glazed passed her correction of my misunderstanding, like, “Oh, yeah…idiots, right?” But, I think I was one of the idiots, or at least I am now because I can’t remember where my new friend is from.

Anyway, I met my new friend at Target in the bathing suit section. Correction, I met her in the it’s-not-bathing-suit-season-anymore section, which was full of a bunch of bikini bottoms and no stinking tops. We got to talking about how lame that was, that all the tops were gone, then we each ended up near the clearance rack, about five minutes later, and got to talking again. Then…what was like 40 minutes later, we realized we’d been gabbing away so we might as well exchange numbers and hang out some time.

We’ve since texted and are trying to roll on some plans.

Okay, I knew I was a perpetual 9 year old at heart, but now, with using “roll on some plans” I’m starting to sound like I’m trying to be a hipster. WTF?! What-ev. LMAO. Okay, that’s all the text language I know. (Good. I’m still a dork.)

The person I am not so sure I am going to hang out with again is the rugby player from Paris, France who I met at Starbucks when I decided to get out of the house, yet again, and bring my computer with me to get back to working on my book. Rugby, as we’ll call him, had just, literally, moved here from France. Meaning, he’d just gotten dropped off at this Starbucks from one friend and, while waiting for another friend to pick him up, was sitting with his feet propped up on his luggage, working on his computer, and listening to music on his iPod.

Rugby and I got to talk’n, and I learned he was a-wait’n, so I invited him to join me to get a bite at one of my favorite Mexican eateries, Taco Surf on 2nd St, which is just a couple of doors up the street from where the Starbucks we met at is. (I was totally craving my refried beans and a side salad again.)

At first, I didn’t see the harm in the potential friendship with a French transplant, but his body language, his whole trunk turned into and towards me, his eyes curving up at the corners, his tongue intermittently licking his lips, told me he might have been looking for a more comfortable bed to lay his head on while he got his bearings in the good ol’ U.S. of A.

Yeah…not going to happen. My bed is waiting for someone else entirely. Can’t say who, yet, but it is not him.

After discussing my paintings, and my pension for writing, he sent a link, of my art website, to a friend of his of who apparently deals in art. (Never believe anything until the painting is sold.) And, he also has me slated to write the story of his life.

So far, I’ve got his life down. He’s tall, medium dark (I think he might be ½ black and ½ white), and handsome. He’s gone from living on the streets and almost jumping, to moving to American to play rugby and be a rock star. Ready, set, GO!

He might just do it, get to be a rock star, that is. The play’n rugby he’s already got in the bag.

But for now, I’ll have to make sure he knows that I’m not his ride out of wherever he’s staying, that we’re just friends—if we even become friends/buddies—and I’m not looking to get involved with a man who’s not that far past his almost-jumped part of his life.

That’s nothing against him, at all. We’ve all wanted to jump at some point, or thought it wouldn’t be half bad if the bus came.

For some, this darkness takes a couple of days, weeks, or months from our teen years, when that boy, or that girl, didn’t like us as much as we liked them. For others, this darkness can hit us when we’re old enough to feel overwhelmed by the responsibilities that pile up in life, which weigh upon all of our fears. Whichever, whenever it happens, doesn’t happen, and it’s different for all of us—some are even fortunate enough to never slip into the shadows of their mind—I’m so past being overtaken by the shade.

I’ve been living in the sun for a long time now, even when the shit blocks the sun out, and while I didn’t get it out of him, when exactly his dark almost took him, I got the feeling it was not that long ago. Not long ago enough, anyway.

Again, I’m ready for the man who is where I’m at, who’s done enough of his work so that when we meet we can grow together even further rather than bog each other down.

So those are my stories, for now. There are some other folks I’ve met, in my eating out and getting out travels, but I think I’ve recounted the tales and the people who have made this adventure I’m on, the story of my life, even more interesting. I’ll serve up some more of the colorful folks that come my way for later posts. That, I promise.

Until then, I wish for you and yours to get turned on, to get out and about and to plug in. It’s a fabulous thing, letting life turn your light up even brighter!