Yes - I know.  I owe all of you -  my loyal readers - a sincere apology.  I have been severely lacking in the blog-writing arena.  I wish I could blame it on an incredibly busy schedule, but, well, that would be a bold-faced lie.  And I’m not a good liar.  I get all fidgety and red-faced.  It ain’t pretty.  The truth is, with the finishing up of my 2nd book, the editing process and all the other responsibilities that go along with it, I temporarily lost my fervor for the writing process.  I just didn’t want to do it.  No desire.  Like a stale relationship that needs a kick in the ass.

But today, as I hoped it finally would, I woke up with renewed vigor to get back to the one thing that I love.  So, not only will you see and hear much more from me, I’ve also decided to start a new project.  A new book.  One on my terms, aimed at fine folks like you.  No more children’s books for me.  I adore those little readers, but it’s not where my passion for writing lies.  So, what is the subject of this new endeavor, I hope you’re asking?  It’s pretty simple actually.  When you need to find what works, what interests you, where the real humor and endless stories reside, you need look no farther than inside yourself.  And, as you can imagine, the stories, trials and tribulations, romantic foibles, etc. of a thirty-eight year old single woman are limitless.

I think the title - which came to me like a marquis sign this morning - explains quite a bit of what is to be expected from this book.  Single life- the pressures, the joys, the misconceptions, and - something that is important to us all - single or not - what drives and inspires us.

I hope to complete a draft of (get ready for it) No, I’m Not Gay…But Sometimes I Think It’d Be Easier - in the next few months, and I’ll likely test some of the material out on you as I work through that process.  If you have any interesting experiences of your own, pass them on…I’m sure they’ll trigger some more of my own similar experiences as I work through the challenging, wonderful and sometimes frustrating world of book writing.

Take this, for example.  At a recent Christmas party, I was, of course, one of the few singletons in attendance.  Actually, it’s possible Susan and I were the only single gals.  Santa was also in attendance and each person (or couple, in the majority of cases) was asked to sit on his lap for pictures.  When my time came, they called both Susan and I to share Santa’s lap.  I’d never met half of these folks.  And now Susan and I are sitting on Santa’s lap, prompting more than a few sideways glances…and nods that “yes, we too can be cool with the lesbian couple”.  I certainly have no issue with lesbians, for God’s sake, I live above two of them and reside in a predominantly gay neighborhood (also not always the best way to prove your heterosexuality).  But I ain’t gay.  It just is what it is.  And eight years ago, this was not an issue.  Not even a thought.  In fact, I was more often called ‘boy crazy’.  But then I turned thirty, and was suddenly thrust in the position of defending my sexuality.  So, anyway, Susan and I are each sitting on one of Santa’s knees, working hard to make no girl-on-girl physical contact, and we actually had to say “Just friends!  Not a couple!”  Yes, we had to say that.  Well, we didn’t have to, but if we hadn’t, we would have forever been seen as ‘those lipstick lesbians at Christine’s 2008 Christmas soiree’.

Wish I had the picture folks.  If I do find it, I’ll post it.  Because in all the drama of defending ourselves, I didn’t realize that my zipper was undone.  And Susan is upset with the angle - afraid it makes her butt look twice the normal size.  And Santa’s eyes?  Well, let’s just say he looks like we’re shocking him with our larger-than-life asses.  Now, that’s a Christmas card that would get the family talking…

Glad to be back.  Let me know how your lives are going.  Merry Everything!

I’d like to warn you, before this relationship of ours becomes too serious, that I sometimes refer to myself in the 3rd person…most often as “Momma”.  I’m not quite sure how this came to be…where it originated or why I haven’t been disowned - by friends and family alike - for this odd behavior.  Maybe they find it humorous.  Or it’s possible they find it terribly sad and have taken me under their collective wings, much like a gigantic tortoise protecting an abandoned puppy (that really happened…I swear…but I’m not sure it was a puppy, or a tortoise for that matter).

Why come clean now?  Because I had a tramatic experience today, and as I thought about how to properly convey my feelings, the first thing that popped into my head was:  “Momma’s about to lose it” (said with snap, head roll and exaggerated southern accent).  Mmmm hmmm.

Last night, as I again ate raw spaghetti noodles, Wheat Thins and leftover Easter chocolates, I realized it was time.  Time to fill my abandoned refrigerator and cupboards.  Time to rise above my grocery store hatred.  Time for Momma to conquer her demons and grow a pair (well, not literally grow a pair…but you get the idea).  After very little thought, I decided to pop a few Tums and sleep on it.  Tomorrow was another day, and might bring with it a renewed attitude toward my least favorite repetitive task.

7:00 a.m.  Bella is stalking me.  She has a full bowl of food, which doesn’t seem to cut it.  She’d like it topped off.  I refuse to be at her beck-and-call.  I ignore her intense stare and go about my morning routine.  Big mistake.  Just tripped over determined cat and slammed shin into coffee table.  Curses!

7:03 a.m  Top off cat food.  Bandage shin.

The morning comes and goes.  I tackle work tasks with renewed passion, unnecessarily vacuum my bedroom and stretch a 10-minute phone conversation with my father to a half hour.  My mother might diagnose this as a clear case of avoidance…a dance she’s seen me perform a time or two hundred thousand.  But I just call it…well, let’s see…it’s possible that…excuse me for a minute, would you?  That entertainment center needs some serious dusting.

1:30 p.m.  The house is spotless.  Work projects are organized.  I just finished alphabetizing my spice rack.  I’m hungry…and I can’t eat one more piece of raw spaghetti.  It’s time.

But first, I need to replace some skincare products.  Looks like a trip to Sephora is in the cards.  Goodie!

2:15 p.m.  How does a person spend more on skincare than on gas and utilities?  This liquid gold better turn back time.  No…I mean literally.  When this 3 oz. jar is opened, it better birth a time machine and take me back to 1990.

Do I really need to go to the grocery store?  Stomach rumbles.  ALRIGHT! I HEAR YOU!

2:29 p.m.  Pull into Kroger parking lot.  Pulse quickens.  I better get a good cart or I’m turning right around.  I’m serious…I will not stand for it!

2:31 p.m.  Cart is perfect.  I’ve never found a cart this perfect.  Not a squeak.  No hitch in its get-along (Texas term).  Nothing.  This must be a sign.  Maybe the grocery store and I are meant to be friends.

2:50 p.m.  I’m stuck behind a 90-year-old couple…for the 3rd time.  They don’t seem to see - or hear me.  I’m holding my breath.

2:58 p.m.  There is a strange man that keeps talking to me.  Something about his bad eating habits and can I show him where I got my bag of trail mix.  I point to the other side of the store and rush around the corner.  Jesus, it’s the old couple again.  How can two humans be so slow, but consistently beat me to the next aisle?  I try to turn around, but a family of five is parked behind me.  I’m trapped like a dog.  I’m not breathing.  Exhale.  Deep breath in.

3:09 p.m.  I made it to checkout!  My cart is overflowing (it’s been four weeks, folks).  I’m almost home free.

“I couldn’t find that trail mix…hehe…maybe you were lying…”

Oh no.  Please, Lord, no.  Creepy guy is behind me.  Checkout gal and sacker are hanging their heads, avoiding eye contact.  “You can’t abandon me like that!” I want to scream.  But instead I emit a nervous giggle, swipe my card and sign on the dotted line.  I have no idea what I just paid.  I just want out.

3:18 p.m.  Groceries are in the trunk and I’m safe behind the wheel.  Creepy man is in the next row skeeving out another customer.  I duck as I drive out of the parking lot.

3:52 p.m.  After four trips up my three levels of stairs, the groceries are all in the house and put away.  I just ate a sandwich!  Did you hear that?  I had the bread (and meat) to make a sandwich!  This is big.  I take a last swig of cold milk and momentarily relax on the couch.  My overriding thought?  This shit better last me a looooong time.

Pic 1:  Grocery store to you…haunted house to me.  This pic was taken pre-shopping.  I also took one post-shopping…I was giving the store “the bird”.  I would post that as well, but my finger came out looking more like a tiny little penis.  And this is a porn-free site.

Pic 2:  Four weeks worth of groceries?  If I’m lucky.  Damn, did i forget the spaghetti?