i.d.ten.t

In my college sorority days, I was voted “Don’t Tell Me, I Tell Everyone.”  I was also voted “Most Likely To Succeed” in high school.  And “Most Likely to Break Lawyer-Client Confidentiality” in law school.  I slipped in the high school one to try and give myself some favor.  Like how it’s sandwiched in the middle like the cream in an Oreo or the bologna in a bologna sandwich.  The middle is the essence.  The middle is the best.  The middle is where you forgive the outer faults…

Anyway, tonight, I decided to share my own secrets…confession is good for the soul. 

1.  Christmas is my second least favorite holiday (Halloween is the worst), yet I can’t turn away from a good Lifetime movie celebrating the season.   Yesterday, I spent 6 hours on my couch (that’s 3 movies back to back to back) nibbling on mint M&Ms and watching FaLaLaLa Lifetime.  I haven’t displayed this level of sloth in years.  It was AWESOME!

2.  I hosted a cocktail party last week.  In order to attend, the guests had to bring donations for the Cleveland Food Bank.  I provided wine.  In an effort to justify what I did tonight, let me share I provided six bottles of wine and a table full of appetizers.  A table full.  So, that makes my crime tonight less heinous, right?  I leave on a business trip all week and have no groceries, so tonight, I stole a can of Spaghetti Os from the homeless donations.  I’m going to replace it before I drop it off.  I swear.  In the meantime though, I stole from hungry children.  I’m wrecked with guilt. 

3.  Everyone loves the “Crackberry.”  Blackberry are ubiquitous.  People with this technology are clearly very important, busy, vital people, right?  So why do I hate mine so much.  The first month I had it, I kept it locked in my office drawer.  The second month I dropped it and happily it broke.  I returned it to IT for replacement but never “remembered” to stop by to pick up my new one.  It wasn’t until today when people caught on that I’m out of the office all week that someone higher than me insisted I get my new Blackberry…four months later.   Blackberries scare me.  I have no logical reason for this.  Blackberries and dropping my keys down the elevator shoot.  Oh, and worms.  All scary.

4.  I think Hillary and Ohio State are going to suffer terrible losses in January.  You see, I want it too bad.  When I want something just a little, I have the ability Ala “The Secret” (the DVD is easier than the book) to make it happen…seriously, a parking spot, a man to make out with for the evening, an interception in a game…I want it and it happens, it’s true.  But when I’m emotionally invested, when I really, really want something… when the outcome determines my happiness for a year after (I’m still seeking therapy after being in the desert last Jan for the FL-OSU outcome) or more (I have not come close to recovering from the Bush v Gore decision), it doesn’t go my way.  For this, I feel personally reasonable for the loss about to befall both Hillary and Brutus Buckeye.

5.  I wore a black sock and a short white sock today.  I had on boots so no one could see, but they weren’t even close to matching and I was not even close to looking for a pair that did. 

I stopped blogging in a show of solidarity with the Writers Guild of America.  I can’t be in California to march along side them, so I decided to join their cause by stopping writing (and if you believe that and not I grew bored with blogging, then you don’t know me at all)…

But I will not show solidarity a moment longer with the likes of Kevin Williamson.   That’s right.  I am very angry at Kevin Williamson.  I want him to come over to my house, sit on my couch and listen to Matt tell a story without cliff notes, one of Matt’s special unabridged stories that take 7 hours with lots of sidebars about his hometown…this is his punishment (Matt, you don’t read this do you…if so, you are pretty!).  If when Matt is done, this is not enough to satisfy me, I will make Sarah prepare him dinner alone, yes, she will cook unsupervised and he will eat every bite of whatever crapola she creates. And then Diane will dance while he eats it thereby solidifying the indigestion (again, you guys don’t read this, right?  If so, You are hot!). 

Since I can’t get Kevin to come over and take his lumps for penning the shitastic ending to Dawson’s Creek I recently viewed, I want to share with the world a very serious caution.

DO NOT WATCH DAWSON’S CREEK!!!!!!  DO NOT!  It’s like going into a relationship with someone all wrong.  You will be pulled in, find Pacey charming, enjoy the Jen and Jack banter, find yourself flirting back with the tv.  Then if gets more serious.  You stand by your love though Aubrey’s rehab.  You believe it in when Joey gets mugged and root for her (despite your dislike of her general character).  You are in it for the long haul.  And after investing 6 years in this relationship (or 6 months in my case thanks to Netflix), you wait for the big finish…and instead of a diamond ring at the end of the road sealing your forever love…Kevin Williamson shows up for the final episode, writes a ridiculous wrap-up and KILLS JEN!  That’s right, I spoiled it.  Jen DIES!!!  She is disposable, she isn’t Joey after all so she can be killed, right?  HE KILLED JEN!  Ridiculous. 

So I have a plan.  It’s a three parter.

Part One:  I warn the world to not get involved with Dawson.  Mission Accomplished thanks to the power of this unread blog.

Part Two:  I am sending a letter to Netflix with my video return.  It states:

“Dear Fine Folks at Netflix,

This envelope contains the WORST ending to a series ever.  Please remove it from your circulation and save others the disappointment.  You really should consider legal action against this writer.  His Writer’s Guild card need to be revoked, though, at least if he is striking the world has a temporary reprieve from his utter poo.  Thanks!”

This letter is on pink stationary with high heel shoes fringing the edges.  Nice, huh?

Part Three:  If in 6 months, Dawson’s Creek Finale is still in rotation, I am renting every copy little by little.  I will scratch it up before returning, thereby, ensuring others are not exposed (Lori helped me create this part of the trifecta, she still has not recovered from her disappointment experienced 5 years ago). 

Luckily for me, I get bored and will probably be over my anger by week’s end and thereby avoid vandalism charges and inevitable jail time for the third part.  But I have already completed the first two.  

Finally, I have a new passion.  No longer am I obsessed with getting Democrats in the White House.  No longer am I consumed with college football and Ohio State’s chances at the big game.  No longer am I reserving my passion for shiny lip gloss, black coffee, and NPR.  No.  I am moving on.  I have bigger, badder fish to fry.

Kevin Williamson, watch out.  You are on my list.

All my friends have taken up running the last two years.  And I don’t mean, light jogs on a Sunday morning in a park to hit on the hot shirtless men running by or running from the car to the bar when it’s raining…I mean, really running.  At least four of them have done marathons in the past year or so.  That’s ridiculous.  But I am never one to be left out, especially if I can meet hot shirtless men running in the park on Sunday mornings, so I made a mental promise to be a runner this winter.  I set a deadline of 11/1/07 as my run, Steph, run day when I will begin the journey that I will assuredly hate.

I purchased new running shoes about a month ago and have been progressively breaking them in, I got a new IPOD shuffle and filled exclusively with running songs like “We are Family” and “She’s a Maniac.”  I’ve stepped up my yoga workouts to limber up my muscles and avoid the inevitable shin splints I used to have for months at a time when I ran in grade school.  And I found a perfect gym next to work with loads of treadmills.  Well, today, the weather was 67 degrees at 7pm in OH so I decided why put off until tomorrow what I can do today…outside.  At night.

If anyone ever decides to take up running let me recommend starting on Halloween.  I live in the city.  Not the suburbs.  My neighborhood can be scary on a normal night, which is one of the reasons I love it…diversity.  I also live across the street from an expansive park and Lake Erie.  As it turns out, at night, Lake Erie is not lit up.  It’s very, very dark.  I decided to run, in the dark, on Halloween, on my street beside the lake as teenage hoodlums and police gave chase to each other (yes, I saw this) and ghouls and ghosts jumped out of the bushes occasionally and screamed at me.  This happened twice. 

I finished my two mile run (two mile runs usually take 4 hours, right?) about 45 minutes ago and my heart rate has still not returned to normal.  Nothing serves as better motivation to run, run, run then Cleveland at night on Halloween.    

Also I need to share this message:

I sent to Sharda the following text message: 

    Get a dog.  Nothing is better than coming home from a hard day, laying down on the couch with a dog under your arm beside you.  Get a dog.

Sharda’s reply:

    I’m jealous of Kennedy.

Umm…does Sharda want to lay on a couch tucked under my arm?  She is coming on to me, right?

Sharda, you are hot.  I usually go for men.  But I saw you in your sports bra on Saturday, so I guess I’ll give it a try. 

I had a seemingly fun evening.  I went to a favorite restaurant with hilarious friends.  I hung out with new people.  I sampled a cool cucumber margarita, not bad for a Tuesday…but all day long I’ve had an gnawing, grumbling, gurgling frustration boiling under the surface waiting to erupt.  I’m going to vent now…hopefully, this will be the release that will quench the fire inside waiting to explode…

I hate…

*  Short-sleeve oxford shirts on men…nothing screams 9th grade biology teacher more.

*  Traffic tie-ups.  I live in Cleveland.  I gave up long traffic jams when I moved away from D.C., therefore, my 20 minute ride to work should not take 2 hours as it did today.  Unacceptable in OH. 

*  Chain restaurants.  Be original.  I do not wish to eat the same meal in Cleveland that I can get in Maui that I can get in Duluth that I can get in Austin.  Applebees, go away, and take all your boring soul-less chain friends with you.

*  Rejecting someone.  I know this makes me immature.  I know it makes me lame.  But I never know the polite, mature way to tell someone you only went out with once that you aren’t interested.  So I screen the calls.  I know it’s rude.  It makes me feel like a cad.  But I don’t know how to politely do it.  So please, stop calling me so I can stop ignoring you and feeling bad.

*  Halloween decorations.  I cannot explain it, but I think they are tacky.  I know this hurts feelings.  I’m sorry, but I don’t love your strobe light flashing in your living room and your glowing red porch. 

*  Excessive consumerism.  Unplug your the cell phone chargers when not in use and save electricity.  Stop driving the Hummers unless you are going to Iraq.  Use a real coffee mug and stop throwing away 7 plastic cups throughout the day.  I had an old Contracts professor in law school that used to get right in your face and point at your forehead and shout “Think, tink, tink” (for some reason he never pronounced the H in the successive words) and I often want to bop people on the head and in my best professorial voice shout at them “Think, tink, tink, other people exist in this world besides you, don’t be so selfish with your consumption.”

*  The sound of my alarm clock.  I need a better way to gently wake.  Until I can convince George Clooney to come over and gently rub my back every morning as he whispers “Morning, Beautiful” I am stuck with it.   

*  George W. Bush. 

I have been in a bit of a rut.  A long, long dry spell.  Four years.

Yes, it’s been four years, and no action.  I mean, week after week, I get all dolled up, I sweet talk the boys hoping some passes are made my way, but when push comes to shove, I always go home alone, empty.

 Four years!

Most people would give up hope.  Most people would take themselves out of the game.  Why get out of bed to be faced with more rejection and disappointment, weekend after weekend? 

I am not most people.  I am the Little Engine that Could.   I am the Tortoise.   I kept showing up, knowing, one day, the grunting, the sweating, the making myself available would pay off and the rut would end and I would get the sweet satisfaction I’ve been craving.

That one day happened.  Saturday, I scored!  It was perfect.  I made eye contact with Aaron, I showed I was interested and ready and he came at me hard.  I reached up and pulled it down into me.  The ball landed perfectly in my hands as I stood securely in the endzone.

Finally!  I scored us some points.  We won.  Just when I want to give up the touch football circuit, I am brought back. 

Homecooked meal, show at Playhouse Square starring a liberal pseudo-intellectual from NPR fame, followed by a glass of delicious red wine and then cuddling on the couch with E! tv.  How could this happen to me tonight?  Who knows me this well?

 ME!

I decided to romance myself tonight.  I had an early lunch/dinner of homemade tacos leftovers from last night when my Little Sister of Big Bros/Big Sis cooked for me.  Hey, some do it for the mentoring of America’s youth, I do it for cheap child labor…

I followed my dinner with a trip downtown to Playhouse Square.  I saw Ira Glass from NPR’s “This American Life.”  I refuse to eat dinner alone in public, refuse, but the-years-old-I-am-but-cannot-say-aloud has made me realize I need to break out of my comfort zone more.  So date night in public with me and to the show I went.  It was amazing.  I’m convinced Ira and Steph could love each other forever.  I befriended a lovely married couple in their 50s sitting beside me and after the show I asked if they agreed we would make a splendid couple and even they said he’d be a fool to stay with his wife and not run away to Cleveland with me…then the husband nudged the wife to hurry up and lose the crazy woman as they looked at me with pity…

Can I ask for a better date though than a lovely dinner and fantastic show with a beautiful, amazing lady?  I think not.

So after the date, I did what any girl would do, I called my girlfriend and requested a debriefing session.  Meg met me at Divine Wine Bar and I chattered on and on about what a great date with me I had but I’m glad I didn’t put out because I wouldn’t respect me in the morning.  I think Meg assumed I was drunk. 

I came home and cuddled up with me and E! tv.  I am definitely not waiting the required 3 days to call. 

[CHORUS:]
Hey, I put some new shoes on,
And suddenly everything is right,
I said, hey, I put some new shoes on and everybody’s smiling,
It’s so inviting,
Oh, short on money,
But long on time,
Slowly strolling in the sweet sunshine,
And I’m running late,
And I don’t need an excuse,
’cause I’m wearing my brand new shoes.

I woke up late for work yesterday thanks to the stinky Indians’ Sunday night game.   I was running late, threw on lawyer-like work appropriate clothes, a blazer, a dash of make-up and realized I had to let the dog out.  Rather than wear my uncomfortable work heels to let the dog outside, I left on my red ballet slippers for the quick walk. 

After Kennedy did his doggie business, I hurried back inside, grabbed my purse, keys, cell, and hustled out the door.  I got to work a little late but still had time to just barely make the big meeting with the boss when I look down and realize I am still wearing my bedroom slippers…Umm…

This was not a dream.  I did this. 

I had no choice, I had to go inside and go to the meeting and explain away my awkward choice of footwear…

After the meeting, the boss held me back a little and asked me to shut the door.  I’ve been with the company for 4 months…I’ve never been asked to stay after and shut the door.  My heart is racing.  I am clearly violating dress code and ashamed enough, I don’t need my scolding thank-you-very-much.  But I deserve it…I’m late, I’m inappropriately dressed, and after 4 months with the company I’m sure I’m not progressing enough for them so I brace myself for the inevitable conversation about to come…

“Steph, we are going to elevate your role with the company.”

What?  I’m wearing bedroom slippers, tardy, and barely know what I am doing one minute until the next and you are promoting me?

Life makes no sense.

Day Four…the fun finally ends…Sunday

Sunday morning we woke up after about 3 hours sleep.  I find myself wearing the very evening dress I wore when we left the house the evening before.  We share Hemingway’s naughty banana, take in a final free breakfast, and sadly pack up to leave this beautiful seaport town for our 4 hour drive back to Fort Lauderdale.

 I decide I am not dressing.  I am so hungover and exhausted, dressing is simply too much work, and I wear my slutty evening dress for my 4 hour car ride and 3 hour airplane ride.  What was I thinking? 

The drive home takes a long time, so Tiffany and Lori use the time to further a business idea.  They white board a movie plot.  You see, I met Lori in law school.  Sometimes lawyers tell stories they think fascinating, but not.  Lori shares with us a fascinating tidbit about how rare deers sued Florida to not expand the road that we took to the Keys.  Tiffany, the librarian that steals from Hemingway, tells Lori that case would make a great movie.  The girls spend the next three hours dissecting a movie.  Who will play the deers, who will play the lawyers…I wanted to kill them, but I was too hung over to argue.  This was my payback for the song selection on the way down, I’m convinced. FOUR HOURS of plot discussion thanks to a lawsuit.  It was as stimulating as you imagine…which is to say, not at all. 

We get back to Fort Lauderdale and I am dropped off at the airport straight-away.  I bid the girls goodbye and inch to check-in, every piece of my body hating myself with each step in my uncombed hair, no make-up and last night’s evening wear.  The valet takes one look at me, announces loudly that I must have had a good weekend, look at me, and promises to get me a good seat so I can sleep it off.  Nice.  I looked that good.  I tip him well.

On the plane, a gentleman in his mid 30s stares at me as I crawl into my seat.  Whenever I wake up, he is looking at me.  It gets creepy.  I smile gingerly and try and will the plane to get me to Cleveland faster.  He is constantly looking at me!  Finally, the plane lands and I am the first to debark and quick as a bunny I bolt away.  I run into the same guy at baggage claim where he approaches.  He explains he is from Washington state and has never been to the Midwest. I try and smile.  He asks me “are all the girls in the Midwest as cute as you?”  The guy terrifies me.  I have never looked worst.  I mean, how ugly are the girls in Washington state?  Or, did he see me in my ruffled state as a girl that has never been asked out, clearly desperate, and decided to try and strike…as soon as my luggage arrives, I wave goodbye and practically run out to my car before he can try any more conversation.  What is wrong with that guy?

Thankfully, I took the following day off so I could recover…and by recover, I mean meet OkaySeriously Sarah for a lunch of a pitcher of margaritas.  I am loving 30 so far.

I further love my friends even more than my entry into 30.  Tiffany…Lori…you are amazing!  Simply the best.  Thank you so much for a weekend I will never forget.  I cannot wait to see you in Columbus next month and celebrate Lori’s birthday and an OSU victory.  Cannot wait.

Also, as an addendum to the story, the little drive-by lap-dancer, Lori, got engaged the evening before I arrived in Florida.  She didn’t tell me Ryan had proposed until after we returned home because she wanted the weekend to be for me.  That is the most selfless and sweet thing, though I think there would have been plenty of room for multiple celebrations.  To Lori and Ryan, I offer my most heartfelt congratulations and best wishes.  You are both special people and will undoubtly have a beautiful, happy life together.

Day Three…Saturday

Three girls, all securely in their 30s now, awoke on Saturday morning deservedly hungover.  However, we were also well aware that Courtney’s Place offered a complimentary breakfast.  We threw clothes on and limped off to the breakfast nook, situated beside a beautiful lagoon full of bacteria.  We gobbled down sausage and bagels and coffee and rehashed our evening’s antics.  We were a mess.  After breakfast, we stumbled home. 

I am well schooled in the art of pushing through a hangover, better prepared for the inevitable shakes and aches that accompany such a crazy evening than the other fine ladies.  Lori, convinced she wasn’t long for the world, returned to bed to moan.  Tiff tried to comfort her friend and deliver last rites.  I went for a walk…sort of.  I knew exactly where I was headed…

I went to the tourist board and asked where I could acquire a golf cart.  I have found nothing soothes a hangover quite like a golf cart ride.  I found the spot, rented a “green” golf cart that would have made Al Gore proud, and returned home about 30 minutes later beeping my cute little horn.  Lori and Tiff poked their heads outside from the porch, I swear I saw eyes roll, gathered their stuff, and joined me on my little go cart. 

I toured us around the island, beeping at every hot guy we saw.  We went to Hemingway’s home and did a tour.  Those that know me well, know I am adamantly against breaking the law.  Adamant.  I won’t run a stop sign.  I don’t jaywalk.  I don’t do illicit recreational activities…I firmly believe there is enough fun to be had firmly within the boundaries of civil society, unless I am in Key West.  At Hemingway’s house, as we are walking the grounds and marveling at the master, we found a banana tree.  Tiffany suggested stealing a banana and eating a fruit from the very tree Hemingway ate.  Ordinarily, I would be appalled at this moxie…however, in Key West, I found myself playing look-out while she picked a banana and blantantly stole from a literary master.  Whoa!  The nerve of that one.  She placed the hot banana in her purse and we hustled out of the scene of the crime.  We ate lunch at a seafood joint loved by locals, and ordered so much food, the wait staff questioned if a group of 40 would be joining…Yum.  We kept the golf cart over the alloted time, loving the view.  I am so directionally challenged, I can’t tell my right from my left on a good day, but I was born for Key West.  I knew it like the back of my hand.  We hit the southern most point of the USA, we found ourselves 90 miles from Cuba.  We went to mile marker one.  We took backroads, inroads, main roads, etc.  It was great. 

We returned from our afternoon of golf carting to beautify ourselves for our second evening.  We pretty up and are determined to catch the sunset.  As we are walking to the strip to check the sun, a gust of wind blows my dress and Lori’s dress up Marilyn Monroe style.  A 60 year old woman witnesses this, stops to tell us it’s fine because both our undergarments match our outfits and to further prove her point, she lifts her own dress high over her face and twirls and twirls for us.  Why are the people of Key West so ridiculous and amazing?!!!  We chat with her for a while and get off schedule…

We arrive at a hotel with a balcony to see the sun about 3 minutes after the sun meets the horizon.  Undaunted by our timing, we decide to have a drink.  We pony up to the bar and order the bartenders to give us their special, signature drinks.  They ask what we have in mind.  Someone answers, it doesn’t matter, but please put in extra roofies.  Lori then explains not to worry, if they don’t have roofies, she always brings her own.  Obviously, these bartenders love us.  When I head back in a short time later to freshen up, I chat up the bartenders.  I go and retrieve the girls to join me.  The bartenders give us about 4 free shots each.  It was so much, we take to hiding our drinks behind us, unable to inbibe that much as once.  How does Key West stay in business when they give away so much free alcohol.  I always heard it was an expensive place, but I found the exact opposite to be true.

When we decide we need to leave the bar or face alcohol poisoning at the hands of our attentive bar staff, we tell them to find us later, we’ll hang out, fully intending to never see them again.  We go to Hog’s Breath and eat dinner, we try Sloppy Joes, all the regular tourist places.  All lovely with dancing, drinking, and friendly people. 

We end up in a little football bar.  I sit down with strangers and start cheering for LSU with them.  I am nothing if not an Ohio State football fan, but wanted them to like me so I immediately start rooting for their team.  While I’m befriending Cajuns, Lori and Tiffany find our original hotel bartenders.  They really did search us out and meet up.  They convince us to join them at another bar with great live music.  We agree. 

At this bar, we drink, we dance, we laugh, it was awesome.  I even told the bartenders about being motorboated on the street the week before, and before I finished my story, both men quickly motorboated my chest again.  Lori then demanded “Do me! Do me!”  They obliged. 

Evntually, Tiffany gets tired and heads home.  In my head she went home so early.  I mean, who goes home at 8pm while on vacation…umm…it was 2am!  Well done, Tiff, well done.  Lori and I however, close the bar.  Some guy sitting beside me grabs my inner thigh as the bar is closing.  I am ready to kick his ass.  I am furious.  The original bartender chaperones, realizing we will clearly get into a bar fight, ask to walk us home.  They said “we always get to take home ugly girls, please, let us take home beautiful girls just once, our moms will never believe it.”  Great line.  We let them.  Also, I was fit to be tied at this point. 

The boys take us home and we become perfect hostesses.  We offer them Sofia Coppola champagne juice boxes and chat them up.  Finally, I reach my breaking point and retire for the evening…at 6am.  Lori stayed out an additional hour talking on the porch.  I never kept these hours when I was in my 20s, why are the 30s so much better?

Great time!

Day Two:  October 5…actual birthday.

Lori, the world’s most perfect hostess, took me to a Starbucks and then dropped me at day spa where I indulged in a facial and massage so relaxing I forgot my name.

She picked me up a couple hours later and we swung by the airport and picked up Tiff and away we went for the roadtrip to Key West.  Lori had made me a cd…all my favorites, Lisa Loeb, Journey, and “One is the Loneliest Number”!  She had gotten up early and modified the roadtrip music after my airport story.  Awesome.  Once the cd ran its course, the ladies allowed me to play dj as it was my special day.  I was drunk with power.  I played Kenny Rogers, Billy Joel, and other tunes that made ears bleed.  I loved it!

We got to Key Largo and were starving so at the advice of my uncle we stopped at The Fish House.  If you are ever in Key Largo, you must go.  The food was delicious and they overheard us toasting the moment I was spawned and arrived with a DEAD MACKERAL ON A PLATE WITH A CANDLE STICKING OUT OF ITS CORPSE!  Could that be more amazing.  A dead fish served as a cake.  The took a polaroid of my shocked expression and we posted that up immediately on the fridge of our bungalow. 

Our Key West bungalow was perfect.  It was a place where men are free to love men.  Tony and David forever was carved in the cement out front and it was crawling distance from Duval Street where the Key West magic happens.  We unloaded the bags and without so much as a refresh of the lipstick headed to a wine bar.

A perfect wine bar.  A wine bar when Tiffany fell head over heels for the 60 year old waiter with lots of neck hair…a wine bar where the owner stripped down to his orange underoos for us and waddled around.  A wine bar, where upon leaving, the owner shoved a bottle of champagne in my purse and charged us $10 for our 3 hour tour.  It was supposed to be a quick drink before dinner primping, but a small hurricane blew through, and we were stranded at the wine bar making friends and drinking bottles of wine.  I love Key West hospitality.

We stumbled across the street to a restaurant we had reservations for a “nice dinner.”  We weren’t three sheets to the wind, we were 17 sheets to the wind.  We loudly argued sex techniques causing those around us to look on disapprovingly.  Through a 21 year old at the bar overheard us and came to our table, pulled up a chair and joined our dinner.  A foursome from Chicago also shouted over to us a few times.  I have never seen a wait staff so happy to see patrons leave before. 

After dinner we wandered the streets looking for fun.  We made a wrong turn and kept walking farther from the action than intended.  Thank God, Lori is brilliant.  She flagged down a rickshaw biker and the three of us squeezed into the biker’s basket and proceeded to oogle him mercilessly as he pedaled us down the road.  We loudly announced he has a great butt and then tried to lick his beautiful calves.  For some reason, he dropped us off before our destination.  He had enough.

 We found ourselves in a bar with a fun band and lots of boys willing to buy us drinks.  We proceeded to drop many of the free drinks.  At once point, I found myself tired of the Sex on the Beach some stranger gave me and decided to let go.  I just let go of the beverage and it spilled all over the floor.  Whoops, I walked on.  What is wrong with me?

We left that bar and headed to a little place Lori recommended.  Garden of Eden.  Umm…I should have caught on when they demanded no cell phone or cameras, but I was slow…it was a nudist bar.  A naked bar!  We walk in and I head to the corner to pout about the ugly old naked men while the girls went to get a drink.  While I’m sitting on my stoop, Naked Dennis saunters over.  He makes small talk, trying to convince me to join him in nakedness.  I protest about being too old now, he wishes me a happy birthday and kisses me square on the mouth.  A naked man kissed me on the mouth.  A man so naked and so against “manscaping” that his tiny little penis was hidden under his man hair.  Goo.  At this point, I demanded we leave.

We went to a karaoke bar with some hot pilots Lori and Tiff had picked up while I was making out with Naked Dennis.  As we walk in the bar, Lori felt it incumbent to perform an unsolicited lap dance for an unsuspecting karaoke participant.  This poor man was minding his own business, reading the karaoke book, and she hopped on his lap, grinding back and forth awkwardly (she is not a professional) in an attempt to create the required friction.  Tiff fielded a phone call and left me alone with her.  I knew she was unstoppable until her song was done, so I went and ordered us some drinks.  While at the bar, the hottest Coast Guard man ever approached.  He asked if I was with the drive-by lap-dancer.  I nodded, proudly.  He proceeded to toast her with me.  He flirted, I flirted.  He sang me a song.  He was beautiful.  Lori grew bored with her audience, Tiff returned, and we decided to head on.  With a heavy heart, I waved goodbye to my beautiful Coast Guard friend.

We went to a dance club and all three of us immediately started dirty dancing with strangers.  As I’m shaking my thing, a guy cut in on my partner and I discovered myself shaking my booty on my magic Coast Guard guy.  He followed us.  Nice!  This clearly deserved a reward.  I shamelessly made-out with Coast Guard Cutie.  Then just as suddenly as it started, I decided I was done, rounded up my friends and we left.

At this point, someone decided it was time to go home.  But instead of returning home, we wandered up and down Duval Street while Lori and I belted at the top of our lungs whatever song we could think of.  We screeched Southern Cross, got confused and some patrons from inside a bar across the street, poked their heads out and filled in the missing lyrics.  We sang up and down Duval Street for a good 30 minutes, steadfastly ignoring Tiffany’s pleas to stop and go home like good little girls. 

It was a perfect 30th. 

I had the BEST birthday weekend ever and Lori and Tiffany are responsible.  They rock!  I need to record it…in parts, it was so good, I can’t get it all out at once…

To get old is hard when you suffer from Peter Pan Syndrome.  So the only way I could deal with growing up is to take myself to a place where grown-ups play all the time.  Key West.  It was ridiculous.  An excellent choice. 

Day One:  The day before my 30th, I flew to Fort Lauderdale.  I PURPOSELY!!! chose a long travel day.  I wanted time for reflection, contemplation, pensive thoughts with myself.  I brought along a journal and was determined to have the epiphany of discovering exactly my place in the world.

One problem…I’m “deep as a puddle” as Lori fondly joked.  Which means, I was not destined for self-discovery, I was destined for a long travel day alone, alone, alone…

I got to the airport feeling bad about being 30 and having not finished my all important list.  I am not married.  I have not written the great American novel.  I am not responsible for the cure for cancer discovered while I was vacationing in the Amazon.  Heck, I never even vacationed in the Amazon.  I still had work to-do and about 16 hours to complete it, most of which would be spent at airports.  I felt alone and unfinished and completely rational (which I am not!). 

Then the airport Gods of Transport did something very bad…they saw me in a vulnerable, self-pity state and decided to have some fun.  The easy listening airport music suddenly played “One is the Loneliest Number.”  And like a moron, me - considered dead inside, broke down and sobbed.  Not a dainty little single line of a tear running down my delicate face as I wistfully see away my 20s…no, a messy, deluge of tears, uncontrollably filling my eyes, my nose started running and I only had the back of my hand and the radio muses shouted at me “one is the loneliest number that you ever seen…”  I threw on my sunglasses and went to the bathroom where I had a full on panic attack.

I compose myself enough to board a plane and determine I will escape in the one book I brought with me.  A mindless novel called “Something Borrowed.”  It begins on the eve of the main character’s 30th birthday.  She waxes poetic about how she is on the cusp of 30 and soaking in friendships, but she felt lonely.  She was single.  She had an attorney job that wasn’t what she expected.  She felt mediocre.  I felt like I was reading my own biography.  Then she sleeps with her best friend’s betrothed and I realized she is also a bad person, but this seems biographical (what a relief Abby’s husband lives in Pittsburgh, eh?) and I don’t want to be a bad person and I start to cry on the plane.  What?????  This doesn’t make any sense!

I forced myself to sleep.  So much for deep moments.  I arrived in Fort Lauderdale, was greeted by a smiling Lori, who immediately took me to a bar for happy hour.  We met her boyfriend, another friend from law school, who tried to tell me that I am old, he is 11 months younger and that is a BIG BIG difference.  Thank God, I was able to laugh at myself at that point in the day, imagine if I started crying then?  Lori also invited along two of her coworkers who were delightful and fun and something of international men of mystery.  The day was turning around.  But the last day of my 20s was memorable for sure.  I was the crazy person crying behind the dark sunglasses at the airport because of easy-listening 70s songs. 

The rest of my weekend was awesome.  I am totally owning 30.  I am absolutely spanking it around.  I am kicking butt.  Those parts are way more fun…

Last evening, Danielle and I were walking down West 6th Street waiting for my friend from NYC to meet us on a particular street corner.  We stood chatting, happily waiting.  A group of men approached.  A police officer stood about ten feet away.  The men explained they were from Baltimore and wanted some bar recommendations.  I put my arm over my head to indicate the direction they should head.  Now, when a lady puts her arm over her head to point behind her, her chest naturally raises.  I should have turned around and pointed.  Lesson learned.  As I’m being a good citizen, helping stinking Ravens fans, one of them suddenly “motorboats” my chest. 

Seriously!  Seriously!

I gave a guy directions and he put his strange mouth near my breasts and vibrated his lips.  What?!!!!  I turn to the police office, astounded, and ask him “Did that guy just motorboat me?”  The brave man in uniform was laughing so hard he bellied over and wiped a tear.  Thanks!  Very helpful.  Danielle was so busy dealing with the other 5 men that she missed the exchange.  I gave the man a hard shove and told him to move on. 

Later, I’m recounting the story for Diane.  Naturally, she is disbelieving and as if on cue, the guy walks by me in this bar, points at my boobs and waves hello.  Baltimore! 

Also, as an update:  when life hands you lemons, make lemon-aide..I’m moving into the gay hairdressers’ place.  It’s one unit over from me, but it’s bigger and has lake views, and was freshly painted by two men that know aesthetics.  I will miss their hair assistance, but I will rock their square footage.  Bring it!

The Good: 

In 8 days, I’m going to be old.  This is really hard to admit…I’m going to be…30!  Whoa!  To say this freaks me out is an understatement.  To prepare for this upcoming event, I’ve buried myself in self-help books, dyed my hair blue, and planned a birthday getaway to Key West to a cabin where “men are free to love men” or something to that effect (ok, I’m actually really proud of this one and cannot wait for the trip next week).  But none of these activities change the fact that I am going to be old and that sucks…until Drew.  Drew presented me with a challenge.  He challenged me to “own 30, to make it my bitch, to put it over my knee and smack it around and show it I am the boss.”  He further suggested I create a spreadsheet and document my adventures.  The craziest, most shameless man we know turns 30 a week after me.  My challenge is to make my 30 better than Tonys.  I love competition.  I love challenges.  And I love kicking Tony’s ass.  {sidenote: last time I took Tony on in a challenge, it was at Put in Bay to see who could make out with a stranger first.  When our friends arrived after leaving the two of us alone for 2 hours, they discovered me attached to some random man’s face wearing a beer bucket on my head.  I totally beat him!}  I accept this challenge gladly.  And suddenly, I’m looking forward to 30.  I’m looking forward to the men I will kiss, the adventures I will have, the ways I will push and scare and challenge myself.  I will make 30 the best year yet, and have an excel spreadsheet to prove it.  Thank you, Drew.  This is good.  For the first time in months, the idea of next Friday is not bringing me to my knees in tears.  I can’t wait for the adventure.  And it starts off in Key West.  Bring it on!

The Bad: 

Some sad news.  I got a phone call today from the salon where my neighbors beautify me.  It seems they have picked up and moved to California over the past weekend.  Umm…what?  I didn’t even notice their moving out.  I live next door.  How did they not say goodbye or mention it to me last week?  I’m so confused.  And, I need a new hairstylist!

The Ugly:

I went on a date with a workaholic Republican investment banker that graduated from the University of Michigan and…I had a really good time.  So much, I even agreed to go out again.  If you know me at all, you know the only three things I stand for:  recreation/socializing over work always, Ohio State football, and democrats.  This pairing makes no sense.  I think he is my version of a bad boy and girls always are drawn to bad boys in hopes they will change for you, right?  I mean, really, this makes no sense.  This is very, very ugly. 

I had a date yesterday afternoon.  I admit, I was excited and nervous about this potential suitor.  So far things have been going well enough that I did not want to blow it.  I did Race for the Cure that morning, overscheduled myself after and was running late.  I took a quick shower and then blew my hair dry.  Naturally, when pressed for time, things go wrong.  My blow-dryer blew up.  Smoke everywhere.  It smelled awful.  Half my head, still dripping wet.  And I had 20 mins until I had to meet mister mister. 

Luckily, I live next door to my hairdresser.  I swallowed whatever pride I may have, knocked on the door and quickly explained that my soulmate would not love me anymore if I arrived with wet hair and could they loan me the proper tool.  The boys next door took one look at me, understood my plight, and agreed to blow it out for me on one condition.  Go change clothes.  I had on black slacks and a sweater and I was told black pants were “too severe” (which I suspected).  I needed to put on a dress.  I told them it was 55 degrees outdoors and we had planned outside activities.  They told me to grab a jacket, but to put on a dress if I wanted their help.  Naturally, I did.

It’s hard enough these days to meet someone you are excited about a date with, to swallow down the nerves that come along with the pressure of a new person, but to have two gay men giving last minute instructions and wardrobe advice puts the stress level off the charts. 

My hair did look fabulous though I may be developing pneumonia today from the 3 hours I spent outside in inappropriate clothing yesterday. 

The 21st birthday of my little sister proved one thing…she is younger, but I am more immature…

She invited my dad to come to Columbus and join dinner.  The nibbled delicately on the tapas and she sipped a single drink.  My girlfriends and I drained a giant craft of sangria, sucking the ice cubes dry hoping for any extra kick.  Sister and Dad then said goodnight and went home.  Seriously.  My girlfriends and I went to another bar and met a couple of friends.  At that bar, we decided to become the “band-aids” as we called it.   

There was a New Orleans jazz band.  The kind you could find in the French Quarter.  A band that was lovely and fun and amazing.  They even allowed a drunken woman nearing senior citizen age to climb up on the stage, steal a microphone, and ding slightly off-key about your cheatin’ heart.  We knew we could make this crowd our own too and somehow kicked it up a notch.  At one point, Emily was teaching patrons a line dance to the jazz music which I’m pretty sure she made up on the spot, Jen was playing a band member’s stolen tambourine claiming to be “sick with the power of rhythm” and Christy was screaming “Who-Hoo” at random times in the songs, Tiffany was creating names to dances we could break out that all involved pushing your butt out and wavering your arms, and I was accepting free drinks from Tuba players and being “adorable” (his words not mine). 

At the end of the night, I realized it was my baby sister’s 21st birthday and she was appropriately at home after a lovely dinner with her father, while I was rocking out and refusing to grow up.  It’s good to serve as a role model to the younger generation.