21 was a Very Good Year

Today is my Dear One's 21st birthday.

Happy Birthday, Dear One. I love you.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you iced tea and cake.

Brought to You by the Letter F

Aisha T. stole this from Barry and I am stealing it from her. You have a letter and pick 10 things you like in your life that start with that letter. She offered anyone a letter who wanted to participate. I got the letter "F". At first, I panicked. F? How many things can I possibly like that start with the letter F???? Friends, French toast, flowers, the Foo Fighters... Surprisingly enough, I love and value many things that start with the letter F. It wasn't easy limiting it. So, here are some of the less obvious ones. In no particular order and without further ado...

1. Fountain pens. I adore my fountain pens. If you don't know the joy of writing with a fountain pen, you are missing out hugely. Trust me.

2. Fire. Fire is my element. Fire is my comfort. Fire is my strength. My new tattoo (pictures to be posted soon, I promise) is made up entirely of fire symbols. Even before I was Pagan, fire was mine and I was its.

3. Freedom. Of speech. Of thought. Of religion. Of choice. Of...whatever. It is one of the few things I would actually be willing to fight for.

4. Flirting. It's fun. It's all in the eyes, the well-turned phrase and the subtle touch. It's a great way to spend a conversation.

5. Funky. If it can be described as "funky" I have it, want it, or appreciate it. Mainstream and I have little in common. Funky and I are old friends. This is not to be confused with "funk." Interestingly enough, I'm not a huge fan. But funky...yeah, I'll take that.

6. Foolishness. Is there anything better than being foolish with your friends? The world needs more foolishness.

7. Fetish. Insert your own description here. Use your imagination. You'll probably be right on the money. ;)

8. Forgiveness. Without it, I'd be screwed on so many levels.

9. Freaks. In my world, this is a compliment.

10. Flying. I'm happiest in an airport. Travel is one of the single most important activities for me. It is, afterall, about the journey...

There you go, Aisha. Ten things about the Pobble that start with the letter F.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Why I Write This Blog

Perhaps the title should be Why I Can Write This Blog.

Because men and women have fought and died to give me the right to be as brazen, as outspoken, as politically incorrect, as judgemental, as vocal as I want to be.

This could be a very long post. It won't be because I have to get off my Pobble butt and go into town this morning. Instead, I will just say thank you.

To the men and women who fought and fight for our freedoms.
To the mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, daughters, sons, kith and kin who wait for their soldier to come marching home.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee. Buy one for a vet, instead, though.

Annoying in an Amusing Sort of Way

Lionel and Daisy have finally stopped pooping in my guest room in an attempt to bring my Dear One home. Now they are pooping in my closet instead.

Summer has come to Worcester. Last week, it was low-60s. Today it was high 80s. No adjustment period at all.

Now that it is warm, the windows are open, allowing me to hear my neighbors. Including the young man who spent most of an hour today singing "doot-doot-doot. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! doot-doot-doot. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Off-key, may I add.

One of my neighbors has the same phone as I do. I answered my phone three times today when it wasn't actually ringing. When I finally ignored it, I missed a call.

Lionel has learned to take the lid off the trash. He then hangs over the rim and rides the barrel down, Indiana Jones style, dumping it out all over the kitchen floor. I wish I had a video camera.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

I Want...

...to go home. I moved to Worcester in order to write and with the promise of a novel coming out early next year. For reasons that would take too long to explain here, I am neither writing nor is my novel coming out early next year. Yes, I'm still writing the nonfictions but they aren't what was worth leaving Boston. I'm frustrated, pissed and want to go home.

...a job that will allow me to live in Boston and write. Somewhere in the city has to be a job that pays 35-40K and doesn't include working until midnight or dealing with human crisis. There has to be. And I want it. I don't even care what it is. It'll get me home and keep me writing.

...to meet a man that has a personality, isn't in a 12-step program, isn't trying to pretend he's still 25 and yet still enjoys living the city life. And I want to meet friends that match that description as well. All my friends are getting married and moving to the 'burbs. There's nothing wrong with it if it's your thing. I did that. And I was miserable beyond words and description. Yet I cannot possibly be the only mid-30s, single person in the area who still enjoys a more alternative scene.

It has been a week of introspection and reflection. These three things are the only things that came up lacking in any way. That ain't damn bad. In fact, it's pretty damn good. Now, I just gotta fix 'em. Thoughts, suggestions, phone numbers of cute cousins from Massachusetts, and job offers are more than welcome. ;)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

The Not-So-Gory Details

Two days before my Dear one came to visit, I found a small lump in my breast. I called the doctor and made an appointment for this past Tuesday. Then I made the decision not to tell anyone. A lump can be so many things. In the end, I told my Dear One, the Muppet, and Peaches because I had to look them in the eye between finding the lump and the appointment. Looking them in the eye made it feel like lying, not just keeping my own counsel. I will not lie to them.

On Tuesday, the doctor feels the lump and sure enough, it's nothing. Whoo-hoo! Life continues for the next ten minutes. Until she gets to my lungs. Then the roller coaster drops again.

Now, she was great. The Lovely Cats and the Tom Cat apparently had at least one conversation about why a doctor would tell a patient something like this. Why she wouldn't just have said something innocuous. In her defense, she tried to play it that way. That doesn't work for me. I am a control freak. With an active imagination. A bad combo for innocuous. So why did she tell me? Because I asked. I said flat out "I don't want my imagination to go somewhere it doesn't need to go and I'm gonna feel like an idiot if I'm worried about cancer while you're looking for bronchitis. What are we looking for here?" And God love this woman; she told me the truth. She was "concerned" about cancer and wanted to "rule it out." You know what? This I can handle.

But this I couldn't keep quite so close to the vest. There are a handful of people ~ you know them ~ who would never have forgiven me. So I went straight to the Muppet. Once I got home, I started making phone calls. The only person I missed was Nemeria. (Parenthetically, how can one be friends with someone since the fourth freaking grade and not have her phone number? I don't know either. But I digress...) Things got a little emotional with the Muppet and the Lovely Cats but nothing extreme. None of us are panickers and, while we are all comfortable with emotions, we do not let them rule the day.

I went for the x-rays. Treated myself to a pedicure. Listened to Pearl Jam's Alive at full volume many times. And called for the results. Which you all know and brings you up to date. Today, I spent the day dressed to the nines, hanging with the Muppet, celebrating the fact that we don't have to fight this fight.

There you have it. Thank you for the outpouring of support. One of the things I had wondered about was if, Goddess forbid, this went another way on me, how I would possibly tell all of you. I even wrote the post so that I could write it while I was still calm. It has now been destroyed because all is well. I like the ending though so am going to use it here. The sentiment is as true coming from a healthy Pobble as it would have been coming from a sick one.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee. My love for you is absolutely free.

Especially for Traci

* nicotine patches: $50.00

* doctor's copay: $20.00

* parking ticket: $25.00

* dinner for the Muppet, Peaches, and the Pobble: $42.00

* long distance phone calls to the Lovely Cats, the Divine M, the One in VA, and my Dear One: $17.00

* learning that the chest x-rays ordered by a concerned doctor are clear: Priceless.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Good Odds

What exactly are good odds? I've been thinking about that a lot today. Are 50/50 good odds? What about 49/51? Or does it have to get to 51/49 before they become truly good? And who gets to decide?

I think that odds ~ like beauty, art, and pornography ~ are in the eye of the beholder. Each of us has to weigh them, measure them, and, finally, decide for ourselves. Personally, I don't know what good odds are. I do know I'll know 'em when I see 'em.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Becoming...WHAT?

I had an unexpected thing happen last night. The Muppet, Peaches, Yahoo Billy and I met up for drinks. Then, Muppet and Peaches went home and Yahoo Billy and I went back to his.

As I sat on the edge of his bed, I found myself thinking "Yeah ~ he and I are pretty much done here." To the point that, I even said later in the evening (appropriate to the conversation, of course, because I am more often than not, an appropriate Pobble) "Yahoo Billy, the joy of being pretty indifferent to each other is that we don't have to try to impress the other one." He didn't even try to argue the point. So, he noodled on his computer. I grabbed a t-shirt and crawled in bed. A few minutes later, he joined me. And that, my friends, is when it got really interesting.

We talked.

I gave him some advice on a situation with another woman (he has been so outmaneuvered, poor thing.) He asked questions and really wanted to hear the honest answers, not the fuck-buddy answers. I even let him in on my theory that boys are stupid (see above mention of being outmaneuvered) and that girls are psychotic (yeah ~ re-read that same sentence.) He tried to disagree but couldn't quite. We have agreed we are in no danger of falling in love with the other one and are quite happy about that fact. We get enough of that from other people (guess which sentence you should now re-read????).

And somewhere between him walking into the bar last night and getting out of the Pobble Mobile this afternoon ~ we started to actually become friends.

I admit it. I'm shocked.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

I Miss Him Too but Enough Already

Back when I was married, we had a dog named Quinn. Quinn was completely trained and very housebroken. However, the first several days after my ex would go on a deployment, Quinn would poop all over the bedroom. After taking him to the vet to ensure there was nothing wrong, the vet told me that dogs often do that so the scent will bring the lost member of the pack back home. It was messy ~ but sweet.

Lionel and Daisy are not housebroken. Based on their past trauma and age, I've decided not to push the situation. Hell, I've been excited that they now, more often than not, hit the puppy pads. Or at least get close enough to the puppy pads that I can tell they tried.

Until now.

In the two days since my Dear One left, the only possible option for poop is my guest room. Usually in the corner where my Dear One left his stuff while he was here. I take them out. They pee and poop outside. Then we come in. And within an hour, there is more poop in my guest room. The puppy pads are dry.

On the one hand, I'm glad to know that Lionel and Daisy are capable of bonding to this extent. On the other... Bleach and I are becoming very good friends.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

A Week in a Vacuum

I had five days with my Dear One. They were wonderful. There was lots ~ lots ~ of culture shock. Partly it was country mouse/city mouse stuff. Partly it was Southern v. New England stuff. He opens doors. He helps with packages. He says "ma'am" and "sir" to everyone. Everyone. Even people close to his age. Even to the Muppet and Peaches. I couldn't quite make him understand that he was meeting my friends as my friend ~ therefore their equal. And he couldn't quite understand why I would want him to be "rude" to them if they were my friends.

It was a week of firsts. His first 2-person, $100 dinner. His first cab ride. His first lobster. His first time in the audience as an adult, not one of the school kids. His first glass elevator. He enjoys glazed duck. Not so much lobster. Newbury Comics on Newbury Street was cool; Harris Comics in Salem was cooler.

The Boston Public Library, the price of parking and crossing the street while dodging traffic are all a little intimidating. The Pobble in her element rather than in Santa Fe or online is, perhaps, a little intimidating as well. But he may not be willing to admit to that one. ;)

Last night, we watched a movie and the dvd extras. While we were watching the extras, I fell asleep. In the guestroom. On the futon. When I woke up, every light in my apartment was off, the door was locked, the dogs were on the futon with me and he was asleep...on the couch. He refused to just stretch out next to me, to wake me up, or to climb in my bed.

Tonight, the apartment is a little too quiet. Just a little too big. There will be no bedtime hug, no reason to keep an ear out for a sleepless friend. Even the doggies keep going to the guest room and looking in, as if they are expecting my Dear One to be in there. Still, plans are already being made for next year's trip. And I'm already looking forward to getting my arms around him again.

I'm also looking forward to a long, hot bath and my sexy pajamas tonight, too, though. Putting my life on hold is fun but it's always nice to get back to it as well. And I know my Dear One understands.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Quickie #2

After being emailed and called by several concerned friends, I went to the news and saw how bad the flooding is in Massachusetts. That should reassure you ~ I had to learn it on the news. The babies and I are unaffected so no one need worry. If this changes, I will let you know. Otherwise...no worries.

Now I'm really gone. My Dear One is on his way. And 20 is legal, right? >:)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

A Quickie

You know your houseguest who is arrving tomorrow is 20 when...

* you have to rearrange the alcohol in the refrigerator to make room for the Kool-Aid

* you panic because all you can find are your sexy pajamas

* you have to move the condoms off your dresser, where they are in plain site, and put them with your tampons, which aren't

* you are more concerned about hiding your toys, PVC and thigh boots than when your mother was in town

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Not Scary ~ Scarce

So, I was just looking at my calendar and realized I am going to be MIA for a little while. Tonight, the Muppet and Peaches are here then Salem for supplies tomorrow (as cliche as it may seem, if you know how to look beyond the touristy crap, it really is the best place to get good quality stuff); a tutoring gig on Sunday; and my Dear One arrives for the week on Monday. SO! I'm outta here for a while.

Isn't it funny ~ I'm not bothering to tell my mother or biosister that I am out of pocket for the next ten days but you people ~ y'all I check in with and reassure about my upcoming silence. Gotta love our cyber lives and cyber friends.

Have a great week. And yes, expect a post (or two) on the week with my Dear One.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Scary is in the Eye of the Beholder

Many, many adjectives have been used to describe me. Some good, some not so good. Some (and these tend to be my favorites) that were meant to be not so good but that I took as compliments (bitch and arrogant come to mind without even thinking hard.) Recently though, the word "scary" has been coming up. Now, this is going to create its own category, I can already tell. The category of Adjectives That Should Be Insulting But Aren't Somehow and Really Aren't Meant To Be Anyway So Screw It And Enjoy. I find it amusing as hell. Most of you have seen the one picture of me that I have posted and, although you can't see my face clearly, you can tell that I'm just kinda round and cute. I'm wearing men's pajamas for heaven's sake. And trust me ~ I'm even cuter in person. Scary would not have been the first word, or even in the first ten words, I would have used to describe myself. Bad-ass, yes. Scary, not so much. Apparently, I would have been mistaken. The sound you are now hearing is my evil laugh...

It started one of those nights I nearly had a date with Drama. One of the people in the group I was hanging with is sweet but Innocent. At one point, I said "I scare T so badly." And he came back with "Yeah. You really do. But I like it." A very innocent, innocuous exchange.

But it came up again when discussing my fire tattoo with a friend. She said "Oooo ~ that's a little scary. But that's okay. You're a little scary." And I thought nothing of it. Then I was talking to yet someone else about a place I'm considering taking my Dear One while he's in town and I said "But it's a kinda scary neighborhood" meaning I wasn't sure I wanted to be there after dark. The other person's response? "Yeah, it is. But you're scarier." Wait. I'm scarier than an entire neighborhood known for its crime rates???? Dude... Then there is yet another conversation with still a fourth unrelated person in which I mentioned an attraction to a mutual friend. Her response? "You'll scare him to death if you tell him. But that's okay because I know he likes being scared by you."

Hmmmm....

Skip forward a few days. I'm instant messaging and noodling on my computer because I have no idea what Time Value of Money means and therefore cannot write a sentence on it. So, instead of researching, I'm noodling and complaining to a friend. The noodling takes the form of those stupid quizzilla tests that show up on our blogs or posts every so often that I recognize are stupid but am totally addicted to anyway ~ and these things are scarily (we have a theme here so...) accurate, sometimes. First, I check and see What Song You Should Strip To. Turns out it's Closer by Nine Inch Nails (which is one of those scarily accurate results. If you know the song, you understand. If you don't, you can find the lyrics somewhere else. This is my first and hopefully last official edit because of Dreamer.) Why should it be Closer? Because When you dance it's a little scary ~ and a lot hot.

This is finally getting out of hand. Luckily, quizzilla has a solution. A test to find out How Scary You Are. I, of course, take it. The answer? You Are Scary. You are so scary, you even sometimes scare scary people. When I share this result with the One In VA (with whom I am instant messaging) she laughs and says "yes, but Pobble we all knew that already."

Uncle! I give in. I am, apparently, scary. Who knew? Besides the folks who write the quizzilla tests...And the guys I scare (but who like it)...And all my friends... Okay, so it would seem I am the only one who was unaware that I am scary. Maybe knowing it will make me less scary... Or not. >:)

Those are scary Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Dodging Bullets

Twice this past weekend, I kicked open the door, hollered for Drama and told him I was home. Both situations were similar in that they involved a person who is becoming a friend of mine and a person who is already a friend of that person's. (Points if you followed that) Drama had moved in with them long before I ever came on the scene. Now, Drama and I are old friends but I spend as little time with him as possible these days. Apparently, he has missed me.

Yet again, I have chosen the people to be my friends well. I have been able to remove myself from the situations and turn my back on Drama without the two women I want as friends getting upset in the least. If anything, they both understood and encouraged it. Plus, it gets me away from their friends, who apparently haven't gotten as tired of spending their evenings with Drama as I have gotten.

*Whew* That's all. Just...*whew*


Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Updates

People have been reminding me that I have mentioned things intially and then never followed up with them. Therefore, let me bring you up to date on some of the ongoing points of interest. If you could really care less then just skip this post. I'll try to be more original in the next few days.

RJ ~ Is alive and kicking. Yes, it's been three weeks. He's even growing his hair back. So nyah on the doctors! Prognosis is no better ~ except that he's past three weeks so every day is a blessing.

The SAT/GRE book ~ Is hitting the shelves in July. They moved it up a month. This is very exciting. I'm even planning to postpone my June visit to the Basement until July so that the Divine M and I can go into a bookstore together and see the bitches in their natural habitat. :)

Online dating ~ Is ... something. I think it's a good thing I started with Yahoo Billy because I would have run screaming in the opposite direction if it hadn't been for him. (He deserves his own update, I suppose ~ we instant message but haven't found time in two really, really busy schedules to see each other again. Still, we're working on the whole getting to know each other thing. He's still kinda boring but we'll see.) Why would I have run screaming? Here's why: Yahoo Boy #2 and I emailed twice. Then he asked to meet my mother while she was in town. YBs #3, 4 and 5 all gave me their personal contact information ~ including phone numbers ~ and asked for mine within the first two exchanges. And finally, the apex of the story, YB #6 emailed me first and at the end of his very first ever email to me stated that, while looking at my picture, he couldn't help but realize our babies would be beautiful. Um...no. Folks, I have intimacy issues! What the fuck, people!!!!! Who are these guys????

My weight loss ~ Is going well. I am happily and healthily in size 12 jeans. Whoo-Hoo!

My tattoos ~ Are going to be fire symbols down my left calf (flames, a sword, a triangle and a pentagram, all worked in together in a really cool way) and a raven flying under a full moon. The fire symbols will be in color. The raven will be a black and white with, perhaps, some very, very dark blue. Ask Peaches; she's designing it.

I think that's everything. If I have forgotten anything, just remind me. And thanks for reminding me about all of these. :)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

"Evil Things Are Attracted to Dark Places..."

I have decided I am the nicest, cutest, sweetest, most caring sadistic misanthrope you are ever going to meet. A friend once gave me a bumper sticker that read "Evil Shouldn't Look This Good." The Pobble Mobile wore it proudly until Columbine (I was a local at the time) at which point it stopped being quite so funny. My profile even says I'm a quivering mass of contradictions.

My ex-husband and I met while my pendulum was swinging away from being bad-ass during my teenage years. After we got married, I spent a lot of time being a good wife, a good woman, a good wait-er, the good reason to fight the war and come home. I do not begrudge any of the choices I made. Those choices, however, denied a part of who I am.

Recently, I have had occasion to remember that there is this other side of me. This side that is bad-ass ~ if not teenage, any longer. That is edgier. That isn't quite so good.

I am not cruel. I am not negligent with people. I will go out of my way to be kind to people. Maybe that's the joy of having ignored the bad-ass for so long. I can find the balance between the good and the bad-ass at this stage in my life. I am so aware that I do not have to choose one or the other. My favorite word is (and has been for a very long time) "both." And I am reclaiming my Both.

This doesn't suck, I gotta tell you.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Beautiful, Beautiful Man

Once again, I have been honored enough to witness the culmination of a dream. My friend, B, is a black belt. And he was beautiful. B is the husband of my other friend whose black belt test I got to witness (her braid is still one of the most magnificent things I have ever seen) and the three of us have always confounded people ~ almost from the very first night we met. The three of us are nearly always in physical contact. Kissing B is as natural to me as playing with my own hair. If you didn't know us, you would be hard pressed to tell which woman he was married to just by watching us interact.

He is one of the most beautiful people I have ever known. Last night was ... amazing. He shone. And I was so proud of myself because I didn't even cry ~ until I saw him wipe his eyes after he received his sword. At that point, how could I not weep with him? Weep for his strength and pride and hard work and dedication. Weep for his beauty. Weep for this man I love who had done this amazing thing. So I wept. And his beauty shone right through my tears.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Things I Don't Quite Understand

1. Funnels. I was refilling my oil lamps and wanted to just let the funnel stay in the lamp while the oil dripped. But you can't do that. You have to hold the funnel up just a little bit in order for it to drain. I kinda get why ~ but not quite.

2. Why I gave the guys my friends and I hung with last night at the bar a fake name. Yes, Backseat S. did it first. But so what? These were really cool guys. They didn't deserve to be introduced to Bridgit. They deserved to be introduced to Pobble. Still, not knowing who they were and that they were cool, I guess it made sense for me to give them a fake name ~ but not quite.

3. What is up with all these guys on yahoo personals putting pictures of themselves without shirts on up there in their profiles? It shouldn't really make me feel a little skeevy. I suppose I should be grateful. It lets me know what I'm getting right up front. But it doesn't ~ not quite.

4. Why the woman I just met said such not nice things to me about the mutual friend who introduced us. I mean ~ you are meeting me because we are both friends of this person. What in God's name makes you think you can trust me to keep my mouth shut? I don't know you. Eventhough there was alcohol involved, I would never talk like that about the Divine M or the Lovely Cats, booze or no booze. And certainly not to a stranger, no matter how much I liked her. So I want to write it off to the drunkeness of the evening; I just can't ~ not quite.

5. When I became so neurotically independent. My neighbors were joking that I needed to come up with a code so they would know when not to knock on my door in case Yahoo Billy or Chuck or someone was over and it was ~ ahem ~ inapproriate for me to have unexpected company. I nearly threw up. I will go to them. I will give out my email addresses, my phone number, my web site. I will sleep in their beds; wear their t-shirts; and use their toothpaste. I will arrange my schedule to fit theirs. No problems. But do not ~ do not ~ consider coming into my space, meeting my babies, sleeping in my bed or snuggling on my couch. And yes, I understand that the last few people I've been with had a really hard time letting me have my own space and continue being my own person so it sorta makes sense that I'm having this reaction ~ but not quite.

6. Who is reading my blog. According to my counter, I have had almost 100 hits in the last two days. And all of three comments since then. Let's say...12 of those hits are me. And three are the folks who left comments. That's still almost 85 hits that I don't understand where they came from. I should just relax and enjoy the fact that I'm getting hits. But I can't ~ not quite. I want to know. :)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Kiss Me, Kate

I hate men! I can't abide them even now or then.
~ Cole Porter, Kiss Me Kate

Confession time ~ I don't really hate men. I actually like men. Some of my best friends are men. I find them aesthetically pleasing, useful for lifting heavy things, and often amusing. Apparently, men like me as well. This is not a bad thing. Usually, anyway.

As arrogant as this sounds, generally speaking, men tend to have one of two reactions to me. Within six months of meeting me, they either a) believe themselves in love with me (to the point that I have actually said to guys after knowing them for days "Don't fall in love with me" and had the response be "I think it's too late" bless them, isn't that endearing?) or b) want to chop me up into small pieces and bury me in the backyard. Luckily, there are exceptions to this rule. I find the men in category a incredibly sweet and try to be as gentle as possible with them. I find the men in category b somewhat amusing, actually, and just try and avoid them. I find the men in the exception category to be my dearest friends and the men I count on the most.

So what has me quoting Cole Porter quoting Shakespeare? The fourth category. The class of men who move from category a into category b. They are the ones that make me hate men. They are incredibly frequent. And why do I hate them? Because the exact same behaviors that made them think they were in love with me in the first place are the behaviors that make them want to chop me up into little pieces and bury me in the backyard.

The flirtation. The un-tamed-ness. The passion for life. My willingness to write for a sexy men's magazine. My refusal to go gently into that dark night. The tight clothes and the free laugh and the fuck it attitude. The belief that it is truly better to regret doing something than regret not doing it. My free spirit.

Sometimes, men think that they are allowed to demand I change those things simply because they believe themselves to be in love with me for being that way in the first place. When they discover I disagree with their assessment of the situation, they have to hate me for it. Which I hate. Which I do not find sweet or endearing. Which I do not treat gently. Which I do not value. Which is very difficult to ignore. Which gets me quoting Cole Porter quoting Shakespeare ~ which always makes me just a little happier in and of itself.

Disclaimer time ~ this post is not about my Dear One, any of my fellow bloggers, my Muppet or any other man who is worthy of being mentioned here.

Those are Pobble Thoughts (and grrrrrrrs and frustrations and ventings.) That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

In A Nutshell

I haven't had much time to post this past week, although I wrote a lot of posts in my head as events took place. They are all very long. Instead of writing them, here is the past week:

*My mom was in town. It was a really good visit. The Lovely Cats came in for lunch one afternoon (remember, we've been together since we were 15; she and Mom go WAY back); we went into town and had Indian food with the FAEE; Mom and I organized (almost) every inch of my apartment; and I learned that the things I have let go of over the last three years have, for the most part, truly been let go of. Quite nice.

*One night after Mom is in bed, I'm happily noodling on my computer (catching up on my blog reading if not my blog writing) when I get an instant message ping from Jaded. And TTG for Jaded because within moments, I get pinged by my Dear One ~ who, in case you have forgotten, is less than pleased with Yahoo Billy's existence (and no, my Dear One does not read this blog regularly) ~ and Yahoo Billy himself. Jaded helped me juggle this particularly interesting situation quite nicely. This is why I love Jaded. This is why I don't have a web cam.

*Appsrus nearly outted my blog to my mother. She informed me she thought it was very endearing that he calls me The Pobble. I immediately emailed him and reminded him that my mother does not even know this site exists. He not only apologized but he gave me a cover story (meaning lie) he was willing to tell my mother if necessary. This is why I love Appsrus.

*My Dear One is coming to visit me. In two weeks! For five days! We are very excited. And yes, I will keep my hands off of him. (God...Dreamer reads this...ah well...)

*I have decided to get at least two and possibly three more tattoos. This was a particularly interesting post in my head which may actually get written one day. For now, I'm just trying to catch up from being away for so long. Trust me though ~ they're gonna be cool as shit.

*I have also decided every single man in Worcester looks exactly the same. It's a little depressing.

*There's a great dive bar/rock club, Ralph's Diner, in Worcester which is going to make my self-imposed exile here much better. If you are curious as to the Pobble's preferences for hangouts, check out these two links:

Ralph's Diner

The Union Blues Club

Then re-read my profile, especially the part about being a quivering mass of contradictions. :)

*My guest room is going to become my den of iniquity. Every Pobble House needs one. This is another new decision.

While it doesn't read like it, it's been a very interesting week.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Laughing At Myself

You may have noticed Dreamer leaves me comments. Or you may have visited her blog ~ The Shallow End of the Wading Pool. She is seventeen and one of "my" kids. The same bunch that gave me my Dear One. She will go days and even weeks without reading my blog.

When does she read them? When I post about working at the porn store thus using the word "cunt" not once but twice and when I post about ... ahem ... sleep snuggles with a man I have just met.

Only in my world, folks. Only in my world.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.