The Dangers of Posting While Drunk

The evidence is all there this morning in black and white. At least I spelled and punctuated everything correctly. When reminded that I had posted at 2 a.m., I expected to come here and find something that looked like this:

"Fjree jagagjklf skdh dkrkj sdslld skeuosal jdhj Jusalk," so while I'm a little bit embarrassed that I was so maudlin, at least I was grammatically maudlin.

Now it's Sunday, and I've read the "Times" (disheartening and depressing),eaten my bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich (cures the bottle of red wine consumed in a fit of boredom and over the course of a long phone convo), and I'm settled in with the Mad Kitty purring Friskie-breath in my face while she (successfully) tries to keep me from doing the crossword puzzle. She squoze herself across my arms and chest, on her back like a little baby. Gone is the sweet, milky scent of kittenhood; she breathes all meaty now, which is kind of gross, but her stankity meat-breath is more than offset by her sheer cuteness. I think this is how it works with people, too (witness guys who put up with batshit insane girlfriends because they look like Brazilian underwear models).

Am I bothering you? Too bad.

What I learned from yesterday's Noble Silence: it should always be followed by going out into the world IMMEDIATELY to interact in meatspace (to borrow Paula's word). Otherwise, I end up completely stir-crazy, a little bit bummed that my love and I are in what're probably the best cities for Halloween in the western world (New York and New Orleans, where you're encouraged to let your inner drag queen vogue), but not dressing up in some clever costumes together (snooki-wah, I wanted to borrow someone's baby and go dressed as Zach Galafianakis' character from "The Hangover"), and buzzed on a 2009 Valpolicella (nice bottle of wine, btw, I do like young Italians).

Want to know what made me feel better?

Reading poetry, aloud, to my Gentleman Caller. I've never done that before. I guess you could call me a poetry-reading virgin. Then again, I've never had a GC who actually gave a hoot about words, and music, and the music in words, and me, all at once (the Smelly Brit doesn't count because he was all snotty about some of my books. Does anyone remember that guy's name? I sure don't. The weasel-dude from this past spring doesn't count either, because, well, he just Doesn't Count.).

So I guess I win.

Now, to top off this fine, lazy Sunday, I've got a yen for General Tso chicken, so I'ma go get me some Chinese.

Didja

Didja ever love someone so much that you thought your heart might explode with it?

Well, I never did.

Up till now.

And I feel like if someone filmed me right now it would look like that shot of Julie Andrews looking all insane on the mountaintop and spinning around with her arms in the air and that was before the uber-hot Christopher Plummer decided he liked her better than the gorgeous Baroness...

Know what I mean?

Noble Silence - Saturday 6am - 12pm (Cross-Posted from JCBW)

Noble Silence

Listening takes place not just through the ears, but with all the senses. Sometimes the best way to prepare ourselves to hear in a new and better way is to be still and silent. When we quiet our motor minds — and our motor mouths — we find that we are better able to open our hearts. The ancient practice of Noble Silence helps us begin the process of hearing in a new way; this is a timeless and wise practice that helps us be more sensitive and perceptive.

Noble Silence traditionally begins with a vow to keep silent for a specific period of time. It can be an hour, a day, a week, or a month. There are practitioners who have kept Noble Silence for years. There is even a practice of lifetime silence in India called 'maun.' The famous master Meher Baba was a mauni baba, a silent holy man. He used a small blackboard to spell out his succinct messages, like 'Don't worry, be happy,' long before the reggae song was written.

If you want to try a period of Noble Silence, remember that it is a rest for all of the senses. Turn off the radio, the phone, the television. Enjoy a fast from the news. Turn off the thoughts in your head. Stay quiet. Take refuge in the inner calm and peace of the quiet mind. Don't write, don't read, don't surf the Net. Keep still. Listen to the sounds around you. What do you hear? What do you see? Open your eyes, open your ears, open your heart. Think of the ancient Christian exercise. Be still. Listen to the inner voice, and know God. This is how we learn to cultivate higher levels of hearing, perception, and vision.

'For someone deeply trapped in a prison of thought, how good it can feel to meet a mind that hears, a heart that reassures. It's as if a listening mind is, in and of itself, an invitation to another mind to listen too. How much it can mean when we accept the invitation and hear the world anew.'

From How Can I Help by Ram Dass and Paul Gorman.

I'm Aileen, and I'm Disgusting



My handful of faithful readers knows that I'm a big hockey fan.  I love me some Penguins hockey.  And I have my favorites on the team.

Sid's a fave, of course, and so's Geno, despite the fact that he's a funny-looking dude.  There are, of course, Max Talbot, and Pascal Dupuis (those eyelashes), but I guess, based on how many photos of him I've posted, you could say I'm mostly a fan of Jordan Staal.  I love all the Staal brothers, but mostly Jordan.

So I was poking around in Yahoo Sports, Puck Daddy, and noodling through some stats and photos to increase my Staal-edge, and came upon this image.

I thought it was kind of a cute pic, shirtless hockey player, yummy, haha, until I read somewhere that it was taken on NHL Draft Day in 2006 (this is unconfirmed).

On NHL Draft Day in 2006, Jordan Staal was 17.

I'm Aileen, and I'm disgusting.

Bitchery

Yes, this BeDazzled gentleman is completely relevant to this post, in the most ironic, tongue-in-cheek way. See, I say all this serious shit, then of course I have to make fun of myself, because I use humor and meanness toward myself as my favorite defense mechanisms.  Dude's name is Mauricio Alberto Kaisermann, and now, let's all sing along with him. (Click at your own risk. Seriously. Though now that I've listened to it again, it's actually a pretty song.)

Ah, fack. Fack. Fack.

October is another month in which I'm in the office a total of 12 days, meaning I'm abandoning the poor Mad Kitty, who is starting to look distinctly worried, for days at a time, dragging the Samsonite from coast to coast, and of course, there are the days following, when I'm jetlagged and miserable from fucked-up circadian rhythms, and bloated from eating presscheck food (i.e., green things never pass my lips because well, there are steaks at Houston's, and the good sushi in Gardena, and In-N-Out Burger -- and oh, wait, lately Judy will do anything to avoid taking me to In-N-Out Burger, even though I have been reduced to begging, "pleeeeeease take me to In-N-Out Burger," and I'm the FUCKING CLIENT, if I want goddamn In-N-Out Burger, shouldn't she take me to fucking In-N-Out Burger? I don't want the $28 "better" burger from the fancy place in Beverly Hills or West Hollywood, I want a fucking Double-Double Animal Style with all its attendant smells and drips, and I don't care if we have to go to the ghetto to get it. In the last four trips to Cali, I have not gotten my In-N-Fucking-Out Burger, and can you tell I'm just a little bit pissed about that? Do my million dollars in purchase orders NOT buy me at least one DDAS, For. The. Love. Of. CHRIST the GODDAM CARPENTER?)

Can you tell I'm in a mood? 

I'm actually feeling way gritchy today because I had one of those in-the-shower enlightenment moments when I recognized exactly why I was feeling the way I felt about a certain situation, having up to that moment only been aware that I was feeling rather shitty about it but completely unable to express just exactly why, and rather than just keeping this moment of a-ha information to myself as I would have been better off doing until I could sit down with Roni and be really pissed off over a couple glasses of red wine, I slopped it out all over someone, complete with weeping and snot running from my nose and trying to hide the fact that I was crying until I couldn't hide it anymore and then I tried to speak and all that came out were those embarrassing squeak noises you make when you're crying and trying to breathe and form words but you can't manage to do either.

And all before eight o'clock in the morning.

Totally ruining my makeup and leaving me with puffy eyes for the rest of the day.

And even better, it was on the phone.

Don't you love that kind of thing? When the person you most want to be looking into your eyes when you tell him that you're hurting and scared and a certain thing makes you feel bad, no matter how many times he tries to explain his position, you just can't seem to make him understand that you aren't trying to change anything, but you just want to tell him you still feel really bad and your feelings are hurt no matter what he says. You just can't seem to make him understand your feeling that you're not being chosen, and you're not even trying to change what he's doing, because you know you can't, and besides, you're far too well-trained by life to ask for something you may possibly want ("expect nothing, get nothing, and you won't be disappointed," remember?) and he tries to explain about obligations, and you try to explain that he's still making a choice, and then you say "People do exactly what they want to do, no matter what they may say," and it just makes you cry some more, and really, what you ought to say, clearly, and precisely, is "I am recently familiar with someone saying to me, 'I do not choose you,' and it felt really, really terrible, and I'm feeling like that again, which makes me feel bad about myself, so I would appreciate it if you didn't try to explain the error of my position or try to make me see your point of view right now. All I'm trying to do here is tell you how I am feeling about something, and oh, this is not something I am used to doing, and frankly, I'm not sure how much I like this, and whoa, is that branch cracking under me?"

Or maybe I should have just gone the old familiar route of, "La-di-dah, oh well," and kept my fucking mouth shut.  Life was a whole lot easier that way.

Frankly, I'm having a hard time dealing with all of these feelings. Blech. How do you people do it? I think it may be one of those things that couples do, talking about feelings and sharing stuff.  Honestly, I'm having a hard time getting used to it.

Then again, feeling insecure and generally shitty about myself has gotten me to dump 700 words here, even if they aren't exactly a Joycean stream of consciousness bound for the Pulitzer committee.

There is that.

PS -- on a couple of happier notes, I had a marvelous weekend in LA with the Gentleman Caller.  And earlier this week, I deleted those 2000+ emails from April to mid-July that were hovering in my old Yahoo box like a toxic stink. Gone, kaput (wipes hands).  Though, on second thought, they may have come in handy since I'm now officially a month behind in my rent, and seriously folks, every day I expect to come home and find an eviction notice nailed to my door like Luther's Theses.

Again, oh, well.

Wordless Wednesday

Dear Universe

Thank you for the happiness.

Apparently I can't write for shit anymore, but if that's the tradeoff, I'll take it.

I'm a pretty good writer, but if I have to choose between love and art, I'll pick love every time.

Hands down.

So, sorry, writing. You lose.

Wordless Wednesday

Fucking Brilliant

Yes, I used "fucking" to describe a blog entry written by my favorite Zen teacher.

So sue me.

I'd Rather Eat Dry Roast Beef

Because seriously, why bother?  They shouldn't even be allowed to add "naise" to the end of this word, because doesn't mayonnaise, by definition, contain eggs? 

It's like going to a vegan restaurant and seeing "tempeh bacon" on the menu. You can't call it bacon if it's not bacon! No, not even the turkey bacon!  Bacon has to be made from....BACON!

And don't get me started on fake fur. If you hate fur so much, don't even wear the fake kind.  I'm not talking about the blatantly fake fur, like the purple Lenny Kravitz thing that I tromp around in during cool weather which, as far as I can tell, is made of Muppets, but the fake fur that looks like the real stuff, the stuff that's good enough to fake out Anna Wintour -- or me -- from fifty paces. (I can spot a department store fur in a heartbeat.)  It oughta be called something like "polyester fiber pelted to look like a dead animal."

And the Devil said, "Is it cold in here?"

Well, I'm gonna brag on myself for a second.

I'm now a Director at a Fortune 500 company.

Holy shit, I'm a fucking suit. 

Guess I'll have to stop calling people "asshole" in meetings now.

Puck Bunny Link In Honor Of The First Day Of Regular Season Play

I'm a little embarrassed to link here.

This image is totally manipulated, 'cause Staalsy (6'4"), Geno (6'3") and Flower (6'2") are all so much taller than Sid (5'11").  New guy Mike Comrie's only 5'10" so there is that.

But dayum, those boys are just so cute.

Update

I know I've been missing for awhile now. All this travel, work, plus a new love, all have me in a tizz.

My work has slipped a little (I'm ashamed and getting my shit together as we speak), so I'm working on refocusing during office hours.

And yes, you read that right.

The girl with the hard-candy shell, the one who word-vomited all over the internet about some idiot for two months, well, she took a friend's advice, stayed open instead of shutting down, and the universe plopped love into her lap.

"Here," said the Universe. "Sorry it took so long to get this to you. Bet you thought I forgot about you."

And yes, it's love. I say it, he says it, and I'm astonished every time I hear it.

Happy Birthday to Me

Y'all know I don't like making a fuss about birthdays -- because I'M NOT FIVE.

But this year, I'm sending myself this birthday greeting: