The BIG?

I have a birthday coming up, and it is a significant one, a milestone in life as it were. I am feeling pretty good about it, and if you had asked me a decade ago I probably would not have so generous with myself. A few great things come with age. I don’t give much of a shit what other people think anymore. It isn’t that I don’t value the opinions of friends or family, it’s just other folks in general that I don’t care about. I’m sort of past winning approval for what I do, think, or am. I have tried to change some things about myself that are unappealing, but in the end some things are as natural as breathing and can’t be reprogrammed. So, world you just gotta take me warts and all, cuz much can’t be fixed at this stage in the game.

I’m also in better health mentally and physically than I have ever been in my life. I quit doing drugs years ago. My consumption of alcohol is very limited. I enjoy a nice glass of wine and bonus; I’m a cheap date these days. I work out, although I have never gotten that runner’s high that gym rats are always talking about. I feel better after I workout. What I get if I don’t workout is a bit of self loathing that I could do without. So to keep my inner insecure bitch at bay, I work out. I must say it does improve my appearance and self esteem.

A couple of days ago I put on a pair of riding pants that I bought around 1989. Back then leggings were popular for the first time and these were on sale because they weren’t plain like regular legging but reinforced like, well, riding pants. Call me bohemian or cheap but I bought 2 pair for 10 bucks each. Today the damn things are sort of roomy on me. Now I’m impressed with myself because I don’t know of anyone who can still wear their pants from 1989. Hell, they are back in style now. Bret said, Hey, I remember those pants. You look good in them.” I looked hot in them, I’ll have you know.

That’s another thing that surprises me about getting older. I feel sexy. I am more comfortable and secure in myself than when I was a younger woman. I flirt and have a great time with men. If anything has changed it is that I am perhaps more of a handful than most guys expect. And that’s kind of fun too.
So let’s see I’m happier, healthier and sexier than I was 10 years ago. Wow! That’s an accomplishment. My only regret is the wisdom that comes with age doesn’t come sooner. That’s probably everyone’s regret.


You may wonder how I’ve decided to spend my big day. Well, I booked a flight and a deluxe king suite with a balcony in New Orleans. I’m going to make some reservations to a couple of my favorite restaurants and I am going to walk, drink, and eat my way through the French Quarter. I plan on throwing and earning some beads. I still have a great rack and I intend on using it. I’m going to listen to some great music and ponder my future, which I envision as hopeful and bright. If anyone is NOLA on Feb 9th and 10th I’ll be staying at the St. Louis Hotel. Stop by and have a drink. My friends are welcomed to join the celebration.

Car Fire BAD, Cell Phone GOOD!

I wonder if I’m getting old. I mean does having a problem with the dumb ass things that young folks do make me an old fart, maybe. Anyway here’s what happened. I’m going home after a late class. It’s about 10 pm. I’m cruising down the highway and up ahead I see a car on fire off to the side of the road. The smoke is so thick that cars that don’t change lanes disappear in the smoke. I watched their tail lights just vanish. I can see that the flames are already at the center of the under carriage and the interior is illuminated. I don’t see anyone inside or getting out. I figure that this thing is going blow at any moment. There weren’t any emergency vehicles on the scene, but as I passed the car I saw another vehicle up ahead and off to the side. I pulled over at what I assumed was a safe distance. My cell phone was in the trunk of my car so I had to exit my car to fetch it. I grabbed my purse out of my trunk, hopped back in my car and started digging for the phone. Just then, I see a figure moving towards me from the car up ahead. The young man is talking on his cell phone and I roll down my window to ask if everyone is ok. I hear him talking to someone, I assume the police, because he is giving the highway information. He says, “Yeah man the flames are just shooting up everywhere.”
I asked, “Is there anyone still in the car?
“No, I got him out he’s down there.”
“You talking to the cops?”
“No.”
I pause….. a bit taken aback. Mentally, I ‘m running down a laundry list. Who would I be calling if my car were on fire? Whom would it be more beneficial to be engaged in a conversation with? Hmmm….. I ask again, “Are you talking to the police?”
“No. Are you gonna call them?”
“Well I have to dig for my phone and yours is in your hand.” I answer.
He was thinking about my answer when two additional members of the crew joined him at my window. They too were carrying on conversations on their cell phones. Once again, I’m trying to establish the basics, who is talking to the authorities and whose car is it. There was some confusion as to the car’s owner. “Him” and everybody pointing fingers was the answer.
“How do I do that?”
“Call the cops,” I queried.
“Yeah.”
“Dial 911.”
“That all.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
YOU DAIL 911 YOU STUPID FUCK!!!!
Of course, I did not say that on the outside. On the inside, I’m thinking these guys are wearing nice clothes, driving late model cars, even if one of them was on fire, and they are holding onto expensive electronic devices. It didn’t seem fair to me. Here I was in my 10 year old Honda, a poor student with a mortgage. What to do, what to do.
“Look, I think you guys have this under control and I’ll leave you to it. BYE!”
I drove away. My conscience got the best of me by the time I reached my exist, and I dialed 911 myself. The operator told that they had just received the call, and that they were on their way. I apologized for bothering her, and she laughed and said not at all. I figure she just got off the line with the three stooges I left down the road.

Christmas, Family and Porn

It’s a few days before Christmas and I’m visiting my sister. My brother in law’s mother lives with them in a very nice suite in the basement, she is however in California for the holidays. My Dad and step mom are visiting from California and occupying the guest room. Bare with me folks because sleeping arrangements figure into the story.

After dinner, conversation, and libations we all head off to bed. I get the mother in law suite. I get into bed and notice someone is still up and watching an action film in the home theater room. Now I don’t have to tell you, but I will, it’s a tad loud and booming through the walls. In the spirit of the holidays, I decide I’ll just watch the tube until whoever goes to bed. My sister’s house has like a million TV channels. Poor peasant that I am I don’t even have HBO. I’m flipping through channels, there’s Harry Potter, nah, then Dexter, nah, half over and then the show REAL SEX, bingo! Like most folks I find sex mildly interesting so I’m gonna watch.

This particular segment was about the company Real Dolls who manufacture those $7,000 sex dolls. Well they have finally come out with a male doll. I will refer to the doll as Beach Boy Bob or Bob. All products must test marketed and this one is no exception. The company hired three “experts” (porn stars) to run Bob through his paces. So I’m watching. Now this probably a good time to mention that the bathroom connected to the suite has a second entrance from the hall. I hear the door open from the hall. I’ve left the light on in the bath so I can see. Into the bathroom walks my brother in law and he appears to fishing in his sweats for his little soldier. He notices the sounds coming from the room and begins to wander in asking, “Hey who’s in here?” I say, “It’s just me.” His attention moves from the bed to the TV where one “expert” has mounted Bob and the other two are helping her so to speak. The action is at a fever pitch. I say, I’m watching that show Real Sex. I say this as if that will make it clear that I’m not just watching any old porn but the classy HBO kind of porn. My brother in law gets a look of embarrassed horror on his face, a look that screams my eyes, my eyes, and in my mother’s bed. He tries to quickly retreat from the room and close the door behind him. Unfortunately, for both of us, I have hung some of my clothes on the door and they are preventing it from closing. They fall to the floor, he picks them up, places them back on the door and tries to close it again, and they fall to the floor again. In frustration, he throws the clothes onto the lazy boy and slams the door.

I find the whole thing hysterically funny and I can’t wait to tell everyone morning. My sister refers to this episode as, THE INCIDENT THAT DARE NOT SPEAK IT”S NAME. My brother in law claims that his therapy will be very expensive and I won’t find the bill so funny. So how was your Christmas?

Free writing and Sex

Today in my creative writing class, we were instructed to perform some free writing exercises. We had 30 seconds to make a list of the 10 most important things or events in our life, and then 15 seconds to cross out all of them with the exception of one. We were then instructed to free write for a couple of minutes about last thing on our list. Here’s where the fun comes in. I had two things left on my list. My professor said hurry strike out one more. The last two items were sex and being published. Mind you, I struck out my birth, marriage, falling in love and meeting my father (whole other blog topic). Shockingly, I struck out publishing for sex. I guess I can deal with not being published but no sex. What kind of life is that? So, I’m left with sex…except I can’t write for a couple minutes about sex in a classroom full of people. I find myself saying stuff like how can I write erotica if I can’t free write on sex for a couple freakin minutes.

Today I learned that I’m not comfortable writing about sex in a room full of people. What does that say about me? Am I an anti exhibitionist or something? I must say I’m a little surprised at me and a little pissed. I’m supposed to be a writer and I threw my livelihood away for some make believe nookie. Now I feel like I’m not serious about my craft and some sort of weird frigid. I figure I gotta do something to make this right. I’ve decided to write something really sexy, hell downright pornographic. Should it be a biographical piece or just some erotic fantasy of mine? Oh yeah, I got it now, there was this one time that I just …wait. I don’t think it’s the right time for me to blog something like that here. It’s too soon, you understand don’t you? Maybe next time when you come to my blog I’ll have something special for you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. Well, maybe I did, I’m a writer and a big old tease!

The Dali Mama

Women want to be wanted. Men need to be needed

Oh, so this is where the problem lies. I got home yesterday from a 4 day visit with my mother. Mothers can explain anything in the most simplistic terms and they are always right. At least mine is. Want to know the secrets of the universe, just ask my mother. My Mom is like the Dali Lama of all mothers. My great sin is that I never learned to ask the right questions at the right time. And like all great and mysterious oracles my Mom is not about to just volunteer this information. One must come to the mother on ones knees requiring enlightenment in a specific area of ones miserable life. Then all will be revealed. It’s a very Zen fucking moment. A too late to matter Zen fucking moment but a moment nonetheless. So tonight, I’m a bit in my cups, as a friend describes it, which means I’m drunk or working on it and writing. So women want to be wanted and men need to be needed. My problem according to Mom is that I don’t need a man I just want one.
You see daughter men don’t like educated, intelligent, self-sufficient women. They prefer semi retarded women like say Paris Hilton for example. You need a catch phrase like, “That’s hot” or you need to be overly concerned with what labels you are wearing and where you are being seen. Oh and don’t be afraid to fall face first, or any other available orifice, on any penis you may encounter. Nothing says needy like being an insecure fuck bunny. Now sweetie if you think that you can live with that then you go right ahead and be that kind of woman. Mama loves you either way, but I’m betting you have a problem with the lifestyle. You could stay the course and hope to one day find that rarity among men, a man who loves being wanted by a woman who does not necessarily need him.

Geez Ma thanks you’re a peach.

Anything else you’d like to ask dear.

No, the insight that I may have to pretend to have the IQ of fruit fly in order to get laid is plenty to digest right now. I was going to ask you about my troubled marriage but I’m depressed enough as it is. I’ll save those questions for Thanksgiving.

All right, have it your way honey. You know you can always call.

I’m sure of one thing right now. I both want and need another drink and that chilled bottle of Chardonnay does not care one way or another how I feel about it. So, if you folks will excuse me I’m about to go and have my way with it. Later.

My Jewish Pants

I just noticed that my new jeans have a Star of David embroidered on them. I didn’t notice that in the store. Hmm, I noticed the rips and tears, patches and beaded flowers and holes. I noticed all the things that made these jeans look like I bought them from a thrift store in 1969. Here’s the funny thing, this is the disclaimer tag from the jeans (I swear I’m not making this up).

The gentle shading and slight irregularities or slubs, which may appear on this garment, are inherent to the natural fibers and special processes used in the dyeing. This does not reflect a damage or mistake. The garment is enhanced by the variations.

Okay. Well what about the holes and other stuff. Wait, wait here’s another tag.

Hand Crafted authentic vintage trademark tested and approved worn and torn wash.

Right, they are worn, torn and washed. Here’s another damn tag.

Authentic vintage * Trade Tested * Superior Quality

They gots fuckin holes in em! And this still doesn’t explain the Star of David. I don’t mind the Star of David, it’s just if I’m going to be pimping somebody’s religion on my pants I’d like to know why. As it stands, my pants look like a Jewish hippie previously owned them. That’s not why I bought these pants. I bought these pants because they made my ass look good. And I bought them worn because I wanted it to appear that they had been making my ass look good for a long time. I did not buy them so people would think that they had been making my Jewish ass look good for a long time. I feel like my pants want me to convert. Where’s the tag that says welcome to faith child of Israel. Should I’ve gotten a mini Torah with my pants? I mean if I’m gonna be representing give me something to work with here, a little book of Yiddish phrases _ something. It isn’t fair. I’m totally unprepared for my pants. I feel bad about wanting to know why the Star of David is on my pants. My ex Catholic guilt is at war with my Jewish pants. What if I’m wearing them and someone asks, “Oh are you Jewish?”
“No, but my pants are.”
Hell, nobody’s ever gonna notice. But I’ll know_ I’ll always know that I’m wearing mystery Jewish pants. Maybe I’m supposed to be Jewish. After all Jewish pants make my ass look good. And in the larger scheme of things isn’t that all that really matters, my ass looking good in my Jewish pants.

Sheff Expalins Love

There’s been a lot of talk about love in my world as of late. I have recently concluded that I don’t believe in love anymore. Tonight I’m rethinking that belief or maybe I’m just clarifying my position on love. Love exists. It is real. The mistake that most of us make is that we, somehow along the way, have come to believe that it is a permanent condition. Love is not, in my estimation anyway, permanent. At least for the vast majority of us it’s not. And I for one am brave enough to admit that love is a temporary pain in my ass. If you feel that this blog doesn’t apply to you, well, I’m so fucking happy for you that I could just spit. Now get the fuck off my blog! Go on, you won’t enjoy the rest of this.

Ok, now that we are alone, here’s some truth. If you have ever loved someone in a romantic way, you are selfish. Why selfish, because you loved not because it made the object of your affection feel better. You loved someone because of the way they made you feel. Think about it now, before you say ah Sheff you’re just in a pissy mood. Didn’t being with so and so make you feel smarter, funnier, sexier or whatever “er” you happen to be wanting at the time. See, you’re starting to see it now aren’t you? Sure, there was some mutual feeling, if you were lucky. Look, I am willing to confess that I have never been loved in the way that adults explain love to children. You know the story, the someday you’ll meet that certain someone and you’ll just know it’s forever. Bullshit! We should stop lying to children, it’s cruel and it gets them into trouble later. It’s like this, I’m married to someone who doesn’t love me, if he ever did I’m sure he’s over it by now. What he continues to love is what I do for him and how I make him feel. He barely even knows me and to be honest he has very little interest in anything that I do outside of how in directly benefits him. Example: appearances and domestic chores.

The last man to say that he loved me did so after about 2 hours. I mean he had only known me for that long. I did not feel obligated to return his love. Hell, it had only been 2 hours and even I need more time that that. I think the moment he got back to his own time zone he was cured of his momentary infestation of love. His parents must have lied to him something awful.

I sincerely hope that I am wrong about love but I fear that I am not. I’m tired of beating myself up about the lack of this fairy tale version of love that I have yet to experience. And another thing, I’m sick of my friends and myself being victimized by their love of people who clearly don’t love them.

I think we should come up with a different word for this thing we call love. Why can’t we just try to know each other? Wow, what a concept. Let’s try some honesty with that shall we. A conversation would go something like this, “Hey, I like what you have to say and I find you attractive. Do you think we could hang out for a while and get to know each other? Damn Sheff, I don’t know that sounds difficult and that honesty thing, well, it just scares me something fierce. Aw, you bunch of pusses!

Party Train International In Atlanta

I woke Saturday morning to giggling voices snuggling my neck. There were little people in bed with me. My niece and nephew were delighted to find their auntie Sheff asleep in a bedroll on the floor, so they crawled in with me. Their father, a big bear of a man, appeared on the scene before I could force my eyes open. I heard him say, You guys leave her alone. He whisked them away before I could respond. It was a nice way to wake up especially after an evening of debauchery. Yes, it was PTI weekend. Most of the walking wounded were still asleep. Bodies were scattered about our hostess rather large home. After coffee, a number of members were assessing the evenings losses. MIAs included a cell phone and an I POD, along with the dignities of a few. Hey, it happens. I deserve some kind of award for being the least hung-over and still having a damn fine time.
The evening started with food, drinks and socializing with new members. Around 8pm, we loaded on to a party bus and headed to the Ritz Carlton. I think the hotel was a little overwhelmed by 19 women showing up at one time and causing a stir. I met a nice Swedish engineer and enjoyed a good bottle of merlot that the bartender neglected to add to any bill. Two thumbs way up! Next, we went to my least favorite place on earth. Im going to try to be brief because it doesnt deserve that much of my attention. The Compound nightclub is the most revolting, disgusting, trashy place full of posing fools. The weapons check of my purse was welcomed because if I had had a gun in my possession while in that club I would have used it on myself to end my misery. Thanks for saving my life club security. We didnt leave soon enough.
A local member suggested that we go to the Clermont Lounge, so away we went. You dont know anything about this place so let me try to explain. If the Ritz is the top (in some minds) then the Clermont is the bottom (in some minds). It is a tiny, dingy club at the base of a seedy hotel where one of the strippers has worked for over thirty plus years. Yeah, its your grandma naked smacking her ass for you. And I loved it! I had a great time, the most fun of the entire night. My friends all got tables in the corner but not me. I sat at the bar. They served Guinness, heaven, Im in heaven. I liked that the strippers were real women, a little overweight, some older, some younger, sans the implants, very old school. The men at the bar were lots of fun and very respectful of me and the ladies dancing. Some of them gave me money to tip the strippers. I had my own money guys, but thanks. I met a handsome man (he sort had that Sam Rockwell thing going on) and we talked about music and film until the bar closed. Im going to call this guy Sam. Sam, I liked the way you took my face in both your hands to kiss me goodnight. I liked the way you went to the door to leave but returned before my friends could collect me and kissed me like that again. The big romantic gestures work for me. I love them. I bet you thought that I was too tipsy to remember details like that, think again Sam. It was a pleasure spending time with you.
The PTI weekend was a success. No major causalities. I wish that I could see the girls more often.

Casualty

For the second time this spring a baby bird has fallen out of its nest and into my care. They die. Thats what happens, its natures way. I fight nature. I struggle to save them. I place them out the reach, away from the cats, and I attempt to make their passing easy. Why do I bother? Do I feel like the bird, helpless, exposed to predators, removed from all nurturing? This one is brown, tiny, some down still clinging to the sides of his head. Hes taking the water and mushy food through an eyedropper. I made him a nest in one of my plants. He doesnt appear injured like the last bird. Im sure hell be dead by morning and Ill bury him just like his predecessor. All for nothing, pointless, futile. Who am I comforting the bird or me? I am the bird.

Weekend With PTI

Ive been keeping my weekend plans on the down low because wellthey may be a source of some embarrassment later. I belong to a club of sorts called PTI (Party Train International). Its a group of professional women and a few men who get together in various locals (in and outside the U.S to ahparty). Last year we spent a week in Mexico. I got into a little trouble a few years ago in New York when we gather there. Ive been receiving email from our procurement officer the last couple of weeks. I failed to bring any new recruits into the fold, much to my shame.
So far, we have 19 members descending on Atlanta, Georgia this Friday. Im not happy about the nightclub choices, but Ill manage. Im not looking forward to a massive hangover, so Im not going to let them push me into overdrive (Shimmer Boogie is the worst at pushing the alcohol consumption). Well, Im sure Ill have some fun stuff to blog about. Heres some examples of these emails Ive been receiving: (Im violating club rules by posting these. I hope they dont kick me out. Nah.. Im too much fun.

The Body Glitter and black mini skirts have been bought, the limo has been rented, VIP passes procured
We plan to have three stops with two different return trips
That way those who meet some hot guy and want to party until the wee hours of the am can do so, while those who feel they turn into a pumpkin round midnight can go
Due to our large number, we will have an itinerary that we will be sticking pretty close to as the night goes on (until of course, I get drunk and totally forget about the itinerary)..Long story short..this isnt the marines, we leave our comrades behind.. if you get drunk and miss the bus because you are in the corner with some guy..well we will be happy for ya but probably wont wait long.

Am I getting too old for this behavior? Is it time I found a nice guy and settled down? No, wait I did that already and its not working out so good. Lovely to have friends who encourage my bad behavior. Well, Mistress Sheffield aka Holly Go Drunkly will be in the sunny south this weekend. Yall come see us, ya hear!
Currently listening: With Teeth By Nine Inch Nails Release date: By 03 May, 2005

Mr J. or Jay

The least you can do when you promise to love someone forever is to write a blog about them, so here goes. Day two in San Francisco started out very early. We went to Golden Gate Park and visited the Japanese Tea Garden, walked through Haight Asbury ( Dad & Sis old stomping grounds), went Fishermans Warf (clam chowder in sourdough bowls), and then more shopping before taking the train back to Atherton.
It was while shopping that I ran into Mr. J. or Jay Allen (not sure which). Mr. Allen asked me if I liked the bracelet that he was trying on. I said yes and suggested that he buy said bracelet. He told me that he detected a slight accent and asked if I was originally from Texas. I told him no and that I in fact held Texas personally responsible for the current fiasco that was our government. He laughed and said that he liked my politics. He proceeded to place a bracelet that matched his on my wrist and purchase it for me if I promised to love him forever. I should mention that Mr. Allen was not some young stud but a very nice, very gay, older man with a hint of cocktails on his breath. I thanked him with a hug for the gift. He then proceeded to assure me that this was not a pick up but he wanted to take me shopping at Nordies. This is the point where things got a little weird and wonderful, but with my sister in tow off to Nordies, we went.
Mr. Allen really liked my taste in fashion and it became increasingly clear that if I was the type to take advantage, I could take advantage. It was hard to say no especially when he and I both went crazy over a DKNY dress that they were just then putting in the window. It had the greatest pair of boots, (black, platform soles, spike heels), with the dress. Heavy sighs rang from us both. This inspired us to run to the shoe department. My sister was getting suspicious of Mr. Allen and she thought he was either a pervert or a serial killer. While in shoes, we were greeted by two Nordstrom managers who were very familiar with Mr. Allen. Apparently, he is a good and frequent customer. I tried on another great pair of shoes. Platform sandals with an ankle strap, very 1940s. They were on sale for $90. Mr. Allen was insistent but my sister was too. Through clenched teeth she said, You are not letting that man buy you shoes. I could see it if we were having drinks and he was an asshole. The logic fails me. It seemed that she was saying if he were a jerk, Id have her permission to roll the poor fellow, but since he was a nice man who genuinely liked me, I could not accept his gifts. I declined the shoes saying that I would have difficulty walking in them (big lie, I would have walked through fire for and in those shoes and looked great doing so). Sweet fellow that he was he picked out a pair with a lower heel. I said no again and claimed that if we didnt stop shopping my sister and I would miss our train. And so ended my shopping trip with Mr. J. or Jay Allen.
Mr. Allen I had a blast. The world needs more people like you, generous and kind. I get many complements on the bracelet and it reminds me that sometimes-complete strangers can connect. Be well and thank you for the lovely memory.
Love and Kisses,
Sheff

San Francisco

My time in San Francisco was well spent. We checked into a terrific boutique hotel called the Commodore on Sutter Street. The hotel had a nice restaurant and a great bar. The décor was very eclectic with lots of faux painting, a very fun interior.
Because we are girls, we have shopping needs. So, after check in, and they let us check in early, (two thumbs way up Commodore Hotel) we were off to Chinatown. Purses, jewelry, and shoes oh my! Guys will never understand the shopping Jones and thats all right. We will never understand football, video games, and your porn collection. Look, well try not to bitch about your little addictions; just let us go shopping or we get fussy and thats not fun for anybody. Shopping sated for the moment, we headed back to the hotel to get dressed for our dinner with Andy. After dressing, we hit the bar for cocktails. In the bar, we met a couple of writers that we joined for drinks. Heres my shameless plug for fellow writers David Corbett and Craig Clevenger. David is a crime novelist and his new book Blood of Paradise will be published spring 07 by Random House. Craig has two fiction novels The Contortionists Handbook and Dermaphoria. David and I got into a little tug of war over the use of my sister as a character in his book. He was taking notes while we spoke. I told him that she was already a character in my book. To which he replied, We have an expression in the literary world, its called fuck you. David was laughing at the time. I said, Im familiar with that expression David and fuck you too. Are these direct quotes? Yeah, pretty much and said in jest. Writers we are so kind to one another. We left David and Craig and were hoping to join them later, but it was not to be. Sorry guys.
We took a cab to Andys new place. I am still reeling from the price of real estate in California, $565,000 for a one-bedroom apartment. How do you people survive? I dont know for sure but think the governors mansion didnt cost that much in my state. From Andys new digs, we walked to the restaurant and had a wonderful dinner. Andys in recover now so that explains why he sort fell off the radar for a while. We are very happy for him. That being said we didnt do much partying but went on a nice tour of the city and a walk in the Castro District.
Back in the hotel, my sister passed out and I went down to the lobby and blogged for about forty minutes. I entered post only to see my blog disappear into cyberspace never to be seen again. This explains why I didnt write much while I was out there. I no longer trusted those pay per computers in hotel lobbies. I want my nine bucks back you fucking cyber pirates! Im not bitter. I would really like to have the blog back. I was feeling very self reflective when I wrote it because of something Andy said over dinner. He said I built walls around myself. Im still trying to figure that out. I see myself as needy and he said that I come off as not needing anyone. I guess thats a self protection, knee jerk reaction to developing relationships. He is so insightful, but then I guess the You Can All Go Fuck Yourselves! T-shirt that I was wearing might have been a tip off. Just kidding, I dont own that shirt yet.

Calif Day 2 June 7

We got up early and walked over to Petes Coffee. Petes is the hangout for my Dad and his friends. While I was being introduced, some of the guys thought my Dad was being funny. They knew my sister. Hell they watched her grow up. It was amusing. They are an interesting group of guys and I enjoyed talking with them and answering their questions. We proceeded to some gourmet grocery store to buy supplies for our trip to Napa Valley. We had quite a spread including artichokes, tabouli, olives, sourdough bread, various dips, and cheeses.
I loved the drive to Napa. Im a green kind of gal so Im into the flora and fauna, which my pictures will attest to. We visited three wineries, Domaine Chandon, Cakebread and Silver Oak. If you visit any more than three you arent really tasting but getting drunk in Napa. We tried to show some class. My sister was in fact buying wine and shipping it home. She actually knows something about wine. Me, Im trying to improve my taste level and get away from the two buck Chuck. Well, not too far away I do have a repetition to protect. Anyway, in between wineries, we grabbed a bottle of Swanson merlot and stopped by a park in Yountsville for lunch. It was a beautiful day and a picnic under California redwoods was awesome.
After Silver Oak, we drove on to Dixon, which is referred to as lamb town because this is farm country. We spent the night in my Dads house that is under destruction/construction/renovation. My fathers rate of progress is of great concern to my sister. Given that, the other house is being bulldozed in the next few months her concerns are valid. My sister and step mom are going to ride Dad like a dime store pony until that kitchen is finished. Poor bastard. Id gladly help but I dont exactly live in the neighborhood. Dont go thinking thats and empty offer coming from a woman. This woman owns her own tile saw and Im pretty handy. (Why I am suddenly concerned that the last statement makes me sound butch, Im not. Im really very much a girly, girl. I just happen to be very capable. Which is I think the kiss of death as far as most men are concerned. Fuck, is that my problem? What do my readers think?) See I bought an old house, a foreclosure in need of many repairs, so Ive been there done that with the home improvement. (Im handy out of necessity. Dont need a man I just need the right tools. Shit, that doesnt sound right either. Look, Im all about the penis. What? I just keep digging a deeper hole dont I? Damn, I give Up!)
We visited the neighbors and had dinner in downtown Dixon (see picture of non-existent kitchen to understand why). The next morning Dad dropped us off in San Francisco.

That Explains It! June 14, 2006

Okay, heres the explanation for my California trip and the family situation. My parents divorced when I was very young, so young in fact that I have no memories of my father at all. As a screwed up adult in therapy it was suggested that I explore my background, family ECT. I claimed to have no desire to do so which caused my doctor to give me that liar, liar pants on fire look that therapist are famous for giving. Long story short, I managed having a six-year correspondence with my paternal grandmother. Grandma invited me to her anniversary party/ family reunion in New York. I went under the very false assumption that everyone in the family was aware that I was coming and they all knew about me. It turns out that I am the surprise guest. This wasnt painful or awkward for anyone involved especially my father, his wife, and my half sister that I had never met. God rest her soul, Grandma Jacobson what a card. I guess she assumed people would back out if they knew the truth and she thought it was high time we fixed the family. It all went amazingly well and the years (less than 10) that have followed have been wonderfully healing for all of us.
Fast forward to the California trip and my reasons for going, 1) Step mothers retirement party. 2) Bulldozing of half sisters family home (soon). 3) Bonding time with sister sans spouse and children. 4) Bonding time with father. 5) Introduction to father and step moms colleagues and friends (priceless). Thank you manufacturer of Zoloft (for me) and Zanax (for sis); hence the title of our little trip, The Festival of Pain Tour 2006. Yeah, I slept great, no pressure, double my dosage, sure why not, more wine. Good times, good times. I plan on blogging a day-by-day account of my adventures. Some bizarre things happened out there. I write fiction but honest to Pete I couldnt make this shit up. Im not that creative. Stay tuned.
P.S. Dad, I know youre reading this and I promise not to write anything too embarrassing. Hey what could be worse than that friend of yours coming up to me and saying, Ive known your father for blah, blah years, to which I replied, Really, thats longer than Ive known him.
Gee, I hope thats not true.
Unfortunately it is true, you and I replied in unison, laughing.
Poor man got the funniest look on his face and just walked away. You and I laughed harder. I guess theres a lot to be said for genetics.

Calif Day One

left hand spread June 6th 2006 Im on my fathers computer and its late. Well, its late considering how much has happened today. We landed around 11am, drove back to Menlo, walked the grounds and we were introduced to everybody. Then we went to a party in Palo Alto. The people who were hosting the party had their dog tied up in the backyard. During some speeches he was making quite a fuss. I saw that his leg was tangled so I went over to untangle him. He repaid the favor by peeing on me. It could only happen to me. Tonight my Dad and stepmothers dog is very interested in my shoes. After the party we came back to Menlo. Later Ali and I drove back to Palo Alto for dinner. We went to a nice restaurant near Sanford. In the morning we are off to Napa. Ali and I are calling this trip The Festival of Pain. Its a very long story and involved story but my family situation is a bit unusual. When Im not so tired maybe Ill share. The family history explains a lot and others may make sense of me when they read the details. I wish knowing the tale helped me understand myself, it doesnt. I hope I can sleep tonight. Later, A very tired Shef

California Here I Come

I’m counting down the days. June 6th I take off for California. A day in Atherton, then off to Napa, I’ll sleep in Dixon and check out the prospects at Davis. Ali is making calls so that we can meet up with Andy in San Francisco. I haven’t seen him in a couple of years. I miss my little Castro party whore. Where has he been? I need the Sun King. My life is in shambles.
I don’t know why I’m so excited. My father will probably kick my ass for not having written more toward the Costa Rica book. I’m working on a chapter now but I keep leaving it on the computer in the office. Someone asked me about the book at a party the other night. I told them the basic premise and she thought it would make a good movie. (Kill me now) I wanted say who do you think it should star Ben Affect and Jen Big Ass. Fuck Me! I was drunk and I stayed nice so ya know I get props. I suppose my credibility wasn’t aided by the fact that my car keys were taken away. On the drive home, my almost equally drunk boss was telling something in great confidence. Thank God, I don’t remember a word she said. We’ve exchanged knowing smiles all week. Only I don’t know anything. I wonder what I agreed to or with for that matter. Hell we could have exchanged fetishes for all I know. Maybe I’m the one who should be concerned. It’s a reasonable assumption because for the second time in less than a week a cyber friend has called me a whore. Perhaps I should be more careful with what I mail to people on My Space. Oh, you know what I’m wrong. One called me a hooker cause she’s a nice girl.
Anyway, I’m going to get to sail in California. Mother Ocean I miss you so; maybe you’ll let your girl get some sleep. I told Jacob that I wanted to move back to California. He asked why and I said to change my life, to start over. What I’d really like is to be back in his arms down some fire road. There is no justice in life; it constantly conspires against you. I’m reading Amagansett by Mark Mills. It’s not a great book but I fell in love with this one sentence. We are like servants, laboring under illusions of self –importance, convinced that we’re the true masters of the house. I think that best describes the false sense of control I sometimes feel. I better have another drink and do something self destructive before I become a total bore.

Writers Will Understand

My mother’s neighbor is a Santa Claus. Mom arranged his first gig and she is responsible for his Santa career. He and his wife are childless and they have known me since my early teens. This past year he could not play Santa because he was diagnosed with cancer. He underwent treatment and has a clean bill of health today. During the long months of chemotherapy, he needed a distraction, so he started writing a story. We encouraged him because him well that’s what you do for a family friend. He became obsessed with the project. He drove my Mon nuts with his stories of getting the thing published. The book is about the real Santa, a Santa who foils bank robberies and cures people of cancer. He told me it’s to help adults believe. During my recent visit home, he called and wanted me to read the first three chapters and offer advice. Here’s where I sound like an ass. I didn’t want to read it, but I offered encouragement anyway. Look, I don’t get home often, it was Mother’s Day and damn me I wanted to spend time with my Mom.
His novel was a hand written manuscript. He paid some woman at the local paper to type it for him and correct his spelling. My advice, write about what you know, speak your truth, keep knocking on doors, don’t self publish no one will ever take you seriously, blah, blah, blah. He says, “Thanks Shef, aren’t we just the two writers chatting, I’ve known you since blah, blah, blah.” I say, “Yeah, I know, sorry I can’t read it, only here for a short time, blah, blah, blah.” My Mother calls tonight saying, “You won’t believe what’s happened.” It took all I could muster not to say, “What my old boyfriend rise from the grave” (See other blog to get reference). “Santa’s got a book deal,” she says. He sent the book to ten publishers. He got three rejections, one offer of a contract, but Simon and Schuster are interested and he’s holding out for the best offer.
I’m happy for him, really. I’m also getting drunk right now. I want to scream at my university, “WHAT THE FUCK DID I PAY YOU PEOPLE FOR.” To quote Jethro Mc Givens, “I hate my life, I hate it, nobody loves me.” If you don’t understand my frustration, bitterness, or drunkenness, that’s okay, writers will understand.

Sleepless

I recently went home for a few days. I called my Grandmother prior to my visit and she told me the oddest story. She said that she was walking to her mailbox when a man got out of his car and approached her. She told me that he hugged her and called her Grandma. She didn’t recognize him and she asked him to identify himself. He said he was an old friend of my brother and me. Then she said the name. I promise you that he was never a friend of my brother. However, he was an old lover of mine. He didn’t live in that neighborhood anymore and the whole incident sort of bothered me.
The affair ended badly. I was only 17 when it started and it was rather scandalous considering the difference in our ages. Shouldn’t I have been in school instead of carrying on an affair? Well, I wasn’t in school. I graduated high school early, too early actually. I was smart and driven unfortunately, there was no money for college. I tried to work instead, but jobs for 17 year olds were not plentiful. I was offered and accepted a house-cleaning job, his house. He lived in my Grandmother’s neighborhood. Now the picture emerges. Why the men in my family didn’t try to kill him escapes me. After it started, we were very open about it. I guess my mother and the rest of the family knew how willful I was and they felt that any attempt to dissuade me might backfire. I was left, with a lot of grumbling from my mother and step dad, to learn a lesson on my own. I did, but it took, on and off, a couple of years. I put the incident with my Grandmother out of my mind.
A few weeks later, I’m at home for Mother’s Day and my Mom and I are chatting over coffee as she read the paper. She folded the paper down and peered over it giving me this funny look. Then folding the paper in half she said is this him, while showing me this man’s picture. It was his obituary. I took the paper from her and answered in the affirmative. I read it and thought God he was young. Cancer, I’m assuming was the cause, he smoked. No wife, no kids, and his devout Mother obviously had a great deal in input on the write up. There was a glaring typo which made me upset for a couple of reasons. One, at least your obituary should be free of errors and two, I was mad at myself for noticing the typo. I thought shouldn’t you be able to turn that off at a moment like this you callous bitch. The paper said that he had been ill for some time. Then I remembered him at my Grandmother’s mailbox. He knew he was dying. What was he doing, retracing his steps, thinking about me, trying to make amends, or simply reconciling his life? He died the day before I came home. Many thoughts ran through my mind. Should I stay an extra day and go to the funeral home, no, too many questions to answer there. Did I owe something to him or the past? Love is a weak, fleeting thing. I handed the paper back to my mother. Later she asked me if I was finished with it because she wanted to throw it out. There was that look again. What was I supposed to do, clip out the obit, laminate it, and use it as a bookmark. No Mom I’m finished with it. Now I’m not sleeping again, two, three days without much rest. I keep seeing his picture. It was really a good photograph of him. Obviously still handsome and a man women would sill want. I wonder who took it.

Chance Meeting

I met someone, someone I would like to know better. I wonder if I‘ll get the opportunity. If he starts weighting the pros and cons, I think he will come to the brilliant conclusion that I’m not worth the trouble. In fact, I’m willing to bet that he runs for the hills screaming, the horror, the horror, while burning my phone number. At best, he’ll say to himself, “What the hell was I thinking.”
I asked myself, “Self why are you such a nightmare?”
Self answered, “Because you are a married nightmare you big stupid or did that slip your mind?”
“Geez, that totally slipped my mind. I guess that makes me a bit of an inconvenience.”
“Ya think!”
So if I never hear from him that will be completely understandable, regrettable, but understandable. I didn’t lie about being married. I was very upfront about it even if I didn’t answer his questions about my husband. I appreciated that he let me off the hook when he saw that I was not immediately forthcoming.  I just didn’t want to talk about it or get into specifics. I’m wondering why I behaved that way. Usually I’ll tell anyone anything they want to know about me. Why so closed. Maybe I felt like I needed to explain myself. You know what, I can’t, and it’s too complicated. If I heard that it’s complicated crack from a man, I’d say bullshit. At least that’s what I would have said before. What’s strange is that I don’t feel guilty.  I always thought that I’d go through some painful transformation. It didn’t happen. Everything unfolded calmly and naturally as breathing. I was abnormally comfortable with him. It was nice, very nice. He is much too young for me on top of everything else. I said I would never get involved with someone younger again. My husband is younger than I am.  I don’t have a single male friend who would have a problem if the roles were reversed. A man and a younger woman is a cause for celebration in the male realm. Why am I allowing cultural programming to affect my feelings for another person? Am I trying to equate age with maturity? That is not necessarily how it works, does it. Well, I’ll see what happens. At any rate it was very nice meeting you.

Me

A friend emailed this to me some time ago. She said it was me as a South Park character. The hair is the wrong color and it's longer, at least it is now. The rest is pretty acurate. For the record, I have a glass of wine in my hand at the moment and I don't believe I'm drunk...yet.