Saturday, August 2, 2014

Saturday in the San Francisco of my Heart

Happy Saturday LilyOnTheLam.Com Readers:

If you're a longtime reader, you'll know that I have a deep love for the singer-songwriter Ani DiFranco.  (And if you're not a longtime reader, read this somewhat crass blog post about blow jobs, pieces of hay in all the wrong places and my stalkeresque devotion ...)  

(Side note:  I originally wrote "stalks of hay" but this seriously sexy Farmer/Sailor told me I was using the wrong term; that there are no "hay stalks."  He also said that those skilled in the art would recognize "stalks of hay" to be an incorrect term.  As we all know, 97% of my readers are skilled in the art of hay.  (Hey!)  I certainly did not want to offend 97% of you.  The last thing I ever want to be on this Earth is a "Hay Fraud."  So I acquiesce to the superior hay knowledge of a certain undeniably intensely sexy Farmer/Sailor and changed it to "pieces of hay."  Not to be confused with the album by Jewel "Pieces of You."  Please do not feed horses or cows Jewel's CD.) 

In Ani DiFranco's song "Half Assed," she has a lyric that goes: "down in the Texas of my heart" which I always thought was an interesting phrase.  

I think she means down in the Texas that she loves, but I prefer to think that the bottom borders of Texas are like the tip end of a Valentine heart ... as if there is a part of our own pulsating heart that rides around in pick-up trucks and sounds a little too much like George W. Bush by way of Yosemite Sam.

I don't know if there is a Texas in my heart, but there certainly is a San Francisco of my heart.  A section of my heart that smells a little too much of patchouli, eats ginger ice cream and wears tie-dye.  

I briefly lived in San Francisco when I was too young (early 20's) and too dumb (really too dumb) to appreciate it fully.  Now when I go to San Francisco, I get this wispy melancholy feel.  It's like all the promise I had for myself is still in the air, like electrical residue of emotions long past dead.  It's like visiting a museum of your younger self.  You can experience and touch, but you cannot resurrect and you cannot go back.

When I listen to San Francisco musicians like Matt Nathanson or the band Train, I feel that wispy crackle in every note.  Especially Matt Nathanson who paints such portraits of emotion with his words.  

When I listen to certain Matt Nathanson songs I am transported back to earlier times where I wish I would have known then what I know now.  But sometimes it's better to live in ignorance and step into the potholes, then to be bubble-wrapped safe and protective all your life.  

Sometimes you have to experience the low points to better and truly appreciate the high points.  And sometimes you have to get run over by an emotional truck, just to remember that you are strong enough to get back up again.

I recently ran into someone who is educated and very accomplished (Mr. Jackass).  He thought very highly of himself and he filled every cubic meter of air in his space with talk of how great he was.  Which is absolutely fine in my world.  Toot your own horn.  You've worked hard, toot away.  (Toot, toot!)  But he also felt the need to be very condescending, patronizing and downright rude.  As if attempting to make other people feel small, insignificant and/or stupid somehow made him smarter.  (Um, wrong and not so smart!)

Not to sound too terribly conceited, BUT ... I'm a pretty smart cookie. Pretty strong in book smarts, very strong in street smarts.  I've spent my entire career being paid for my advice and counsel, so I think it's a little better than average.  (Toot, toot!)  But whether I am in a room of dullards or Nobel Prize winners, I am still equally as smart as when I walked into the room.  I don't need to put down others to make myself feel intelligent and grand.  I already know I am a smartie!  My intelligence is not inversely connected to other people's intelligence or self-esteem.

Inbetween asking Farmer/Sailor (who has now earned the nickname "Mr. Land and Sea") about the correct terminology for HAY, I told him the story of a long ago former relationship with a man ("Mr. Springfield") who felt very threatened by my life experiences and opportunities.  

Mr. Springfield was very jealous because he wanted to be well traveled and yet even though he and money and time, he never seized the courage to do it.  Because he didn't have the cojones to do it, he didn't want to be reminded of my experiences and accomplishments.  He told me he preferred if I didn't share all my stories.  He told me that everything with me was "been there, done that" and that he would prefer if I would not talk about all the things I have done and places I have been in my life.  (What a douche, right?  I was young, stupid and thought I was in love ... or at least deep lust.)

(Side note:  I am a natural born storyteller, for Baby Jesus' sake!  To tell me not to tell my stories-- you might as well just gag me now, because I won't be able to do it any other way!)

When I look back at this terrible relationship, I am angry with myself for sticking with it for so long.  (Obviously the "no travel stories" prohibition was the mere tip of the iceberg of dysfunction).  When I listen to Matt Nathanson's song "Earthquake Weather," I feel the "San Francisco of my heart" crackle with disappointment.  There's a line in the song that says "It comes natural to be so cruel/To be an asshole to someone as good as you ..." - and that line definitely makes me think of Mr. Springfield and his sicko low self-esteem.  

Sometimes it's important to take in the sadness, experience it fully and deeply and then let it go.  To hold it too long in your heart is only asking for the death of your heart.  And hearts were meant to beat strong in one's lifetime, not to be lugged around like a box of broken glass and dreams.

As I talked with the educated, accomplished and yet very rude man (a.k.a. Mr. Jackass) recently, I said to him "I'd like to meet someone who is nice ... who treats me nicely."  But he didn't hear me because he was too busy blathering on about himself and how he is better than most people in this world.  He may have received a double order of brains, but he was short-changed in the nice department.

I cannot change the past, but I can make sure I don't repeat it!  I was definitely not going to be signing up for a relationship with someone who needs to drag others down to feel good about himself.  I've already been there and done that.

Happy Saturday LilyOnTheLam.Com readers!  I hope this weekend you are putting yourself first and making strong, healthy decisions for yourself.  

I hope I will be learning more farming vernacular ... because if I am going to work farmers' hours, I might as well talk like one too!

Friday, August 1, 2014

Let Me Chase You Around The Pool And Then Give You Cheesecake: Reality is Stranger than Fiction

Happy Friday LilyOnTheLam.Com Readers!

With my new job, I feel like each week I am just holding on until the weekend to recharge.  On Fridays, I feel like I am a marathon runner ripping through the Finish Line tape.  Luckily this week was only 75% as intense as usual and I had a lot of great social events.  I don't feel like I have been run over by a truck like I have been the previous six weeks in this new role.    

Earlier this week, Ms. Toledo and I headed over to Orlando to catch a mid-week Andrew McMahon-Matt Nathanson-Gavin DeGraw concert at House of Blues.  I think this is the fifth or sixth time I have seen Matt Nathanson in concert.  I love his music - and his crazy snake man style slither dancing.  

I also had the opportunity to spend time with a wonderful friend "The Seductress" in her newly remodeled pool.  (And yes, there is a story behind why I call her "The Seductress" and twist my arm, I will totally share!)

If you are a regular LilyOnTheLam.Com reader, hopefully you realize my blog posts are incredibly, absolutely, 1000% percent tongue-in-cheek.  Posts like the recent one where I declared myself the best gift giver EVER (in the history of all mankind) or my endless statements that I am 974 years old (I'm really 973) are just a few examples of my faux delusional writing style.  

My college friends understand that my "Faux Diva Persona" is a humorous reaction from growing up incredibly poor, being a latchkey child from age 4, living in a one parent home (father died) where my mother worked all day and went to school at night.  I had to pull myself up by my bootstraps from an early age.  There was no choice.  But I like to make myself laugh portraying myself as a pampered princess (and frankly, I do like to pamper myself - but because of 25 years of struggling so very hard.)

It is certainly not the childhood I would have selected had I had the opportunity.  But it made me strong and independent ... most likely too strong, aggressive and independent, but frankly I'd rather be too strong than too weak.  (Someone call a therapist!)

Sometime in college, I started feigning, on occasion, a faux diva persona that I still haven't managed to shake.  It is a joke between my friends.  Like my fabulous friend Ms. Wheaton who likes to scratch her throat and make a slight cough - which implies "Baby is thirsty, fetch me a cocktail."  It's funny and irreverent - and it makes us all laugh.

But I forget that most people who meet me - did not know me when I was poor and struggling.  They didn't know the girl who had two jobs while in college her senior year.  They didn't know the girl who worked nights in a gigantic room doing mind-numbing data entry entering people's tax returns in the Wisconsin Department of Revenue.  (Proving to me that I am not dyslexic.  I'm actually quite good at data entry, but I want to kill myself every moment that I am doing it.)  

Most people who know me today didn't know the girl who worked full-time during grad school and lived in a rat hole apartment 6 blocks from a crack neighborhood, who had to cover her windows with heavy comforters to ward of the bitter winter cold.  

Most people who know me today didn't know I lived in Hollywood, CA next to an alley where transgender hookers turned tricks.  I'd drive home only to see various johns getting plugged or plugging away.  These are not the stories that endear most people to someone.  

It's not as fun or amusing to talk about that girl who struggled for so many years as compared to adventures driving around in my convertible, flirting with waiters who draw unicorns and rainbows on a to go box for me.  But both sides of the picture are me - for better or worse.

I forget that most people in my life really don't know "the true me."  They see the surface and the occasional "faux diva affectation" and they think that's who I am, 100%.  One person, a miserable, sad soul who I will refer to as Lady Buffoon - actually believed that I was this pompous ass who thought I was God's gift to the world.  (Really?  Do you freaking know me at all?)  

This struck me as absolutely bizarre that she would think this because most people who know me would describe me as loyal, caring, comforting, empathetic and incredibly generous.  But I learned long ago that you cannot control what other people think of you.  Judgers are going to judge, haters are going to hate - and they'll eventually drown themselves in their own sea of misery because they're too busy looking at others versus looking inside themselves.  

However with all that being said, I love a good story infused with a thick ribbon of hyperbole.  So while I do hope people know the "true me," I do enjoy telling a tall tale that makes people convulse with side-aching laughter.

My friend "The Seductress" once invited me over for dinner and a swim in her former house that had a lovely landscaped tiki hut pool deck.  Her husband was away on business, so it was just the two of us.  We had a lovely dinner and then it was pool time.  She had put on a music mix that she had made for her sister's birthday party.  

I was in the pool and my friend "The Seductress" was standing on the pool deck.  Her old house had an uncaged pool, so she grabbed a long pole with a net to scoop out some leaves.  Suddenly Barry White started booming from the speakers.


My friend almost fell into the pool, she was laughing so hard.

Obviously I did not think this was some sort of bisexual initiation, but I do like to tease "The Seductress" that she is a new world Mrs. Robinson.  I don't miss a chance to throw in "remember that time you chased me around the pool with a big pole while your husband was away?"  I especially like to ask this question loudly when there are lots of strangers around us.

On my paternal side of the family, my cousins and I have a theory that if a joke is funny one time; it is HILARIOUS the 8,702,346th time you tell it.  I am pretty sure that we're the only ones who believe that though.

So this week when "The Seductress" invited me over for dinner and time in her GORGEOUS remodeled pool while her husband was away, I knew I would be cracking the seduction jokes all night.

We had a great dinner ... and then once again it was pool time.  I hopped right in.  Since all the tiles on the pool are new, "The Seductress" has to scrub all the tiles with a very long pole with a big brush head on it on a daily basis for the first thirty days.  Or at least that's what she told me she had to do.  I let out a sigh and shook my head.  Once again, being chased around the pool by a big pole!  It is really tiring that so many people want to seduce me.  Sigh.  ;-)

However, I will note that there was no Barry White seduction songs booming -- is "The Seductress" losing her touch?  I was mesmerized watching her wield the big pole - I mean pool brush - bwahahahhahah!

Finally "The Seductress" stopped chasing me with the big pole and jumped into the pool.  After paddling around and catching each other up on stories, it was time for dessert - big wedges of cheesecake dusted with cinnamon.  "The Seductress" really does know the way to my heart.

I asked "The Seductress" where her husband was on business.  She said "He went to the women's prison to interview a witness."

I dropped my fork.  


"The Seductress" started laughing hysterically.

This, dear readers, is my life.  

I have friends who like to hang out at women's prisons while their wives chase me and try to seduce me with big poles and cheesecake.

I bit my tongue and didn't ask if there was a conjugal visit with the witness "Big Booty Judy" at the prison.  I didn't know if "The Seductress" had a quid pro quo "open relationship" weekend where I was the tasty side treat.  My booty's not that big!  

It is really difficult being the pawn in a sexually ravenous uninhibited couple's wild life!   

Sometimes life just throws some weird circumstances that are actually quite normal and innocent!

But come on!  Why just accept them as perfectly innocent when you can infuse them with hyperbole and make grandiose statements alleging weird seductive maneuvers with pool implements and cheesecake?

I love to laugh and I love to make other people laugh.  I hope everyone is in on the joke, but I am sure someone out there is rolling their eyes thinking "Oh Lily thinks she's so hot that she actually believes married women are trying to seduce her."


I certainly don't believe that.

I know it!  

Hahahahhahah!  Have a wonderful Friday, dear readers!  I hope you continue to read my posts in the tongue-in-cheek, comedic, irreverent spirit that they are VERY much intended to have.  And I hope you have a fun weekend where married people chase you around the pool and then give you extremely good cheesecake!

Thanks for reading!