Gone but not forgotten. Here lie the failed profile attempts of an obviously bored and extremely strange chick. If nothing else, I figure that this thread alone will serve as evidence of insanity if it ever comes to needing such a defense!

****Longer Version****

This is for those who would care to know more. I'll change this section often, partly to relieve boredom, but also as a shot in the dark at finding a romantic partner someday. Perhaps something I say may strike a chord in the right person.

O2/17

My theme song this month:

The Veer Union "Seasons"

back and forth you wander
through your mind
winter's passing over
but it wont find you

take what you can
change the seasons

isolate yourself and
you will find
theres no rhyme or reason
that it wont find you

take what you can
change the seasons
the changing of the seasons is here now
the changing of the seasons is here now, is here now

back and forth you wander
through your mind
winters passing over
but i don't mind

pressures that you're under
will subside
there's no time to ponder
cuz it wont find you

take what you can
change the seasons
the changing of the seasons is here now
the changing of the seasons is here now, is here now

and i will find you
although i wonder
if i will climb through
this rock i'm under

i'm turning the page for something new
i'm finding my way through life in bloom

the changing of the seasons is here now
the changing of the seasons is here now, is here now
is here now

i'm turning the page for something new
i'm finding my way through life in bloom

Man do I love cranking this song and belting it out when I'm in the truck on the way to Chemistry!

Thought for the day:

I'm a walking oxymoron. I'm a celibate nymphomaniac, an imperfect perfectionist, and an intelligent idiot. Perhaps my logic is flawed and I'm not oxymoronic, just moronic. Oh, the mysteries of my mind!

I've decided to create my own version of the dreaded Ekarmany questionnaire. It should give me equal compatibility probabilities with 1/1 billionth of the effort required from prospective suitors. You can thank me later. Feel free to use these if you're completely dumbfounded as to what to write in your first email.

1. My driving habits are best described as...

a. Cars in front of me are obstacles to be surpassed as quickly as possible. I travel at roughly the speed of sound and lane change my way to become the leader of the pack. Gordon eat my dust.
b. Oh Martha, look at the pretty mountains. Let's slow down so we can watch that chipmunk cross the road six and a half miles ahead of us. What a wonderful day for a drive!
c. Damnit Martha, we're going to be late. No, I don't need to stop for directions. I went there sixteen years ago, once, when I was drunk. Of course I remember how to get there! Why do I even bring you along?
d. I get there.

2. If I had to eat the same thing for the rest of my life it would be...

a. 3 peas, a sprout, a sprig of asparagus and a green tea to wash it all down. No thank you on that sugar laden taste sensation.
b. fried chicken, french fries and fried onion rings, with fried ice cream for dessert, washed down with a Coke of course.
c. Just meat, raw or cooked. Chicken, pork, beef. Doesn't matter. They didn't give us teeth for nothing. Man can live on meat alone. And bring me a beer, woman.
d. Chocolate. Energy and taste. What more could you possibly need to be happy? Milk does a body good.

3. My sexual habits are best described as...

a. I hope it's like riding a bike
b. There's nothing else I'd rather be doing
c. Variety is the spice of life.
d. Lacking presently but adequate if I'm with someone I care about.

4. I look more like...

a. The Pillsbury dough boy
b. A playgirl model
c. Freddy Krueger
d. Just your average Joe

5. I act more like...

a. a teenager
b. an old fart
c. an adult
d. a fool

6. I make my bed...

a. daily
b. never
c. if I'm having company over
d. I sleep in a box

7. My money situation is best described as...

a. fine dining, exotic travel, wine tasting and expensive vacations
b. I can't afford to spend frivolously but I have enough for what I need
c. I don't have two nickels to rub together but I'm rich in all the other aspects of my life
d. Who the hell do you think you are asking me about my money, you materialistic biotch. I want a prenup for sure!

The end. This in depth questionnaire provides all necessary info for compatibility comparisons. Ekarmany eat your heart out!

02/18

After a heated debate in the forums, I decided to split the difference and post 2 clear versions of this profile...basically the short and long of it. It's actually just a blatant attempt to boost my odds at finding a date/significant other.

I remain undeterred in my pursuit of companionship although I must admit, I think Derek Jeter has better odds of having a parade thrown for him on his first trip to Fenway this year than I do of finding the right person on a computer.

But what the hell do I know? It's worth a shot. I'm expanding my contacts, and even if I don't find "THE ONE", I'll meet some interesting folks along the way. Lord knows I need something to break up the monotony of my existence.

02/19

Putting yourself out there takes nuts. And while I don't anatomically possess a pair, I grew a set today. My logic behind this asinine idea is this: it's better to risk embarrassment in pursuing an improbable possibility for something that might be amazing, than to remain silent and pass up said possibility, only to be left wondering if you ever had a chance. Sure, the risk of disappointment is high, but like my mother used to say "a hungry closed mouth will never get fed". Basically, you can't ever get anything you want if you aren't willing to go after it. I follow that philosophy in my academic pursuits, in my pursuit of all the other goals in my life, why shouldn't I follow it in the romantic arena as well?

Now mind you, this does not mean I'll be out propositioning every nice looking man I see walking down the street. I'm not desperate, remember the want vs need slogan. But I'm not hiding in my cave anymore. If I meet someone that I find captivating, I'm letting 'em know. Irregardless of whether I have a snowball's chance in hell. I suggest you do the same. If it just so happens that you like what you see, take a chance. The worst that could happen is you get a polite "you're not my type" response. And who knows, maybe you're just what I'm looking for.

I probably oughta clarify what that is. Hard saying not knowing exactly. I don't really have a particular image in my head. I do but it's not something I can put into words despite my apparent affinity for them. I want these little things that have somehow morphed into this amazing package that I find irresistible. I want to think he's sexy in a ball cap or a tux. I want him to be willing to act like an idiot just to make me laugh when he sees I need it. I want us to be able to speak volumes without saying a word, just by the way we look at each other or in the way we touch. Holding hands. Goofing around. A passionate sex life. Intellectual stimulation. I know, too much to hope for, right? I think not.

While what I want remains rather vague, I have some specific disqualifiers that I should mention:

No Yankee fans. Yes, that's right. I'm that big of a Sox fan. Orioles, Rays, any other team is fine, even if you're rabid. Just not the Yanks! Silly but that's the way the ball bounces.

No daddies with young ones. While I have a 17 yr old son, he's about to fly the coop and I'm not even remotely worried about empty nest syndrome. My future doesn't include parent-teacher conferences, potty training, or school recitals. I don't want to pick little Johnny up from soccer practice and listen to little Suzie and her six friends play Brittany Spears while giggling relentlessly in the minivan. I'm almost done my tour of duty. Freedom is just around the corner. I'm ready for adult fun, no kids involved.
Call me selfish but it is what it is.

No useless people. This doesn't mean you need to be wealthy. It means you need to have a purpose in your life, whatever that may be. I don't care if you bang nails or manage a billion dollar corporation, whether you're a starving artist or a hard working Joe. Hell, you could artificially inseminate goats for a living, just so long as you talk lovingly while doing so, I don't care. The point is, you need to have a reason for being. And it'd be even better if you were passionate about whatever it is that rings your bell.

That'll do it for now. I'm going to go spend yet another Friday night studying Chemistry instead of creating it. If anyone out there wants to change that, you know what to do. It involves typing, preferrably more than one sentence, and hitting that little send button.

02/20

After an exciting Friday night, I respectfully request to add an addendum to the above 'what I seek' description. If you have a thorough understanding of chemistry concepts, please hit that button!! And I mean chemistry at the molecular level, not that you've banged 16,211 chicks. That's a different kind of chemistry.

Update on the asinine idea. Apparently nuts are beneficial to possess. Almost makes me wish I had them anatomically, but that's a whole Freudian concept that I won't bore you with, 'cause I have more exciting news. Yesterday I was the windshield. Don't know what that means? Ask, it'll give ya an out if you're still at a loss of what to write in your first email. How much easier can I make this for you man? Geez.

I wonder if anyone will pick up on that little subtlety there. Of course, it's not subtle anymore. Man, not men. I only want one. Seems so easy, but it's obviously much more complicated, as evidenced by the slew of profiles on these sites. Odds are against it, but ya just never know. So here we are. Still searching.

Guess I must be one of those weird molecules with minimal docking sites. That's cool. Just means when I finally do meet the one with the correct attraction and structure to link up with, we'll make some really interesting, complex new thing. So say the chem books, I think. I really oughta go study some more. An inquiring mind needs to know, especially if it might help her get a date someday.

02-21

My heart did a little double skip when I found my first 3 emails this morning. One said "hi, how ya doin", one said "i like the way you ride the bike" (????), and one came from a guy with "like the whiteWHEW" and not one word on a profile sportin' a subtitle 'looking for someone liscious'. What the hell is "licious"?

And the next logical question is why do I even bother? Well, it's probably because I'm tired of going to bed alone every night, among other things, but I mean really. Would it be too much to ask for a reasonably nonsensical first email? Apparently so.

Another one to add to the oxymoron list...I'm a cynical optimist! Today's another day, there's hope yet. Not much, I'm talking microscopic levels, but it's there.

Off to exercise the neurons. Or the dog. But either way, gotta run. Or at least amble along at a leisurely pace. Point is (and don't I always have one) I'm outta here. Later!

02-23
There are approximately 6.7 billion people in this world. Or so I hope, since that's the answer I chose on my Psyche exam this morning.

And 308 million in the US alone.

Now if we cut that figure in half, to eliminate all the other females, that leaves a whopping 154 million men in this beloved country of ours.

Humans live about 75 yrs give or take, so I'm looking at 1/3 of the 154 million males to be between the ages of 30-55 right now. So we're talking about 50 million men in my prospective age appropriate dating pool.

Pretty solid math so far. I'd think I have some decent odds going on here.

But lets remove half of those for being either married or gay. This is in no way based on known, accurate census figures, so from here on out it's strictly theoretical. I'm down to 25 million.

About seven million of those guys are in prison, jail, or on probation. Down to about 18 million.

Since intelligence is rather important to me, we'll eliminate the lower 40% of the bell curve. Plus that leaves a nice round number, about 10 million eligible men in the US.

And I just want 1 measly man. Out of 10 million!! Why is this so difficult? You'd think one of those ten million would be compatible with me. Sure, I'm atypical, but still.

Even if we elimate 90% that think I'm too short or too tall, too fat or too skinny, too rich or too poor, too pretty or too ugly, too talkative or too quiet, too mean or too nice, too smart or too dumb...well you get the point. That still leaves a whopping 1 million men that might find me interesting.

Of course, take away 90% of them based on my "too (fill in the blank)" list. That means now I conceivably have a 1 in 100,000 chance of finding a compatible man in the US.

If I was to narrow the search to Vermont, which comprises less than 5% of the US population, I'd be down to about 5,000 prospective suitors. Hence why I'm on here. 100,000 seems like better odds.

Of course, I feel like I'd have better odds at emptying the ocean with a spoon than of finding a man on a computer, but who knows. Maybe that one in 100,000 will see this and think "That girl has way too much time on her hands. She'd drive me nuts!" and keep right on going; in which case, I'm screwed.

But maybe, just maybe, one of 'em will say "Hey Wow. This chick is something else! I don't know what, but she's pretty fricken funny. I think I'll send her an email with more than one sentence."

A girl can dream.

AWESOME.

02/26

So I deleted the first ten days or so of my previous ever-changing profile and spliced the important parts into the above permanent preamble. (To view previous editions go to the creative writing forum and find the topic "The ever-changing profile boneyard".)Not sure why I'm bothering but it can't hurt and it gives me an escape from the world of rotating molecules and balancing equations. Chemisty's not nearly as fun academically as it is in the sexual sense, or so I vaguely recall.

I don't know if I should laugh or cry that my preamble says it's Friday night and I'm sitting home studying Chemistry. Here it is one week later, and lo and behold, it ain't lyin'! Guess it could be worse; I could be too dumb to be studying chemistry. Of course, after the two exams this week, it's a distinct possibility that such is the case. I'm not giving up though. It goes against my very nature.

Unless it's just impossible, like finding a man, then I just quit and post a stupid profile on a computer to appease my insistent mother who won't stop nagging me that if I don't start looking soon, I'm going to die a lonely old woman. "Gee, thanks Mom. But why should my death be any different than my life?" I say, just to wind her up more.

She says it like it's such a bad thing, not having a man. The life manual didn't say men were necessary operating equipment to function normally, or be happy. Would it be cool to meet somebody cool? Most definitely. Is it cool if I don't? I think so, but don't ask my mom, unless you have twenty-two and a half minutes to kill! She's got it down to a science since I hit 40. I'll give you a brief glimpse...

Mom: "You are running out of time honey."
Me: "Ah c'mon Mom. Do we have to go through this again?"
Mom: "Now I know you've become set in your ways but you've got to get back out there and try to find yourself a good man."
Me: "They're all helping old ladies cross the street. Who am I to distract them? I can manage to get across all by myself now."
Mom: "Yes, honey. But that's NOW. What about in ten years from now? Or twenty? You know, you could slip and fall in the tub and who would know? Do you want to die all alone? I mean, you'd be dead, and naked on your bathroom floor to boot!"
Me: "If I'm dead on the bathroom floor, I don't think I'm gonna care whether anybody sees me naked. And that only bothers me because you drilled it in my head when I was a kid..."Kristy, don't EVER let ANYBODY see you naked. NEVER!" Ya coulda thrown in "until you have a boyfriend" or something, don't ya think?"
Mom: "Oh, so you're saying it's my fault you don't have a man. And that you're going to die alone, cold and wet on the bathroom floor. It has nothing to do with the fact that you refuse to leave the house. You think he's going to walk up and knock on your door. You gotta go find him. Studying Chemistry on a Friday night isn't going to get you anywhere. Go out for God's sake."
Me: "I can't. I'd have to take a shower first. I might fall and hit my head and end up dead on the bathroom floor, cold and naked and alone!"
Mom: (large sighing sound)"You're impossible! It's no wonder you're going to die alone. Who could put up with you?"

Now there's the million dollar question!

03/01

I thought I spotted "THE ONE" today. My trusty tongue-flapping co-pilot Trot and I were sitting at the red light in the fast lane, both just itching to get going again, when an identical Ford Ranger pulls up along side. Trot's tail immediately starts whacking me in the face as he greets our new temporary neighbors, a nice looking middle aged man sportin' a Sox cap with a yellow lab now perched on his lap. As his dog continued flirting with my dog, (or vice versa maybe; I don't speak the language of dog, so I don't know who started it!), I think her owner might have been trying to get his game on as well (although I'm not real fluent in the language of flirting either).

"Nice looking lab" he says.

"Thanks, nice looking owner" is what I'm thinking, but luckily only the first part comes out. Despite my brilliant response, he tries again.

"I wonder if they mated if their puppies would look like giant bumblebees" he jokes, then laughs showing some nice pearly whites.

Being about as smooth as an emery board in social situations, I respond with "We're fixed."

WE'RE fixed! Not he's fixed. Not let's get together and test that hypothesis. Even no response, merely a giggle, would have been better than that. "What the hell is wrong with me?" I thought as the light conveniently turned green, saving me from further embarrassment.

As he drove off it dawned on me that he might have been "THE ONE". I mean, how do I know when he's gonna show up? Could be anywhere, anytime, any guy?

Boy, this 'looking for love' crap is tough. You really gotta be on your toes!
If he was "THE ONE", I'm screwed. Hence why I don't really believe in "THE ONE". Or in looking for love.

If it happens, it happens. There are 100,000 potential "THE ONE"s out there. All I can do is try to keep my foot out of my mouth when I meet eligible bachelors. Easier said than done when you're as smooth as a Vermont dirt road in spring time.

03/03

Frustration. What do you do when you come up against a wall blocking your path? Climb over it? Knock it down? Give up and just sit there? Turn around and find another direction of travel? So many options, how do you know which one is best?

Failure. I'm not used to it. I don't like it. And I despise it when I let myself down. I cannot and will not quit trying just because something is difficult to accomplish. Does this make me a fool in pursuit of the impossible or a dreamer that reaches for the stars? Does success come with hard work and perseverance, or is it sometimes better to realize you've set the bar too high and re-evaluate your path?

I'm obviously having an introspective day, and the answers escape my grasp, like fine whispers of smoke that snake through your fingers.

It's like when you hear a bird singing, and you search the tree to identify the source. You can't see it. You know it's there, the sweet melody wafting from the branches verifies its existence. Yet it remains hidden from view, blending into its surroundings, obscuring its truth.

And then you move one step to the right, and suddenly there it is, in all its glory. Its bright breast heaving as the notes lilt from its beak. How could you have not spied the beauty one second ago?

The answer is perspective. Same bird, same tree, different way of looking at it. It can change everything. It can shine light on the dark, give hope when all seems lost, and lead you down the right road. I may have reached the wall but how I see it depends on where I'm standing.

Today I'm sitting here too tired to move. But tomorrow I intend on getting up and checking that sucker out! Life's just a matter of perspective. If you don't like what you see, you can't just close your eyes. It doesn't go away. You have to find a new way to look at it, to overcome obstacles. If not, you might as well just give up altogether. And that's just not an option for a stubborn old fool like me!

03-04

Temporary insanity. It's used in defense of criminals who commit hideous crimes. It's used by countless boyfriends to explain away alcohol induced infidelities to irate, lamp throwing girlfriends. And it can conveniently be used to describe the state I just found myself in thanks to my beloved four legged best friend Trot.

I swear pets and laughter have to be the two best things on this planet. Well, Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra ice cream ranks right up there too, but I'll stick with the former ones for relativity purposes.

Trot and I were just engaging in a battle of Olympic proportions with his rope toy. After about fifteen minutes, I lay gasping on the floor, every muscle in my arms twitching in agony, with Trot laying close by gloating in victory, toy firmly in teeth. I swear he was grinning but maybe I'm just a poor loser.

As I rose and scratched his ears vigorously, the dog version of the rightfully deserved gold medal, I caught a glimpse of myself in the wall sized mirror in the living room. Now I have to tell you that normally I hate that damn mirror and avoid it like the plague, but tonight for some reason I happenend to be in the right place at the right time.

What I saw both thrilled and horrified my astonished eyes. I'm happy to report that I'm walking away with the top prize for any Halloween contest this year, hands down. Or should I say hair down.

Ya see, I have long brown hair that cascades to about the bottom of my shoulder blades. Well, if you happened to be bent forward, for instance scratching your dog, that mop of hair would completely enshroud your visage, save for a sliver of a space to see yourself in the mirror and discover you've somehow morphed into Cousin Itt.

I can't recall when I've laughed so damn hard. I was back on the floor, now rolling back and forth in absolute hysterics. The dog warily let go of his rope toy, eyeballing me to make sure it wasn't some sneaky ploy to snag his treasured prize back, and did one of those head cocking maneuvers, as if saying "Have you lost your friggen mind woman?", which just made me laugh even harder.

My son came out to investigate the commotion and I proceeded to show him my new found talent, to which he replied "Mom, you seriously need to get laid. I think you're losing it." He walked backed to his Blood, Death, Kill, Gore video game shaking his head in utter annoyance.

He's seventeen and no fool. But how the hell does he expect me to accomplish that? Last time I checked, most guys weren't looking for a girlfriend whose claim to fame was she could become a dead ringer for Cousing Itt at the drop of a hat. Or her head to be more precise. Cousin Itt probably has a better chance of hooking up than I do!!

And I'm using the temporary insanity defense if anyone asks why I was stupid enough to post this on a dating site. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. Admitting you're Cousin Itt in disguise isn't the brightest idea I've ever had. But then again, maybe "THE ONE" has a Cousin Itt fetish. Ya just never know about these things.

It's late, I'm tired and my underexercised abdominal muscles now hurt as much as my overexercised arm muscles. I'm heading to bed, defeated at tug-o-war but successful at enjoying the finer moments in life. Ya know, the ones where you almost pee your pants. Hope you got a chuckle out of this too. Life's short. Laugh often. It's good for the soul.

03/05

I'm officially on spring break! Woo Hoo! Bring on beer pong.

I don't even know what that is. But I think it's what I'm supposed to do on spring break. That, and show my boobs to any guy with a beer tap in hand. Neither sounds like such a good idea, considering I could count the number of drinks I've had in the past year on no hands, and having beer soaked hands on my boobs would probably cause traumatic flashbacks from my teenage years, despite the haziness of that era.

But that was then, and this is now. Back then Ft. Lauderdale was the place to go for spring break. My mom took me there once when I was fifteen, and the college kids were going wild. She somehow managed to sneak me into some bars so I could get a taste of the real action; wet t-shirt contests, drunk horny guys grabbin' arse on every corner, kids pukin' out the car windows. It was the coolest thing ever, for a fifteen year old teenage girl.

Looking back I wonder why she did this. Was she trying to be cool? Was she showing me what I had to look forward to if I finished high school with good grades? Was she trying to marry me off early or something? Guess I showed her! 40 and still single.

But it is a fond memory, one of many I have with my mom. My dad and I are close too, though most of my memories with him involve sports in one way or another. I thought about going to FL for spring break this year, but I don't even know if they party there anymore. Most seem to be headed off to the Bahamas or Paris, courtesy of mama and daddy who are so proud of their little angel for not flunking out or ending up pregnant after banging the entire basketball team.

If I went, it'd be to see some Sox spring training games. Now that'd be a spring break I could get into. Sadly, I'm monetarily challenged. It's not a permanent condition, but seems to be highly correlational to the presence of a teenager in the immediate vicinity.

Maybe someday, but this year, looks like my spring break will consist of catching up on my chemistry. Maybe if I'm feeling really feisty, I'll go flash the dude down at the A&W rootbeer stand just for shiits and giggles. You're only young once, and it is after all spring break.

03-06

Mother Nature cooperated today to begin my spring break in fine fashion. The sun warmed my face through the windshield, the dog's lips were flapping in the wind, and the radio was blaring "Seasons" by Veer Union. As I belted out the lyrics (which could explain why the dog keeps his head out the window even at 50 mph) I realized the absolute absurdity of life.

We try to make order out of a disordered world. We get up, go to work (or school in my case), pay the bills, follow the rules, try to have fun occasionally, eat, sleep, and shower as needed. Most of us do all these things at certain times, in certain ways, and without much thought. We're so busy trying to get where we're going that we often fail to appreciate where we are right now.

I'm guilty. I've always said I'll be happy when _____________. Fill in the blank, depending on the day. When I find a man. When I can buy a house. When the money sucking teenager has his own life. When I graduate from college, discover the cure for Alzheimers, and end up filthy rich and able to remember all the wonderful times I didn't share with anybody.

Okay, maybe I won't cure Alzheimers. And I could have bought a house, had the preapproval in hand, so technically I can check that one off the list of things to do before I die. Just because I couldn't find the one I wanted and didn't actually buy a house, doesn't mean I didn't reach the goal, which was to be able to buy a house. Check, pat on the back, now I'll be happy when...scratching off 'buy a house', replacing with _____ fill in the blank.

I think that deep down a tiny, microscopically, infinitely wee, miniscule part of me hopes to find somebody someday. Guess I didn't want to put roots down when I don't know yet what the future holds. I'd like to think I'll have a home with another soul that has less than four legs sometime before I die cold and alone on the bathroom floor.

But I realized today when "Seasons" was blaring that this song truly describes my life. I'm changing, we're all changing. Like the seasons, like the brilliantly colored crispy leaves of the oak and maple trees on a beautiful Vermont autumn day. Like the snow melting under the sun, turning once icy roads to giant mud pits big enough to swallow my Ranger.

It's a beautiful thing, life. Whether you put it in 4WD and blast mud all over your black lab's snout or you're making your way in a driving rain with thunder booming and lightening crashing down around you. We can't control life anymore than we can control the weather. To think that I have the ability to accomplish anything that would make me happy is ludicrous. I have to learn to appreciate the changing of the seasons, within myself and in this disordered world we live in. Starting today, I will strive to be happy now, not when I _______ fill in the blank.

03/07/10

Fine combinations of numbers today. 3-My favorite number. 7-it garnished the back of Trot Nixon's uni and it's supposively lucky. 10-the sign of perfection, a foolish puruit that I strive for consistently regardless of the certainty of failure.

Seems like the perfect combinations of numbers, and combined with this week's theme of changing with the seasons, I've decided to embark on a journey of unparalleled proportions.

I'm posting this now just in case I don't make it back.

Here's the plan. I make no promises about the outcome, but I can promise this...what you are about to encounter is real, the participant is not an actor (though I do occasionally act the fool). Oh, and no animals have been harmed in this experiment.

Actually, it really will be an experiment. I'm going to attempt to quit smoking at midnight tonight. Now before you go "Whoa, big whoop, that's not unparalleled. Tons of people have quit smoking.", let me assure you that none have done what I shall attempt to do.

I'm going cold turkey. Still not convinced this merits the equivalence of monumental status? I should tell you I've smoked for damn near all of the last 25 years, not something I'm proud to admit. I've managed to quit for brief periods of time in the past; anywhere from minutes normally between cigarettes, to a few times where I lasted days, and once for a whopping four months (3 and a half of which I was attached to a magic shiny square that dosed me covertly, so that explains that statistical anomalie.)

Basically my DNA has probably encorporated the carcinogens into the life sustaining strand at this point, but I'm going to try to kick this nasty habit anyways, even if it kills me. While I agree the immediacy of death compared to lung cancer in the future doesn't seem like a prime choice, I also know that it's more likely that I'll kill someone else rather than spontaneously combust. And I think the prisons finally took the smokes away from the inmates so even if I do break loose and off an innocent bystander, I'll be smoke free on death row.

But for the protection of grandmothers everywhere I've devised a foolproof plan. Knowing that the one time I did try to go cold turkey I would have walked eighteen miles through a raging blizzard barefoot in nothing but a bikini for a pack of Marlboros, I'm having my son shackle me to the pooltable in my bedroom.

The Craftsmen tool kit will remain safely in the living room, and I can't squeeze that baby out the sliding glass doors onto the back deck. Even if I could, it'd probably crush me when we hit the ground three floors down. I'd never get it down the stairs alone so jumping would be the only option. I'm afraid of heights so scratch that.

So far so good. Can't leave the bedroom. I shall bring in my laptop and charger, two cases of rootbeer, a giant Costco size bucket of sea salted cocktail peanuts, and the dog for at least the initial phase. If it starts getting hairy, I'll have Jake take the boy to a safe distance until the metamorphosis is complete.

I'm anticipating five days, although evidence has shown that it generally takes three days to flush the toxins out. I added a couple of days for recovery from muscle strain due to pulling a 7 and a half foot pool table around my room.

For research purposes I will be documenting the transformation in a forum entitled "To hell and back in 108 Hrs" starting at midnight. I figure it will be entertaining to those watching my agony (we love this crap, don't ask me why, ask the producers of the fifty zillion reality shows on TV!). Plus it may be informative for future studies on the effects of quitting in those with an already fragile psyche. If ya hadn't figured out I'm crazy by now, ya need to review my profile again.

So there ya have it. I will undergo severe mood swings, physical illness, hysteria and possibly hallucinations. Wait, this sounds like marriage. Maybe this isn't such a good idea.

Oh hell, I'm doing it anyways. This combination of numbers won't come up for another hundred years and marriage is 'til death do you part. This is only 5 days. I can handle it. And if I succeed AND get married, I'll have added a few more years to make memories with "THE ONE", prior to the onset of Alzheimers, if I haven't found a cure yet.

Off to the store to get my last pack of Marbs (twelve more hours of coating my lungs with the stuff that makes furniture fireproof), a bulletproof Masterlock lock and one of those rubbercovered chains (to prevent chafing my ankle while dragging the pooltable around!), and some cotton balls to muffle the screams because I'm a considerate neighbor.

Soon to be a non-smoking considerate neighbor if all goes according to plans. Of course, I had planned on falling in love, getting married, buying a house and living happily ever after at one point in my life, and we all see how that has worked out for me, so I'm not holding my breathe here. But I will say that I've put considerable effort into the logistics of this endeavor and I'm hopeful for a positive outcome. The best laid plans of mice and men.

That was a really good book by the way. One of my favorites actually, along with Where the Red Fern Grows. But I digress.

Concentrate Kristy. We're about to embark on an epic journey, and we'll need all of our synapses synapsing to accomplish this remarkable feat. There will be plenty of time for irrelevant thought processes soon. Go, get supplies, build will power, tis the season of change.

That was my pre-game pep talk. I'm ready. Wish me luck. If this is my last entry, remember this...

It's better to have tried and failed than to never have tried at all.

Holly crap! Well at least you covered most of the bases

Actually, this is brilliant. Great job! Kind of a tough screening process, but hey, it is supposed to be right?

Good Luck!

03-08

I think The Big Guy Upstairs forgot to throw in the dash of will power when he made me. I swear I don't possess an ounce of this stuff!

I thought about going to the store in search of it, but I know it's just a sneaky tactic by my now nicotine starved brain to get me out of the house.

Good thing I'm chained to the pool table.

I'm attempting to quit smoking after 25 yrs of poisoning myself repeatedly. I'm trying to go cold turkey, and it's day one. So I apologize ahead of time if the profile takes a sudden turn into the depths of insanity. Not that you'd see a huge difference between that and my 'normal' rants. I think I waver daily on the borderline between sanity and insanity like a drunk tightrope walker.

Right now I feel like I belong in the circus. My body is starting to realize that it isn't receiving its daily dose of ethyl methyl bad shiit. My brain realized it as soon as I rose at the crack of noon.

I'm on vacation. And the money sucking teenager gets himself up and off to school nowadays, so I don't have to get up if I don't want to. And I definitely did not want to knowing what the day ahead holds in store.

Detox is brutal. If you've never smoked, DON'T!!!! It's a nasty disgusting habit that eats your money and lung tissue at an alarming rate. Both of those things are rather important for survival purposes.

Though I guess money really isn't. I've seen bums in boxes without a penny in their pocket, and they're alive. And damned if they don't have a smoke hanging out from between their chapped lips most of the time.

My theory on smoking has evolved over the years. I now think it's actually a sign of self hatred. How else can one explain the overwhelming desire to commit slow suicide by lighting up something you know is killing you, and not just once but multiple times a day?

So why be a hypocrite and claim I like who I am while I sit there with cigarette in hand? If I really liked this Kristy chick, I wouldn't be trying to put her in a box in the ground at an early age. I wouldn't keep dousing her lungs and blood with the crap they put in them nasty Marlboros. I wouldn't keep smoking.

Yet until today, I did, and for damn near a quarter of a century. I can beat myself up for being an idiot all these years, or I can suck up the tiny amount of air that my now partially destroyed lungs can manage and decide to breathe easier in the future.

I can't change the fact that smoking has permanently affected me...I'm stuck with the scratchy hoarse voice that negates me from singing soprano for the rest of my life. I can't remove stains from my fingers and teeth, though I am excited to go the dentist for my cleaning next Monday. (And I didn't even know that it was coming up when I made the plan to quit smoking today! Sign from above that this is the right time? My nicotine starved brain may be arguing "NOOOOOO" in an increasing loud voice right now but the logical part of the brain says "Oh yah baby!")

More importantly, I can't get back all the '7 minutes'...that's more than a few years I've lopped off my life already. And dammit, it's taken me forever to make the journey to try and get where I want to go. I'm not there yet, but it's close; I can smell it, hear the sounds in the distance, see the glow on the horizon. Sure hate to show up at the amusement park and not have time to ride the rides when I get there.

So I'm quitting. Or trying to. Should be one helluva trip but I can do it. I have to do it! My life depends on it really.

No punchline. That's all folks. I'm serious. Go away now and leave me alone already. I'm cranky.

03-10

Day three. I'm as cheery as a death row inmate.

No wise words today.

"THE ONE" better not show up unexpectedly, I'll say that. While I'm showered and presentable, if you can call it that, I'm in no mood for pleasantries. I'm agitated, anxious, and slightly aggressive. I'd probably hurt the poor boy, unintentionally of course.

I know I should just be happy. I'm doing it. Celebrate. Yippee, yee ha. Throw a fricken party. But I'm really just unenthused about the whole thing. There's no little firecrackers going off, no hoopla or streamers shooting from the lampposts as I walk by. The world hasn't changed a lick, other than I'm not smoking now. Big deal.

But yet it is. Especially when I've been trapped by this compulsion for so long. To now think I might be able to break free is pretty amazing really. You'd think I'd be flying high at my accomplishment thus far.

Yet I feel like crud. I hope it gets better after today. Or tomorrow. Or next week. Or month. Or year. But that's it dammit. That's as far as I go with this. If in one year I'm still white knuckling my way through it, then Siggie's ash.

I expect that not to be the case. I presume I shall walk away head held high within a fairly short period of time. And perhaps before too long, I'll even be capable of running with my head held high. 'Cause I'd sure hate to be bent over huffing and puffing when "THE ONE" ventured past.

03-11 I think

What day is it? They all seem to blend together now. And the seasons sure go by much quicker these days too.

I wonder if that's a sign of growing up? or growing old? or nearing the finish line?

Ya never know. But I often wonder. Do you see things clearer when you're standing at the end of the road looking back? Do you even get the chance to look back? or do you just bam, all the sudden realize it's judgement day and prepare to face the firing squad?

Of course this presupposes that something happens to you other than decomp. I happen to believe in souls; but then again, I believe in other crap like ghosts and aliens and bigfoot, and probably even the Big Guy Upstairs... though not "THE ONE", that'd be pushing it...

What was I saying? Where am I? What day is it? I don't think it really matters to be honest with ya.

I'm just some random atom in life spinning along, with or without propulsion by nicotine, bumping into other random atoms in life. If we happen to connect? Well, I don't know what that would be like. Chaos probably.

Might be toxic. Might be intoxicating. Might be the greatest thing since sliced bread but I'm not holding my breath. I smoked for 25 yrs, I can't.

Actually, I can. But it's like running, I do it only if I have to.

But then again, now that I don't smoke, maybe I'll take up jogging. Maybe "THE ONE" is out hitting the pavement too, just waiting for my dog to accost him as we approach. I'm sure he'll be impressed with the attached out of shape, newly non-smoking health enthusiast whose oozing nicotine out her pores and panting harder than Trot thanks to 25 years of smoking.

I'll be lucky if he doesn't call 911 and request the paramedics. Oh well. That just means he wasn't "THE ONE". I'll know it when I meet him I think.

Of course, it'd help if he could maybe give me some kind of sign. Like wear a shirt with "THE ONE" on it, and have a giant glowing green bubble around him that only I can see. It'd suck to fall in love with a dude in a bubble that everybody could see. They'd stare all the time and I hate being the center of attention. I like to blend into the crowd.

But I went off on a tangent again, didn't I? I seem to be doing that quite a bit these days. Lack of nicotine? Don't know. Crazy? Could be. Little bit of both? Most definitely.

I suppose this isn't doing much to help me find "THE ONE" but I'm not sure I want to meet him right yet anyways. Hell, I'm pretty sure he doesn't exist so I have nothing to worry about really, other than chemistry exams and how well done my steak's going to turn out.

I try at least. I'm no quitter. Except when it comes to smoking. And then I'm a quitter. So far. Today. For now.

Yeah okay...I wouldn't want me either. Move along now. Nothing here to look at.

03-12

The trip to hell and back in 108 Hrs is winding down. I decided to celebrate by having my boobs touched. Okay, so maybe the mammogram appointment was made long before I decided to quit smoking this week, but let me have a little fun. I just quit smoking after 25 years for cripe's sake!

Not that mammograms are fun. I can assure you they rank somewhere below giving birth. Okay, maybe not that bad. Unless you had drugs. Then I'm not lying. Baby was really tripping when he came into the world but mama wasn't feeling nothing, thank you very much good Doctor Soandso.

But where was I? Oh yeah, getting your boobs squished as flat as pancakes so they can say "cheese" and get their pictures taken. I think my boob actually yelled "Holy bleeping crap" last time, and replace crap with something that rhymes with tit. Which is another word for boob and a far cry from what your body part looks like when it's in the dreaded machine.

I'm so excited I could wheeze heavily.

But hey, it's been at least two or three years since my last one, and I'm pretty sure that's the last time my boobs got touched by someone other than me. Maybe it'll even be a hot male flopping it up on the plate. Ya know, as a reward for quitting smoking. ;)

03-12

I quit smoking while I was on spring break over this past week. It wasn't easy, by any stretch of the imagination, and I can't promise I won't be smoking tomorrow or a month from now. But I do know that I'm breathing a bit easier today than five days ago and I'm pretty damn proud of that accomplishment. It's been one of the tougher battles I've fought over the years and I'm pretty confident that this time I managed to win the war. Only time will tell I suppose.

Like many things in life.

Time will tell if I'll meet "THE ONE". Maybe I already have, and I just don't know it yet. Maybe I never will and I'll die wishing I had. Or maybe I'll just do what I do, enjoy my time on this earth, and let the chips fall where they may. If I'm supposed to have a co-pilot (other than the tongue flapping Trotster) on any part of this journey, I imagine I'll pick him up hitchhiking somewhere along the way.

I'm not too worried at this point in my life about minor things like dying alone on the bathroom floor. I have bigger fish to fry, like how soon will I be able to kick the backtalk right out of my money sucking teenager's mouth if I keep doing these Tae Bo tapes?

Right now I'm lucky if I can kick above the height of my cat. I can't see depositing my foot next to my six foot tall kid's head quite yet. But I bet he wouldn't tell me he'd clean his room when the EPA sent proper notification if I could!

I can see it now.

Me: Hey Jake, can you run the garbage down please?
Jake: Yah, I'll do it when I'm done playing my ...

Suddenly...(Sound effect like one heard in a Bruce Lee movie)...foot one inch from XBox mouthpiece with mad mom attached to other end glaring a "No I said NOW boy" look.

Me: Don't mess with me son. I'll go all Tae Bo on your arse. Now get up and get that there garbage out to yonder bin before I have to put this here foot to good use. Get on now.

I don't know why I would adopt an old western type of drawl while delivering said threat but I think it goes well with almost kicking someone in the head.

Plus if I'm going to start this dating thing, I probably should know how to protect myself, incase somebody tries to grab my boob or something. Tae Bo is about as close to a self protection class as I'm going to get around here.

Plus I'm not interested in attacking a guy in a suit made of material a German Shephard couldn't chew through. If I'm going to attack a guy, I want him to be defenseless dammit, and preferably with a few too many beers in him to make things even easier.

Okay, so I actually wouldn't hurt a flea. Who am I tryin' to fool? I'm about as violent as Mother Teresa on a handful of muscle relaxers. I couldn't kick arse no more than I could win a beauty contest. Some things just aren't in the cards, know what I mean?

Doesn't mean I don't think "THE ONE" won't be damn lucky to find me though, because I ain't half bad. I mean, I can kick over the cat (almost) and I don't smoke (anymore). What more could a perfect guy want from his woman?!?!?

03-13

In an effort to appease my mother's insistence that I need to put some actual effort into looking for "THE ONE", I decided to do the whole mutual match thingy on here.

After saying no to the six men within fifty miles of my zip code, I expanded the search nationwide. It said there were 400+ possible matches. I'm thinking I have a shot here.

Now I should note that I put an age range in to narrow it down somewhat but still had the same 400+ inidicator so I proceeded with enthusiasm.

What I discovered after spending the better part of a night and day saying yes, no or maybe to blips of men is that I have a better chance of boffing the entire Yankees team than I do of hooking up on this site, or any other dating web site for that matter.

How the hell do you decide if someone is a match? I feel like I'm catalog shopping. Kind of hard to judge when they write "I don't know what to say here...tell ya later". Okay, so that's a no even if they're smoking hot. And can I really say maybe or even yes without anything other than a picture and one measly sentence that says "I like people and having fun"?

But how do I know that "THE ONE" isn't being sneaky, hiding out in one of these generic carbon copy profiles, just waiting for me to discover him? Maybe I should be saying Yes, or at least Maybe to some of these guys.

So I loosened up a bit and hit maybe a few times. I think I ran across a handful of men that warranted a Yes due to both an acceptable picture and an interesting and thought provoking sales pitch. Slim pickings comes to mind for some reason when I evaluate my mutual match experience. By the time I finished viewing some 4000+ men, I'd said maybe or yes to perhaps 20 of them.

Now if that isn't putting in some effort, I don't know what is! Chances are slim to none that one of those 20 will think I could be their "THE ONE", BUT I've effectively "tried" to find someone. She doesn't need to know I looked through a dogalog (the catalog is what guys look through...I searched for men, hence a dogalog!)

I just made up a word. I like it! Probably won't help me find a man though! Hee hee! Take that Mom!

03-15

Some interesting and irrelevant facts about me:

I'm more likely to have ripped out a wall while helping my brother remodel the beauty salon than to have patronized it.

I believe my dog can read my mind and understands exactly what I'm saying. I'm also fluent in black lab but can't speak a lick of teenager despite still being one in my mind.

I would say I wouldn't be caught dead running a marathon but chances are, that's exactly what would happen.

Apparently my right foot has to stand guard outside of the covers when I sleep.

If sleeping were an Olympic sport, I'd be a repeat gold medalist.

If sex were an Olympic sport, lets just say I'm having flashbacks of the miracle on ice. It shocked everybody when it really happened and it's probably been about that long, but it sure brought a smile to your face. Of course by now I probably couldn't qualify for the Special Olympics.

I nurture a dog, two cats, six plants and a teenager and none of them are dead yet. Chances are I wouldn't kill a man either but this theory has not been tested extensively. (Especially taking into consideration fact six above. Damn those morals!)

Okay, this concludes today's lesson on Kristy. Stay tuned for more useless and inconsequental tidbits of information when I can manage to pull myself away from my completely dull and boring life.

03-16

More non-pertinent facts about me:

5 Random things I own:

A 2003 black Ford Ranger with 4WD... because it's sure more dependable than a money sucking teenager in helping me get out of the driveway on those glorious Vermont winter morns when you wake up to three feet of snow. Shoveling sucks.

A floor jack, jack stands, a complete 135 piece Craftsman mechanic's tool kit, a breaker bar, and the Haines manual for my truck. Getting serviced at the local Jiffy Lube has a very different connotation in my twisted mind. I would sooner marry a Yankee fan than pay someone to do it, for either interpretation. (See disqualifier 2 in the permanent part of this insanely long profile).

The absolutely coolest dog in the whole world! Although everybody that knows me will tell you that he actually owns me. 3 outta 3 is still 100%! So I'm not lying. About any of these three facts.

Collections: Red Sox memoralbia, Stephen King hard covers, and angels. Although I'd like to clarify, none have completely taken over my habitat.

A UVM hockey jersey that VT native John Leclair signed while it was on my body. Granted it's on the shoulder with a bunch of the other guys names adorning the back but it counts (only Kyle MacDonough's scribble was on the boob, but he never got to the big show).

5 Random things I don't own yet but would like to own someday:

A house (I coulda bought one but opted to wait for someone to share it with, besides a money sucking teenager!)

A boat of any size and a vehicle with the ability to tow it, if necessary. If it's too big for towing, I hope I own the marina equipped with a gas station so I can afford such a luxury.

A college diploma (it's in the works at least!). Which is highly dependent on another qualifier for this category...A chem exam with a big fat A on it! I probably should be studying instead of writing strange facts about myself in hopes of someday finding someone who can teach me about chemistry hands on.

Season tickets to the Sox. No joking with this one. Seriously.

My son, on just one of those damn Xbox games.

5 Random things I won't ever own:

My son, on even one of those damn Xbox games.

An Olympic gold medal, unless they decide to incorporate an earlier profile suggestion of mine to include sleeping as an event.

A pet Tarantula or an apiary. Bees and spiders scare me almost as much as the concept of marriage.

A collection of Yankee memoralbia.

A wedding band apparently.

03-18

Yesterday was St. Patty's Day and I celebrated by getting my first glimpse in ages of a nearly naked man. Now before you start thinking I had one too many green beers, I should advise you that I cannot stomach the taste of any kind of beer, no matter the color. Alcohol was not involved.

Well, maybe it was because I don't know how the guy could do what he did sober. But regardless, I'm glad he did it so I could see some skin. Hey, when you're me, you take what you can get.

So here's what happened:

I'm in my organic chemistry lecture not learning chemistry, because apparently my brain is allergic to chemistry, when in strolls a guy with a green material stretched skin tight over his entire body, including his head. He looked like one of the guys from the Blue Man Group, except a different hue of course. I raise a leery eyeball as he passes by only to be out-astonished by his partner in tow.

This second guy is sportin' nothing but a fluorescent green g-string bikini! No shiit!

The green dude starts singing, the almost naked dude starts doing an Irish jig, and the entire class of 100 kids (and me of course) starts laughing their arses off.

They finish their little display of St. Patty's Day spirit, and doesn't the butt floss dude turn around to perform his obligatory bow, effectively mooning the whole class. Applause breaks out and they're off on their merry Irish way. It was priceless.

My chem professor, astounded with the rest of us, could barely continue. He was like "WTF?" except he didn't say the letters, he spit out the actual words they signify. Hearing your professor mutter the F-word is amusing, but not nearly as much as this little skit.

And considering how long it's been since I've been with a man, I'm not complaining about getting a free perv moment. I'm old, not dead!

As I watched him sashay out of the room, a thought crossed my mind...

"Is he "THE ONE"!?!"

Probably not, but he sure gave an old lady a Happy St. Patricks Day!

03-19

Once can usually find me sitting in my recliner with a side car. It's actually half a couch; the other half that it connected to got eaten by my beloved four legged best friend Trot when he was but a pup. I like to think of it as our version of the Harley, except the indoors kind. I mean, hell, we travel to all kinds of cool places on it (thanks to my vivid imagination!), it doesn't cost much to run it, it's a perfect solo ride but fits two if necessary, and we look cool sitting on it wearing shades. Trot doesn't keep 'em on very long, but he's cool when he does comply temporarily.

Okay, I just exaggerated a bit; I wouldn't look cool sittin' on a giant icecube. I realize this minor problem, which could be the underlying cause for my lack of companionship. Not because you've seen barf that's more appetizing, but because I wanna barf when I see myself in the mirror. (Unless I'm doing my cousin Itt impression. Then I just laugh like a hyena on Ecstacy.)

But point being, I'm not in the physical condition I once was. Real revelation there, huh? They say you can't fight age, but I'm pretty upfront if ya hadn't noticed, so I have to say, I'm 40, not 400. I could see a little butt and boob saggage at that age.

No, age isn't it. It's the recliner with a side car. It's sucked my arse to it for far too long. In my defense, it's tough to have a social life when you have raised a money sucking teenager single handedly. The prosecution will argue that I'm just lazy. He has a point but that doesn't mean he wins the case!

See, waaaay back when, I was worried that "THE ONE" would come along and see me all smoking hot and stuff. Naturally, with my glowing personality, quirky sense of humor, quick wit, and creative genius, he'd no doubt fall madly in love and before you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, he'd propose marriage. Can't have that. I may have mentioned somewhere in here, at some point, that I'm allergic.

And yeah, I spelled that off the top of my head. Sue me if it's wrong. I don't have a pot to piss in, doesn't matter, but I can spell damn it!

So anyways...My fiendish mind devised a master plan to keep "THE ONE" at bay until I was ready. Get fat and despise it. Works every time! Or at least the couple of times I've tried it. First time it lasted 'til I decided it sucked to go a decade without sex. So, I lost the weight, found a fireman to douse my desires, gained the weight back to get rid of him (although the restraining order worked more effectively I must say!) once he morphed into the psycho jealous fireman, and the pounds decided to put down roots during the time it took me to get the restraining order.

Now I have an arse as big as an oak tree. I realized this yesterday as I tried to heave it off the recliner with a side car to waddle my way to bed. At that very minute I decided that enough is enough already. It's time to start kicking higher than cat altitude. I put in the Tae Bo tape and began my transformation back to the lean, mean sex machine of yesteryear, which ironically I figure I'll complete in exactly 8 months. I'm giving myself a new body for my 41st birthday!!!

I wonder if "THE ONE" will mind waiting just a little longer? I figure no. After 40 yrs, eight months is a drop in the feed trough that I won't be gorging in anymore. The way I see it, if I deserve this spectacular man, then he deserves my best. This ain't it.

But wait 'til he sees me come November 18! I'll need teflon coating if I don't want him sticking around!

DAYUM...I found a bone

You REALLY should write a book -- this kind of talent should not be sequestered in a profile or even a creative writing forum.

Although I'm concerned about your 20 yeses or maybes out of 4000+ candidates -- you need to tighten up those standards a little! The proper ratio is closer to 1 in 128,844.

Wait...this isn't a book? Damn! I wonder why I keep getting them emails then? Not a peep from "THE ONE" but the "no friggen ways" are out in full force.

But really...Thanks Lex! That says a WHOLE lot coming from you.

As for the 20 maybes and yeses, I'm trying to toe that honesty line with my mom. 1 in 128,844 wouldn't REALLY be considered "looking". I mean techinically, sure, but she's my mom. Plus I figured the sparse few that I favored wouldn't look twice in my direction, so no fear. My prospect for finding "THE ONE" remains as unlikely as spotting me screaming "Derek Jeter's the man!". But what are ya gonna do?

Write a book I suppose, huh?

Yet another episode in the serial...

03/20

A friend of mine once called me "the best little lawyer without a degree". She was complimenting me on my ability to use logic to win debates. She said I had a knack for leading you down a path in a logical progression towards an idea that you couldn't help but see when you arrived. It was one of the greatest compliments I've ever received.

Writing is the medium I work best in to accomplish this journey. It provides me the ability to organize my thoughts, choose the best words to paint the picture I'm seeing in my head, and to be able to go back and make sure everything is just right before it's presented to the intended party. An accurate, thorough portrayal of my idea. I'm a planner, a goal setter, an achiever, and a perfectionist.

While these traits may make me "the best little lawyer without a degree", according to my friend, they haven't been able to do a damn thing for me in the romantic arena.

I can't seem to figure out how to hell to go about finding a man. Or even if I want one! Somedays yea, somedays nay. I feel more like a damn politician than a lawyer.

I have to think that this self imposed prison of loneliness is escapable, but it seems the warden is always one step ahead of me, as if she knows my every thought. Strange.

The debate continues within. Maybe my mad lawyering skills, per my friend, were born of this constant battle between inmate and keeper. Years of practice have honed my skills.

I'm both the prosecutor and defense. Acquittal could be imminent. So could the death penalty, dying alone after being imprisoned for years. The jury is still out on this one.

Must be I did a hell of a job. Maybe I am "the best little lawyer without a degree".

03-23

I was on my way to class today to give a presentation on social anxiety disorder, ironically. Being a card carrying member of the club, I was anticipating this event about as much as eating glass. And I don't mean just chewing on a bottle. I mean crunch that baby up, swallow it down, and poop it out. A glass bottle that holds 97 gallons of rootbeer, in fact. If it'd been an option, I'd probably be a bloody wreck right now.

But it wasn't, so I'd made up my mind that I was going to do this or die trying, because dammit, I can do anything I put my mind to. Or so I'd like to think.

Of course, I'm not always right and such was the case here. I didn't chicken out. Fate intervened instead.

I was patiently sitting at the Burger King window, because truth be told, I think strawberry milkshakes can cure everything from the common cold to Ebola. I figured one might work for glossophobia, which is the technical term for fear of public speaking, although it sounds more like fear of getting your nails painted, which I coincidentally also possess accounting for my lack of shiny fingertips.

But I digress, where was I?

Let's see...ah yes, waiting for my bigger butt in a cup at the King's drive thru. I had just accepted my flavorful concoction and pulled my arm in the truck window when I was suddenly jarred forward with a tremendous lurch, effectively squishing said cup between the steering wheel and my propelled body.

Covered in strawberry shake and stunned momentarily, I looked in the rearview to see another Ford truck literally on my bumper. The man driving was both horrified and panicking, so he threw it in reverse and then was trying to go around me. I, of course, jump out yelling "What the bleep?", waving my slimy arms, pink droplets of milkshake flying everywhere.

He says he's just moving to get out of the line. Considerate dumbarse apparently, didn't want to delay anybody else today, other than me that is.

So we do the exchange info thing, except he doesn't ask me for anything. Just keeps saying how sorry he is, that his foot slipped and hit the gas. His kid is in the truck screaming "DO IT AGAIN DADDY!DO IT AGAIN!" (probably about four or five years old and obviously a boy!).

The dude tells me he's a vet, 5 tours, he'll pay for the damage, he's sorry. I felt bad for the guy. I think he probably thought he was in neutral, let his foot off the clutch, and viola, suddenly he's eating my bumper. I suspect the guy might be suffering from PTSD but who am I to say? I'm just a psycho psyche student on her way to give a presentation in psyche class.

While I initially was beyond irritated, I had to laugh after a minute. I reassured the guy for the next twenty minutes until he could calm down enough to drive little Bobby home, and proceeded to campus, although I was more than a half hour late by the time I cleaned myself up.

I didn't go in (see the first paragraph if you really don't know why). I waited outside and snagged the professor, explaining my unbelievable tale. At least I had the strawberry covered interior and the big old dent in the bumper as evidence. I can't blame her though. It does sound like a far fetched story. Only in my world.

She agreed to let me go Thursday instead. Great! We get to do this all over again. I can tell you I won't be stopping for a milkshake!

Sometimes I wonder if fate is looking down lauging at me. I'm glad I can amuse somebody. And hey, there's always this...

I got a guy's phone number!!! Maybe it's an omen. Fate intervening. Hell, maybe he's "THE ONE". Now wouldn't that be a kicker, a real cause for celebration. We'd have strawberry shake toasts at the wedding.

Wait a minute... Wedding? I must have hit my head in the accident. Maybe I have an aneurism. Oh well. If so, I'll be dead by Thursday and at least I won't have to do this damn presentation.

Life...it's just a matter of perspective.

03-24

Reasons I have a dog instead of a man:

When I sit down on the toilet seat, I know it's water droplets, not pee.

If I come home late, the dog is happy to the Nth degree; the man gives me the third degree.

My dog gives me shiit about once a day, and it takes about fifteen minutes at the most; the man possesses an endless supply that can be given non-stop for hours on end.

To please my dog, all I have to do is yank on his rope for a little while, and we both have fun. With a man, yanking his rope means no fun for mama.

Okay, that last one was a bit perverted. My dog doesn't mind that I'm a pervert because I'm not attracted to canines. The man tends to complain when he's overworked and slightly chafed, and can't walk to the refrigerator to get my rootbeer.

The dog fetches my shoes for me when I want to go out. He's in fact ecstatic in my laziness, thoroughly enjoying the chance to do something for me and gain my favor. A man calls me lazy if I won't get up and fetch him a beer, and the only favor he wants is performed on my knees.

When I'm pleased with the dog, I just have to give him a bone. When I'm pleased with a man, I have to let him give me the bone. I'm a giver, not a taker. What can I say?

Obviously, way too much is the answer to the preceding question. But my boy Trot doesn't mind. That's why I have a dog instead of a man. He loves me for the deranged, lovable nutcase I am. A man might have me locked up. The reasons are nearly never-ending but I'll stop here.

The dog needs to go out, and I'm sure he's coming back. Wink, wink. You know where I'm going with that. If not, perhaps you should step away from the screen son. You done been Kristified! That's like mystified, but more confusing. No fear though. It's not fatal, just annoying. You'll be okay once you leave the affected area. Y'all come back again real soon now, ya hear?

Lord, I need a man. I think I'm losing it. Hell, I lost it a long time ago. If ya happen to be "THE ONE" to find it, send me an email why don'tcha?!

03-26

Another Friday night touring the living room with Trot perched in his side car. And I wonder why I can't find a man. Could it possibly be because I'm not looking? What I am I waiting for? Do I expect The Big Guy Upstairs to drop him gift wrapped in my lap, with a note attached, just to make sure?

"Here ya go Kristy. Enjoy "THE ONE"! Love, TBGU"

I'd believe it, MAYBE, if He signed it like that. But otherwise I'd be like "Okay, where's that Ashton Kutcher dude? Who be punkin' my arse?".

I don't think I'd know "THE ONE" if he ran into me at a Burger King drive thru and covered me in a strawberry milk shake. Or even if he then got out barking like a dog wearing a sign that said "I'm better than a dog, TBGU says so!".

I'm naive like that. I never saw a hooker in the three years I spent in Vegas. Better odds of hitting the Powerball than that being true. They were there, I just apparently am optically challenged in some areas. I don't see what I don't want to see.

I guess this means I don't really want a man. As a concerned citizen (that actually made it though this profile, imagine that?!) recently pointed out to me, perhaps I just need to get laid.

While this is an interesting concept, and certainly a thought that's crossed my deprived body and mind on more than one occasion, I fear it's easier said than done.

The whole morals thing comes into play, and then there's the logistics of the operation. Having the physical prowess of an oompa-loompa these days, it's not like I'm going out as a sleek cougar adeptly chasing down my next tasty meal.

I don't have spare cash laying around to buy a piece of arse, nor would I know where to shop for one. Do they sell those at Macy's? I'm not a big shopper.

Plus some things should just never be bought. Like lima beans, or Snuggies for dogs. Sex falls in this category as well. So there goes that idea.

While getting laid solves one obvious problem, it can create many others when emotions are a requirement for my participation. I think I'll wait for "THE ONE".

"THE ONE" will recognize my needs and help me meet them, and he'll care about my wants and help me enjoy them. Wants and needs are two very different things. I mistakenly said a few days ago "Lord, I need a man." I shall correct myself now; I want a man, I don't need one.

As much as I appreciate the concern for my sexual well being expressed by that concerned citizen, I think I'll pass on "just getting laid". It's just not the way I roll in my recliner with a side car, my trusty lab Trot by my side on this glorious Friday night.

Do I expect The Big Guy Upstairs to drop him gift wrapped in my lap, with a note attached, just to make sure?


I do

You want TBGU to drop him in your lap too? But, but, but...he's mine dammit. What, are ya gonna hold him for ransom on me? I don't have any money!

Oh wait, you mean you're waiting for your "THE ONE" to be dropped off too. Let me know when she arrives. Maybe it means mine's on the way! TBGU must have started on the west coast. Apparently there are more than a few folks waiting for deliveries. I'm screwed.

I expect him to drop HER off
damn west coasters get everything...quakes, fires.....

Yah, but they also have those California girls. According to Van Halen, us northern girls are only good for keeping our boyfriends warm at night. And I haven't had one of those in ages, so I guess that makes me about worthless!

well....you can write..

03-27

Well, I've surpassed the month mark with the revolving profile and I'm no closer to finding "THE ONE" than Pete Rose is to getting in the Hall of Fame. Just isn't going to happen in my lifetime.

But I've accepted this fact, whole heartedly, in fact, according to my behaviors; or should I say lack thereof. It's my brain that seems to be taking issue with the decision to remain alone. That and the weekly rant by my mother about being found dead and naked on the bathroom floor. It's a horrible image that's etched into my memory banks permanently, and a wee, tiny part of me thinks finding "THE ONE" may somehow deter the inevitable.

With my luck though, even if I found "THE ONE", he'd be gone to the store to buy me roses for no apparent reason, other than that he loves me deeply, and then he would come home to find me dead, naked and alone on the bathroom floor. Fate has a funny way of working like that.

While we might not be able to change our ultimate destination, if it is so predetermined, the path that we take to get there is a long and varied journey. Choosing to have a co-pilot might be beneficial to some, but others are meant to fly solo. I think of myself as the modern day Amelia Earheart. (I added the extra 'e' as a clever ploy to indicate the solo quest through the love-o-sphere. I'm sneaky like that, not a bad speller.)

That's how I feel today at least. A woman on a mission, alone except for the dog, and not a clue as to which road we're headed down next. I could bang a right and head thataway, or peel off left and venture off over yonder ridge. Who knows what lies in either direction? Surely not I, and perhaps only TBGU or fate, or whatever one chooses to call it, has any inclination as to what the future holds for us. Or perhaps the chaos theory is more valid and we're just erratically moving through this life. Who really knows?

I like the not knowing. I like the search. I like the wanting. If I had everything I could possibly want, what would I have to look forward to? "THE ONE" will remain elusive until I decide to open my eyes, and heart, to the possibility of meeting him. Right now, unless he jumps out in front of my truck and forces me off the road into a ditch that's extremely muddy and more like a giant chasm that I'm unable to four wheel drive my way out of before he can get down the embankment to make sure I'm okay... (breathe here)...I'm not going to notice him.

I say I'm looking, because it's a beautiful concept, this thing I've heard about called love, but in reality, it's just another fantasy that floats around my head, tempting my steering wheel to revolve in certain directions at certain intersections. I don't know where the hell I'm going, and I refuse to stop and ask directions to destination unknown. The clerk at the 7/11 would look at me like I'm nuts. He'd be right, but that's besides the point.

I think I hear Trot saying "Punch it Margaret!" so time to get cruisin' again. Places to go, people to meet. 'Cause ya just never know what, or who, is around the next bend!

03-31

I'm about as discouraged as a heartburn sufferer at a chili eating contest.

Life sometimes sucks big time! And other times, it's just flipping fantastic. It makes absolutely no sense, kinda like me, and that's on a good day.

Which today isn't.

I'm sicker than a dog, although I don't really know exactly how sick dogs get. Trot's only gotten sick once after eating a plate full of Christmas candy when I went to pick up the then employed money sucking teenager from work. I was hosting the family dinner and had put it out for the nieces and nephews, forgetting that the nose knows on them Labs. Came home to find a content dog licking his chops and an empty plate with nary a chocolate on it.

After panicking at the site, and being an uninformed dog owner under the impression that chocolate will kill a dog, I attempted to reach down his throat and retrieve said chocolates or at least make him throw 'em up. My ever so cooperative mutt told me to get bent in a pleasant way, so I ended up calling my brother instead. He can fix anything!

He advised Trot wouldn't be keeling over, but might get sick. Boy was he right, per usual. The ensuing mess was about the most horrendous thing I've ever seen! Or smelled! I won't get too graphic to spare ya from losing your lunch, but let's just say the Hershey squirts was an understatement; it was more like a gushing sewer pipe galloping around the house, crap spewing everywhere!

Come to think of it, that's about how I feel right now. Crappy! So I guess sicker than a dog is an accurate description. Although I didn't have the luxury of eating a plate full of chocolates first. And I probably don't smell nearly as bad since I did manage to shower today before leaving the house.

I went to the doctor's office finally, as I personally think they're about as useful as a condom at a convention of abstinent virgins.

The brilliant woman who saw me today reconfirmed my previous opinion. Her diagnosis: I'm sick. Gee, thanks lady. I coulda told ya that. In fact, pretty sure I did when I called last week and again when I walked in today. Tell me something I don't know, like what the hell's wrong with me!

So here I sit, waiting for the giant hole in my arm to seal up, not studying for the Chem exam I was supposed to take tonight because I'm too damned honest and told the professor that I won't know if I'm contagious until Friday. I should have just gone and infected the whole damn school! Serve 'em right for carrying on without me. Don't they know this world is supposed to revolve around me?!

Okay, so maybe I'm being slightly egotistic. It's 'cause I'm sick dammit. Haven't you been paying attention for God's sake? What the hell is the matter with you, man? Don't you love it how I can turn my problem into something being wrong with you? LOL It's a woman thing!

Actually, I'm kidding. I don't blame you or anyone else. It just is what it is. Sometimes life sucks big time. Sometimes it's flippin' fantastic. The scale's slightly tilted in the wrong direction today, but there's always tomorrow. Unless I croak tonight.

In which case, it's been nice talking at ya. I'd say "to you" but that would imply a two way conversation, and that doesn't happen much around here. Mostly me just spouting off about my life, who I am, what I do, or in some cases like today, don't do. It's okay though. The good times will come back up, kinda like heartburn after a chili eating contest...it's inevitable!

04-02

Yet another Friday night staring at the four walls surrounding the indoors Harley. Here I sit on my recliner with a sidecar, anticipating the excitement of the dog rolling over to change positions.

I considered going out tonight. I also considered being a gymnast once. While I'm as flexible as a stretch Armstrong, I'm also about as coordinated as a slug on Xanax. I'm lucky if I can manage to walk normally let alone front handspring all over the place. There went that idea.

I thought that maybe tonight I'd throw on some make-up, a skirt and a pair of heels and go out and strut my stuff in hopes of luring some sucker into my clutches. Then I remembered the coordinated slug analogy and pictured me trying to walk in that get-up. I decided maybe jeans, a Sox tee and hitting the local pool hall might be a better idea, although I will say that my odds of winning go up drastically when I shoot in a short skirt. Something to do with the distraction/concentration ratio of my opponent, I surmise.

Pool's a man's sport, for the most part. I get the "Wow, you shoot pretty good for a girl" all the time! I love it! It also comes in handy in picking up men. Usually it goes down like this:

Nice looking young guy: "Wow, you shoot pretty good for a girl."
Me: "Gee thanks. You wanna play next? I won, table's mine."
NLYG: "Okay, what are we playing for?"
Me: "Well, I'm pretty confident. I'll bet my arse against a drink. If I win, you buy me a drink. If you win, I'll go home with you tonight and let you have your way with me."
NLYG: In shock..."Hell, I like them odds. We're on!"
Me: "Okay then, stand back darlin'" as I crack the rack. Then I run the table, set up my eight ball shot and scratch on purpose. I turn to said astounded NLYG and reply coyly "Oops! How'd that happen? You win. Let's go sexy!"

Works every time! Creativity comes in handy in more than the literary arena, ya know?!

So why am I sitting here on a Friday night carping about damn near regaining my virginity if this ploy is infallible? Good question. I don't friggen know! It sounds easy, but so does getting out of the recliner with a sidecar, and I can't manage to do that either. I think I'm permanently glued here. I tried to get up a little while ago to get ready to go out, but I just stretched instead.

Walking into a bar alone is an uncomfortable feeling. So is asking for a table for one at a restaurant. And people look at you crazy when you walk out of the movie and start asking yourself how it was, especially when you respond back!

They say one is the loneliest number, and I can confirm this through years of direct observation. What I don't understand is how to add one and one to make two. I took calc for God's sake!Seems like such simple arithmetic, but it sure feels like trying to do a triple back flip off the uneven bars and sticking the landing.

For someone as coordinated as a slug, that's just not happening.

Neither is going out tonight. Maybe next weekend. Guess I better hoist my arse up and start practicing my bank shots on the table in my bedroom. The bed's not getting any action, I might as well put something in that room to good use. Maybe if I regain my game, I can retest the above tactic. Wonder if it'd still work after all these years?!

Hell, anything's gotta be better than waiting for the dog to roll over.

04-03

As Mr. Rogers used to say..."What a beautiful day in the neighborhood!" Record breaking temps today here in the normally blustery northeast, so Trot and I hit the road to take in a little scenery and get some fresh country air. I absolutely love cruising in the sunshine, Trot's tongue flappin' out the window, and my lips flappin' out whatever song comes across the radio. I can't sing a lick but Trot doesn't complain much, so I can get away with it in the truck. On stage, not a chance.

As I was touring the backroads belting out the lyrics to Veer Union's "Seasons" ironically, I was rather astounded by the shear beauty inherent in nature; a barren field yet untouched by the raping ways of humanity, a weeping willow tree rustling in the wind, a stream babbling its chilly message. The sights, sounds, and smells of spring infected the air and I was just mesmerized. It doesn't take much to amuse my feeble mind I guess.

I'm sure everybody enjoys the simple pleasures in life, but I take the cake when it comes to getting all sentimental over the smallest things. I melt at the sight of a squirrel unearthing a nut, despite it being just a rat with a bushy tail. I can marvel over a thunderstorm for hours, captivated by the flashes of brilliant light accentuating the rolling, grumbling claps of thunder that rattle my soul.

I'm certainly no tree hugging liberal that will stand firm against backhoes and giant Tonka trucks working to build a new thoroughfare, hands splayed in belligerent defiance just because it might disturb a tiny population of dust mites. Hell, I drive like a mad woman...if I can get there quicker, build the road through the middle of the dang tree for all I care!

But I do appreciate the innocent, simple complexity of nature. It's truly remarkable in all its ordinariness; a gift bestowed to each of us that doesn't require another person to revel in its glory. Perhaps that's the draw in my case. I can enjoy it alone, though I'm sure I'd marvel all the more if I could share the sentiment with another soul, a kindred spirit with a similar deep appreciation.

I dreamt about him last night..."THE ONE"...a faceless love that haunts my restless sleep, the blissful feeling obliterated by reality upon waking. I both relish and abhor those dreams! On the one hand, I get to experience love, even if only temporarily; but on the other, I awake with a deep sense of loneliness that crashes upon my solitary existence, the weight heavy on my chest.

I never see his face, and rarely do I envision a sexual experience with him, though often I know we're either headed there or just got done. What I see most often is a gentle kiss. That's it! That's what melts me. One friggen stupid little kiss, his lips brushing mine, and the look in his eyes. And I know I'm loved. It's an amazing feeling.

Almost as amazing as the change of seasons, or a new sunrise, or the sound of rain on your tent on a cool spring night. Perhaps I revel in the beauty of nature to somehow compensate for the lack of consummate love in my life. Perhaps I'm just a sucker for the simple things because I can't afford the luxuries. I don't need no stinking mansion and 7,000 pairs of shoes to make me happy; give me a shack in the woods and a good pair of sneakers to explore my surroundings and I'm a happy camper!

Of course, if I could find "THE ONE" to enjoy these simple pleasures with, they'd be that much more amazing. Or so my dreams lead me to believe. A simple kiss in the moonlight, is it really too much to ask?

NICE,,
and this makes my writings look short,,,wink,lol,AND THATS JUST COOL!!!!

see...you can use few words too