Party in Hicksville...

There I am, minding my own business as I go along in this thing called life…and I get asked to go to a Passion Party at a friend’s house this past weekend. I screw up my face and ask, “What is a Passion Party?” Well, I didn’t need a remedial lesson after that brief explanation. After laughing my obvious blush away, I said “Sure, I’ll be there. Little did I know what I was getting myself into.

My friend is great. Her enthusiasm amazes me and she is always trying to get me to sell Mary Kay. I’m just not havin’ any of it. However, I appreciate her diligent attempts to rope me in. So, she wants me to come see her new place in Lake Stevens. Never been out there, and from last weekend, still never want to be out there. It’s Hicksville with a capital “H.” Flags on every house; enough cul-de-sacs to make me barf and all those gas-guzzling hunks of tin they drive out there make me mad. I was scared I was going to be mobbed by a gun-totin' Republican! Again, I digress.

This requires a back-up; my best friend, who I must say is equal to or more “passion-driven” than I am. I don’t know how that can be, but I deal. We drive 30 minutes out wondering if it was going to be worth it or not. I insist there has to be at least enough booze to make it worth my while or I’m not buying anything. I wasn’t disappointed. Rum and Coke and I’m good to go baby!

We arrive 30 minutes late. They are waiting for us down in the basement. The house smells like cigarette smoke, which immediately turns me off, but we go downstairs anyway. Seven women already drinking, laughing and ready to see the stuff life is made of; Synthetically of course. My friend and I start blending and sit down ready to begin two hours of stuff I never knew existed. Games were played. Words were thrown in all directions and often times slapped me in the face. Knowing smiles were nodded at and it was apparent that these women were horny.

I have to share one game that was played. There was a waterproof massage ball for the bath that the party hostess had and she had a d---o in the other hand. If you got a question right, you got to try the massager on your back. If you answered wrong, you were blessed with this realistic looking d---o, and you had to have it vibrate in your hand the whole time. Well, I ended up holding the thing for an hour, just because my phone rang! They punished me with that because I neglected to turn off my phone. Only I could be so unlucky. But it was rather fun. It was becoming a conversation piece and it became part of my animation as I spoke with others. I finally had to set it on the table. I think I was becoming “too” comfortable with it. It was time to put the toy away.

So an hour later after aromatherapy lotions, pheromone injected rubs and sprays, we moved on to the “hardware.” “Wow!” Is all that I can say. Can anyone say, “Too many moving parts?” I mean really people. What are you doing out there? What happened to just plain old-fashioned passion?

I gave in, bought a few things for the sport of it, you know, like a team player, ate a few chips and dip and chased it down with a brownie and I was good to go. I don’t think I’ll be attending any more Passion parties anytime soon. I have my own devices an left to them, I do just fine.

Konichiwa

That is all I know in Japanese…for now. My daughter is embarking on the world of foreign language at the mere age of 12. It’s an exciting adventure for her.

All of my memories of foreign language ensconced French class with Madame Pier. She wore corduroy skirts, funky striped socks for every day of the week and a long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was a big black split-ended poof and her pointy nose jutted out from her face with indignance and pomp. I digress…French class had its moments…say the foreign exchange student Hugo from Spain. Aaaah, those days were great! Handsome-Spanish-speaking-French-taking tall-lean-beautiful-man that he was!

Anyway, my French name was Claire; making sure that the “r” sounded as if I was hacking up a fur ball. I’ve come to the conclusion that I know a handful of words from 4 full years of hell. I’ll never forget the days where we had to speak nothing but French and we stuttered and mucked the whole thing up until Madame Pier had had enough! We usually went to the local food mart for a treat after those days. I have to hand it to her, she did her best. I was head over heels for Eves (French name). He later ended up being my second husband but that is a different story of which I will not divulge…ever.

My daughter and her Japanese class get to do all sorts of dandy stuff. This past weekend we attended the yearly Japanese Cultural Festival at Bellevue Community College. It was so much fun and even Hello Kitty was there. I remember collecting Hello Kitty paraphernalia like it was gold or something. Recess would come and all my friends would gather and show what they had added to their collection. Smelly erasers, cute pens, pencils, it was all good…and it was all sparkly and pink. Bleah! Soon those days ended. But for my daughter, they are just beginning. Hello Kitty is like the Beatles. She transcends through each generation. I’m old.

So sushi was had, funny candy was eaten and beautiful Okinawan music was listened to and thoroughly enjoyed. Brave displays of Karate were demonstrated and a lot of retail sucked us dry…stuff that she just “had to have.” I have my limits and the shirt with a little sprite was the last straw. (It looks very cute on her though, I have to admit) Then come to find out that the shirt was too small and of course, no refunds, but we could slog our way down to Uwajimaya and exchange it for a new size. So we did, traffic sucked, but all was right with the world once a larger size was found. I love that place. I could spend hours there.

More to come on the crazy bus that is Japanese class…I need to brace myself. Next: The 10^th Annual Anime convention next March. Better start saving pennies now! My daughter’s already foaming at the mouth.

Turns out....I have a 7th grader.

Aaaah....7th grade. Do you remember? I do. Let me lay it on the table for you, nice and sweet. Picture a 12-year-old, in yellow shorts and a matching yellow cotton shirt attending her orientation at Franklin Junior High in Yakima with her parents and annoying little sister in tow. Sitting on hard bleachers in the sweltering Eastern Washington August heat listening to the principle ramble on matters that will never come to fruition. Now picture said 12-year-old buckled over in pain so bad she thought she would die, or would rather. Looking and pleading to her mom to do something to stop the pain. She dismissed it as gas. So 30 excruciating minutes later she went to the bathroom to release assumed gas and found herself covered in...well..Aunt Flow. Bright yellow cotton outfit and Aunt Flow, bright and cheery and making herself known, to all the horrors of her peers. People can be so cruel. Thank God for little sisters. Said girl had to walk sandwiched between her mother and sister hoping to God that no one saw, when in reality, how could anyone not see? Humiliating.

First day of school: Short, stocky, not yet lost my baby fat, and let's face it, I never did; I sported a Pink mini skirt, over-sized pink and white-striped shirt, Esprit canvas short tops and dangly gold earrings (give me a break, it was the '80's) The 8th graders were monstrous and one big tall black football player looked down on me like I was a bug and said I looked like a watermelon. Shows how dumb he was. Watermelon is pink and green with black seeds. I looked nothing like that. So, my year follows suit with awkwardness and about a dozen crushes that made my friends and I swoon with desire. So there you have it.

Picture my daughter, same age. Awesome clothes, thanks to Grandma, and friends that she can't even keep track of. She's built like 16-year-old, tough, can hold her own and loves life. How did she ever come out of my womb? I have to admit, I love it. So I picked her up and she, very loudly, announces every aspect of her day, emphasizing Japanese class and all its splendor. Friends, friends and more friends and blah, blah, blah. I'm catatonic as we're eating burritos at Taco Del Mar, no longer processing any information her enthusiasm is trying to get into my brain that is now mush. You parents know what I'm talking about.

We arrive home, she hops on the computer and begins World of War Craft, thanks to my ex. He bought it for her. She is very balanced and plays things I know nothing of nor comprehend. A fantasy world of beasts and the like and she digs it. The last game I played was Pac Man in 1984.
So there I sit between watching Dirty Jobs on Discovery watching the host put a swab up the butt of a goose and making my pug sit for a taste of toilet paper (he loves to eat paper) Don't worry, it's once in a while that he gets paper the size of a quarter. It makes him happy. All the while in the background listening to my daughter talk on the phone, listen to her game, play her game and relay messages back and forth. Talented. What the hell is a blood elf?

It's a scary world.

WTF?!

Well I’ve hit an all time low. I watched..oh..say about 4 hours (straight) of a reality TV show that I swore I would never watch. But it fascinates me on a psychological level. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

It’s Bret Michaels Rock of Love. (I admit, the man has a bod) I’ve been inundated with lovers all around me these days and it’s making me rather sick. I can’t even take my dog to the dog park without someone making out in a corner or two young goth lovers on a bench as he plays guitar and she hangs on his every word. I mean please, really, keep it at home people.

I have to admit, I’m a closet bit hair ‘80’s band fan. I did listen, and enjoy (as I cringe now) the likes of Poison. But the glam band days are done and that’s fine with me. Spandex needed to die and all of us closet rockers bid our farewell. It’s party music; senseless music that I don’t have to think about or care why I liked it. So, there it is, I begin a holiday Monday afternoon sucked into VH1’s marathon of Bret lookin’ for love watching these blonde headed bimbos eagerly ready to “ insert expletive” a rock star.

Quite honestly, I’ve come down to this conclusion. Women are just as bad as men. I will never again say that men suck or men this or men that. We can all suck. All of us. No questions. So I’m watching from a standpoint of psychological interest...remember that's my story. These women are horrible. Downright horrible. Not to mention the distraction of fake tans, too much eye makeup and enough fake boobage to put any man out of his mind. How does one choose, especially on a TV show in front of millions? There is no way anyone could get to know anyone else executed in this fashion. Impossible. Maybe have a lot of fun and a lot of pole dancing, from what I saw, embellished with cat fights and backstabbing to put the worst person to shame.

So I’m wondering in my long, overdue dry spell, will I ever find love again? I would be happy with someone just taking a second look! This will sound like I’m coming out of the 7^th grade here, but it’s just not fair! All my friends are married or otherwise involved with someone and of course they just don’t know anyone that they could introduce me to. Being single in Seattle sucks. Men are passive here. I need to move. So the good ones are married, involved or gay. That is my story. I'm beginning to sound like a run-on sentence.

Everyone else I know is talking about their love interests. I have a co-worker who has 4 guys lined up to date! She can’t even keep track of them! I have another friend who didn’t even have any layover time from a hasty divorce onto the next guy and she’s 50! Where am I going wrong? Is it so bad that I’m not a bar-hopper? It’s not like I don’t get out. I go everywhere, by myself. I go to theatre, movies, festivals, dog parks, coffee shops, you name it. I’m dud bait. No one bites. I’m friendly, outgoing, always cheerful for the most part…what gives? I guess I need to sign in to Slut Central or something and where my pants down to my crotch and push my boobs out my shirt in order to be noticed.

So my three-day weekend goes as follows: Self pity, loneliness, pitiful attempts to get out among the living by taking my dog to the dog park and going to coffee shops pretending that I enjoy reading in public while sipping a very hot caffeinated beverage in humidity that is killing me. No fun. So, my sister comes over and brings two Indie films that really gets me thinking. The Squid and the Whale: In a nutshell; divorce looms over all, and being a bystander totally sucks. Then The Ice Storm: In a nutshell: divorce looms over all and everyone is cheating on everyone else and everyone is truly miserable. Not a picker-upper if you know what I mean.

So, where do I go from here? Men are looking for tall, skinny, beautiful, rich women with financial futures and a great car. I’m a short, stocky, average, poor woman with no financial future and driving a 20-year old Volvo. Where does that leave me? Watching Bret Michaels finding love in the next stripper chick ready to flash her fakes. Something’s gotta give. Enough all ready!