And by here, I mean on Earth in the 21st century. I need new friends, because my old ones are fighting for the honor of shredding my last nerve and exploiting my last drop of human kindness and tolerance.
The old adage "you're only as old as you feel" seems to friend number one a challenge to see if, before he reaches the age of 60, he can make his heart and head feel older than Methuselah. He is drinking himself to death, and let me tell you, it isn't as romantic an image as he would like to believe.

When we were younger, it was an interesting conceit on his part to be a dissolute blade of the Belle Epoque. Now it is merely tiresome. Cognac doesn't make for as entertaining a drunk as absinthe may have done, and neither drunk is entertaining on this side of the glass.

Our long-standing Thursday night dates have become an ordeal that neither the RLA nor I anticipate with anything other than loathing and pity. Interventions have not worked. How do we ditch someone we used to love, and who, despite his pitiable state, still, in his own pathetic fashion, loves us?

Friend number two. Ah, friend number two. She is a workaholic in denial of her addiction. If, in fact, it isn't addiction, then it is a sorry example of the Peter Principle, and she is overworking in order to compensate for the fact that she can't do her work in a 40 hour week. She has no life, except work and her children. Unfortunately, two children have flown the nest, and the last one is a fledgling, eager to get her feathers and go.

When that happens, what will happen to my friend? There will be nothing to distract her from her lack of a personal life except more work, and, I am afraid, that old demon gin, to which she shows a particular fondness.

Friend number three has a place in the dictionary, right next to the words enabler and co-dependent. I can't listen to her anymore, either. Wrong choices about almost everything to do with her kids lead to more wrong choices and tragic consequences.

As I tell so many others, you can't fix anyone except yourself. My fix is coming, and I am sorry to see it on the horizon. But I can't take any more of any of my friends self-destructive behaviors when I have my own to tend to.

Still, even in the driest desert, some flowers bloom, and last night I went to a lovely flowering: young April was ordained a priest in the Episcopal church, and the RLA and I were priveleged to be at the ceremony.

I love ceremony and rite, and this was particularly lovely. Love being the operative word. She is a woman full of love, and the church was full of people who love her. I promised TL (the prettiest man in the room, always, but particularly last night) that I would blog about it (and about him) so here it is.

The sermon given likened April to McGiver, a charismatic fellow of infinite ability to conjure salvation from a paper clip and a need. I ask you, when was the last time you heard McGiver's name mentioned in church? And why not? The world needs more McGivers, and that was the gist of the sermon: that our friend is a McGiver, able to pull the rabbit of hope from the world's top hat of despair.

She is, and in the mood I've been in, it was a reminder I needed to hear.

So the other day I held a party and (almost) nobody came. First time that ever happened to me in the history of my throwing parties. Granted, the theme was a little obscure: Shahruhk Khan Day, and the kitchen play involved Indian cuisine, but really. All most folks had to do was show up, eat and watch some Bollywood. How hard could that have been?

* the recipe calls for letting the eggplant weep out its bitter juices.... yeah, ok, right, it was a stretch, title-wise, but cut me some slack.
But RJ came through, and the two of us had a wonderful time, cooking up a storm and weeping our way through all three-plus hours of Kutch Kutch Hota Hai, arguably one of Shahruhk's more romantic fil-ums. Sigh. That Shahruhk, he is SUCH a hottie.

RJ made paneer, and Publix had fresh peas and lovely eggplants, so the menu included motter paneer, lamb with coconut and peas, eggplant a la "the imam wept", kir, mango lassis, motter paneer samosas, and plain old rice.

Here's a couple of photos of our endeavors, kitchen-wise





In other ramblings, my tat is finally healing up. Note to self: don't wear anything with straps that rub a fresh tattoo, it makes for a big mess, and a miserable healing experience.

Things I'm not allowed to say to customers, but wish I could: Hey, stupid, the i-pods all sound the same, even if they are different colors. You don't need to listen to all of them, one will do.

I'm amazed at how many different ways there are to (mis)use a cell phone. I have grown accustomed to seeing people treat them like walkie-talkies, first holding it up to an ear, and then repositioning it to in front of their mouths, like the mic isn't multi-directional, but the variety of positions is astonishing.

One woman kept holding the mouthpiece at right angles to her ear when she was trying to listen. Imagine the cell phone was a q-tip and she was digging in her ear... that's how she was holding her phone. The mouth end poking into her ear. And just how did that help her hear?

Another man was flipping his phone around so that he was trying to listen to the back side.

Ah well, technology is difficult, eh?

And, yes. This entry was created on my mac. Sigh. I love this machine.

I fought the urge as long as I could but finally had to cave in to the baser longings of my heart. I bought a new Powerbook. This should be the last entry using the Sony Vaio.
When the hospital took away my Mac, I felt like a converso during the Spanish Inquisition. Yes, you could make me denounce my religion in order to stay alive, but you could never make me love the new one, or even practice it with the fullness of my heart.

Now that I've been liberated from the toxic waste dump of county employment, I decided to take the paltry remains of my severence package (most of which has gone to paying the COBRA bills) and buy myself a new laptop.

It arrived yesterday, and today I'm loading up software and cooing over it like the newborn it is.

In other news, Miss Frances Langford died. She was the local celebrity in my home town, and many are the dinners my family had at the old Outrigger.



I once got Susan Hayward's autograph there. She smiled and asked me if my father had told me to ask for it, because I was way too young to know who she was. But she was beautiful and gracious, and I still have the autograph, on the back of the blue valet parking stub. Unlike the celebrities of today, you could read her signature, too.

It's been a busy weekend at Girlyshoes. The RLA and I had a road trip Saturday, partly on purpose and partly by accident. We had planned to go to Boca to pick up fireworks for the Fourth, added in a jaunt to Lake Worth to see a tattoo artist, and at the last minute rounded off the day with a chance to meet Dan.
And the plan went off without a hitch, if, by without a hitch, you mean that the RLA got the name of the tattoo shop wrong, and copied their phone number wrong, and I read the map to the fireworks store wrong, and caused us to drive about ten miles east of where we needed to be, which in turn let us take the very scenic drive north to Lake Worth on Old Dixie Highway.

Well worth the drive, however, was Altered State when we finally found it. I ended up with a new tattoo. I don't know why it is that the RLA, who WANTS a new tattoo, can go to a tattooist and leave with nothing, and I end up with ink. They (tattoos) are like potato chips: nobody can have just one.

Scott is my newest ink idol. Not only is his color sense incredible, but he also has a wicked capacity to draw freehand, and his touch with the needle is very light.

He added a flaming star to my existing angel cat. When he asked if the flames were a little too hotrodish for me, the RLA just snorted and said "Hell no. She's a gear head." Isn't he romantic? And he even paid for the work.

After the star was done, we went back south on I-95 to Donny Aaron's Arsenal of Fireworks, a 6,000 square foot, air-conditioned palace of all things Black Cat. Smoking eyeballs, a case of bottle rockets and more things that blow up or emit smoke, flames, shooting balls of fire, or sparks later, we were ready to head even further south and east to meet up with Dan.

In order for him to recognize me, I wore my "I'm blogging this" t-shirt. It worked. It also worked that I forgot to take along his cell phone number, and since we'd had a couple of unexpected extensions on our drive and were running late, I ended up calling the restaurant to tell them if a tall guy with glasses and a shaved head came in looking for someone, but he wasn't sure exactly who? that would be Dan-the-blogger and they should seat him at the bar and tell him that MizShoes-the-blogger would be along shortly. Dan was recognized as such, and was happily slapping back a bourbon and beer when we arrived. He did keep them separate, so it wasn't technically a boiler maker. Not wanting, ever, to let a guy drink alone, I had a shot of tequilla and a beer chaser. The RLA is always the designated driver, and I the designated drinker, so things worked out well.

Dan is as wonderful in person as he is in pixels, and a fun time was had by all. I think. He wouldn't have lied about it, would he? No. Dan left with a bag of mangos, fresh off the tree. I hope they made it back to the other coast without getting impounded at the border.

On Sunday night, I was in the kitchen when I heard Jojo chewing on something that didn't sound like a doggie toy. It was a box of safety matches. I pried it from her jaws and noted that the box was burned along one edge. Ever attentive to details like that, I went off looking for the matches. Yes. Yes, most of them were burned as well. It seems that she was somehow able to light the box of matches whilst chewing on them. Only I could have a dog that plays with matches. Luckily for all involved, her muzzle did not catch on fire, my kitchen cabinets did not catch on fire, her mouth was not burned by either fire or sulphur, and the tile floor only had a tiny scorch mark. She must have slobbered enough to put the spark out. That's why fire should be left to professionals, or at least persons with opposable thumbs.

Yesterday we packed up the fireworks and headed over to the Rancho De M&RJ for a traditional bbq. There was beer, burgers, doggies, potato salad, grilled corn, grilled chicken and much hilarity among the participants. For desert there was red velvet cake with blueberry sorbet inside. Then fireworks at the park. Then more blowing things up at their house. There was even real fire, when the spinning flaming thing that we nailed to a tree in the back yard caught the dead leaves below the tree on fire. Luckily one of the gang had gone into the house for more beer, and saw the flames in the back yard when they were merely three feet high, and we were able to put the fire out with a garden hose.

That's why fire should be left to professionals.

Didn't stop us, though. Once the fire was out, we were all back in the front yard blowing up more stuff. Did you know that a six-foot pvc pipe makes a most excellent launch pod for an M-80 bottle rocket? Now you do.

Happy fifth.

Yeah, baby. There is nothing I like better than taking part in a random survey. This one is being run by MIT's Media Lab, and any time I can be part of their science, I am one happy puppy.

My sistergirl sent me an article about Mars being closer to Earth this August than any time since the Neanderthals looked up, but it turns out it was one of those web things that circulates and circulates and circulates. The actual time of the Mars event was two summers ago. Still and all, I suppose that looking up is a good thing to do anyway.

And if you're looking up and out in mid to late August, you'll be seeing the Perseid Meteor Showers. So how bad could it be, if you get to see a few shooting stars?

So I have this friend, a very dear and wonderful friend. She's been a mentor to me professionally for years, but also a true girlfriend. A soul sister. To be honest, she scares me a little, but only a little, and considering that she can, if she tries, make men in business suits wet themselves, being only a little bit scared of her is fine.
But she is my friend, and I hers. She's a military brat, and like all military brats, has a hard time making friendships. She is self-contained, and the fact that we are close is a treasure I do not take lightly. I know how hard it is for her to give me as much of herself as she does, and I aprreciate her for it, and the friendship we share.

Of course, these are not things I could say to her face, because the sheer emotion of it, the bare exposure of self, would embarrass both of us. But sometimes, you have to put things out in the universe, so that, like the butterfly's wing beat in China, that causes a hurricane in the Gulf, the reverberations and vibrations can be felt where they should be.

I have another friend, my sistergirl. She and I have known each other since before we were born, quite literally, as our mothers were friends and pregnant at the same time. We truly are the Petit Ya-yas. She and I can pick up the phone at any time, and continue a conversation that began 40 years ago, even if we haven't spoken in weeks or months, or even years. We share a knowledge of each other that is bone-deep. My fairy garden, that is part of my koi pond, is an homage to the moss gardens we built together when we were ten or younger.

For years and years, I had a friend from college. He, too, had scared the piss out of me when we met, and then became close. We were hanging out buddies, go to movie buddies, mooch dinner off of me buddies. We were not an item, not ever, not even thinking about it. We kept in touch off and on, more off than on in some years. Then one day, after not having seen each other for about five years, we got together for an art opening and dinner. By the time I said goodnight, I knew that I was going to marry him. He's now my husband, and you all know him as the RLA.

And then there is the Coolest Person In The World. We can, and have, gone years without talking to each other. Then the phone rings, and it's like: Hi. Howyadoin? I'm going to be in your part of the world next week. Want to get together? And of course we do.

On the flip side of this is the friends who have gone and can't be regained. Not through arguments or fallings out, although there are a gracious plenty of those in my life, as well. I'm thinking specifically of Leapin' Larry. He was another college friend, and someone I spoke to once every ten years or so, and swapped outrageous e-mails with with a greater frequency. He was killed in a helicopter crash over the Gulf of Bahrain several years ago. Not a week goes by, that I don't think of him, or how I miss knowing that he's around in the world, making award-winning news videos and just being the unique and wild man he was. I can't bear to think of how much his wife and sons miss him.

Next week or so Reecie is going to be here on my turf. We've met face to face once before and totally enjoyed one another's company. I'm looking forward to face time with a person I consider a friend, although we only "know" each other through our blogs and on-line correspondence.

Is this a cool world, or what?