Each year of my life has a theme (I just don't remember them all). 2006 was The Year of Yes, 2007 The Year of Laid Off, and last year was The Year of Finishing the #$@ Book. That was not fun. However, 2010 is The Year of Fun. I know it may seem that I had fun last year. But trust me, it wasn't nearly enough.

I went to a wine bar tonight to meet a friend who turned out to be running late. So, I got my wine (Chilean, in support of the post-earthquake efforts) and sat by myself. This woman sat next to me and we proceeded to talk for an hour about being unemployed, single, in our late 30's and really fucking happy about all three.

It was fun.

Just for today, I'm enjoying The Year of Fun.

I had a birthday, and got depressed.

No, not because I'm one year older and, therefore, closer to death. I wouldn't go back to my twenties, or even my early thirties, if you paid me in a flash-forward vision of the next digital social networking craze (complete with venture capital and a posse of Harvard drop-outs). No, I got depressed because I realized that if I have to hear the words, "Finally 21!" from every other adult male on every birthday for the rest of my life, I may have to learn that martial art that allows you to silence vocal chords and cut off oxygen, while looking liking your caressing said victims neck.

I think I exhibited an appreciable degree of tolerance the first 500 times I heard said words, or version, thereof. ("Finally 24," "At last, your of drinking age," ect.), and then I got in a pissed. Do men have to deal with that kind of condescension?

At the very least, come up with something original, like, "Do you remember when Superfriends was on at 6:00 am on Saturdays?" or even "Happy Birthday! How old are you?" I know it's uncomfortable asking a woman how old she is in a city where age is viewed as a plague...but so is dealing with the knives coming out of my eyes.

Just for today, I beg, please just ask me my age.

The other night, I happened to be talking to a Couple Friends (two people who form a joint friend) about the nature of inter-racial attractions (White Man/Asian Woman, etc.) when I noted that I have several white female friends of mine who have confided in me that they find themselves attracted to black men and vice-versa.

"Do you want to be with a black guy?" said the Guy Part Of The Couple.

"Well, that's not the point..."

"Why are you blushing?"

Hmmm...I don't know. Maybe because I've gone down a road of no return. There's no way out of that one. If I say I don't want to be with a black man, I sound racist. If I say I do want to be with a Black Man, I sound really racist.

Like my friend, Jim says, "No woman likes to hear that a man likes Asian girls." Who wants to be liked for their racial affiliation? Not me.

I could resort to the old, "I am open to all possibilities?" but anyone who really knows me, understands that it takes a metaphorical jack hammer to get through the crust of my self-imposed prison of ice. (Except for my blog, in which I can push the envelope of inappropriate over-sharing).

Can we talk about something else?

Just for today, I can blog about my conversations.

I had a Margarita Melt Down, yesterday. Actually, the "melt down" came first, and then the margarita, and then another, and then another. And then a big headache, and the questions, "Why did I just drink three margaritas?" and "Am I, finally, living up to my genetic heritage and becoming an alcoholic?"

Alcoholism runs in my family, and, so, except for that blur also known as my freshman year in college, I always worry about my drinking when I suck down a margarita like Gatorade.

For the most part, the gene has remained dormant, as alcohol rarely appeals to me. I've had an unopened bottle of Hornitos in my cupboard for two years, as well as a bottle of rum and triple sec, a six pack of Stella (no "conscious" pun intended), and a bottle of good champagne that I've had for over a year (I'm still waiting for a reason to open it...maybe becoming an alcoholic is a good reason). On many, many nights, I have purchased a bottle of beer or ordered a glass of wine and didn't finish it because, it just didn't taste or feel good. Even if I wish it did.

However, once in a blue menses, when life feels particularly overwhelming, and I start to panic that I'll never have a grown-up relationship or another job, for that matter, alcohol tastes really, really good. Or, maybe, just tequila tastes good. Actually, it doesn't just taste good, it feels really fucking awesome, and provides a necessary paradigm shift. All is well. I'm still alive. The melting stops, and starts to harden like candle wax, and then I have to scrape myself off the bar stool.

So far, I'm a sporadic alcoholic. In fact, if you're going to be an alcoholic, I would say being a part-time alcoholic is the best kind. But truth be told, I'd rather not have the melt downs, or the menses...but I think that's just a part of being alive.

Just for today, I can write about my part-time alcoholism.

In past years, I haven't given a moments thought to it. But for some reason, yesterday, the fake Hallmark hype of Venereal Day prompted a shame spiral down the mental staircase of self-doubt. "How embarrassing to be single," I thought and even contemplated NOT going out salsa dancing as it would be a testament to the world (people who don't give a crap whether or not I sleep alone), that I, in reality, have no secret boyfriend who waits for me at home. I did concoct a story about how me and said pretend boyfriend broke up right before the holiday, and this has, actually, happened to me years past. But then I realized that the only thing worse than going out alone on Valentine's day is not going out because you care about what other single people think about you to such a degree that it dominates your life and decisions.

And then I spoke to a friend who was mad at her husband, and, suddenly, remembered how horrible Valentine's Day can be when you are in a relationship and hate the person you're with. And then I remembered bad moments in relationships with a variety of people, and suddenly, being single felt like a huge accomplishment. And so I decided to celebrate Freedom From Fucked Up Relationship Day, and felt really good about myself.

Just for today, I can celebrate Valentine's Day.

For starters, I watched season 5 of Weeds last night. If you haven't seen it, there's a riveting episode where Nancy Botwin gets raped by her drug dealer Mexican mafia boyfriend and reacts with the same detached aplomb she gives her brother-in-law. "Oh, gee, now he's raping me...men!" Another great female character, washed down the toilet of self-destruction. (And don't try to tell me that great male characters self-destruct as well because they don't...unless they're Mel Gibson).

Then, today, I read about this lunatic, Lori Gottlieb, author of Marry Him: The Case For Settling For Mr. Good Enough. Ms. Gottlieb, an apparently miserable woman, who has no problem blaming her misery on her single status, has, apparently, given up completely on romantic love and, while she hasn't done it herself, espouses that any woman over 35 marry the next Match.com date who doesn't make her puke, and, if she's 40, even then. Because being left alone with your fears that you aren't worthy of deep and abiding love is a worse state than babysitting a man with whom the idea of sex is repellant and, thereby, never finding out.

I'm used to being condescended to by men in regards dating and sex. Whether it's in the form of books, ("He's Just Not That Into You") or just your standard "you're a nice girl, you need to find a nice guy." (i.e. "Your life is over just be lucky you can find someone"). It's just when it comes from women's mouths it's like the last scene in "The Invasion of the Body Snatchers" wherein the last non-possessed guy thinks he sees his friend with whom he's survived this big ole bodysnatching ordeal, and then the guy open his mouth and raises his hand and we all get to see how exactly the soul is sucked out of the body and replaced by zombies (I'm going to rent that film from Netflix). Well, this is exactly what happens to women, and I know because, believe it or not, I know people who are women.

I have a habit of relating to women, as if we've survived this big ordeal of living in a world where the rules are created and policed by men. But, inevitably, I find that she any given woman opens her mouth, and says something like, "Women need to settle because all men want to be with younger women," and I, suddenly, realize that she's complicit in her own demise, and doesn't even know it.

Usually, the way to know that a woman is under the spell is that she's dishing out all sorts of advice to other women, writing books, going on talk shows. She's spending more money and time on skin care, than on her friendships or self-esteem.

Am I the only one who secretly looks forward to getting and looking older because it will help me discern when a man really loves for me? Is it too much to ask for a man to fall in love with me for who and what I am?

Fight back, Bitches! Or, keep your mouth shut.

Just for today, I feel sad about the state of women's self-respect.

If anyone still reads this thing (my blog), you may have noticed that I haven't been updating it much in the past two years. What has been going in the past two years? Well, for one thing, I didn't work much. In fact, in the past two years, I was gainfully employed for a total of six months.

So, apparently, having all the time in the world is not conducive to daily blogging.

What is conducive to consistent blogging? HAVING A JOB!

Schedule+Productivity = More Productivity

Unemployed Schedule+No Structure= A Total Halt Of My Multi-Tasking Skills With The Lame Ass Excuse That I Need 24/7 To Tend To My "Opus"

Just for today, I appreciate that having a schedule makes me more productive.

I finished watching "Julie & Julia" last night (SFX: gag reflex).

I'm sure Amy Adams did what she was directed to do, but I don't understand how Norah Ephron expected us to sympathize with a character who constantly whines and hates her friends - professional, self-assured women who seem to feel empowered in life.

I also realized that I've never liked Nora Ephron movies, I just thought I did because she has a vagina, and so do I. In fact, I don't really remember any of them, except "When Harry Met Sally," which she didn't write alone. All I remember is Meg Ryan making exasperated cute faces and conversations between women about how their lives suck. In "Julie & Julia," she manages to miss all the punchlines and doesn't know when to CUT TO:...much like myself.

However, unlike me, Nora Ephron makes lots of money making movies with high profile actors, like Meryl Streep. So, obviously, she knows a few things that I don't. Anyway, the real lesson that came out of "Julie & Julia" is that a woman hating herself while she "finds herself" is not fun to watch. In fact, I have now decided that the definition of "Chick Lit" = movies by and for women who accept self-hatred as an inherent part of their womanhood. It's not.

Just for today, a movie directed by a woman can make me want to puke.

I was starving when I came home after swimming tonight, and then I remembered reading about people in Haiti this morning, and decided to rephrase my condition. I was, actually, just hungry.

On the day the earthquake hit Haiti and the following days, I spent hours watching and reading every piece of news I could find (American news blows...Canadian news was great). At that time, three weeks ago, I had no prospects for a job, and after cannibalizing my retirement, was almost completely out of money, sans that endless source of support (no, not God, California Unemployment in the Obama administration...they fucking rock!). Still, I don't live with my parents, but was wondering if that might be the next step. Mostly, though, I felt destitute and abandoned. However, when I read about Haiti that feeling fell into relief against that panoramic state of awareness only gained by knowledge: perspective.

My life, previously dire, seemed without fault. Even going into debt (shudder), remaining single the rest of my life (double shudder), and driving my 2002 Honda Civic into the ground, and my 2005 Powerbook into the ether, became a privileged existence compared to losing my children, limbs, or watching my family go hungry. Sure, I live in a society that's spiritually bankrupt and socially fractured to the point of isolation...but is the loneliness created by a culture driven by a perverse insatiable need for more and greater crap really a form of suffering, or the result of being incredibly spoiled?

Broke, lonely, I thought about Haiti for a week straight and then a week later, "the universe" or "God" or "fate" brought a job to me, and I experienced a burst of renewed faith in life.

But what about them?

Just for today, I am grateful for my life.

I spent last Saturday with a friend in China Town, eating real Chinese food (aka, very cheap), and shopping for $5 earrings, when we walked by an old man reading palms.

"I think I should get my palm read," I told her. "I could use some misguided advice from a total stranger."

"Ten dollars for ten minutes seems like kind of a rip off," she replied.

"Well, at least he seems more authentic than the New Age-y palm readers in Venice," I replied.

If by authentic I meant Speaks No English, this guy is the real deal. I'm sure his reading of my palm would have been riveting, had I been able to understand it. He did know how to say, "pay first," "no good," "very good," and "no good after 40." I assumed he meant to say this in reference to my chances of finding a partner and giving birth, but he could have been talking about my liver. What? No good after 40? You mean someone doesn't believe that women can be held in esteem and value by a man and, possibly, procreate after 40?!

"Really, I don't need to go to a palm reader to hear that," I told my friend's boyfriend later. "I think that reading was more about his old man prejudices than anything else."

"I think you could be right," replied Friend's Boyfriend.

Still, he did tell me that I need to wear more gold (I never wear gold), and not date men born in The Year of The Rooster (that would be "no good). Hey, no argument here. I do not get along with Roosters.

Just for today, I can seek guidance from dubious sources.