Flowers in the Sky

I'm going to pull a little bit on your heartstrings, if I may.

A few years ago my mother watched a television show which talked about different things you could do with your body once you are dead. Up until then she'd always told me she wanted to be cremated, placed in a beautiful urn, and be displayed in either my home or my brother's. She then went on to say that whoever puts her in a closet first and no longer displays her will be haunted by her ghost. Then that television show put a new idea in her head.

Among the many options they reviewed (sending it into outer space, donating it to science, turning it into jewelry) there was one my mother got the most excited about. Fireworks. This expensive alternative highlighted how one's ashes can be packed into several different large fireworks, and then be shot into the sky in an official send off. She suddenly changed her mind and excitedly told me about it. I was less than thrilled.

I actually gave her a look of horror and then immediately had that overwhelming feeling of bursting into tears. I exclaimed that I'd never be able to watch fireworks ever again if she did that... and she'd be gone forever. My brother, however, says that's what we're doing. No question he thinks we should find a way to make it happen when the day comes. I suppose he's right, but the idea still makes me sad.

As time would find out, a couple of years after my mother's revelation, fireworks would come to remind me of somebody else who's no longer with us. Shanna. I wrote about her in my first post on this blog, but I'll recap quickly for those who may not have read it.

Shanna was the first friend I made in first grade. I was new to town, and, other than Mavis and Danielle (both of whom are also no longer with us), I hadn't made any friends yet. Shanna was the first girl to spend the night at my house, where she formed a crush on my brother. It was short lived. We didn't remain close throughout the rest of our school years, but we remained friendly. I always enjoyed running into her and talking with her.

Two years ago, today, she passed away. I'm not getting into specifics about her death, but I will say that she was taken from us too soon. I honestly believe there will not be a Fourth of July for the rest of my life where I won't remember her. It really sucks losing friends when your young.

Yesterday really did seem like a day of remembrance. The patriotic feel does that to people. We remember to be grateful to past generations. We remember the troops who are not given the day off to be with family and friends. And the civilians tend to remember those they've loved who cannot attend this year's BBQ party. Getting older only means there will be more and more people who only live in your memory.

I was fortunate enough to spend the Fourth at a friend's house. I engaged in a lot of fun conversation, ate way too much great food, and even got a little tipsy with some cocktails. We laughed and made a lot of jokes. We gossiped and broke out some opinions. And we felt our hearts sigh when we spoke of the friends we've lost. After the festivities we gathered up our lawn chairs to see the fireworks.

This year my home town put on a show for the first time in two decades. Luck would have it that this display in the sky could be perfectly viewed from my front lawn. A group of roughly thirty of my family and friends clustered up by my house on the hill to see the show. It was magnificent.

There is something so awe inspiring about watching fireworks. You're sitting there quiet, staring at the heavens, gasping at magical nanoseconds of bright, glittery, booming explosions. I don't know about you, but in this quiet head space I think about Shanna. As each explosion forms these beautiful firey flowers in the sky I think of her beautiful daughter. As another one bursts and leaves an imprint of a chandelier in a drifting cloud of smoke my mind travels to a time of younger innocence. I can't help but feel the pure joy the fireworks exude. They are magic, truly.

Now that I think about it... I could not think of a better burial for my mother. Everybody loves fireworks...

The Fear of Being Fearless

As a child it was easy to admit fear. I was afraid of the corner of my grandparent's basement where no natural light ever seemed to infiltrate. I was afraid of Nola... the claw-less attack cat. I was afraid of falling off of high towering objects. Yet, I always ventured into the basement, I tried relentlessly to get that damn cat to like me and I was always climbing on top of things.

As I grew up, though, I stopped conquering my fears by means of facing them. In fact, I steadfastly avoided them at all costs. When I was in school, and I had a crush, I would avoid that crush and hope to God he didn't find out liked him. When I was afraid that my father would disappoint me I'd mask it with a smile and pretend to not be bothered by it. When I was afraid I wouldn't be able to lose weight, I wouldn't even try.

Now as an adult I've come to realize I'm ruled by fear. And, admitting that is scary business. Admitting fear is admitting weakness. It's leaving myself exposed and vulnerable... and that alone is a huge fear of mine.

So why am I doing it? I recently realized that when I'm afraid of something, it seems to come true.

For instance, a couple of years ago I was afraid that the man I was falling for wouldn't ever return my feelings. That fear came true. Then I was afraid he'd find somebody else. That fear came true. Then I was afraid he'd fall in love with her and take a serious step of commitment with her (like moving in together)... that fear also came true. Now, I fear he'll marry her (something he said he had no interest of ever doing). And, I fear that because I fear it... it will come true as well.

I know logically that just because I'm afraid of something happening doesn't mean it's actually going to happen. But I also wonder if being afraid of it isn't the same as knowing it's going to happen but secretly hoping it doesn't. Am I just really bad at accepting things as they are, or am I really, really unlucky?

For a long long time I was afraid of the number 13. My childhood dog died on a Friday the Thirteenth. My grandfather died on November 13. I took a date to a party once, on June 13 (many years ago), and he had sex with somebody else in the bathroom. On another Friday the Thirteenth, my boyfriend showed up to a girls' night out drunk off his ass and embarrassed the hell out of me. The more and more I was afraid of the number, the more bad things started to happen in and around that number. It was as if my negative energy brought on the negative activities.

So, I faced the fear. For the first time since childhood I took an irrational fear and head butted it. I, Destiny Fritz, got the number 13 tattooed onto my body. There's no escaping it now. I even got the tattoo on FRIDAY THE 13TH! I'm surprised I didn't contract a communicable disease, given my fear of the number. So far, it hasn't brought me bad luck. In fact it feels freeing to say "I had this fear... and now I don't. See? I can't be afraid of something tattooed on me." Because no matter what, that number is in my life every day now.

I want to be fearless. I want to love fearlessly. I want to go through my life knowing there's fear, but saying, "Fear... you don't scare me anymore." Because what kind of life is one ruled by fear? How will I ever accomplish anything if I'm afraid of what people will think, what people will say or how it will look? I've come a long way in being a confident, self assured person... but I still have a long way to go.

I think admitting the fear is the first step. When you say you're afraid of something, then you have it out of the way. You've expelled part of the fear and you now have the opportunity to come up with a solution against it, move past it, and just maybe... conquer it.

So what am I afraid of? So many things. I'm afraid I'll never finish a book. I'm afraid I'll never get that book published. I'm afraid I'll never find somebody to fully love me for who and what I actually am. I'm afraid I'll never lose this weight. I'm afraid I'll always be distracted from accomplishing my goals.

Now that I've said all of that out loud, I'm going to work on ways to solve those fears. I'm going to take them, crush them, and prove them wrong. Who's with me? Who wants to get rid of the fear?

Father's Day

When I was 6 years old my mother and father split up. It happened in the Spring of 89' and my mother found herself acting as both parental roles in my and my brother's life. It makes sense that on Father's Day that year we went to a St. Louis Cardinal's game instead of a cookout where fatherhood is celebrated. It would be the first of many Father's Days to come where I didn't see my father or get to wish him a Happy Father's Day.

Despite my dad's general lack of a presence in my life, I never really went without a father figure. For many years I looked to my grandfather to fill this role. He was a very funny man, and he was gifted with colorful word choices. If I spilled food on my shirt while eating he'd tell me to "eat like I'm riding into the wind." He was a biker, and this phrase was his way of telling me to lean over my dinner plate. If I choked on something or had a coughing fit he'd say, "Block her Henry!" I never quite figured that one out, but it was usually accompanied with a swift blow to my back to help me survive the moment. When he watched the news he called it "Library hour," and when he took a nap he called it "Happy Hour." Both phrases were his way of telling me to pipe down and be quiet for a little while. He also had the uncanny ability to assign outlandish nicknames that stuck for people he was fond of (I was Junior or Rerun). I find myself with his sense of humor inside of me. When I say something witty or give somebody a random nick name I think of him and silently thank him for his genes and his remarkable influence on my life.

When I was 12, my mother met my step-father, Terry. Through the years I've never started calling him Dad, but in a round-about way... he has become exactly that. When I'm talking to friends (or even random people) and I use the term "my parents" I am referring to my mother and my step-father. I've even referred to him as my dad or my father when talking ABOUT him. For some reason, though, I've never felt the need to actually address him as such.

The time when I first felt like he was taking a fatherly role in my life was when I was 13. I came home from a dance at school bawling my eyes out. I can't remember the name of the boy I liked back then, but he had been at the dance with another girl. It devastated me. Terry took me to get ice cream (always a good call) and he told me I was beautiful and that boy was a jerk for not seeing this about me. He said not to worry, there will be more boys. He made me feel better. He took my broken little heart and put a band-aid on it. At the time he and my mom weren't even engaged yet, but I hoped he would stick around forever.

I was there when he proposed. My mother, Terry and I were laying on a blanket in my grandparent's back yard. It was late August and we were watching the meteor showers. Only the crickets made noise as we lay in silence watching the sky. Then, out of nowhere, Terry says to my mother, "You're going to marry me, aren't you?" My mother simply said, "Yes, I am." There was no excitement. There was no ring. He didn't get down on one knee and make a speech. He simply said what was on his mind, and my mother simply replied. It took a moment for me to realize what just happened and I shot up and said, "Did you just propose to Mom?" He said, "Yeah, I think I did."

That was that. Within a year or so they were married. I was the maid of honor, and my brother gave her away. On that day our little family of three grew sizably. Not only did we gain a step-father, but we also gained two step sisters (one of whom had a baby girl) and a step brother.

Through the years Terry has been my rock more times than I'd like to admit. He taught me how to drive. He taught me how to fish. He participated in lengthy discussions about life with me. When I was 16 he helped all of us get through my grandfather's passing. He's fixed my curling irons, my car, and numerous other objects when they broke down. He went with me to the vet's office when I had to put down my childhood pet. And when I got my heart broken as an adult, he was there again with words of encouragement. In all senses of the word, except the biological sense, he has been my dad for a very long time.

In the meantime, my biological father and I had a rather rocky relationship. We had arguments and falling outs. We said things that I'm sure we both regret. We went years without speaking to each other. As of right now I haven't seen him face to face for 14 years. That's half of my life. But, as of last summer, we are communicating again.

As an adult I can look back and see the mistakes I've made with him. I was a child then, and many of them can be excused or explained by age. I also manage to see his mistakes in a clearer light. I've forgiven him completely because I know he didn't realize the monumental mistakes he was making as he made them. And holding onto that anger only makes me an angry person. I can honestly say that I love him... but he's never been a permanent fixture in my life. He's never been who I ran to when my car or my heart was broken.

This year, for the first time in over 20 years, I told him Happy Father's Day. I left it as a message on his Facebook wall. It was posted there right next to another salutation left by a young woman in his new life with his new wife. This young woman, I assume, sees him as a father figure in her life. And even though I have an amazing father in Terry, part of me is insanely jealous that my dad obviously got it right with somebody else. Where was that for me? Am I being selfish to wonder that, and wish for it a little bit? Because, you see, when I was deciding on a picture of my dad to post as my profile pic, I chose one of me and Terry. I'm sure that caused a twinge of jealousy in my father's heart. For that reason, alone, I have no right to be jealous... yet I am.

Buck up, Destiny. I tell myself that, because when I look at Terry I'm amazed at how good of a dad he is. He has excellent relationships with his daughters. He's currently helping one of them out who is coping with her own broken heart. She's like a sister to me, and I love being able to say that. This year on Father's Day he stepped up in a way that no father is required to, and in a way that some fathers never do. The thirteen year old inside of me is beaming because when I wished he'd stick around forever... that wish came true. One day when he's dancing with me at my wedding I'll thank my lucky stars that there are men in this world who are fathers to girls who don't share a shred of DNA with them.

Happy Father's Day... a day late.

Repeat Offender

Oh how nice it must be to have all that attention from him. He treats you like a goddess doesn't he? He calls and texts you regularly, and he takes you out and shows you a nice time whenever you ask him to. He probably tells you that you're beautiful, and sweet, and funny, and sexy. And I know you love it. What woman wouldn't?

He's not the first, though. He won't be the last. There is something about you that draws men in. They want you. They need you. They have to have you. Normal, upstanding, goodhearted men turn into dumb, ignorant, cavemen around you. You must put out some sort of pheromone to get this attention. I can't figure it out, but you'll never be lacking for the attention of a man.

The downside to always being the recipient of male attention is always being the recipient of negative female attention. Most of the women I know can't stand you. I think part of it is jealousy. They wish they received the validation that you get from men. Or you are receiving the validation from the man they want, or the man they had. That can spark rage inside any woman's heart.

The jealousy turns into disrespect quickly. Women talk, and, before you know it there are rumors about you floating around. Some of them are true. Some of them are not true. Still you hold your head high and you continue your path of destruction. You go from one guy to the next. As long as there is a line of men who are willing to show you the attention you so badly crave, there will be a longer line women ready to discredit your name anytime it's mentioned.

I've found that it's not always women who are quick to bad mouth you, either. You tend to infiltrate groups of guy friends. When one of them doesn't work out for you, you float to another one... and then another one. Before you know it you've made your way through the group of friends, and they all think bad things of you. They tell their friends, who tell their girlfriends. And then half the population of an entire town knows about you without actually knowing you. It's sad really.

It all reads as insecurity. You leave yourself open to this interpretation. It makes sense, though, because what self respecting girl would spread herself around like that? The proof is in the pudding sweetheart. It wouldn't be so negatively put upon you if you seemed to have standards, or morals, or remorse for when you actually hurt people.

You do hurt people, you know. You hurt a lot of women who date these guys. Although, I kind of think you do these women a favor by showing them how much of a dog their man can be. Sure, he can smell the scent you're putting out there, but if he were seriously committed to another woman then he wouldn't fall for your charms. When he does... that other woman should see the light.

But, you also hurt guys. Because not all of these guys who go after you are dogs. Not all of them are previously attached to another girl. Some of them are really good guys at the core. They're hard working. They are genuine. They aren't assholes... not all of them. And you lead them on. You make them believe you are in it to win it. But then somebody else picks up what you throw out there and you can't turn down that attention. You'll either cheat on that good man or toss him aside with the evening trash. And then he's devastated. He never saw it coming.

Well, he might have seen it coming if you had been honest from the get go about the kind of person you are. But you're never honest from the beginning of anything. You pretend. You figure out what it is that they are into... where their passion lies. Then you pretend their passion is your passion. You don't have an opinion of your own (not one you'd actually say during these preliminary periods) and you certainly won't show them anything that's real about you. You only put on this little show, which makes them think they've struck gold. Finally... a woman who is exactly what he wants... only because she makes herself appear that way, fellas.

Eventually those true colors show, though, don't they darling? It's hard as hell and exhausting as fuck to keep all that up. You might wait until you have another man waiting in the wings to let these real facets of your personality shine through, or you find yourself slipping and showing them too early. However it happens, he will start to see he was duped. You're not the girl he thought you were... instead you are an immature drip of a person who can't take responsibility for her own actions. And when he calls you on it, you will call him an asshole and blame him for everything wrong about the pretend relationship the two of you just had.

Never fear, though, sweetheart. There's another man waiting to woo you. And it doesn't matter that you were only thinking of him as a friend just a week ago. He's here now... and he's giving you that attention. He's distracting you from the last guy. He validates your existence... and he starts the process all over again.

The real bitch of it is, you're not a bad person. You actually do have a good personality. You just decide to shelve it and swap it out for whatever it is you think this guy wants you to be. I wish you'd be honest with yourself... for once... you might find somebody you don't have to play games with or be fake with. Then it won't matter what anybody says or what you've done in the past, because you'll finally realize that it's not about them... it's not about pleasing them, getting them to notice you... it's about making you happy and respecting yourself enough to stop this very destructive behavior.

Revision

Over the last week I have found myself among some pretty influential company. My dearest friends.

The unfortunate event of a death in the family brought home Rob. He recently moved out east and had been enjoying coastal living when he was informed that his cousin died in a drunk driving accident. He made his way back to Illinois to pay his respects. While he was home I had the pleasure of spending a couple of evenings with him. As usual, these evenings were soaked with alcohol, long conversations, laughter and insight.

He and I have never lacked for conversation, and we've never been afraid to delve into ourselves during these conversations. We will talk about anything from broad topics like religion and politics to more focused points such as personal growth and internal struggles. Through these rather therapeutic discussions I've learned more about myself, and my own capabilities. One of the things he said this week was "Let go of your ego."

I don't consider myself to be terribly egotistical, but, I suppose everybody is to an extent. Letting go of one's ego is probably an entirely impossible task. I'm sure even the most silent monk will still think of himself more than he thinks of others. It's a natural instinct. However, Rob had a point. If I let go of my ego, I will essentially make myself more useful to others. By making myself more useful, I become a better person. When that happens I can think of myself in a better way... therefore boosting my ego. Does that make sense at all?

Rob wasn't the only friend challenging me in my journey called life this last week. My friend, Jessica, unknowingly joined him. She recently obtained her Master's Degree in Social Work, and she's a victim of the economy. She's keeping tabs on how many resume's she has sent out and she's rapidly approaching the number 50. Surely she's also doing a lot of her own soul searching.

I told her I have a new outlook on life. I've decided that no definition can be applied to me. I've observed that people tend to define themselves, each other, and their situations. They say to themselves, "Am I better than he is because I have a better job?" Or they assign definitions to those individuals who they feel threatened by. Through doing this we limit ourselves and our peers. So I've decided I have no definition, and if you want to define me I will defy your definition. I will not fit into your category and you can't make me.

As I explained this to her she played devil's advocate and said to me, "If there were one thing you could change about yourself, what would it be?" I came up with an answer quickly, though I won't share it here. It's private. She said it wasn't society that wants this from me, it's me. And changing myself won't change my definition since I refuse to have one. She's a smart one... and she managed to get me to do even more thinking.

As you may have noticed I've changed the look of my blog. I am no longer mundane and predictable. I'm revising my life and taking power over it. These changes are happening and they will take place. I'm not resistant to them.

Thank you, my friends, for being who you are. You push the limits and dare to ask questions. This is why I love you. Don't stop doing it, because through your bravery and your insight I am propping myself up and moving forward. I love you all so so much.

Bev and Roz Escape the Nursing Home

"This is why I never had kids. They always turn on you." Roz is fuming as she breaks open the tap on a new box of wine. Once her glass is filled and she draws a long sip from it she continues, "Can you believe it Bev? Lily's own children sent her to that... that... that PLACE! Gah! It's so evil I refuse to even mention it!"

"You mean the nursing home?" Bev hands her glass to Roz, who refills it for her, "Yes... THAT place. It's so awful. We HAVE to break her out."

Roz has always had a flair for the dramatic. And when she gets an idea in her head, she rarely lets it go. She sits on the couch and thinks. Bev watches her dear friend. When Roz gets worked up she can't sit still. Her foot twitches and she smokes one cigarette right after the other.

Bev tries to offer her some comfort, "Well, maybe Lily LIKES the nursing home?"

"Don't be naive, Bev. NOBODY likes the nursing home. It's the pound for old people... except nobody wants to adopt Grandma and buy her a chew toy."

Bev thought for a moment, "We could go visit her..."

Roz snapped at her, "And run the risk of those vile people capturing us?" Roz was sure nursing homes were just waiting for the elderly to walk in so they could snatch them up and make them play bingo for hours on end, "Besides they wouldn't let us bring wine to her. I'm sure she could use a drink, too."

"Then what do you propose we do?" Bev lit a cigarette only to have Roz steal it from her chubby fingers. So, Bev lit another one.

"First, we have to do some re-con. We need to figure out the best time to get her out of there, AND we need to get her co-operation."

"What if she doesn't want to escape."

"Bev... stop asking so many questions and just get on board already." Bev laughed, "Okay Roz... let's help somebody escape from a nursing home."

The re-con was easy. All they needed to do was rent a car, sit in the parking lot at night and watch the activities happening around the nursing home. The original plan was to nab her during a smoke break, but it turns out the nursing home no longer lets the residents smoke... not even outside. What a crock!

It was obvious from the beginning that the escape would have to happen after 6 pm and before 9 pm. This seemed to be the time when visitors were still coming and going, the managers and office people were gone for the day, and the doors weren't locked. Also a lot of the group activities happened in the evening hours, and the mass confusion would help their plot.

Roz refused to step inside the facility before the actual plan was underway, but Bev was brave enough to go in and have a meeting of the minds with Lily. She found Lily in her room, sitting in a wheel chair watching the Price is Right.

"Drew Carey is no Bob Barker." Lily turned at the sound of Bev's voice and smiled at her visitor.

"BEV! What a nice surprise!"

"Why are you in a wheel chair?"

"They put everybody in one. It helps them corral us for dinner." Lily stood up, quite easily and on her own. She crossed the room to lean over Bev's large body and hug her old friend.

"You seem capable of independence, why did your kids put you in here?"

Lily sighed and sat on her bed, "They said it would be easier to take care of selling the house and getting everything in order. They act like I'm going to die tomorrow. Ever since Harold died..." Lily's eyes teared up, "They act like I can't take care of myself. They worry."

Bev shook her head, "You don't deserve to be here. You're not sick! You're not even that old!"

Lily laughed, "Sometimes I have to remember that I'm not 30 anymore."

Bev reached into the bag which was tethered to her scooter and produced a thermos, "Want some?"

Lily grinned, "What is it?"

"Does it matter?"

"No!" Bev poured some of the liquid into the lid of the thermos and handed it to Lily. Lily took a sip and said, "mmmm... that's the shit."

"Roz and I want to get you out of here." Bev said as Lily emptied the lid and asked for more.

"Oh, Roz! Where is she? I want to see her. She's so much fun."

"She's refusing to enter until we break you out." Lily grinned and said, "Are the two of you scheming on my behalf?"

"Well, that depends if you're up for a scheme or not."

"Only if you two have a pack of smokes waiting on the other side for me."

"Deal." Bev was glad to see it didn't take much convincing. Over the next hour they went over the details of Lily's escape. By the time Bev left, Lily was nice and liquored up. Bev left her to her soap operas and reported back to Roz, "It's a go. We strike tonight."

At 7 o'clock the bingo started in the main dining room. The nurses and nurse's aides who weren't dealing with the activity were busy giving showers to other residents and/or putting them to bed. Lily told one of the aides she'd like to sit outside. The aide told her no, since there wouldn't be anybody to keep an eye on her. Bev and Roz's plan hinged on Lily being allowed outside, and the sudden change in plan put a large kink in that.

Luckily Roz had a back up plan. She'd been watching each worker enter and leave the building. There were a series of codes that needed to be punched in to work the doors. The front door had a different one than the side and back door. Also, to exit the building there was a different button/code to use on each door.

Bev waited in the car. She was an excellent get-away driver, and it was easier for her to wait and Roz to maneuver. Roz waited until the Bingo game was in full swing and she chose the side door. She punched in the code and entered quietly. Following Bev's instructions she found Lily's room. She dodged a few workers while roaming the large building, but managed to find the room without being seen. Lily was waiting with a duffle bag packed.

Together they went through the hallways deftly and found the side door. Roz punched in the code and they were out. Within seconds they were in the car and Bev took off. They all cackled loudly.

"What a rush!" Lily exclaimed, "I never felt so alive!"

Bev and Roz both knew it was only a matter of time before they were found out, so they decided to live it up while they had time. They hit a club where the doorman almost didn't let them in, until Roz informed the young man that she knew his grandfather, and she also knew several pressure points that would debilitate him in an instant. Somehow, that convinced the guy to let them past the velvet rope. He was either scared, or figured they wouldn't be any harm anyway.

The music was loud and the bartender refused to take Bev's Senior Discount Card, so they left. They found a liquor store, stocked up on wine and cigs and headed back to Bev and Roz's apartment. They partied all night long. They cackled as they all recalled stories which had been long forgotten or retold millions of times.

Lily passed out first and then Bev and Roz continued the party outside on the patio. They each passed out in lawn chairs like a couple of college kids.

The next day Lily's kids were pounding on the front door. When Bev answered it she was blurry eyed and hungover. "Where is our mother?"

Bev played innocent, "Didn't you put her in a nursing home?"

"Yes, and yesterday somebody in a scooter visited her, and then she disappeared. WHERE IS SHE?"

Bev sighed and knew the party was over. She opened the door and allowed Lily's kids in. Lily was in the kitchen making breakfast.

"Come on Mom, we're leaving." Lily's oldest son said as he attempted to grab her arm.

"I'm not going anywhere!" Lily demanded, "I'm making breakfast. And I raised you better than to grab a woman like that. Let go of me right now."

Lily's authoritative tone shocked Bev, and it worked on her son. He let go of her and backed off.

"Why did you run away?"

"Because that place is awful. Would you like a pancake dear?"

"No. I want you to go back to the nursing home."

"Well, that's not happening. What about you, Melissa. Would you like a pancake?" Lily offered breakfast to her daughter who, up until now, hadn't said a word. She politely declined.

"I know Bev wants one, don't you?" Bev nodded. She was starving. Roz stumbled into the room just then and said, "Well hell... the gang's all here."

"I should've known you'd be in on this. You ruined my graduation party." Lily's son started in on Roz but before Roz could bite back at him Lily interrupted, "That's no way to speak to somebody in their home. Besides, your graduation party was lame until Roz spiked the punch and started singing karaoke."

Roz grinned at him as Lily rested a hot pancake on her plate. Both Bev and Roz started eating their breakfast as Lily explained to her children that she would like to stay in this apartment. Bev started to protest that they might not have enough room, but she couldn't speak for some reason. She looked over to Roz and the look on Roz's face mirrored Bev's.

It dawned on both of them that their breakfast had been poisoned. Lily continued to talk to her kids, "I think the apartment will be up for rent soon, and I can afford it on my fixed income." Bev and Roz both struggled to hang on to their lives, but within minutes both of them fell out of their chairs. Lily stood up and asked her children to leave, "If you'll excuse me now... I have to call the Coroner."

Cubic Zirconia in the Rough

As I apply my perfect smoky eye for a Friday Night Karaoke session I jam out to some Pat Benetar and Heart. I'm preparing for a fun night in which I will be a microphone whore and a beer drinking fool. Trust me, I'm a fun time. But I'm not getting ready for a date. No, I'm meeting up with a girlfriend.

A little over a week ago I met a guy. Believe me when I say I had a wonderful time with him. The time flew by like it was nothing and he had me laughing and hanging on his every word. He wasn't particularly charming or even very good looking, but I went with it. I went with it because it's rare for me to find a guy I genuinely enjoy spending time with. Also, it's rare when that guy also thinks I'm beautiful, and a catch, and he can't wait to see me again. Honestly, I felt like I had found something worth exploring.

So why am I not going on a date with him tonight? It's a Friday night... an optimal night for young single twenty-somethings of the opposite sex to mingle in the night life. The opportunity for romance is afoot, is it not?

Well, it seems his interest has waned. Is it embarrassing for me to admit that I didn't manage to hold a guy's interest for longer than a week? Frankly, yes. It is embarrassing for me to admit that. I get told by my friends that I'm beautiful, funny, charismatic, smart, and a really fun time. I know for a fact that I'm not particularly clingy and I like to go with the flow when it comes to guys (something Cosmo tells me guys LOVE).

So here's the break down. This guy texted me a lot right away. Now I'm not a huge phone person. Yes, I have a smart phone and I keep it near my side most of the time, but I don't check it constantly. It's rare that I'll be huddled up in the corner with my face in my phone while I converse with somebody who isn't in the room. I prefer face to face contact. I tend to leave my phone unattended when I'm at home. It will be in my bedroom while I'm vegging out to netflix in the living room. So I have to be honest when I say that I didn't answer every single one of his texts. When I explained this to him, he stopped texting me constantly. I saw this as a good sign, right? He's able to listen and adjust, correct?

No. He went to the complete opposite end of the spectrum and stopped texting unless I texted him first. Okay, fine... I guess I asked for that one. So, I played into his little game. And that's how I viewed it... as a game. Also, in the back of my mind, I saw it as pouting because I wasn't conforming to his need for constant attention.

And that brings me to the next subject. After one date this guy felt the need to make several sexual innuendos towards me. If we were talking late at night on the phone he mentioned having a "kickstand." Which I steadfastly ignored. I'm not a prude, trust me on that, but I do like to take my time before reaching that level with a guy. I've had my phase of going through men like kleenex and I'm done with it. I've also had a friend with benefits in the past. I'm also done with that. Now I'm looking for a guy for the long haul, and call me old fashioned, but I think there are some things that are better left to the imagination until a little ways down the road. Sex can ruin a good thing. And I thought I had a good thing going with him.

After turning down his requests time and time again (these requests consisted of me driving an hour and a half to spend the night with him, send him naughty pictures of myself and so on), he's decided to not return any of my phone calls or texts. He swore up and down he was wanting to get to know me and actually date me. He told me it wasn't only about sex, but that he's a guy and I can't blame him for thinking about it. Yet, here I am high and dry because I wouldn't get down and wet with him. This sudden about face only makes me happier that I didn't give it up to him.

While the whole sex conversation so soon makes me nervous... it also makes me something else: feeling very disrespected. I realize men have urges and they supposedly think about sex more than women do (though crash any girl's night out and you'll hear some pretty raunchy talk going on). But we live in a world full of sexual crime. When a woman is sexually attacked it's very HARD for her to open up sexually to a new man. It takes time and patience and lots of understanding. Guess what? She probably won't clue you in to the fact that this is WHY she wants to take things slow. So as you're jabbering on about your kickstand she's fretting over how it's going to feel when you touch her or kiss her. Will it trigger a bad memory? Will she be able to take it? Men don't think about this... they don't think about how their words and their incessant nagging on the topic is very un-nerving and sometimes... highly inappropriate.

I guess another one bites the dust. Honestly, I'm not too worried about it. I know I'll find my diamond in the rough... if he's meant to be found. And when I do, he'll understand my need to take things slow in order to preserve the good. When things ARE taken slow... it's so much better anyway. But tonight... me and my perfect eye make up are hitting the town and belting some high notes. I just hope I don't make the cats cry with me.