where I'm calling from

I don't remember the last time I was so excited about owning a CD that I considered what I am considering right now: Getting redressed and venturing out into a gale-force storm so I can own the new album by the Editors: "In This Light & On This Evening." My great pal, The Blonde Russian, sent me a copy of the single "Papillon," knowing our dark 80s tastes run in paralellel. I double clicked on it, but iTunes went into a spasmodic fit. After spending nearly an hour reorganizing my music library, the newest iteration of the program mysteriously started the song. My bedroom was flooded with the sounds of the new single...

I haven't turned it off yet. I will have the lyrics memorized by the end of tonight.

Take everything I love about Clan of Xymox, add a sprinkle of Mancunian heartbreak and the production genious of Flood, and then up the beats to 120+ BPM. You can see me now reaching for a corset and vinyl boots. It's a goth club banger, a pure throw back, a piece of gold, the best song of the year.

They need to tour. Immediately.

Sure, I can download the album on iTunes, but I hate that. I will torture myself until I can make it to a local music store and help fund the industry.

As the song plays over and over and over, I see myself in my mind's eye, reaching for the board in the dim light of the DJ booth, pushing up the sliders.

Listen for yourself. I am not wrong.

As you can all see from the picture of me in my previous Halloween post, I have a rather large tattoo on my left arm. It's a specialized design, based on the art and architecture of the Scottish architect, Charles Rennie Mackintosh. Together with his wife Margaret MacDonald, they revolutionized the look and feel of Glasgow in the late 1800s.

Along with beautiful sculpted wooden roses (example on your left) and stunning Art Nouveau buildings, Mackintosh also created the most amazing chairs. Someday I hope to own an original Mackintosh chair. But I digress...

I love this tattoo for many reasons:

1. No one has one quite like it.
2. It incorporates both strong vertical lines and swooping art nouveau curves.
3. It features two irises, to symbolize the two women named Iris in my family: my aunt and my grandmother.

Last summer, while Miss Haws was having her own half sleeve worked on by Erika at Slave to the Needle, I plunked down my deposit to begin work on a half sleeve for my right arm.

My first design idea was very Asian-influenced with plum branches, sparrows, and cherry blossoms. But the idea kept gnawing at me and I woke up one day realizing the two different styles would look incongruous on my body.

I had Erika redesign the piece in an art nouveau style, but when I went in for the initial art review, I didn't love the look of it. It seemed too busy, too soft, and too much like so many other flower/bird motifs I had seen. I was set to start the ink in August but had to postpone due to my neck surgery. I also requested further revisions to the art.

Last night I walked into Slave to the Needle with many doubts. I was there to review the latest art in preparation for the first ink next week. When Erika sat down with me she confessed that she hadn't revised the drawing, or if she had, she'd misplaced it. 

It didn't matter. I'd decided to hold off for now. When I do have my right arm done, the style will be very much in line with the left arm. There's no rush to do it now. But since I already had the deposit down, I asked if Erika would have a look at my back and see if she could do some free hand repair work.

We ducked into the back of the shop where I pulled off my blouse. Erika said she would have no problem realigning the art where it had gone whack-a-doo from all the back surgeries I've endured over the years. I did explain that there was a lot of nerve damage, and that it's possible I might scream profanities and ask her to stop once the needle hits the skin, but I was willing to try if she was. We booked four hours in January.

As I was waiting for my appointment reminder card, I thanked Erika for her flexibility. Her smart response stayed with me: "I do a lot of cover up work here," she said. "This is forever; I want you to like it."

That makes two of us.

For Halloween this year, I struggled with both my costume and finding something to do. I contemplated being Marie Antoinette (thank you, horrific neck scar), a "pink-slipped" employee (suit jacket, pink slip underneath), a devil in a blue dress, or nothing at all.

Last week, T2 and I went for nibbles and vino in Madison Valley. We both live on the Madison Corridor in the greater Mad Valley area. I asked what she and Mr. O'Dea were doing and she said they were going to a house party in Green Lake. She was dressing as Betty Draper from Mad Men. Then a light bulb went off over her head.

"Come with us! Dress up as Joan Halloway! You already have the dress."

She was right, I did already have the dress. And the red hair. And the vintage handbag. And the schedule cleared of all other engagements.

I called Jim and asked if he would come. He agreed, but planned to dress as the Cowardly Lion. Mr. O'Dea was going to be a narwhal. Us girls said WHATEVER and proceeded to plan.

I told KQ at work about my plans and she brought in her grandmother's vintage costume jewelry for me to borrow. Unbelievable! Finally by Thursday, T2 and I had convinced our men that they needed to dress up as our Mad Men companions. They acquiesced: Jim took on Don Draper and Mr. O'Dea took a young Roger Sterling.

On Halloween day, I found myself watching videos on eHow.com to learn how to do a proper French Twist. I set out the vintage martini set I inherited from the Ruoff family back in California. It's all chrome and shiny. I stocked up on gin, tonic, vodka, cranberry, bobby pins, hairspray and set my Pandora station to Motown. We put on the final touches at my house, then went out to party.

Halloween was a blast. Here we all are as Mad Men:

And probably my favorite picture of the night? Yeah, it's this one:

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Men Halloween.

I was recently on Facebook, as I often am, and noticed that my short friend list had grown slightly shorter. I do not sport an extensive list of friends as I feel that each connection should be honest and genuine, not just someone you've met once or a friend of a friend. So it didn't take me long to identify the few people who dropped off.

I reached out, wanting to make sure everything was OK. And for some, it was purely a rejection of the intrusiveness of FB into their personal lives. Email and phone suited them fine and it was going to need to work for me, too. But one friend told me, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted to part ways with me because of the way things had turned out during my breakup with NPD.

My first reaction was, of course, to get all uppity, self-righteous, and tell this person to jump in a lake because who needs that BS anyway? I mean, here was a guy who stole money, was emotionally abusive, has tarnished my name all over this town, sullied the opinions of many, popped my car tires, blah blah blah.

Say that last sentence out loud, and you see that I just became "The Girl No One Wants to Talk to at The Party." You know, the girl who bitches about all the injustices done to her and can't let go? Yeah, that girl.

I DID let things go with NPD. Well, I'd say I am close. The borrowed money still stings a little and I get creeped out about what he did with the guy he lured to my house through a personals ad, but my life didn't turn out like a bad episode of "Law and Order SVU." In fact, it turned out pretty good.

I've also come to understand that there's a good way to break up with someone. Or at least a fair and right way. I've done that before. One of my greatest friends ever was also my boyfriend for 13+ years. We bought property, picked out dinnerware, slept side-by-side, travelled together. He wrote songs about me and I wrote about 500 sappy letters to him. And while we weren't all roses there at the end, we did part well. We squared up financially, emotionally and civilly. I'm still a little sore about losing the mezza luna knife to his new kitchen, but I can buy another. We send Christmas cards, I get email jokes from his mom, it's all as good and well as it can be.

With NPD, I did it wrong. For one, just because I wanted to leave a person who I considered morally bereft and manipulative doesn't mean I was/am an angel. I know that I should have been more honest and up front with him, and then ended things cleanly, as I did try to leave many times. By returning to the same situation over and over, I am partly to blame for how messy things were at the end.

Secondly, I struggle with two fundamental needs: the need to be liked, and the need to be right. And these two don't always play well together. So while it may have been my choice to submit a letter to the local magazine detailing all the wrongs NPD had done against me, it was not RIGHT. It felt great at the time, but I could have had that same satisfaction from writing a letter, reading it, and then tearing it up.

And it certainly didn't help me in the being LIKED department. Some friends thought, "Yeah, he deserved it," and said as much to me. But others just shook their heads at me, including my very own Jim.

I need to weigh in my two hands the need to be RIGHT and the need to be LIKED. Or at least, thought well of. I think the latter is truly more important to me. I got off path somewhere and it's time to buckle down, mind my own business, eat my leafy greens, drink less, dream more and just be a nicer person.

As an adult we have the privilege of surrounding ourselves with people who make us feel good, valuable and significant. I want to be one of those people.

So Ex FB friend J, if you ever read this, I am sorry that you feel the way you do, but I agree with you. Humble pie doesn't taste very good, but I am very happy someone that I respect served it to me, along with a scoop of humble ice cream a la Jim.

Friday night, Jim and I went out to commemorate our first six months of dating. Knowing his penchant for good steak, I booked an early table at the Buenos Aires grill. We split a zesty malbec and gorged ourselves on Argentinean beef. The restaurant was layered in grilling smoke, overpowering my perfume, and for the rest of the night I smelled like I was fresh from the campfire. It was not unpleasant.

As we ate and talked, my fears from the week began to ebb. Jim even said to me that, though he loves the quiet of the suburbs and a big home, he would live in the city. Not that I had asked him to, but it was a very thoughtful thing to say. We finished up so we could make it to our evening show across the street at The Moore.

I stopped in to wash up at The Whisky Bar before we headed over. I wanted to make sure my teeth weren't purple from the wine, and to reapply some lip gloss. A young woman, also from the restaurant, asked if we were on a date, and I said yes. She said, "I can tell; you look so CUTE together!" I blushed; the red wine, red meat and attention all manifested in my rosy cheeks.

Jim and I had tickets to see Mike Birbiglia that night. Classified as a comedian Birbigs is more of a storyteller. I'd come across the tickets late, so we were sat near the ceiling of the old theater. I could see the paint peeling near the dome inlay. And even if I could not see Bigbigs well, his voice reached us well and fine. We tucked our knees to our chests in the tight, high rows and laughed laughed laughed.

Much later that night, I eventually fell asleep contented, after I put my brain to rest.

I've recently spun my wheels quite a bit about my uneasiness and I think it's based on the fact that my life has never been so seamless. Jim maintains a good friendship with his ex-wife, and I feel like I need to be jealous about this. But I can't honestly do it. By all accounts, being friendly to someone who hurt you is the ultimate statement of maturity and security. There's nothing unattractive about this, but I find myself with growing pains due to its unfamiliarity. 

And there's the time he accidentally called me by his ex-wife's name while on the phone with his mom. We laughed it off, but it stung a little. Because I let it. But I know his heart's in a good place, and he has growing pains too. This is new. This is different.

Like most men, when change is overwhelming, or even mildly disconcerting, they retreat to The Man Cave. This is a safe place full of distraction, security and familiar rituals. They sit with their backs to the wall, facing the opening, aware of anything or anyone that might upset their Safe & Normal Cave Experience. And when they grow lonely, ambitious or hungry, men venture back out into the world to get what they need. Jim does this, too.

I need to learn to not take The Man Cave personally. I do something similar; I think most women do. We Put Things Right. It might be as simple as tidying up our house, making a list of things we should do and then DO them, or take personal inventory. Note what we like, what we don't like, what we can change about ourselves, and then work toward that change. I don't like that I get jealous or that I don't mind my own business as much as I should. I don't like that I was so wrapped up in my own world that I didn't bring a gift to Aanal's baby shower. I don't like that I stopped dance lessons and that I have been insular.

On Sunday afternoon, after Jim and I went to Costco and bought bulk necessities, I went home. I put all the groceries away methodically. I realized I had a few hours to kill before my West Coast Swing 1 class started. Shaney and I signed up together and I was looking forward to it. I quickly hopped back into my car and drove to the Baby Gap where I found myself handling dozens of soft onesies for little boys, aged 0-6 months. They were so tiny, like doll clothes. I wanted to buy them all, but limited myself to three.

I wrapped them sweetly in a little ducky gift bag and wrote a note for Aanal. I wished her and her new son the best of luck. I taped a note to my front door before I skipped out to dance class with Shaney, reminding myself to not forget the gift on my way to work in the morning.

All things, be them new baby boys or young relationships, aged only 0-6 months, can be very fragile. I intend to be very mindful of this as I navigate these new, unnervingly smooth waters.