“The older the fiddle, the finer the tune” ~ M

Awful nightmare during an attempted mid-afternoon nap yesterday. I don’t think I was truly asleep but I was trapped. My nightmare revolved around a thought that nags me when I’m awake: I’m single with no children. My mother is all I have left and when she’s gone, I’ll truly be alone. In my nightmare, my mother had passed and I felt so alone, I killed myself.


Burned sage around the bedroom and the house to try and shake off the funk. I remember something “L” told me: talk to your past, tell it you are breaking those contracts of regret and resentment and you want to clear your name with your enemies. Bring on the peace. Slept better last night but anxiety set in again as the next day wore on and my weekend ran out.

First weekend out of the boot and I put an insane amount of pressure on myself to get out and dance. Showed up to train for Diavolo on Saturday but they were working on another piece I wasn’t in so training canceled. And next weekend because of Labor day, they decided. Too many people out of town. I should have been one of them.

Sunday, I went to an Afro Cuban dance class but it was more Bomba than Afro. I couldn’t see the footwork under the skirts, understood only every fifth word, and felt like my soul never left the bed today. I used the foot to excuse myself 40 minutes into the class.

I called a friend and said last chance to dance this weekend, let’s hit Sunday Sabrosura! But that event is crazy crowded and if you don’t get there early to make friends and find a place to throw your purse, you’ll spend the entire time painting the wall with your backside. She wasn’t up for that.

So two middle-aged, divorced dancers headed to the waterfront to drink and poke fun of the men our aged, trying to pick up on the women half our age. But truth is, around here, a drink and a box of “touch of grey” beardcolor and they get those onesie-wearing 20 somethings. Can’t really blame them. I might have had a daddy complex at that age too. But now I’m 43 and my friend is turning 60. Good dancers, decent shape for our age, career women, low-maintenance…but men around here don’t go for “age appropriate”.


What helped was calling another friend, “S”.  Divorced and in dating-hell as well but on the opposite coast. I told him he’d have much more luck fishing here. We should trade. We chatted about my birthday hiking trip which got postponed when I broke my foot. He’ll be joining me in a few weeks on a fast, exhausting trip around Mt. Ranier. Somehow we got to chatting about another friend of mine who lives a few hours away near Portland. Well, that is, I consider him a friend. We all served in the same Battalion but different Companies. Plus, “M” and I went through AIT together so I knew “M” a bit better than “S” did. Still, “S” being a good wingman mentioned: “If you told him you were coming here, he would make the drive, I’m sure of it”.

“M” was one of those people you (Okay, I) meet and think, he’s a good person, we get on well, he’s into me and he’s not hard to look at… So what’s the problem? Chemistry.

Ten years ago, I cited lack of chemistry. He poured his heart out to me and I was flattered but also crushing on a former sniper turned philanthropist and a year later, a former Jesuit priest turned sniper. You might say I have a type. M particularly hated the Priest. M also never made a move on me so who’s to say a firm hand in my hair and mouth crushing kiss wouldn’t have gotten my attention?


I vaguely recall an article based on some supposed scientific study years ago about how we are instinctually attracted to people with symmetric features.  M is asymmetric in a John Wayne meets Daniel Craig sort of mash up. It’s been more than 10 years now since I’ve seen him in person but in a recent photo, on the day of his military retirement, he is reclining, foot propped on an ammo can, thumbs hooked in his belt loops and squinting into the sun. I think “Lookin good, old man” and I know he would reply “The older the fiddle, the finer the tune”. 

I usually hike solo but I’m staying with “S” and he’s taking time off to hike with me. Would S want to share our time together? I think not but again, I assume he’s just being a dutiful wingman suggesting I mention it to “M”. But it got me thinking.

So I text M. Said it was only three days, I was staying with S, understood it was a far drive…he text back immediately “Shoot, it’s only a three hour drive. I’m down for a hike and a drink.”

I panicked a little then and laid the groundwork of expectations: “I’m fat and slow now so don’t judge.”

He replied “I’ll leave it to the Christians to do the judging.”

I said “Great! Can’t wait to pee in the woods with you next month”.

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me” he text back.


Maybe he wont be able to make it, I think. Maybe I don’t want him to. I don’t have any mojo currently. Especially after Friday night’s costuming attempt at home that became a private humiliation, discovering I couldn’t squeeze into pre-laced corsets that I fit just two months ago. I was big then and I’m even bigger now.

So there I was: Prancing around feeling like I was caught in a giant Chinese finger trap, singing “Look ma! I’m a sausage!” and wondering if I was going to have to call for backup before I finally Hulked and ripped the zipper clean off. Fuck, that was my leather Gamora / BDSM corset too.

Meanwhile, M looks the same. And I’m obsessing “Maybe he wont come. Maybe he wont want me anymore. Maybe I wont want him. Maybe he will want me but still won’t make a move. Maybe his dick doesn’t work either, I mean, he is ten years older than me…maybe I should just stick to hiking alone. And don’t nap in the afternoon. And for g-d’s sake, don’t wear that tunic with those pants anymore…”

Another blogger I follow just posted this:

“Until the new moon in Virgo on Friday, we stand in the liminal darkness of the waning Moon, the dark of the Moon. Slowdown your pace, reflect, contemplate, clean, cleanse, purge, stretch, create space for the wisdom to enter, collect the strength from the Earth, lay low.”

But I’ve been “laying low” for 7 weeks while my foot healed. But if this weekend proves anything, it’s that Something or Someone is still holding my arms and trying to tell me “pace, reflect, cleanse”. Heal. Create space for wisdom to enter. These thoughts racing through my head this weekend do not come from a place of wisdom. Okay, okay…I’ll try to do better.

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“Shout when you wanna get off the ride” ~ The Kills

I slogged (slow jogged) a 10K today across the Skyway today. This time last year, I was in ‘okay’ shape and made it across without too much damage but this year, I probably shouldn’t have done it. Sitting here with ice on my knee and unsure what is going on with the pain in my left heel that started less than 2 miles in. My time sucked too. I hope I can walk tomorrow because it’s a quarter mile from my car to my office.

Speaking of, I did a year at the VA, took stock of where I was heading, and put in my two-week notice. Then I promptly accepted my “old job” back, more or less. I tell myself it’s temporary but at least I wont be living paycheck to paycheck while I have it and that will be nice. Meanwhile, I still jump through vetting hoops for the local police dept and hope, if/when they offer me a position, that the salary is negotiable or it will be right back to paycheck-to-paycheck I go.

But it’s also exciting to be back in the saddle so to speak. I didn’t miss the traffic on the commute or waking up at 4:30 AM but I did miss the smell of the flight line. Back to wearing flip flops to the office and changing into heels. It’s too early to say how I’ll “like” being back but already, I’m grateful for the professional relevance (as well as the breathing room financially). It will be difficult to walk away again if the PD job pans out. Finally, I know this will sound arrogant as fck but it’s nice to come back to a job where I’m not the smartest person in the room and the toilets flush automatically (yes, two completely unrelated ‘pros’). Where I worked within the VA felt like a repository of people who couldn’t function or hold down a “real job”. Now I’m surrounded by high speed, moderate drag (because it IS still the government after all). But no one that I work with acts like they eat paint chips for breakfast.

Separately, I was bitching trying to set up my accounts at work because the questions to reset passwords were all “Where did you meet your spouse?” and “What is the middle name of your first born child?”. One of my coworkers said another comedian complained of the same thing: Where are the Single person’s security questions? You know what we (single people) get? “What was your phone number when you were 10”. If I could remember that, I could probably remember all my passwords and wouldnt need security questions.

Getting back to the old job means getting back to my old schedule too which was more conducive to catching a 4:30pm ballet class or a 6pm aerial silks class (because Gym Sock Burrito class doesn’t sound as sexy). Most folks are triggered by the New Year, New You but I needed a new job and a compatible schedule to recommit to my health. So as soon as I started the new/old job, I re-upped my membership for ballet and purchased a few other packages on Groupon. Plus, I started a 6 week poi spinning foundations course just to learn new tricks that might come in handy for Cabaret performances. Or not because I can’t stop socking myself in the head with the poi.

I also took inventory of my closet. Going back to work in a professional environment, I needed to face the facts of what fits and what does not. I have a bin of clothes in the garage labeled “Do not open for 20lbs”. Over the years, I’ve packed and unpacked and repacked that bin as my weight yo-yo’s with my endocrine problems. This time I changed the label to “30 lbs” and added more clothes.

But I’m not going to beat myself up because I’m back on track for the time being. I think. It’s too easy to blame my wonky lab results for the way I look and feel but I also wasn’t trying. Now excuse me while I hobble away for a fresh ice pack.

“My name is Might’ve Been” ~Hole

It’s the “here we go again” 70 page background check and polygraph prep: Recall my mailing address two decades ago in South Korea? Nope. My ex-husband’s social security number? Nope. His current mailing address? Definitely not. Have I ever allowed recreational marijuana use in my home? Define “allowed”. Have I ever worked at a job where alcohol consumption on duty was allowed? Yes, in fact, it was encouraged. It’s called “radio”. Ever blog about porn? Guilty! Oh wait, that’s not one of the questions. Wheew!

I’d rather be bedazzling on this Friday night. My grandmother was a costume designer in the golden age of Vaudeville in Miami and she made it look so easy, affixing rhinestones armed with nothing but a metal nail file and her own acrylic tipped fingernails.

I just returned from a few (too few) days in the woods with my dog. We were along the GA/SC border and it was cold! I’m part lizard so I’m always cold but even my wanna-be mountain dog didn’t want to get out of the car on Day 2 after traipsing (more like tripping) 8 miles through the hills the day prior in 30 degrees. Probably spent more time on the road than in the woods, I simply didn’t have much PTO to spare.

But road trips are a game of Name That Roadkill, of signs warning me that Judgement Day is coming, and old trucks on the side of the road that I salivate over the idea of buying and busting my knuckles on, , singing to my dog for 10 hours, choreographing dance and comedy routines in my head, wishing I’d thought to be a Park Ranger when I grew up, and overthinking in general.

Thinking about random shite. Like…

And so it begins again, New Year, New You. The usual suspects on my social media checking in to their gyms and taking pictures of their salads as if NOT doing this would negate any benefits of their temporary new routines and diets.

If I had a New Year’s resolution it might be to run (okay, slow jog, ie: “Slog”) every day (yes EVERY day) and replace wine with tea.

Then I think about these studies that say running is NOT the best form of exercise and I think “Those are conducted by people that sincerely hate running”. And I eat them up like gospel because I sincerely hate running. But the fact in my experience remains that I do not know a single sincere runner in bad shape. Even those like me with bad backs, knees, etc…their conditions improved with running (ie: losing weight). When I ruck 15 miles carrying an extra 50lbs, I hurt the next day. But I’m carrying an extra 50lbs all over my body EVERY day. So I hurt. Dur.

I still don’t want to run.

And I think I’ll stick to the state highways and off the interstate as much as possible in the future. On these now “back-roads”, there’s less traffic and I don’t have the peer pressure of keeping up with the speeding flow or avoiding leapfrogging semi-trucks or impatient assholes psychically nudging my bumper to force me to drive even faster than the 20 over I’m already traveling (by the way, Bitch, I can pit you. Back. Off.)

And I think about CK and his love of museums. I told him the only museums I enjoyed were the Smithsonian in DC and…I think I’ve been to the Louvre but that year was a blur for me. “Where is the Mona Lisa?” I asked. The Louvre, he answered. Then yes, I’ve been to the Louvre because I remember her. I don’t enjoy the Ringling museum but there are two pieces I like, the portrait of Salome and the three muses: spinning, measuring and cutting. I’m particularly drawn to the one that cuts.

But back to CK, the man who loves museums and spends Friday nights organizing his desk drawer and kitchen cupboards for the 5th time this year. I told him he is a prime candidate for the Dull Men’s Club and should apply. They’d send him a certificate that he can frame for his office and everything.

Which one of these is not like the other…?

Guess who’s not performing samba this weekend as scheduled? Just me. Big girl out. I guess the client didn’t want a fattie in feathers. Nearly 3 months of rehearsals and $400 sunk into sequins, I even nailed the routines in our “school play” but 3 days before the gig, informed of client aesthetic preference. I was hurt, embrassed, begging for vindication on social media and asking who wanted to buy my hot pink and black feathers (only worn once). I soothed my ego with comments like “Youre a wonderful dancer, their loss” and “So you’re not a tiny dancer…” but then my mother put it in perspective: You can be the best dancer and performer and you still wouldnt make the Rockettes. Thats show business.
Shes right. Ive been passed over because I didnt look the part before. Close your eyes and I could sound like Stephanie Mills or Karen Carpenter bur I didnt look like them. Still, try not to take it personally when you’re excluded from performing because of the way you look. Although two years of ballet and zero cellulite, my ass looks good in a thong, thank you.
Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, after my body image insecurity at our dress rehearsal but I watched the video and it didn’t translate to my performance. I shook it with abandon! And I do love this costume. It’s beautiful and I worked hard on it but I told the group leaders that I’m going to take a break until they either have a new routine to learn or there is a paid performance opportunity that would not discriminate. We’ll see if that call ever comes.
The next day someone posted a video of me doing a sexy as hell bachata routine. I was wearing my Samba heels so the investment isn’t a total loss.