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!