Lessons Learned This Weekend

- If the tattoo artist you are talking to keeps referencing his cocaine habit, it is perfectly fine to walk out of the studio. I woke up Saturday sans regrets or any shakily drawn ink additions to my body.

- Chivalry is not dead. If a man opens doors for you, he will turn out to be detail-oriented, considerate and attentive in other areas. (Hi mom!)

- Drinking Margaritas and shooting Wild Turkey at a pre-party, washing down your Japanese food with sake and plum wine then playing pool while sipping beer and rum and Cokes is not "a tour around the world via your glass" or "a way to visit Mexico, Kentucky, Japan, St. Louis and Jamaica all in one night"... it is just a good way to feel like crap Sunday morning.

- If a man makes a half-ass promise that you two will "maybe grab a bite to eat Sunday night" after he gets back from Raleigh, don't clear your calender. Go eat dinner with a new girl friend instead and surprise yourself that you hadn't even thought about his empty promise until you got ready for bed that night. Rejoice in the fact that this thought was fleeting and did not ruin your night.

The Sound Bite That Became My Tipping Point

I am that elusive creature that all the political pundits have dedicated endless hours of speculation to: the bitter, disenfranchised Clinton supporter. Not quite a PUMA (party unity my ass) but very close. I admire and respect Hillary Clinton. When Kerry lost in 2004, I comforted myself by saying that everything would all be alright when Hillary took over in 2008. In the early days before the primaries, I was positive that Clinton would hand that punk Obama a piece of his own ass.

Obama had never really inspired warm and fuzzy feelings in me. I believed that he made a pit stop in the Senate just to get directions to the White House. I thought he talked a good game but lacked the fortitude to back it up. Biden as his running mate didn't help. Although I had quit believing in the fairytale of a Obama-Clinton ticket, Biden struck me as a pompous, sneaky Beltway insider; a Democrat version of Cheney.

Despite being a life-long Democrat, I found myself taking a look at McCain. A very quick look since I am as left as you can get on most social issues. And even though American women have possessed the right to vote for less than a century, I kicked around the idea of just sitting this election out. When I was in the Army, I used to chastise fellow soldiers for not taking the time to vote. "What other job to you get to choose who the CEO of your company is? We get a say in who our Commander-In-Chief is going to be... how can you throw that away?" I would preach. Quite the hypocrite, aren't I?

I wasn't expecting much from the Democratic National Convention but yet I found myself getting energized. Not surprising that Hillary Clinton's speech was the one that convinced me that I couldn't sit on the sidelines for an election this important. She was on fire! Even 2 days later, these words keep ringing in my ears:

"We don't need four more years of the last eight years."

No we don't, Senator Clinton...no we don't.



I tip my hat to you, Hillary Clinton. You are a strong, admirable woman who continues to be an inspiration. Your gracious backing for Obama proved that you could check any ego at the door and put your country's needs first. I would have loved to seen you sworn in as the first female president but I won't let my disappointment cloud my judgment.

A Pox On Both Their Feet

My afternoon meeting got canceled so I spent my gained freedom doing something extremely productive: browsing fall fashions online. Perfect timing because the storm hovering off the coast has made for a very cool and grey week, putting me right mindset to think about cozy cashmere sweaters, riding boots and wool coats. This is the first time out of several seasons that fall fashion has me excited. Gone are those awful sack dresses and 80s revival looks of last season. I saw some serious tailoring in the new line-up and a nostalgia for 50s and early 60s. Very Mad Men.

I met a friend for drinks after work then had to run to Target for a few things (me in Target... shocker, I know!) Inspired by my afternoon research, I answered the sirens call of the clothing and shoe departments. As I was debating whether the ruby red high heeled spectator-ish Mary Janes were really my style, I heard a girl in the next aisle exclaiming to her friend, "Oh My God! These are so bizarre... but I kinda like them... but what a weird material... aren't these like so wacky?" I rolled my eyes and grabbed the box of 7 1/2s. You never know until you try, right? I made my way over to the mirror, trying to ignore the increasing louder chatter from one aisle over.

Once the shoes were on my feet, I had to laugh and suppress the sudden urge to click my heels together and murmur "There's no place like home."

All I need is a basket to put Toto in

Weak from laughter and the dizzying height of the Dorothy shoes, I almost wiped out as the magpies from the next aisle pushed their way over to the mirror. They were about 16, so I was already feeling the generational divide. Their shrieking and the fact that they almost knocked me over without remorse didn't shrink the gap. As I was changing back in to my shoes, they kept debating the merits of what they were trying on. Upon glancing down at their feet, I had a horrible flashback...

NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

Dear God! I hate Jellies. After 10 solid seconds of hearing "I dunno... they are kinda comfortable.. but they are so weird... who ever thought of these?... aren't they the weirdest shoes you have ever tried on?", I decided to revel in my old lady status and dispense a pearl of wisdom. "They are Jellies," I told them, "and they fall apart in a few weeks... but only after they have inflicted the worst blisters known to mankind because they make your feet sweat something awful. I can't believe I ever wore those."

Was my helpful advice met with gratitude? Sure... if by thanks, you mean vacant stares and lips curled with slight disgust. I hope they bought those ugly ass shoes and get the biggest, gnarliest blisters possible. Brats!

But, then again, would you take advice from a lady wearing a pair of Dorothy shoes?

The Great Kick-Off

My dirty 30s started in a rather mundane way. I dragged my now older and wiser self out of bed at 8AM on a Saturday morning to go get my eyes checked at the optometrist. Wooo-hooo! Exciting, no?

The doc was a really cool lady. The receptionist was late so the doctor and I chatted as I filled out all the forms. Turns out she put herself through optometry school at the age of 39 and as a single mother of four after her doctor husband ran off with a younger woman (funny how you can learn so much about a person during a thirty minute appointment!) She saw from my medical forms that today was my birthday and handed me this pearl of wisdom ,"All that stuff about women aging like a fine wine is absolutely true. Sure... there were times where I felt like spoiled milk. But if you stay on track with what you want in this world, you will only get better. Always worrying about others' needs above your own will spoil you. So it is really up to you whether you want to be a fine wine or spoiled milk."

Hell yeah, sista!

As the perfect punctuation for this lesson, the girl at the front desk finally came slinking in thirty minutes late just as the doctor was walking me back up to the lobby. Bleary eyed and sullen, the girl was not a day over 22. The doctor and I exchanged a knowing look as the receptionist tried to clear the fog enough to process my insurance claim. On my way out the door, I glanced over my shoulder to witness the doc escorting the receptionist in to the back room, presumably for a come-to-Jesus meeting. Yup... we have all been there. I caught my reflection in the window and it revealed a knowing smirk that only a wiser and more self-assured woman can have. Welcome to my 30s! May they be like a fine wine rather than a glass of spoiled milk.