Things Are About To Get Crazy In Here

But not before I hibernate a little.
NOvember didn’t work out so well, but it is with a renewed sense of discipline that I look forward to Nice and Not Naughty December [NNND]. I truly am looking forward to this, although I’m not entirely sure what it means. I know it means no sex. I think it might also mean no dating, although I can think of one feller who wouldn’t get a “no” if he asked me out on a date. Perhaps two, but it’s early still…

Here’s a test to see if any of my friends still read this…

I joined an internet personals site. It’s not the big one that guarantees a life partner (hahahaha), but one of those hip, sexy ones that is free, unless you want to access all of the features. What a strange process it is. Writing clever profile details, choosing the perfect photos, and then browsing through page after page of eligible singles. It’s so surreal.

Some of the profiles are obvious. People who probably have no luck working up the nerve to meet women in the flesh, guys with ridiculously jacked bodies who are just looking to get laid (like a feller from Hamilton named gspotorgasm. subtle) and those scary ones that look like they could be really amazing, but are most likely looking to get laid, or are married with kids and lying about everything.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so cynical going in?

Right now, between each paragraph I type, I’m scrolling through photos of dudes. You can create a list of the people you are interested in, but I can’t tell if it’s a private list, so I’m avoiding this because I don’t want people to feel like they are on some sort of bizarre catalogue “wish list”. I also don’t want to make the first contact. I’m always making the first move, and I’m so sick of it.

I had scarcely filled out any of my details, and a fellow sent me a note. That’s what started me filling out all of my profile. He’s cute, but he’s a drummer, and I’ve been cautioned against musicians many times. He sent a nice note though. Really nice. And on his profile page, he references the movie Amelie. I hadn’t even filled out those kinds of details about myself. He also likes farmland. And we were in Paris for the first time at almost the exact same time.


Still emailing the drummer. He gives good email. I’ve received a couple of other emails from people, but none are as interesting. I think we’re going to meet in person. I’m so incredibly busy though, it will be tricky for the next two weeks. I sent him my first promo shot. A big risk. The others have been “normal me”. I’m learning that some people have a really hard time realizing there is more to a burlesque performer than fun, sexy times. We have agreed that we need to meet in person before he ever sees a show.

I realized this evening that there is some kind of cap on this particular site. I’m now fearful that our correspondence will get cut off, and I’m not prepared to pay for membership. It occurs to me that because my world is so incredibly small that we probably know mutual people. I cringe as I type this, but I did a little bit of looking around on Facebook. Sure enough. Three mutual friends. Ironically enough, all three have shared a stage. Sigh. I didn’t add him as a friend. I figured that would be creepy.

I’m editing myself as I type. Interesting. I think because this is the first very specific email about someone else, besides Gaetan in Paris. Suffice to say that if I meet this guy, and we hit it off, I will not continue to divulge details in such a manner….

Other exciting news – I’ve had nearly five days in a row with nothing to do except rehearsals, and have enjoyed lots of at home alone time. I now realize this is essential to my mental well being. It’s so much better with Arthur to share it with. He’s the perfect four-legged, hairy companion on a dreary winter’s night. December is going to be hard without him.

Solo Christmas could be nice too. I was dreading it until my self-imposed solitude led to such a state of peace. I think all may be calm AND bright.

Sleeping now I think…

Bon Nuit

A Skeleton Key Left On A Cafe Table

You’re a silent-film era sad clown.
You’re the tramp with eyes like liquid chocolate pools.
You are the standing-in-the-doorway while the entire frame of the house falls down around you in one great swoosh scene.
How could anyone lie to such a sweet face?

You are fingerless gloves gripping a dented tin cup.
You have the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen.

The first time I saw you we were strangers sharing a train on the way to the big top.
You had a bandanna tied around your neck like you were going to make us all reach for the stars.
First I noticed your funny little mustache, then I got locked in the fierceness of your gaze,
and I nearly handed you my pocket watch which was ticking so loudly!

I fell for you once.
I just might do it again.

But only if you can start to look me in the eye,
And only if you are ready to fill my cup whenever it’s getting low.

A Love Note In My Lunch Box

The Three Stages of Women – Gustav Klimt

Hi Schnoo,

I was just sitting here in my quiet space and decided to go on your Schnooville site. I am glad I did. I just love reading your inner most thoughts and feelings. I feel like I just want to hold you in my arms as I did when you were a baby and rock you and protect you. I feel very blessed to have such a great daughter with so much talent in so many fields. My wish for you is to find your soul mate and be able to share all the love that you have to give to others. I don’t mean to sound so melodramatic but after reading your blog I just had to send you an email. I think it was when I read your blog about Thanksgiving that made me realize that though you have been through a lot in your short life, to know that you have such a long list of things and people that you are thankful for makes me warm inside. Try not to look too hard for that mate as I know that he is out there somewhere just waiting for you and will appear when you least expect it.
Keep up the beautiful writing that I enjoy so much.

Love you lots,


Welcoming In "NO" vember

And what is that you ask?
It’s the natural progression from Sober October.
It is a self-imposed month of celibacy. That’s right. Celibacy.

Why would a single, cosmopolitan gal like myself make such a choice? Well, for those of you who have read most of this blog, the answer is probably crystal clear. If you are a new reader, all you need to know is that I need to just be still. In my heart. In my home.

When I was in the midst of my last big relationship, which was really not working, I used to imagine my single-hood. In my fantasy life, it consisted of a fabulous bachelorette pad (check), lots of fun social engagements (check), many long baths (check), and a string of lovers to delight and amuse me (check. sort of.)

In the reality of single-hood I have realized something essential, which I was initially frustrated by. On occasion, I have met a perfectly fine fellow who I could simply enjoy a good romp with, however the boys that actually move me are the ones I get very attached to, so as soon as you introduce sex into that mix, I start to feel things. Lots of things. I also start to imagine scenarios involving this other person, and forget my promise to live in the moment. The best way to this girl’s heart is apparently NOT through her stomach.

Things like shopping for chutney together in an open-air market become vastly symbolic. Each lyric that is sung or typed becomes rich with meaning, and charged with emotion. When you make me soup from a chicken-carcass you’ve frozen I feel like you have infused it with love, and are feeding it to me in squashy liquid form. And for god’s sakes, when you stand out in the rain, while getting over a cold, to watch me perform at an exclusive engagement, I think it means something big. Big. Not casual.

Not casual. I am not casual. I am french cuffs with your great grandfather’s monogrammed cuff links on an Egyptian cotton shirt that fits like its supposed to. I am your Auntie’s cherished chutney recipe with that secret ingredient handed down from generation to generation. I am the real crystal that sings to you when you trail a slightly wet finger slowly around the rim. I am linen pressed with lavender water, fluffy monogrammed towels, and real silver tea service polished to a shine.

I am not casual. A slightly tipsy make out is great fun, but the big guns are going to be reserved. Casual sex is like a stale cookie. It’s still kind of tasty if you have a major craving, but it isn’t gooey, and warm, and you certainly won’t want to dip it in milk.

There is an expression that used to make me cringe: “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free.” Its utterly (pardon the pun) offensive. First, because in this modern age, I feel a woman should be able to have sex when she feels like it, without playing head games. Second because it makes men sound like callous idiots who are only running around in search of as much free dairy as they can get their lips around. I also think this is gross because I don’t like to think of myself as livestock.

But guess what? If my field research is accurate, this expression might be horrifically true. Nobody is in the market for a cow, and up until Saturday, I was a bovine at well-staffed dude ranch with over-active mammary glands.

Not anymore.

If you have magic beans, then we can talk about a deal. I will lead my prize Jersey into the market square, and you can have a look at her from every angle. You can inspect her teeth for signs of disease. You can smack her rump to check her muscle tone. I may even climb your beanstalk…but this time, I’m only going to do it for the golden egg. And by god, there better be a giant involved.