SuperGurl

Darlin,

Well. It’s been two days since you mentioned it and all I can think about is your package. I know you said it’s really big, and normally you’re not one to embellish the truth. It sounds scary big to me. Still, is there any good way for me to tell you that I’m just not feeling it? Cause, I’m not.

And I apologize. It’s like I’m shape shifting again. Damn it, it’s so much more traumatizing because I recognize it! (Curses, Wonder Woman) I feel myself pretzeling up to accommodate you, and I can’t seem to stop it. What did you expect? You come into my living room and tell me everything I want to hear, and all I want to do is make you happy. But I’m using every scrap of energy I have suppressing my female tendencies. Yes, those tendencies. We need to talk.

And even though I know this will only send you running in the opposite direction, I have to be honest with you. Totally honest, because I know it will enhance your performance in a major way. Not that you need performance enhancement, don’t over-analyze this. Yes, lame and impotent mean virtually the same thing, but, afterall, you were the one who brought up stimulants to begin with.

So about our little problem, honey lambchop, you can’t possibly expect me to consider this town square ass-rape as stimulus, can you? You aren’t serious? Solve a debt crisis with a loan?

Oh, dear, no. Darling, no. Slow down, please, I need to be finessed. You see, stimulation should not only meet the initial requirement of feeling good, it should also and by definition spur on more activity. Not this, my lovejones. No. That is not what this is. This shuts me down completely. I reject this. It’s not at all what you said it would be.

And what the hell, baby? It’s like I don’t know you anymore. As the bright shining sunrise to the world’s worst hangover, this relationship of ours is coming to it’s natural conclusion. This stimulation of yours has already hurt us both, and not in any kind of good way.

And so, I guess I’m saying it’s over. Sorry, cutey pie. I’m taking the high road as I’ve been repeatedly counseled to do. Don’t worry about me none, I’ll just go back to stimulating myself.

Why wait for the new year to commence? The Christmas crash is upon us, it’s a pensive retreat. Taking stock in the past and placing seed money into the future, that’s what these days are about. What the world needs now is a half decent mantra.

Seriously, kids. Too much negativity between the mortgage mess and the battling forces of change in the political arena. All this Johnny Poor Mouth talk is really taking a toll on me, and in my opinion, being disrespectful to some of the most benevolent market forces experienced in the modern age. I know your sentiment is waning. I know you’re feeling the impact of inflation all over. Those of us who live to escape can’t delude ourselves about the cost of gasoline and it’s necessity to the thriving of our lives. Hey, I’ve got a tiger in my tank too, and he’s freaking hungry–takes an arm & a leg to satiate that bastard these days.

But, prosperity now!

And because I am a charismatic capitalist and because I know that these nebulous negative attributes do have a way of permeating through the media and metastasizing into real life struggles for each of us, I wanted to remind you that opportunity always comes cloaked in risk. Please remember this, if nothing else, when troubles befall you – prosperity now.

And don’t look to the market as an oracle as the media might encourage, it’s not. It’s only an economic gauge of what was and the expectations of what might be, but it doesn’t demand prosperity on it’s own. That’s where you come in. Insist on it. And definitely, put your money where your mouth is. I think you’ll find it profitable, come what may.

Serious question: without the freedom to produce change and the volition and intelligence to exploit it humanely, wouldn’t we just be like so many islamofacist influenced nations, with no means to any ends beyond fear mongering and unrelenting evil? (Can they produce any change sans explosives?) Not so in our capitalistic culture, penny for your thoughts? I mean, if I had a nickel for every sticky situation I have had the profound shame of engineering myself into plus the profit of learning from, well then I’d be quite a wealthy individual. And you know, that is exactly what I am. Thanks to the freedom I enjoy, in care of the US Military, ultimately. Prosperity Now!

You see, I’m no stranger to these catalysts. This past year, we have had much change in our homelife. Some longtime readers might remember that I was once the bride of the Lord of all Dumbfuckery. It was a tumultuous reign, to say the least, but it produced two fine heirs in the Architect & the Scientist, so I don’t fret over it too much.

Before Thanksgiving, we stopped hearing from their father, he never made plans to see the boys at Christmas. It was tough, because like SoHoS & Count, this was my odd year, my year without my kiddos at Christmas time. So I began December with pre-depression, expecting the babes to go away for the better part of the winter break. Instead, we got the opposite. A full month of non-visitation and no contact in which I had to do all the shopping under their highly suspecting noses. All the while, holding down the only income producing venue the three of us can truly depend on, my business. It was rough sailing at times, hence the light posting.

Then on the Friday before Christmas, a most unsettling greeting in the mailbox, a summons. The Attorney General has summoned my ex to court here in our home county for child support arrearage in excess of eight thousand dollars. Oh my! Not that we’ll see any of it, but what an unexpected gift just in time for Christmas. He sees you when you’re slacking, he knows when you are late…a magical Christmas all the way around.

Absolutely, prosperity now! Ya know? Despite the funky uncertainty, it was one of our more meaningful holidays together. Still is, in fact.

But this wasn’t supposed to be about me, but about you. I only mentioned our family’s struggles of late to show that we too are vulnerable to life’s bottom-deck dealings and an occasional fold. Are you still reading? Prosperity now! That is my one and only wish for you and everyone who loves you in the days you forge in the coming year, prosperity now. No matter the circumstance, no matter the odds, whatever the situation. Think of it as the “embrace the suck” of the new year.

Prosperity Now!

As per my usual, I way overdid it on the pre-meeting stress. It was fine and dandy, even. All of it. The boys had a blast. The accommodations were fantastic. As an interesting plus, I had dinner with my friend Carter, got to meet Darrell Royal, and even had a cruxy first time annual meeting experience. A turning point, I think, although I can’t remember any of it.

I have a speaking disorder. I know this must come as a great shock to all of you who have struggled to understand my writing for any time at all. The speaking disorder is a whole other ball of goo though with it’s own ugly history.

When I was a sophmore in high school, I ran for class president. I prepared a lengthy speech to deliver to the entire school at a massive debate/meet the candidates assembly. My dear brother, who was a senior at the time, scored a front row seat. I walked out following my introduction, dropped my speech, and watched in horror as it wafted right under the giant wooden podium.

I stood there, leaning into the podium, delivering such pearls as, “Uh,” and “Um,” in the most unmelodic monotone stress yell you’ve ever heard. To this day, I don’t remember a giant shephard’s hook dragging me off stage, but my speech and exit were about that comedic. I don’t think I ever got an intelligible word out into that microphone. It was one of the most devastating events of my high school socialization.

Somehow, I still won the presidency. But it’s no wonder I love George Bush so, is it now? My brother tagged me “The Great Orator” on that day and every time I heard him say it, I wanted to curl up and die. I will always be able to envision those thousands of open eyes peering back at me as if to say, “Just what the fuck is on your mind, gurl?”

Fast forward to the more recent present, and you must understand that I don’t do speeches. If by some stroke of bad luck I’m asked to speak, I will never fully prepare. I can’t. Can’t be dependent on anything outside of SuperGurl sense (or lack thereof) or I’m begging for a Great Orator reappearance.

Sure enough, my number finally came up at CF14. I was ranked highly among my peers for something that would dull you to tears and be utterly unimportant to you. Nevertheless, for this honor I was receiving, I was asked to approach the mic and give a short five minute lesson on how I honed a top position in such a pointless agenda item. I guess the purpose is always supposed be to add relevance to someone who maybe hasn’t had that experience yet.

So I did it. Yep. I sucked it up, embraced the suck. I got up there at CF14, miced up, and did my ten minutes of madness and it thankfully ended not very long after it started. I then let the professional clapping waft me back to my swivel seat in the crowd. It was blissful, a great experience really, and I totally blacked out. I have no recollection of any of it. Not a word.

Which kind of became an interesting thing about CF14, because for the following three days, my peers were catching me alone and saying things like, “Damn, you really know how to put it” and “What you said really had a great impact on me.”

Wow. And I would say, “Um, really? Thanks. Glad to help,” and wander off trying to remember what the hell it was I said. None of it ever materialized. A shoulda coulda that got forgotten as it was happening. Finally, a breakthrough, but was I even there?

The point: I really can be an interesting character, I guess, if you are able to overlook the space-cakeyness. If you can’t, well, I probably will forget your ass not too terribly long after I offend you. True stress-induced amnesia is soooooo nice that way. Mwah, lovebugs!

Here we go. Or not.
I’m jetting off again. Likely with an anchor in my bowel. I hate this time of year.

Fourteen years of it. Fourteen dreaded annual gatherings. Fourteen four day corporate rah-rahs. Fourteen miserable suck-up fests. Fourteen disappointing showings. Fourteen years of accepted corporate espionage. I mean, what would you call it, I don’t like these people that much.

Just kidding. They’re fine people. It’s just the annual meeting is a stress fest and a half. Initiatives. Initiatives delivered do or die style, sprinkled on top of family values jammed to the rafters. Like Eight is Enough style, ya know? Let’s go get ‘em and, oh, you’re a really good person too, here’s your plaque.

See, the thing is, most the time I feel pretty super. Really. I’m blessed. How many people do you know that fly as high as I with as little support? Anyone? I feel fortunate to own my home, send my kids to the school of my choice (nowhere near our toothless neighbren), and when you look at it, pretty much have my own business, albeit, not mine, but without me, new stick-em letters would be needed for the door. That’s just how big and bad I am. You need an X-acto knife to rid yourself of me. Yep.

So anyway, I keep myself pretty propped up with the stick-em letters and the limestone veneer. But you’re stripped of that when you come to Constipation Fest. It’s just you and the other freaking losers that don’t deserve to be there. UGH. Why must we populate country clubs anyway?

You know how men and women don’t really speak the exact same language? Well, CF14 doesn’t come with translators. It’s all in man. With isolated showers of scotch and afternoon golf and gold bond and all that crazy man shit us women don’t get. UGH. Even the freaking plaques. I want to walk up and karate chop that shit in half. A real thank me very much, you know? Hi-yah!

Wonder why CF14 isn’t a happier experience?

Well, until CF14 becomes of celebration of mediocrity, I think my stock will remain undervalued. It’s a tough time of year, folks. Next time you hear a bird sing, think of me sitting in a banquet room, coming to terms with yet another not-exactly-what-it-was-supposed-to-be year.

Guess how much I’ve packed? I leave at noon, I’m taking the boys, I have a nine am appointment at my office, and it’s past midnight now….any guesses? Nothing. I’m still doing laundry, of course.

And being laptopless, I will be gone for a number of days.

But please don’t worry about me, folks. At fourteen years, I’m nothing if not inoculated from most the expected bullcaca. CF14 baby. CF14.

So we had this beautiful view of the Brooklyn Bridge from a private rented out space on Front St. in lower Manhattan. Pictures 3, 4, and 5 below were all taken there, it was just beautiful. Check out the ship in the background of picture 5. Yeah, I know, the men aren’t clear, but the ship, wowza.

So it’s beautiful. And here I am with a hundred beautiful men, most married. But successful, driven, funny, graceful, caring, sweet talkers. Man, I just realized, it’s actually a snake pit. Hmmm.

I’d signed the waiver basically saying I wouldn’t have a good time, I wouldn’t drink, I wouldn’t delve into dark conversation. I imagine it was all there in the fine print somewhere because half of it was in bold.

I proceed to get drunk. Have a bunch of yummy finger food and three governor’s daughters. It’s wrong, but at this point I meet a former stand up comedian and we proceed to trade repulsive jokes for the next hour or so. The liquor flows.

Eventually we get through the sit down dinner, not my fave. It had nothing to do with the food, music or views, all which were wonderful. It was my harnassed drunken ADD. Problematic.

The steak was wonderful, they called it a strip. Uh, we call it a New York Strip. I was like, what’s a strip steak? Duh. Let me tuck my napkin in my collar and can you cut up my taters for me?

You sit down after shuffling about at a cocktail party for a few hours, and the damage becomes, shall we say, more evident. I was ready to escape the regulatory nightmare unfolding, so three guys and I beat it shortly after dinner. We caught a cab to Greenwich Village and bar hopped. Uh huh. Just what I needed and NO, you are not seeing those photos.

After four or so bars and an impromptu photo shoot with the NYPD, one of the fellas got dry eye and needed to get back to the hotel and irrigate his contacts, or scrape em off, or whatever it is you people do.

So we went home. One guy said he wasn’t tired and was thinking of walking around ground zero. It was early, like eleven maybe. And even though I had an early flight, I hated to say goodbye as well. I remembered I had a twelve pack of primo hoppage in my fridge upstairs. Me and the talker headed up to my room for some brews.

In and out. No, really. We got two beers and were back in the elevator in seconds flat. He never geeked me out one bit. But one foot out the door of the hotel and all that changed.

“Do you like oral?”

“I have enjoyed talking to you. It would even be nicer if I could say, run my hands all over you while we continue the conversation? Up in your room?”

OH MY GOODNESS! If there is such a thing as a walking orgasm, I had one. I will leave it to you in the comments to guess my responses to these advances, but it went nowhere. He was married, and although no one has ever put it to me quite like that before, I never truly considered taking him up on it. No, really.

But I do think he is a closer.
Caveat emptor, people!