Alexa Darin's Blog, page 2

The Truth About Ferry Tales…

It seems every episode of Grey’s Anatomy begins with a scenic ferry crossing. And, of course, that’s real. Seattle really does have a continuous flow of ferry traffic, taking passengers back and forth, either for work or pleasure.

Ah, the ferry system…and the word pleasure? Do not belong in the same sentence. In truth, riding the ferry is nothing short of torture. True, the ferry system does provide a means to cross a body of water, but if you find yourself needing to use it on a daily basis, as a way to get to work, then you will become a crazy person. You will begin each day with a prayer that goes something like this: “Dear God, please don’t let anything happen that will make me late for the ferry. And, too, if you could please not let anything happen on or around the ferry that could mean a delay of oh, say one or two hours, I promise to curb my swearing, curb my spending, and even curb my dog for at least the rest of this month.”

Okay, so how bad can it really be riding the ferry? Bad…Trust me on this. And here’s why…

If you don’t arrive at the ferry dock at least three minutes before sail time, you won’t be allowed to board. No matter if the ferry is only half full. YOU. WILL. NOT. BE. ALLOWED. TO. BOARD. Why? Because a while back, it was decided that in order to stay on schedule, all passengers (foot and car) must be cut off three minutes to sail time.

But let’s assume your morning is going swell. Your kids got themselves ready for school in a timely manner, your dog doesn’t need an extra long walk due to the garbage he got into the night before, your neighbor doesn’t ambush you in your driveway to tell you about her latest bout with kidney stones. All is really swell. Not! Because you didn’t figure in the fact that it was ten degrees warmer than normal, which means an extra seventy-five cars are headed for the ferry to take advantage of the swell weather, beginning with a ferry ride! (And in my opinion, this would be a fantastic reason to ban all pleasure seekers from riding the ferry between the hours of five and nine on weekdays.)

Still, you’ve made it to the ferry and the line is moving. You’re hopeful. It’s going to be close, but your fingers are crossed and you’ve said another prayer.

It looks like you’re going to make it. They’re still boarding cars and it’s still five minutes until sail time. You haven’t been under this much stress since EVER! But you’ve got your antacids, so you should be fine.

Okay, you’re finally almost there, to the front of the ferry line. The ferry lady is smiling and waving cars on. You inch forward as the drivers ahead of you inch along. Only six more cars and you’ll be allowed to pull into the you made it, you lucky mother effer lane. Five cars, four, three…and then nothing. The  inching stops. You actually throw up a little in your mouth because you know that if the ferry people don’t give the signal, you’ll be forced to wait another hour or so for the next ferry.

You watch and wait while the ferry lady talks to someone on her walkie talkie. Your stomach clenches, the same as when you’re holding your breath while driving in  the snow.

Finally, after thirty seconds that seem like thirty hours, the ferry lady waves to the car two up from you. He’s on! Again, you’re asked to stop. Again, the ferry lady talks into her walkie talkie. She glances over her shoulder at the ferry. You don’t take your eyes off her. You don’t want to miss her wave, for fear the three-minute cut-off is drawing near. The car ahead of you gets waved on. Your head feels like it might explode. Every muscle in your body is tense. More walkie talkie talk. You say one last prayer…and glance down at your antacids.

The ferry lady looks at you. What’s she going to do? What the “eff” is she going to do? you wonder. You grip your steering wheel so tight your fingers go numb. Finally, the ferry lady holds up one hand and smiles and mouths, “Sorry.” Sorry? Effing sorry? That’s al she has to say?

You feel like you’ve been kicked. You did everything right to get to the ferry on time. Your morning was perfect…except for those “effing” pleasure seekers wanting to go do something pleasurable…like take an “effing” ferry ride.

Just one more car. Why couldn’t they allow just one more car? You crane your neck to see if there might be room, like you might be able to convince them to let you board. And there it is! One tiny patch of ferry floor. But your car isn’t overly big. You could fit. You could fiiiiiit! Why in hell can’t the ferry people see that? Why?

Because they’ve reached the three-minute cut-off. And your car really is too big.

You want to crawl out of your car and lay on the concrete and kick and pound your hands and feet and scream like a two year old. You don’t care who sees you. You don’t caaaaare! You waited your turn. You deserve to be on that ferry.

Please…

Only  as you watch the ferry sail off do you begin to truly believe they’ve left you behind. And now you must resign yourself to the wait. Did you bring a book? You did, because you know to always bring a book. It helps.

At last, the idea that you’ll be the first in line for the next ferry makes you smile…a little. But you know you won’t every truly be happy until you never ever again have to ride another ferry.

And don’t even get me started on the ferry bathrooms…

The Male Profile…What’s up with that? Part Three

This is the final part in The Male Profile…and here’s one final note. We women are so much more accepting of a man’s defects, than men are of ours, so listen up, men. Be brave. Be honest. You’ll stand taller, look stronger, and come across much sexier when you’re not afraid to just be you.

1. If you claim to be 40, but the photo you’ve posted makes you look 60, we’re either going to think you’re a big fat liar…or that you don’t take care of yourself. So not sexy, and so not worthy of a second look.

2. Don’t know how to spell? This is one time I suggest you fake it. Sum vary intelligent men I no can bearly spel there own name, butt I no them personaly an I no their smart, so it dusn’t mater. Butt if your trying too make a good impressing, than git yor mom or a frend to chek what you’ve wrote. Or at the vary lease, use spel cheker. It’l pik up a god porshun of yor erors.

3. Are you wearing a hat in your profile pic? Is it because you’re sporting a chrome dome? And do you think we won’t notice when we meet you? If that’s the case, don’t let it be a surprise. Hats off in at least one profile picture, please.

4. Did you write that you’re toned/athletic/in good physical condition? Then when we finally agree to meet you, we don’t expect to see someone who looks as though he’s been on a thirty-day fast. You’re skinny! On the flip-side, if you’ve got six inches of flab hanging over your belt, that’s not muscle. It’s blubber! Enough said.

5. Do you tell us too much too soon? Does your profile include absolutely every detail about your life from the time you were conceived to what you wore on your first day of school to how your braces got caught on your bottom lip and you had to get stitches, and because you had stitches you couldn’t get a girlfriend, so you had to masturbate and your mom caught you in the act and you were so embarrassed that you took off in your 68′ Barracuda and you got pulled over because you were driving erratically because you’d just smoked a doobie, and when the cop walked up to your window, you were so freaked that he might smell it that you pissed yourself, but it all worked out because then you stood up for your best friend at his wedding, where you met your soul mate, whom you married, but then divorced two years later because she screwed your best friend’s brother, and now here you are looking for love in all the right places…online? (Big breath.) If so, you’ve told us too much. Resist the urge to spew…even if it means you have to smash your typing finger with a ball peen hammer. Leave us something to discover. All you really need to do is convince us you’re not an axe murderer or a liar, and you might just get a date. Remember…no mystery, no magic.

6. Are you five foot nine and calling yourself six foot one? Do you think we won’t notice when we meet you for the first time and are standing face to face (literally) with you? If so, not only will we know that you’re a liar, but we’ll also know you have, um, shortcoming issues.

The Male Profile…What’s up with that? Part Two…

A few things that are best kept to yourself…

1. What?! You’re 46 and never been married?! First, we won’t know how to respond to that. We’re either going to think you’re the pickiest bastard out there, or you’re not marriage material. And even if we’re not looking to find a husband, if you’ve never been able to get a woman to do the marriage march, then odds are we aren’t going to want to march anywhere with you. Not that I’m suggesting you lie, but there is something to be said for keeping some deep dark secrets to yourself…at least until we can see for ourselves that you don’t have a third eye in the back of your head.

2. What?! You don’t believe in astrology?! Okay, it’s not that we do believe in astrology (I do, but that’s me and I promise I won’t push my beliefs on you), but most of us do read each and every article and/or column we find that relates to our zodiac sign…just for fun, of course. So, when you flat out say that you don’t believe in that crap, well, you’ve just labeled yourself a killjoy. You’re probably also a pessimist, a naysayer, a cup is half empty kind of guy. And that makes you so not our kind of fun.

3. Are your kids the most important thing in your life? Great. Odds are we feel the same. But telling us that from the get-go makes us feel like we’ll always come second…that nothing we feel/think will ever be as important or matter as much as what your kids feel/think.

4. Have you killed yourself an animal or two? I promise you, we don’t need to see the photos on your profile page. If you feel it necessary to mention–briefly–that you’re a hunter, fine. Mention it and move on. Enough said. Unless, of course, you happen to be looking for a companion who also enjoys snuffing out the life of other living beings.

5. Do you claim to be divorced? From your soul mate? Then you’re not ready to have a cup of coffee with us, let alone go on a real date. If your ex is still your soul mate, what role can we expect to play?

6. Your temper. Keep it to yourself. Because I promise you that if you’re one of those impatient men who can’t wait long enough for us to decide whether or not you’re the next big news story (aka Ted Bundy), then we aren’t going to get there any faster if you fly off the handle, blow your stack, cuss a blue streak, threaten bodily harm, or call us names when we refuse to give you our phone number after the first email, don’t call you five times a day, or don’t email you ten times a day. Because if that’s who you are, then we won’t ever want to meet, call, or email you. Not even once!

The Male Profile… What’s up with that? Part One

Dating is hard. Why make it harder? Why can’t men just tell the facts, ma’am? I don’t know the answer to that question, but we women have busy lives and we don’t have time to date for the sake of dating. Just give us the truth from the get-go and it’ll save everyone the time and energy it takes to meet and decide if there’s any chance in hell we think you might be our soul mate, bed mate, or just plain friend…with benefits, if you’re lucky. This is for all you men who are clueless about what we women want.

Seven Ways to Improve Your On-Line Profile Right Now:

1. Don’t tell us you love to laugh. It’s unnecessary. We don’t assume you like to sit around with a frown plastered to your mug. And if you’re smiling in your profile photo, then you’ve already shown us your happy little self.

2. Has a stray hand/shoulder/cheek found its way into your profile pic? Do you think we won’t notice? We will, and at the very least, it’s distracting. If you want us concentrating solely on you, and not that stray hand/shoulder/cheek, do yourself a favor and have a friend take a new photo…one where we can actually make out your face would be helpful…because if you don’t and you’re going up against a man who has taken the time to post a good pic, guess what? You lose.

3. We don’t care if all your friends and your mom think you’re handsome or sexy or intelligent or funny. We only care if we think you are, so don’t waste the key strokes adding this tidbit to your profile. FYI, if you are handsome or sexy, we can see that for ourselves from your photo…if you’ve posted a good one. And if you’re intelligent or funny, we can tell that by what you write in your profile. Show, don’t tell.

4. Please don’t tell us you like to cuddle. Men don’t cuddle. In fact, never utter the word cuddle in our presence–or even on paper. In FACT, forget you even know the word. Men don’t cuddle. Fluffy little dogs like to cuddle. MEN DON’T! You can say you enjoy spending quality time with your arms wrapped around us, while we chill out on the sofa in front of a roaring fire as we listen to Barry White…but never ever mention you enjoy cuddling.

5. You claim to travel a lot. In fact, you say you love to travel. Yet when we ask you to drive ten miles to meet us, you have a million excuses why you can’t. Ergo, you either don’t have a current working form of transportation or you’re just not that into us. So why have you been wasting our time?

6. Are you a Democrat? Say it! Are you Republican? Say it! Don’t freaking tell us you’re Middle of the Road. We won’t be impressed with your open mindedness. We’ll either think you’re lying because you’re so desperate for a date that you don’t want to chance ending things before they even begin, or we’ll think you’re a wishy washy flip-flopper. So cowboy-up. Own who you are. Eventually, if things progress, we’ll find out, anyway. Better to say nothing than to say you’re Middle of the Road.

And speaking of Democrats and Republicans…If you truly can’t stand to breathe the same air as someone who has a different political belief from yourself, fine. But don’t make up snotty little names for those who believe differently. Calling people DemoRATS or RepubliTARDS only shows us immaturity…which may be one of the reasons you were dumped by your ex…which might be one of the reasons we dumped our ex. FYI, that’s not to say that once you get to know each other, you can’t spew all the names in your arsenal about any political party that opposes your own point of view. It’s all about bonding over the issues, yes?

7. Don’t say you’re looking for a drama-free woman. Women are all about drama. Whether you know it or not, or whether you want to admit it or not, drama is one of the things you enjoy about us!

Thanks for reading. Look for Part Two about the male profile to be posted in about a week.

Alpha Male versus Male Chauvinist. Is there a difference?

You betcha! An alpha can sometimes be a pig, but a pig can never be an alpha.

Okay, so obviously I’m on a rant today about male chauvinists and those charming, yet albeit frustrating men we call alpha males. I’ve had experience with both. And while both have the potential to make me see red, it’s a rare occasion that I find the chauvinist anything but obnoxious. Wait—that would be never. As in I have never come across a male chauvinist who is anything but a pig. Thus, the fitting title bestowed upon such men, male chauvinist pig! So, from this point forward, I shall simply use the term pig when I am speaking of the pig. Now, let’s move on.

Webster’s defines the pig as a male who is perceived as approving of an inferior status for women in society. In my opinion, we should simply call it like it is. Pigs don’t like women. They are different than the alpha male (hereafter called the alpha) in that the alpha can have his obnoxious moments as he strives to take control of the situation or those around him, but that only comes from an innate sense that he is more capable than the average male…at doing just about anything. And this is what makes him appear to be piggish. But make no mistake, the alpha loves women. He’s the guy who will wrap you up tight in his suit coat on a frosty winter night. He’s the guy who’ll change your flat tire in the pouring rain. He’s the man we love and even sometimes love to hate. But the hate only lasts until he charms you back into his arms. The pig, on the other hand, has no charm. He only dreams of being an alpha. Which is probably why he so often hears the phrase “in your dreams.”

I recently had the misfortune of spending an evening with an honest to goodness pig. Good thing for me there were other people around, so I was able to contain my desire to do something that would force me to have to use the term “temporary insanity” as a defense.

Even so, I was curious about this man. What, exactly, was it that made me see him as a pig?

Several things, but space is limited, so I’ll go over just a few so that when you find yourself in the presence of one, you will know to avoid him LIKE THE FREAKING PLAGUE!

First, when the pig spoke, I noticed he only made eye contact with other men. And if he did happen to make eye contact with a woman, it was only to say something snarky. A remark or a question, which served to make the woman feel belittled or put on the spot.

Another observation I made was that whenever any woman spoke up, wanting to share something, the pig’s response was to change the subject…back to him. Even when one of the women had some not so good news to share, the pig made light of it and told her to just move on.

But what really made the pig show his true colors was when one of the women beat him at a game. I swear I could actually see the hair on the nape of his neck stand up. If he’d been a dog, his lips would have curled into a snarl. I might have been afraid, had he not been such a joke.

It can be hard to tell the difference between an alpha and a pig. A lot of women think they don’t like alpha males. But in my experience, they are mistaking pigs for alphas. Understandable. Remember, the alpha can sometimes be a pig. But look closer and you’ll be able to see the differences. The true alpha may be bossy, but he’s not a bully. He genuinely likes women and would never say anything to make them feel uncomfortable (unless he likes her, of course, which means he’s simply being a boy and is trying to get under her skin, so to speak). The alpha smiles; the pig snarls. The alpha is charming to others; the pig charms only himself. The alpha will protect you; the pig will hurt you. And, lastly, the alpha gives good love, whereas the pig gives you a headache. Any questions? Then go out there and find yourself a true alpha and live happily ever after!

Alpha Male versus Male Chauvinist Pig. Is there a difference?

You betcha! An alpha can sometimes be a pig, but a pig can never be an alpha.

Okay, so obviously I’m on a rant today about male chauvinists and those charming, yet albeit frustrating men we call alpha males. I’ve had experience with both. And while both have the potential to make me see red, it’s a rare occasion that I find the chauvinist anything but obnoxious. Wait—that would be never. As in I have never come across a male chauvinist who is anything but a pig. Thus, the fitting title bestowed upon such men, male chauvinist pig! So, from this point forward, I shall simply use the term pig when I am speaking of the pig. Now, let’s move on.

Webster’s defines the pig as a male who is perceived as approving of an inferior status for women in society. In my opinion, we should simply call it like it is. Pigs don’t like women. They are different than the alpha male (hereafter called the alpha) in that the alpha can have his obnoxious moments as he strives to take control of the situation or those around him, but that only comes from an innate sense that he is more capable than the average male…at doing just about anything. And this is what makes him appear to be piggish. But make no mistake, the alpha loves women. He’s the guy who will wrap you up tight in his suit coat on a frosty winter night. He’s the guy who’ll change your flat tire in the pouring rain. He’s the man we love and even sometimes love to hate. But the hate only lasts until he charms you back into his arms. The pig, on the other hand, has no charm. He only dreams of being an alpha. Which is probably why he so often hears the phrase “in your dreams.”

I recently had the misfortune of spending an evening with an honest to goodness pig. Good thing for me there were other people around, so I was able to contain my desire to do something that would force me to have to use the term “temporary insanity” as a defense.

Even so, I was curious about this man. What, exactly, was it that made me see him as a pig?

Several things, but space is limited, so I’ll go over just a few so that when you find yourself in the presence of one, you will know to avoid him LIKE THE FREAKING PLAGUE!

First, when the pig spoke, I noticed he only made eye contact with other men. And if he did happen to make eye contact with a woman, it was only to say something snarky. A remark or a question, which served to make the woman feel belittled or put on the spot.

Another observation I made was that whenever any woman spoke up, wanting to share something, the pig’s response was to change the subject…back to him. Even when one of the women had some not so good news to share, the pig made light of it and told her to just move on.

But what really made the pig show his true colors was when one of the women beat him at a game. I swear I could actually see the hair on the nape of his neck stand up. If he’d been a dog, his lips would have curled into a snarl. I might have been afraid, had he not been such a joke.

It can be hard to tell the difference between an alpha and a pig. A lot of women think they don’t like alpha males. But in my experience, they are mistaking pigs for alphas. Understandable. Remember, the alpha can sometimes be a pig. But look closer and you’ll be able to see the differences. The true alpha may be bossy, but he’s not a bully. He genuinely likes women and would never say anything to make them feel uncomfortable (unless he likes her, of course, which means he’s simply being a boy and is trying to get under her skin, so to speak). The alpha smiles; the pig snarls. The alpha is charming to others; the pig charms only himself. The alpha will protect you; the pig will hurt you. And, lastly, the alpha gives good love, whereas the pig gives you a headache. Any questions? Then go out there and find yourself a true alpha and live happily ever after!

FFL Draft Night and Dating a New Man…Is There Any Difference?

That would be Hell and No…according to my friend, Sharra, that is. And now that I’ve given it some thought, I might have to agree.

Okay, I admit it, both Sharra and I are incurable optimists. She with dating a new man; me with my annual Fantasy Football Draft. We’re all positive thoughts, thinking this is going to be great. Me: I’m going to draft some elite players and they’re going to win me a championship and I’m going to be this year’s number one on my league. Sharra: I’m going to meet a man and he’s going to be special and I’m going to fall in love.

But when all is said and done, I end up slapping the palm of my hand to my forehead  because that is so not what happens.

Let me explain… Last night (on or about September 2) was Draft night and it started off peachy. I got the number two pick (out of a rudimentary cardboard box made from an empty Kleenex box), which meant I’d have my choice of elite Quarterbacks or Runningbacks or Wide Receivers (for those of you who are clueless). But wait–my nemesis then got the number one pick (damn him!), which meant I wasn’t going to get my number one pick (Drew Brees), but instead would have to settle for Aaron Rodgers (no big deal, and not such a bad number two pick).

From there, everything went to hell. For those of you who know how fantasy football picks work, you can skip this part. But for those of you who don’t, read on. Having the number two pick means you’re assured an elite player on your team. But then you have to wait. And wait. And wait…through 21 picks (for a 12-team league). It’s good-bye Adrian Peterson, Arian Foster, Doug Martin, Marshawn Lynch, and Ray Rice (all elite RBs). Good-bye Calvin Johnson, A.J. Green, Brandon Marshall, Julio Jones, and Dez Bryant (all elite WRs). Good-bye Jimmy Graham, Rob Gronkowski (had him two years ago and he rocked), Jason Witten (all elite Tight Ends). See you maybe next year…if I’m lucky.

So what does all of that have to do with dating a man for the first time? Like Sharra says, she goes into a first date all positive, thinking she might fall in love. But when the date doesn’t go as planned, she leaves scratching her head and wondering what the hell just happened. I can relate. The Draft didn’t turn out nearly as easy and perfect as I thought it would. It was hard (as it is every year). So many questions and choices and things I wasn’t prepared to deal with. And when the night ended, I had a team that was iffy at best (Sharra’s date wasn’t as tall as she’d hoped). Then again, I did end up with an elite Quarterback (then again, Sharra’s date did have gorgeous eyes and really really nice hands).

So once more, here I am wondering if the man I’ve chosen (Aaron Rodgers) will be able to carry me through the football season to victory? (Will Sharra’s next first date turn out to be Mr. Right-for-her?) I have no idea, and neither does she. I may win; I may lose. Sometimes life happens and we have no control. But when it happens the way we hope, it’s pretty darn sweet. If it turns out to be a bust, well,  there’s always next year (and there’s always the next date for Sharra).

Here’s wishing all of you a fantastical football season. If you’re on a fantasy football league, I wish you the best of luck with your picks. But if you’re planning any first dates, don’t get your hopes up too high. You might have to until next year to claim victory!

Warning! Selling Your Home May Cause Your Head to Explode!

Or, How I Came to be a Difficult B!tch!

Once upon a time, I was normal…and then I put my house up for sale.

And then my head exploded.

Not right away, of course, It took several years and hundreds of Potential Home Buyers coming through and examining my home from top to bottom, giving me hope for a sale and dreams of moving back to civilization, where once I had a life (that I wanted so desperately to get back to…)

But I digress.

First, let’s examine what makes the perfect Home Buyer. It’s someone who takes off his/her shoes, walks through your front door, and then proceeds to ooh and aah over how beautiful and glorious and perrrfect everything is, down to the neatly-trimmed blades of grass in your front lawn. And then they go back to their realtor’s office to write up an offer that makes you squeal like you’re high on chocolate because it’s FULL PRICE!

Only that’s not what happens.

So not.

Let me explain…

When you first put your home up for sale, you’re filled with optimism. Your home is so welcoming and special and not at all like all those other homes that are for sale on your block, with lawns full of weeds and siding that hasn’t seen a new coat of paint in, well, forever. You just know your home will sell in less than a week.

You wish. (And, FYI, if your home did sell in less than a week, this b!tch doesn’t want to hear about it. And, um, sorry, kids that you have to see this side of your mother.)

But back to my story…

After a dozen Mr. and Mrs. Potential Home Buyers left me feeling used and abused, I was beginning to lose my optimism. And then, Mr. and Mrs. Perrrfect Potential Home Buyer walked through my door. They greeted me like I was their new BFF, and proceeded to ooh and aah and say all the things I had been longing to hear. “Lovely, just lovely,” they exclaimed over and over as their eyes roamed over every inch on my home that I so wanted to be rid of.

After the fifth ooh and aah, I began to mentally consider a place I’d seen for sale across the lake the last time I was out and about. And just in case Mr. and Mrs. Potential Home Buyer were not yet convinced they were standing in their dream home, I said, “Have you looked around outside? Did you see the built-in waterfall?”

“Yes, yes, we’ve seen everything. It’s perfect. So perrrfect!

My eyes gleamed–I’m pretty sure from tears, I was so excited–as I bid them farewell.

“Sold,” I called and left a message for my realtor before Mr. And Mrs. Home Buyer’s taillights were out of sight. “They loved it! When can I start packing?”

The next morning, my realtor returned my call. “Don’t start packing yet,” he said. “An offer may come, but Mr. and Mrs. Gee-your-home-is-perrrfect want you to take $50K off the price. Plus, if you’d only agree to waa, waa, waa–I was no longer listening; I’d heard it all before–waa, waa, waa, then maybe they’d really be interested.”

That’s when my head exploded! I could actually feel myself morphing into a difficult b!tch! I’d been through this scenario too many times. I’d polished and dusted and scrubbed until I could scrub no more. I was done. D-U-N! I was ready to spit fire.

I was also desperate…I was ready to do business.

The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Potential Home Buyer stopped by for another look-see. Which I couldn’t understand–AT ALL–because they’d already declared my home perrrfect.

“There are so many things wrong with your home,” Mr. and Mrs. Home Buyer’s realtor said.

WTH!

“Your carpet is old. There are cracks in the garage floor. You’ve hung pictures, so now there are holes in your walls. You’ve painted; the buyer doesn’t like the color. And, God, but is that a fallen leaf in the middle of your lawn?!”

“Um,” I said as I dared take a look out the window at my yard, which a mere twenty-four hours ago had been perrrfect. Holy crap! It was a leaf. How could I have been so careless?

“It must take a lot of work to keep this place up,” Mr. Home Buyer finally had the gonads to speak up. Then Mrs. Home Buyer looked around the kitchen and said her piece. “We both have jobs. We don’t have a lot of time for yard or house work.”

Then why the eff are you looking at my perfect home? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. I was willing to do any number of indecent things to get the hell out of dodge. (Um, again sorry, kids.) So, instead, I smiled and nodded and pretended I didn’t speak their language, all the while doing my best not to grind my teeth down to nubs. They’d have to do a lot more than complain about the color of my walls for me to nip this sale in the bud. In fact, in order to convince them that my home really was perrrfect, I took them on a personal tour to point out all the attractions they might have missed previously.

More oohing and aahing ensued. I was sure I had a sale.

I didn’t. I wasn’t willing to leave them my piano.

Or my car.

And the moral of this story? Don’t be fooled by all the pleasurable moanings. That’s just a front for a little behind-the-scenes scheming. That’s right. While Mr. and Mrs. Potential Home Buyer are walking around fingering your wood work, opening and closing doors, and moving through your most intimate spaces, they’re also whispering and secretly plotting their next move. How much lower can they get you to drop the price of your home? How many of your own possessions can they convince you to leave behind? How much s#!t are you willing to swallow to make this sale happen?

Only you can answer that. But if you want to sell your home as bad as I did, then go ahead and consider performing a few indecent acts…your one-night stand might just turn into a sale. And you might even avoid turning into a difficult b!tch.

P.S. I did finally sell my home after four and a half lonnng years. I didn’t get the perrrfect buyer, but he was good enough. And maybe? One day I’ll be normal again.

Love will f*** you up!

According to my daily horoscope, my life is about to get all f****d up. You’re about to meet someone who may be the love of your life, and your work will suffer for it unless you find a way to make them both work. Holy crap! And here I thought 2013 was going to be a smooth ride.

But that was yesterday. Today is a whole new ballgame…er, story. My bestie Sharra (who also happens to be an Aries) showed up on my doorstep this morning toting drinks from Starbucks, a mocha for herself and a pumpkin soy latte for me. Goody! A visit from a gal pal and my fav morning beverage…the weekend was already off to a great start.

Only Sharra didn’t look nearly as enthusiastic as I did. She moved past me, pushed her way through a wall of labrador Retriever, and claimed a relatively yellow dog hair-free cushion on my sofa. (FYI, Sharra is currently only wearing black, as twenty pounds of holiday meals have taken up residence on her hips and thighs.)

“I did something I swore I’d never do again,” she said.

“You spent $500 on a pair of shoes you’ll only wear once?” I asked.

Sharra met my gaze. “I’m being serious here.”

So was I. “Talk to me,” I said.

“I told Perry that I love him.”

Oh. “And that’s bad because?” I mean she’d only been telling me she was falling in love with the guy for the entire month of December.

“We were in the midst of making love,” she clarified.

Her distress still wasn’t clear. “And?”

Sharra splayed her hands like I was the only idiot girl in town who didn’t know exactly why a woman should never admit to a man that she loves him while doing the deed. “Hello. Telling a man you love him while the two of you are in the throes of passion isn’t real. It’s hormones.” She sighed. “And now what do I do? Take it back, or do I just pretend it never happened?”

I chewed on that for a minute. “He was naked, right?” I was about to remind her about my rule that a woman should never say I love you to a fully dressed man.

Sharra rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you been listening? We were in bed, making love.”

Ah. Silly me. I took a long pull on my latte and thought about another rule of mine. Never answer the door unless whoever is knocking has made an appointment.

“Look,” I said at last. “He didn’t leap out of bed, get dressed, and skedaddle, did he?”

“No. In fact,”—and at this point, a tear rolled down Sharra’s cheek—”he told me he loved me, too.”

Ha! Me thinks it’s Sharra’s life that’s about to be f****d up! But no way am I about to tell her that.

Note to Self: You Can’t Please Everybody!

Okay, so now it’s official. I’m a contest winner. W-I-N-N-E-R! Not only that, but I’ve also placed second and third in several other writing contests. I think that confirms that I actually do know how to write. Maybe not on the same level as Stephen King or Linda Howard, but be patient, compared to them, I’m still in my infancy. They’ve each written a gazillion words, while I’m still shy of the million word barrier that I hear will magically transform my writing to the next level.

But I digress. As I was saying, I am now an award-winning author. Even so, I continue to enter contests because I know a good deal when I see one. I pay a small fee and I get a critique on my work. Problem is, I take every critique to heart…

My hero needs to appear sooner? Great. Let me rewrite the first fifty pages so that he and the heroine can get prone by chapter three. You say my hero doesn’t seem very likeable? Fine, I’ll give him a side gig where he visits cancer patients in the local hospice. What’s that, my heroine is too soft and sweet? Okay, let me give her an edge. What, she doesn’t seem to be as concerned about her kidnapped fiance as she should be? Okay, I’ll have her drown in a puddle of tears while she’s cursing the local police for not doing enough to find her man. Oh, you don’t believe her family could really be that crazy? FYI, mine is, but nevermind, I’ll tone down the antics so that you can relate. What’s that you say? Now they’re boring and I should cut them out of the story entirely? Aarrggghhh! Maybe I should just toss out the entire book and start over!

Not!

As much as I’ve enjoyed rewriting and revising until I can no longer feed myself because my fingers are permanently cramped into keyboard position, I have finally realized that I can’t please everybody. Not everyone gets it. But enough do that I can now get back to writing something new.