tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58432068442022195982024-02-19T04:44:42.930-08:00Scarlett's LettersFrankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-74502602522406143932014-09-10T16:35:00.001-07:002014-09-10T16:35:19.151-07:00Untying the Knot<br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dear Blog, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">4 weeks ago, I left my
husband after only one year of marriage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This decision was not
made lightly and it was a decision I arrived at with the support of my family,
my closest friends, and, of course, my therapist. :)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">About a month ago,
after coming home in a bad mood and after months of verbal abuse, my husband
threw the equivalent of a 4lb weight at my head in anger. When he missed, he
picked it up, threw it again, just missing my head. It smashed through a double
paned window instead. He then proceeded to say “I hate you, I hate you, I hate
you” and “I’m going to punch you in the f*ing face.” Nice guy, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This outburst came
after months of verbal abuse that started on our honeymoon. Calling me stupid, incompetent,
unable to be a good wife, unlikely to be a good mother, the b-word, the c-word,
among other things. Words that would, I fear, make even the most self-assured
person begin to question their self-worth, their competence and even their
sanity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was additional
physical abuse including, having objects thrown in my direction, sometimes
hitting me and leaving bruises. I've been thrown against walls, shoved out of
and across rooms, have had doors kicked in when I locked them to try and get
away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After this most recent
outburst I realized that if our 130 lb. Rottweiler runs and hides on a daily
basis when he starts yelling at me, what will our children do when their father
starts smashing windows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The morning after this
happened, I very calmly went to church. I wanted to get away for a few days, I
don't know if I was ready at that precise point to leave for good. I called my
brother in NYC asking if I could crash on his couch. He asked why and I told
him. His words to me were "if you don't tell mom and dad...I
will". <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So threw a lot of
RANDOM stuff in a suitcase, grabbed my two cats, and hauled ass home to
Michigan where I curled up in an emotionally paralyzed fetal position for the
better part of the week. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This story is to be
continued, however, rest assured that I am fine – physically speaking. And I am
safe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Oh, Blog, how I’ve
missed you. This past year has been misery. This past year I was prohibited
from being myself. I was led to believe that who I am, is fundamentally flawed.
That I am neither funny, nor self sufficient, nor talented nor beautiful. That
I am uninteresting, socially awkward, boorish and emotionally stunted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So many times I have
wanted to confide in you. To chart my thoughts, as I once did, in your pages in
order to make sense of my sadness or my perceived inability to make my husband
happy and my marriage a success. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I know now that this
is what narcissists and abusers do – systematically beat down your spirit until
you have no choice but to believe their lies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Do not feel as though
it was you, dear Blog I could not confide in. My family, my closest friends had
no idea that I was being called stupid on a nightly basis, was ducking objects
as well as insults being hurled in my direction. Because I knew, if I owned my
reality, if I gave voice to actions I knew in my soul were wrong, they would
tell me what I could not tell myself. That I should leave. That it was wrong.
That my marriage, such as it was, had to end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When thoughts are
given form either through the stroke of a keyboard, or pinot noir stained lips,
they take on a breath of life all their own. They are given a weight and a
voice that you henceforth unable to keep at bay no matter how many “positive attitude”
mantras you recite, prayers you pray or self-help marriage gurus you quote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And so now, after
three years of the walls of explanations, rationalizations and excuses keeping
my thoughts at bay, I now type these words with the loudest and weightiest of
keyboard strokes – giving life and conviction to the following thoughts:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #990000;">My husband, who I
loved and hoped to build and spend a life with, verbally, emotionally and
physically abused me. It was…it IS Not my Fault. I am a brave person for
leaving. This was the right decision. I am proud of myself for making it. </span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Frankly,</span></div>
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-80833302162643153472013-10-03T09:21:00.000-07:002013-10-03T09:28:53.554-07:00Dear Blog, Remember Me?<br />
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Dear Blog,<br />
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I’ve been away. Probably because I see the darkness of my
last post as a hole I need to crawl out from – but I figure I’ll just post and
most on and I will eventually be burry it in the archives. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Quick update. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I got married. Three months ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So far marriage hasn’t been all champagne, roses and
unprotected sex. But it hasn’t been all terrible either. I guess that’s what
happens when you tend to have a black and white view of the world. You end up
in a purgatory of grey fog. It’s a danger swinging high and low. Keeping up the
momentum alone leaves one emotionally parched and hard…like a brittle sponge.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I moved to the suburbs. With a house. A husband. And a dog. Idyllic.
Lovely. Check that box.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I love them. But I miss the city. Getting lost in it. The anonymity.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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My best friend moved away. I’m lonely. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s easy to blame my husband or my marriage for my loneliness.
He moved me away. If I could be in Dupont right now, walk out my door, feel the
city swirling around me, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so stuck. Maybe I’d see more prospects
for my future than having babies , mopping the kitchen floor or whatever other
monotonous domestic cliché comes to mind. Even though I WANT kids and an nice
home, etc.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, as ever, I’m being dramatic because if I Were single, I’d
be bemoaning my last date, the hopelessness of romantic prospects, and the inevitability
of growing old alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There’s no pleasing me it seems. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There never is. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And so I turn back to you, old friend. Dear, Blog. With your
blank pages yet to be written ready to catch whatever nonsense my fingers punch
out into the ether. Please have patience with me if my words lack eloquence. If I don't check back as often as I should. Relationships of any kind take work and time and I can't make any promises as to my level of committment or enthusiasm. Writing is hard. Writing the truth is even harder. </div>
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Frankly,</div>
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<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" /></div>
Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-26394748996502881832012-03-20T18:28:00.003-07:002012-03-20T18:30:48.872-07:00The Shame Spiral: Please Don't Judge<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>How do you know when a relationship isn't working?</i></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvCAm9Ws0TyJdppZNhhHwQrzCsh5JFuqn1GZBVSwG2m0j0wJLa2aW0-4SNpiTXMAUlgIs1r3XVmXwmILeNOjAfBwVHWwZ7T3jTp_2xEvaMU0HXLLiaj-f44PFizMcUrLi1ZZf7KuYYoqcR/s1600/spiral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvCAm9Ws0TyJdppZNhhHwQrzCsh5JFuqn1GZBVSwG2m0j0wJLa2aW0-4SNpiTXMAUlgIs1r3XVmXwmILeNOjAfBwVHWwZ7T3jTp_2xEvaMU0HXLLiaj-f44PFizMcUrLi1ZZf7KuYYoqcR/s320/spiral.jpg" width="320" /></i></span></a><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Apparently it isn't when your boyfriend packs everything you have at his place into a suitcase and two laundry baskets and throws it out of his house into the rain.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>I guess its not when you've cried so hard the night before Valentine's day that you burst multiple blood vessels in your eyes.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>But when you, granted, in a fit of blacked out drunkenness, get into an argument about God knows what stupid bullshit, and it leads to you swallow 15 little white pills of Ambien....with the sick, twisted theory that maybe if you try to kill yourself he'll be nice to you for a little while....you get clued in.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>And once you regain consciousness roughly 36 hours later and you realize what your little stunt put your friends and said boyfriend through (not to mention being incredibly lucky you did not, in fact, die) - the shame sets in. The utter shame, self loathing, personal disappointment that you, a beautiful, successful, 31 year old woman could do something so pathetic and so fucking stupid - is almost more that you can take. Let alone the fact that the man who was taking you ring shopping the week before is seriously reconsidering some major factors in his potential choice of future wife. Namely: sanity and stability.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>And you are reconsidering...everything.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Neck deep in the shame spiral, trying not to mentally ass-rape myself, knowing that because I made a bad choice, doesn't mean I am a bad person, doesn't mean (necessarily) that i've undone everything healthy I gained in therapy (although Dr. B did get a call and I have an appointment on Friday), it doesn't mean I'm a mentally ill nutcase incapable of having a long term, meaningful relationship. Does it?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>And the scary thing is that I know that none of these are the questions I should be asking. That I SHOULD be asking "why did I do it in the first place"? And the answer is...because...the thought of living without him is....not an appealing one. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>That sentence is filled with all sorts of wrong. I know this. The only thing is that the idea of living in a war zone doesn't exactly leave me with warm and fuzzy, furry bunny feelings either.</i></span><br />
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</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>The truth is that I want to stay. I want us to work. I want to be a sane, calm, normal girl that he can love. Not this crazy, codependent, clingy, pathetic shell of a woman I used to be. Frankly, I'd like to see that girl in the mirror again. I don't know when she disappeared. What's even scarier is that I don't know what to do to get her back.</i></span><br />
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<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-5714978719313463942012-03-15T12:40:00.002-07:002012-03-20T17:20:50.300-07:00Conversations with My Father (Part Deux)<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222;"> </span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I think sometimes I over think things when it comes to my life - the romantic aspects of it. Clearly, finding yourself rolling head first down a hill in the rain with your best friend, doesn't exactly paint a picture of the "well examined life". Then again, judging on your viewpoint, </span><span style="color: #222222;">perhaps it does</span><span style="color: #222222;">. But I digress.</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I blame it on my parents. They have given me such high standards both in the example they themselves set and the way they raised me to never to settle, to strive for excellence and whatever you do....don't marry the wrong person. As such, I put such weight into these issues that many times i find myself staggering beneath it. It’s a hard realization to know that there's no book I can read, no test I can take, no instruction manual to follow step by step in order to arrive at a good and happy life.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My heart has been hurt so much over the years that I have learned to instinctively distrust it, working hard training my brain the dominant & more trustworthy of the two organs. But, in the end, I don't believe there's any perfect answer. No silver bullet. No cheat sheet. I'll just have to take the best information I have and use it to make the best decisions possible. And when I still feel that information lacking, I ask my father for his advice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">My latest query was to ask if it "bothers him that he and my mother don't share a lot of the same interests" (stoic history PhD marries bubbly elementary school teacher) and whether or not he's found that an obstacle to be overcome in their marriage. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Ever the thoughtful professor, he penned a reply which I have included below. Frankly, I believe the sentiments are universal and everyone loves a bit of fatherly wisdom. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Thank you, dad.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" /></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"></div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #7a0c0c; font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';">Hi Sweets. I've been a bit bothered by your question the other day, inasmuch as I do not think I answered it very well. So I will try, briefly, to expand a little.</span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #7a0c0c; font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';">We like to think that we should have long-range plans for our lives, and while we are encouraged to do so and need to do so, the reality is mostly aspirational. The reason for this is simple: we change as we grow older. And as we change, our likes and dislikes change, goals change, financial circumstances change and so those plans must change as well. </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #7a0c0c; font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';">The future is a mystery with respect to many things, but especially with this abstraction called 'happiness'. Most people in this world have never experienced it, I am convinced, and have made their lives commensurately miserable in the pursuit of it. For 'it' itself is myriad in its forms and seems as fleeting as gossamer. Yet it doesn't so much 'flee' as 'evolve' as we grow older. The happiness of youthful passion inexorably gives way to the warmth of familiarity and sentimental attachment. The happiness of watching a child grow, will give way in time to the stark reality of anxious nights, emotional conflict and a life-long uncertainly over the fate of that child. The initial paternal giddiness gives way to celebration, dread, satisfaction and second-guessing, as life gives and takes its rewards and its tolls. But that's the whole point of living isn't it?</span><span style="color: #7a0c0c; font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';"> </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #7a0c0c; font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';">You asked me whether I wished Mom knew more history, and the answer is: of course I do. But I knew that history was not her strong suit when I married her. Instead, I looked to her character, her maternal instinct, her loving nature, her eternal innocence about many things. Where is the guarantee that a history degree would have come with all those? Does that mean that, perhaps, I am not as happy as I could be? Probably. But then who is, outside the silly movies which have distorted our perspective on such things? The familial detritus which litters the twenty-first century social landscape provides ample evidence that most people never find their ideal. And while that may rule out attainment of the will-o-the-wisp we call 'happiness', it hardly makes impossible the more achievable, stable and nurturing objective: contentment. And if, in the end, I can say that I am content with the way I've lived my life; that will be compensation enough. </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="color: #7a0c0c; font-family: 'Monotype Corsiva';">I hope this helps. Didn't mean to go on. And I certainly don't mean to tell you what to do, or what decisions you should make. I said my piece enough as I was raising you. It's up to you now.</span></blockquote>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-53443235543296895952012-02-23T08:53:00.004-08:002012-02-23T08:53:00.152-08:00It's Like I'm Losing My MindI'm driving myself crazy.<br />
<br />
I want to be skinny. Pass me that cookie. I love him. I love him not. I want to be married. I want to be single. I'm going to be alone forever. Leave me the fuck alone.<br />
<br />
But isn't that what people do? Make choices, choose this instead of that? A downtown studio for suburban single family? Trading autonomous whirlwinds of one's twenties for security in one's thirties? Metro cards for car keys? Friday night cocktail flirtations for Sunday morning coffee?<br />
<br />
The bottom line, Eli is great. He CAN be great. But our entire relationship, I feel like he's dragging me along while I play catch up learning how to communicate, how to incorporate someone into my life, how to strike a balance, how to not hate existence when I'm out in suburban Maryland and wanting so desperately to disolve into the anonymous, bustling sidewalks of Dupont. How do I not feel like something is missing?<br />
<br />
And then ten minutes after I wrote this, he called and I couldn't wait to be back by his side.Thus resetting the spin cycle of my indecision.<br />
<br />
So THIS is how it feels to be losing your mind.<br />
<br />
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-12160610995332158092012-02-17T14:02:00.001-08:002012-02-17T14:06:04.047-08:00True Love: A Letter<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px; text-align: justify;">I have things to say, I have people/men/A man to bitch about, but I'm taking the high road (until next week anyway). </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px; text-align: justify;">I'm ending Valentine's week, 2012, sharing a letter I've had memorized since childhood (the product of having an historian for a father coupled with a love of Ken Burns soundtracks should suffice for an explanation as to why). And so I share this letter with you, my Dear Reader, because I've always found its undoubtedly poetic prose and hauntingly romantic sentiment have the ability to help me transcend my own petty existence. I hope whatever discomforts the week brought for you, it may do the same. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;">It is a letter of love and farewell, written in 1861 at the beginning of the Civil War, by Sullivan Ballou, a 32 year old lawyer serving in the Union Army. A week after he wrote this letter, he was killed in the Battle of Bull Run. The letter was delivered, posthumously, to his widow, Sarah, who was then 24. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;">She never remarried. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22px;">Frankly,</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /> </div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><br />
<blockquote style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.3em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: 20px; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #990000;"><i>July 14, 1861</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Camp Clark, Washington</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>My very dear Sarah,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days – perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more. Our movements may be of a few days’ duration and full of pleasure – and it may be of some conflict and death to me. "Not my will, but thine, O God be done." If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my Country, I am ready.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing – perfectly willing – to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Sarah, my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and burns unresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me – perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar – that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortunes of this world to shield you and your children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the Spirit-land and hover near you, while you buffet the storm, with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights, advised to your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours, always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>As for my little boys – they will grow up as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the deep memories of childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their character, and feel that God will bless you in your holy work.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Tell my two Mothers I call God's blessing upon them. O! Sarah. I wait for you there; come to me and lead thither my children.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Sullivan</i></span></blockquote>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-33242405089011857992012-02-13T09:26:00.000-08:002012-02-13T09:26:42.692-08:00The Good, The Bad, the Fucked up & the Frustrated<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #990000;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #990000;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #990000;">The Good</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Putting clean sheets on my bed and realizing I didn’t go over my weight watcher points yesterday.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #990000;">The Bad</span></b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The feeling that I’ve lost myself and can’t get it back with the person I’m supposed to love. Did he suck it out of me? Did I give myself away willingly? Was it a combination f the two? All I know is that I can’t be myself, I don’t feel loved and I don’t feel whole enough to stand on my own right now. Which leaves me a bit…nowhere. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #990000;">The Fucked Up</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Walking out abruptly on my friends at a restaurant because I didn’t want Eli* to know I was out with friends eating and drinking. I am not going to pretend that this wasn’t fucked up on a great many levels. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #990000;">The Frustrating</span></b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am currently my own worst enemy. I don’t want to lay down, I don’t want to stand up, I don’t want to talk about my feelings, I don’t want to FEEL my feelings, I don’t want to work, I don’t want to take care of myself, I don’t want to do the things I KNOW will make me feel better. I’m not acting like myself. I’m not treating myself or those around me with respect. I want to feel loved in my relationship, but I don’t feel safety, acceptance or support – so how can I open myself to love? But how can I bear I start all over? I just want to curl up in my mother’s arms and cry. I want my dad to tell me what to do. I want someone to give me some answers. Because frankly, at this moment I have nothing but doubt and dread. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><br />
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" /><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-small;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>*My boyfriend of 9 months</i></span>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-46072340199942847212012-01-31T09:59:00.000-08:002012-02-01T11:28:46.643-08:00Dear Phantom, A Letter<link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CWESTRA%7E1.PAS%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CWESTRA%7E1.PAS%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CWESTRA%7E1.PAS%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Dear Phantom,<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was 10 years old when I first heard it, the auction echoing in an empty opera house interrupted by the dissenting melodies of dueling organs. The comedic theatrics of an operatic ingénue yielding to a story of mystery, intrigue, delicious evil, forbidden desires and tragic loss, all set to the tunes and lyrics of geniuses Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was my first CD, in fact a double CD box set which I begged my father to purchase after hearing a rendition of Music of the Night sung by José Carreras. Of course its inclusion of a complete libretto felt to me like the prize inside of a cereal box. As an all too imaginative tween living on a Midwestern dirt road adrift on a sea of yellow cornfields, the world of Broadway, Sarah Brightman and Manhattan seemed as distant and fantastical as that of a Disney princess. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And while I did, in fact, memorize the libretto, cajole my voice teacher into coaching an ill-fated alto to eke out the aria, “Think of Me”, and spent my nights dreaming of a mysteriously masked tenor whisking me away to subterranean dungeons filled with red velvet lounges and the echoes of Music of the Night, (the origin of my love of bad boys the world over, perhaps? I prefer not to speculate), nothing could quite have prepared me for the spectacle when, at last, at the age of 19, I saw it on stage. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The at-once illuminated chandelier sweeping above my head, the rolling fog engulfing the Orchestra pit during Phantom of the Opera, the fact that, while handsome, I still found the character of Raul as simpering and insufferable on stage as his disembodied audio counterpart; the spectacle of the Masquerade, the tears rolling down my cheeks as as Christine bids farewell to her Angel of Music. All are memories I’ll cherish forever. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This same enthusiasm translated to the 2004 cinematic version, which I unapologetically love. Many mistakenly assume my slight obsession with Gerard Butler came from his digitally enhanced abs in the horrifically historically inaccurate 300. Oh contraire, it is a direct result of his portrayal of Phantom with emphasis on his the No Return sequence that I still maintain is the sexiest piece of film making ever projected upon a screen.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so it is with an enthusiastic smile, a heart full of sentimentality and the goose bumps that never cease to appear during the opening sequence of dueling organs and reawakened chandeliers – that I wish a happy 24<sup>th</sup> birthday to the Phantom of the Opera. May you be delighting theatergoers and 10 year old farm girls for generations to come.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Frankly,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><br />
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-32766994264023874392011-01-12T08:25:00.001-08:002012-02-16T09:32:45.121-08:00Conversations with My Father (Part One)<div class="ii gt" id=":1ov"><div id=":1ow" style="color: #6c0404;"><div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>I received the below email from my father last week following the aforementioned break up. It made me think. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>While somewhat hard to hear, I thought it was worth considerable reflection and I wanted to post it here, lest it fade into archived obscurity within the bottomless hole that is currently my gmail in-box. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div></div><div id=":1ow"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: #6c0404;"><span style="color: #6c0404; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Frankly, after your wonderful comments on the last bit of fatherly advice, I just couldn't resist the urge to share this honest and heartfelt bit of paternal correspondence.</span></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #b11315;"><span style="color: #b11315;"> </span> </span></span><br />
<div></div><div><a href="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="post signature" border="0" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" /></a> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br />
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<blockquote style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><div><span style="font-size: small;">It's late and I'm worried about you getting home, so I thought I'd "scratch off a few lines", as they used to say. </span></div></blockquote><blockquote style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><div><span style="font-size: small;">Sorry about your last minute email from <i>[The Chef]</i>, but that in itself was revealing enough to know it was for the best. In that context, I offer these thoughts for whatever they are worth.</span></div></blockquote><blockquote style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><div><span style="font-size: small;">Women like you, Scarlett (transparently needful of romantic love), are particularly at risk I think, because there are two ways most men will respond: (1) with reciprocal endearment and love or (2) as an invitation to exploitation. It's just the way men are. And, sadly, there are far more of the latter than the former. Therefore, I think that you should try to be a little more guarded in your interactions with, and reactions to, men. You have so much to offer the right man, but you cannot sell it too cheaply or offer it too readily. There is an old saying I heard a long time ago and never forgot: that people tend to disdain what is thrown at them. And that is all too true. Moreover, by being too eager you sell yourself short. The descriptions you have given me of your recent interactions did not convey much respect on his part, nor self-assuredness on yours. I guess my sense is (and I don't mean to sound cliched) that you need to take ownership of your own 'personhood', for lack of a better word, in such a way as to demand that requisite respect <i>before</i> offering love--not after. Real respect and love are mutually reinforcing and mutually sustaining. </span></div></blockquote><blockquote style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><div><span style="font-size: small;">You have been through so much for one so young, but you must resist the temptation to think of yourself as a victim. Down that road lies immense vulnerability, not to mention cynicism. You are in need of neither one just now. You must take stock of your incredible assets and value them commensurately. The question in your mind should always be whether or not a man measures up to your (preferably astronomical) specifications, not whether you measure up to his. Meanwhile, concentrate on the requisite self-improvement we all seek.</span></div></blockquote><blockquote style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><div><span style="font-size: small;">I'm not so old that I don't understand the need for intimacy with someone, honey. But this lurching from "candidate to candidate" in this fashion can't be good for you can it? I mean you are so much more than that. The mental toll, for one thing, must be considerable. And disappointment and despair tend to reinforce each other in a cyclic, toxic emotional cocktail. You really need to rethink your perspective, Scarlett, along with your own self regard, in order to concoct an antidote for it. And if you do, I think you'll find that the more you redirect that energy and emotional commitment toward self-improvement and self-fulfillment, the sooner fate will take a hand with the romance. I'm certain of it.</span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size: small;">I actually wrote this several days ago but wanted to wait until after New Years eve to send it. </span></div></blockquote><blockquote style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><div><span style="font-size: small;">Our trip home to the 'Promised Land' <i>[Texas]</i> (that really ticks Mom off when I say it) was very enjoyable and uneventful. </span></div></blockquote><blockquote style="color: black; font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><div><span style="font-size: small;">Love you.</span></div></blockquote></div></div>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-36909049231832864052011-01-05T11:20:00.000-08:002011-01-05T13:35:56.159-08:00A Fresh Start<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">2011 greeted me on the tail end of five bottles of bubbly and found me wearing a sparkly crown, tooting a noise maker and embracing two of the best friends I'll ever have. No cliched kisses for me but only the briefest of pangs for my recently severed relationship.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">While it would, be typically Scarlett to bitch about the fact that I did not have someone of my very own to kiss at midnight; rant about my endless frustration with the opposite sex; or bemoan the parade of failed relationships steadily lengthening from year to year; its a new year and thus should strive to be a new outlook.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In that newness of spirit, I will simply say that endings, while often sad, are not all together negative. Rather, I suppose they could be seen as opportunities for growth. For the first time in a long while I can truthfully say that looking back at this relationship, I have no regrets. No self flagellating "what was I thinking" monologues play ad nauseum in a tortured psyche through a red wine haze. Quite the opposite.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He helped open my mind and my heart to the unknown, he challenged me intellectually, he awakened me emotionally. I am a better person for it. And there's nothing sad about that. I am not broken. Any wounds will, in fact, heal. And while I will miss his smile and his amazingly kind eyes, it is useless to wage a war on what is simply ill-fated timing. It does no good to curse that which you are unable to change.</span><span style="color: #990000; font-size: small;">* </span> </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And so I will put one foot, however reluctantly, in front of the other, wading into the still serene waters of 2011. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I will continue to make (and most likely break) my resolutions which include making more time for the things that make me happy, have better posture, pay off credit cards, splurge more on nice lingerie, loose weight, be a better friend, make my bed, learn to like dark chocolate, make time for Yoga and, of course, marry Russell Crowe.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Frankly, </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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</div><div style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">*This new and less indignant approach to life feels a bit unnatural....but good. Kind of like walking in a new pair of Gucci platform wedges. </span></i></span></div>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-51354188965191848952010-12-13T07:13:00.001-08:002012-02-13T10:24:40.628-08:00My Greatest Fans<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Recently I had a bad day. A fight with the new guy, shall call him The Chef, left my eyes swollen and sore with the salty remnants of tears and face so blotchty and so red that they seemed to blend seamlessly with my hair. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After calming both the physical and mental effects of the argument with a frozen ice pack for my face, and a bottle of Zin for my soul, I went to bed. Two days later I was on the phone with my father when he detected something in my voice. Whether a hint of sadness or a slight tone of frustration managed to seep through my masque of perhaps overly compensatory cheerfulness, I'm not sure. But my father, never one to be fooled by any false sentiment I may utter or deterred with a deflecting "I don't want to talk about it", finally wore me down. I gave him a brief outline of my recent romantic turmoil, bemoaned general frustration with dating, men, and relationships. Expressed frustration and in a state of emotional exhaustion, I think I even touted the virtues of an arranged marriage system.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">The next morning I woke to the following email which I thought both caring, thoughtful and poignant. Frankly, I believe its underlying thesis to be an emotionally stinging truth but one that bears consideration</span></div><br />
<div class="ii gt" id=":1et" style="color: #b11315;"><div id=":1es"><blockquote><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>Hi Sweets. Just want to say how sorry I am that you feeling low. Life is tough in more ways than one, but that's not going to assuage you much I'm afraid. I don't know what the answer is, Scarlett. Your Mom and I tried to raise you to be successful and independent--and we succeeded spectacularly. </i></span></div></blockquote><blockquote><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>If we made a mistake by not just marrying you off at eighteen, then I apologize. But the older I get, the more I am convinced that happiness in life is about maximizing one's choices, and you have more choices than most women have. The flip-side of that, of course, is that you have to make some tough ones. </i></span></div></blockquote><blockquote><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>It seems to me as if you are waiting for lightning to strike in an ecstatically transformative way--as with Cinderella or Snow White. Since you are an incurable romantic (and you may not know this, but you get that from me), you are sort of caught in a vise, waiting for that optimal situation to transpire. But the truth is, honey, that it may or may not. And you need to be prepared for either contingency. And if, in the end, a very good alternative presents itself, rather the one of your dreams, it will be left to you to choose. </i></span></div></blockquote><blockquote><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>My advise is simply to not allow the perfect to be the enemy of the good. </i></span></div></blockquote><blockquote><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>I'm nearing old age, and long distanced from the dating scene. Yet I can't believe there are no good men out there with whom you could be happy. Then again, remaining unattached and unencumbered has its own advantages. Just know that your specifications as to what you deem acceptable may change with time, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. It isn't 'selling out' so much as it is an adaptation. Just know that however you choose to configure your priorities, it is your life and your decision. All I can offer is the father's hope--that if you do find someone, that discovery is impelled by much more than the mirage of transient attraction--such as the revelation of deep character, mutual respect and long-term goals. That's my take, for what it's worth.</i></span></div></blockquote><blockquote><div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>I know that I often sound churlish in trying to discipline you financially. But don't ever forget that Mom and I can only be as happy as you are. We are your greatest fans.</i></span></div></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>Love,</i></span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>Papa </i></span></blockquote></div></div>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-47329340210530904192010-10-08T13:58:00.000-07:002010-10-13T13:32:35.277-07:00Landscape Architecture<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve never been one for jigsaw puzzles. My mother can’t get enough of them and will stare at microscopic pieces for hours, days, in fact, until she manages inexplicably to find the order amidst chaos. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m not a visual person. I don’t work well within the confines of compartmentalized thought. Edge pieces, blue pieces, round, square, etc. I'd much prefer to admire a finished work of art and drill down into its individual, interesting elements of texture, style, medium rather than working from the ground up. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">My very right brained style of thinking is rather limiting in that sense - needing to be sure of the forest before taking notice of the role of the individual trees, leaves and branches. I like the big picture. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">So it is with life. I like to make the pieces fit neatly together to form a seamless mosaic of complementary tiles, structured form and interesting texture. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">However, I'm finding it to be increasingly true that there are moments painted within the overarching canvas of life which don't quite fit in with the whole creating a jarring effect akin perhaps to embroidering Van Gogh's "Starry Night" upon the narrative of the Bayeux Tapestry* in place of Haley's Comet. Such an insertion would, if not alter the overall narrative, certainly change the setting so abrupt would be the effect.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">So it is with the impact one might experience upon and unexpected and intentioned meeting. An unexpected connection felt for someone with whom you might never pictured yourself and were completely prepared to dismiss as nothing more than a passing flirtation. And even thought you don't quite yet know what to make of this ill fitting piece of the puzzle, you find it makes you feel alive intellectually and physically in a ways you'd forgotten. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">And when that happens, suddenly none of the pieces fit because you find the landscape to be fundamentally altered.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="post signature" border="0" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*For those of you who snoozed your way through medieval history class, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bayeux_Tapestry%20">Bayeux Tapestry</a> is an embroidered cloth (dating roughly around 1077) depicting the events prior to and concurrent with the Norman conquest of England. </i></span></span>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-12017107518974231842010-09-20T11:56:00.000-07:002010-10-12T11:59:10.750-07:00Break Up Letter<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dear <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.eharmony.com">eHarmony</a>:</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span style="color: #b11315;">We need to talk. <br />
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</span></b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m not ready for a commitment of this magnitude. <br />
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</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Six months ago, not entirely certain of the degree to which I was ready to submerge myself once again into the DC dating pool, I timidly dipped my toes back into the pond to test the waters. The time and consideration with which you professed to offer a “deep and more meaningful” online dating experience, seemed the best way to better ease myself back into the life of a single Washingtonian. <br />
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Unsure of my readiness for significant emotional involvement, I thought it best to, at the very least, stretch my dating legs lest all romantic muscles become atrophied with disuse. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <br />
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</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span style="color: #b11315;">I want to see other people. <br />
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</span></b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You have set me up with not one, but THREE ex boyfriends. Well done, swifty. Well done. <br />
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While this detour down “Poor Decision Lane” followed by jaunt along “Regret Blvd” was diverting, I could have had a V8. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Add to this your consistent and seemingly unrelenting parade of men who reach an average and unimpressive vertical limit at 5’9. This stature, or lack thereof, leaves them at an inconvenient eye level with my rather substantial bust line. Standing at 5’10 in my shortest pair of heels, any way you solve this equation is sure to equal distracted disaster. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span style="color: #b11315;">I need some space.<br />
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</span></b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You attract immature <strike>men</strike> boys who throw hissy fits and pouting tantrums worthy of a 2 year old deprived of his [insert popular toddler toy] on my front doorstep when I fail to invite them in at the end of an evening. My neighbors thank you for the entertaining spectacle, but I am not amused.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span style="color: #b11315;">I’m not saying its you…but its DEFINITELY not me. </span></b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span style="color: #b11315;"> </span></b></i><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You’ve served as a beacon to boys apparently still residing if not physically, then definitely mentally, in the frat house. In what universe did you think that the way to win this Irish girl’s heart is to pound back Guinness after Guiness until you're about as articulate as Obama without his teleprompter. In fact I can concoct no rational scenario in which I should worry about the means by which my date will get home safely. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Please note, if a man is drinking in an attempt to get to girl drunk and trying to take advantage of her, he better make damned sure that he'll be able to drink her under the table without breaking a sweat. A drunk man is physically useless and frankly, nothing sobers me up faster or turns me off more than I man who is more intoxicated than I. Call me crazy but I like my men IN control as opposed to slurring and staggering. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In addition, spare me the “I’m too drunk to drive, can I stay at your place until I sober up”, sob story. I'm not unsympathetic, I promise. In fact, I have two very helpful suggestions for you. Option #1: “grab a cab." Connecticut Avenue is one block that-a-way. Make like an urbanite, stick out your arm and hope for the best. Option #2: I’ll be happy to point you in the direction of the Starbucks around the corner where you can caffeinate your way back to sober.<br />
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</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span style="color: #b11315;"> I need to concentrate on ME.</span></b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span style="color: #b11315;"><br />
</span></b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Let’s face it, doll, I don’t think we’re compatible. I'm sure am partly to blame. After all, It takes two to tango. I have been described as too sassy, too outspoken, too sarcastic, too cynical – many qualities which might turn off a romantic suitor. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">However, I just feel that at this point in my life, I’d rather take the $29.95 I’m throwing at you every month to be fixed up with the aforementioned, sulky, vertically challenged, future AA leaders of the greater DC metropolitan area and shove it at a new pair of <a href="http://www.endless.com/Kelsi-Dagger-Womens-Ebony-Thigh/dp/B003E47MUU/ref=sr_3_1/?cAsin=B003E47MNC&fromPage=search&qid=1285003183162&sr=3-1&asins=B003E47MNC,B003UYO0DQ,B0026RHPIA,B0036WSL2I,B0036WSKUG,B0029ZB65W,B00263KGYY,B0029PT2YE,B0026RHPMG,B0029PT45G,B0029PNZTW,B0027IR5OM,B003IOC43G,B003IOC800,B003IO8QK6,B003EYU950,B0026IC43U,B003D8IUY4,B003QGMXBY,B003D8IUFI,B003D8ITXG,B003TV4QWA,B003QGSYL2,B003D8ITN6,B003EELTNQ,B003EELTDG,B003EELTUY,B003EELTKO,B003EELTQS,B002PDP320,B003QGMST6,B003QGP5Q4,B003QGP8SO,B003PPEK6C,B002DE6FXC,B002SWHRDQ,B003M0NY0S,B003LY4IRS,B003LY4IMI,B003LY4IS2&asinTitle=Kelsi%20Dagger%20Ebony%20Thigh%20High%20Boot&contextTitle=search%20results&page=3&size=40&page=3&node=242261011&nodes=242270011&keywords=suede%20boots&sort=-price">suede, Kelsi Dagger over-the-knee boots. <br />
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</a></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Perhaps I’ll turn to your bastard fraternity brother, Match.com for other options? Perhaps we’ll meet again someday? Perhaps fate will intervene and drop Russell Crowe on the pub stool opposite me? Who knows? <br />
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</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b><span style="color: #b11315;">I think we’re better off being friends</span>.</b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Frankly, </span></div><span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
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<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-12999042959878054232010-08-24T12:00:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:02:24.411-07:00Why Men Love Bitches (Part Deux)<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">Circa 2006, I started this story and it’s a story that deserves to be finished. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;"><span lang="EN"><img height="387" src="uploads/45592_1_23_2010_11_06_22_PM_-_Bitch.jpg" style="border: 0px none; float: right; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;" width="286" /></span>After a day of <a href="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/archives/64-Why-Men-Love-Bitches.html">being an irresistible bitch</a><i>via </i>text and rendering all of his attempts at flirting unsuccessful on his part, the Professor proceeded to keep in contact that evening. I was out with friends and was having a good enough time though nothing was distracting me quite enough to keep me from occasionally glancing at my phone. Not wishing to seem impolite I had, of course, invited him to the ever dimly lit, smoke filled and badly serviced Biddy Mulligans of yesteryear for an opportunity to socialize with my friends, buy me a drink and perhaps attempt to seduce me in a real world setting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">However, harboring hopes for nothing beyond purely physical, up against a wall, talking optional sexual encounters for the evening, as all commitment phobic assholes worthy of bitch-like treatment do, he rebuffed the idea of all such communal interaction invitation and instead gallantly offered to come pick me up and take me back to his place for a night cap.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;"> </span> <br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">I was growing rather bored with the exchange already, but when it became clear that he wasn’t even going to make the effort to come out and persuade me in person to come home with him, I went from bored to mildly offended. This man clearly had no interest in conversation or any interaction involving a greater amount mental or emotional exhaustion than one might have with a chocolate éclair. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">Knowing that I was uncategorically worthy of seduction more mentally strenuous and than text message regardless of how attractive or tenured the man might be, I grew ever more resolutely obstinate, irritated and hostile with every click of the send button until I just decided to ignore him completely. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">Guess who ate it up with a spoon and couldn’t get enough?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">That guy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">Why followed next is perhaps the greatest “why men love bitches” exchange of all time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;"><b>Professor: Good morning sunshine</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #b11315; font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;"><i>Scarlett: (2 hours later) Good morning.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;"><b>Professor: So, you were being quite to cocktease last night</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;"><i><span style="color: #b11315;">Scarlett: Well seeing as how I had absolutely NO interest whatsoever in you OR your cock, I don’t see how that’s possible.</span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">Thus was the unceremonious and immediate ending of our voluntary interaction. Apparently men, even the gluttons for punishment, don’t love bitches THAT much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;">Frankly,</span><br />
<a href="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="post signature" border="0" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="color: #b11315; font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>*Side note: The image recorded is that of my favorite author, Elizabeth Wurtzel, on the cover of my favorite book, entitled none other than <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bitch-Praise-Difficult-Elizabeth-Wurtzel/dp/0385484011/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1282655271&sr=8-2">BITCH: In Praise of Difficult Women</a>. I Highly recommend you check it out not only will the social commentary make you laugh, but as always, Ms. Wurtzel's prose feed the soul. </i></span></span>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-12614317704644847902010-08-18T12:02:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:05:02.490-07:00Sagacity in Seattle<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ever have a conversation with someone so…epically unexpected and surprising that it makes your head spin? </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When someone without knowing you all that well has so much insight into your head without invitation or suggestion that it derails your train of thought? </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">An interaction that makes you reevaluate the way in which you connect with the world. Reassessing whether or not you spend you time wading in the shallow end of the conversation pool rather than treading in the more uncertain, fluid territory. I’m not speaking of the TOPIC of conversation per say, but the texture of the interaction.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We met casually on the Friday before last. He was there from Seattle to play in a band. I was there presumably to hear the music while keeping my own emotional tone from derailing into a dissonant, chaotic key. His band mate, our mutual friend, mentioned to him offhandedly about the situation underlying that evening merely in passing. </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He friended me the next week, sent me a nice note and added.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><blockquote style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div><span style="color: #660000; font-size: small;"><i>PS I know you may disagree and I totally respect that, but I think you're prettier without make-up. I'm sure you get this all the time, but you have two of the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on anyone. ;) </i></span></div></blockquote><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Very sweet.We talked at length this past Friday. He inquired after the Friday night situation, I filled him in on some very vague details and the fact that he never showed. His response:</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660033; font-size: small;"><b><i>“Wow! You looked like you were having a great time! I had no idea that you were running on a double track that night.”</i></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><i>“Double track?”</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #660033;"><i></i></span></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #660033;"><i>“I mean you must have had so much anxiety - waiting for him to walk through that door all evening and so frustrated when he didn’t show after putting yourself through all of that emotional expectation”</i></span></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><i>Crickets.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #660033;"><i></i></span></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="color: #660033;"><i>“Scarlett?”</i></span></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><i>“Yes? I mean - Yes.”</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><i>I was just a bit stunned. Yes. Yes, Seattle. That is Exactly what was going through my head.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660033; font-size: small;"><b><i></i></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660033; font-size: small;"><b><i>“That must have been incredibly draining”</i></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><b><i></i></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><b><i>Yes - yes it was - but who has the emotional radar to pinpoint that? </i></b></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: small;"><i>“Uh huh”</i></span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Keep in mind this man has NO background knowledge of who this ‘ex” is - could have been 5 years ago? 5 days? But….damn.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What gets me, or rather disturbs me the most is that it was a passing conversation. It wasn’t some dark, soul searching dialogue over hours of chatter and the hazy enlightenment which comes only after several bottles of Zin. It was instead, a passing tone of conversation that may, standing alone, be left unworthy of mention or afterthought. The ease with which he saw through the layers of emotion and bullshit sans gravitas or occasion - only passing brilliance. </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I suppose at the end of the day its really a difference between judging or responding to someone else’s story and really attempting to understand their experience. A difference, in short, between black, white and the spectrum of hues of which we may only note a fraction. </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Its amazing, isn’t it, the way in which a person makes us see ourselves, not by pointing out flaws, or even by painting the must beautiful portrait, believable or not; but by their own pure motivations and actions. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Its amazing how one person can make your see yourself, and particularly your flaws as starkly as if they were holding a mirror to your soul. Not through verbal admonishments but purely through their own selfless actions that, without intention, can highlight the distance by which one, and I in particular, routinely fall incredibly short. Knowing that I should listen more, judge less and once in awhile put myself into another girl’s Manolos just to see how really uncomfortable that last block might have been to walk.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Seattle consistently thinks in ways which seem so foreign and yet so dead on balls accurate that his statements routinely take my breath away. He relates to the world a completely purpose filled way that it leaves an immediate and meaningful resonance in, if not the soul, then surely the heart. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Frankly,</span></div><div></div><br />
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-79609937686524392192010-08-10T12:05:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:07:44.212-07:00Just Walked Away<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was prepared for the encounter on Friday.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img align="right" border="3" height="289" hspace="8" src="http://smallscreenscoop.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/christina-hendricks-esquire-pictures.jpg" vspace="6" width="217" />I met w/ my therapist to discuss strategies to avoid an inadvertent slip and fall down the crazy staircase. I had my makeup professionally applied at MAC for some intense smokey eye/glowy skin action. I gathered a posse and I DO mean a posse of fabulously beautiful women that I knew I can count on for ANYTHING, to accompany me and serve as emotional linebackers. Donned a casual yet uber sexy dress, borrowed from Goldie giving me curves worthy of a Christina Hendricks <i>Esquire </i>photo shoot. </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I compiled a survival kit of prescription strength uppers, a bottle of Prosecco, and pout enhancing lip gloss in my purple patent leather clutch, and away I went: ready to face the monster in my closet and prove its non existence. Assuage fears and see the ex for the first time since he left me with a tear stained face, shivering in the middle of a Philadelphia train station platform over two years ago. </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And he didn’t show. The fucker didn’t even have the decency to show up long enough for me to torture him with aloofness coated in sexy and casual indifference dripping fabulousness.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Perhaps he simply was too much of a coward to face me. Perhaps he simply found a more enticing offer for the evening. </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ironically though, while I was worried about this man walking back into my reality and giving myself a near ulcer over what this unsuccessful, unmotivated Peter Pan might think of my outfit, my waste line, my boobs, my hair, my smile, my eyes, my words - I saw three amazing bands, including my favorite, Atomic Shotgun - experienced the Red & the Black, a bar to which I had never been, and managed to make some new friends who found yours truly to be rather charming. </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Life truly happens when you’re making other plans. I’ll try to remember that when I’m spending time and emotional currency worrying about something and someone that truly means nothing and adds no value whatsoever to my world.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">With that, I finally walked away.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Frankly,</span></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br />
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-63816911503750350542010-08-04T12:10:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:12:34.381-07:00Scream, Shout, Let it Out<span lang="EN"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I was having drinks, sitting in </span><img src="uploads/screaming-woman1.jpg" style="border: 0px none; float: right; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; height: 300px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; width: 235px;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">someone’s quiet living room, in a circle of laid back, care free conversation with friends. The room was light and airy close to the ocean, but I wasn't quite sure. A safer place could not be imagined nor could a more comfortable way to spend, what seemed like a lovely afternoon.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Eventually the tone shifted and a nagging, pressing feeling emerged and refused to be shook off. The mood of everyone present was unnervingly altered from casual and light to secretive and knowing. Worried glances exchanged from face to face communicating something I wasn’t meant to see or information no one wanted to share.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Gradual, vague recognition crept up and a realization set in. He was here. A seeming impossibility but it made sense - he knew these people. His family was here. After all this time, silence and separation the possibility propelled my stomach into my throat and then plunged it back into place leaving a painful lump of anticipation temporarily disabling speech. The comprehension that he could, at any minute, enter the room and become a part of my line of vision set my eyes darting about, searching for some kind of warning sign or herald that would somehow assuage an unanticipated appearance.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Panic then set in. Utter terror at the thought that in this safest of places, he could suddenly be thrust into my reality unannounced and uninvited. Disjointed thoughts about everything I had left unsaid and the rage I had yet to unleash face-to-face whirled around the growing confusion of my mind.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Alarms worthy of of a DCFD station clamored in my ears as the room spun before my eyes. The previously airy space seemed to be loosing oxygen with every passing second. I couldn't understand why someone, anyone wouldn't smash one of these wall sized windows before we all lost consciousness. I had to sit down.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> I fixated on the beach below, staring intently on the point at which the surf rhythmically and calmly met the shore. Taking all the effort I had to stay grounded and present before the panic overtook me completely. It was too late. I could sense him walking into the room behind me. Even though I could barely see through the distortion of the moving room, there was no mistaking him even beyond the chaos pounding behind my eyes and blurring my vision.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> It wasn’t rational. I didn’t think. Fight or flight they call it? I had been fleeing this moment and these feelings and this fear for so long that the fight, the savage, overwhelming fight was the only response my swirling brain could conjure. Even so, my body seemed at once too small to contain it. The tidal wave of grief, passion and rage crashed upon me a thousand times more fiercely than I could have imagined washing away all cohesion or sense. Nothing but an echo of screams, incomprehensible noise, filled the space.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Unaware of words, unaware of thoughts, unaware of anything but the explosion of exhausting emotion and a newly discovered capacity for rage erupting from within. </span></span> <span lang="EN" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Hurling every remnant of sanity, feeling and self control at him one decibel at a time. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yet, he stood there placid. He seemed infuriatingly unphased at to the emotional explosion of atomic proportions to which he was seemingly immune and I longed to return to the flight strategy of before.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> As I sobbed myself awake and realized that I had been screaming to the darkness of my apartment only and that this encounter had not, in fact, been real. The rage, exhaustion, and grief, however, truly did exist in an organic, almost tangible way.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> It wasn't the first such dream I had had that had managed to break through the numbing effects of the tranquilizers, the Ambien and the Merlot all meant to keep my subconscious at bay. It was, however, the last such nightmare.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Nine months ago, I realized that you can only dam up a river so long before that dam collapses and the river swallows you whole. Since then I’ve let the water out, released the pressure, taken more than several deep breaths, put on my big girl panties, dug deeper, realized more and faced my fears. All but one.</span><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Frankly, it is for that reason I feel I’m strong enough after two and a half years for Friday night. Because Friday night, I know I will </span></span> <span style="color: #b11315; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">not </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">be dreaming when I see </span><a href="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/categories/22-The-Breakup-Files" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">HIM </a><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">standing in the room. </span></span><br />
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</span><br />
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-30143388409760849282010-07-28T12:12:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:16:08.481-07:00Objects in the Rear View Mirror<span id="internal-source-marker_0.904922136105597" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;">I thought I loved him. I was excited. To meet his parents, to go shopping with his mom, to be immersed in the family activities. More acutely enjoyed, I expect, since my own family was so far away. It was nice, it felt real.<br />
</div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.904922136105597" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">But there were problems, just like any relationship. There was the criticism for one. The constant comments about my diet, the nagging to eat better, the reminders to not order that second glass of wine, the disapproving looks if I were to partake in any form of carbohydrate. After all, HE was the professional athlete. He knew best.</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">Then came the fights. The temper. They were my fault, of course. Everything was always my fault. It was exhausting, living on the edge, not knowing what would set him off, doing my best not to make him mad.</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">But these problems were, in my mind, no different from any other relationship. He told me he loved me, so he must. And when it ended after nine months, I was sad. And I was hurt when he told me the reason: because I wasn’t “motivated”. Because I wasn’t 12% body fat. Because I wasn't working hard enough to get there. Because I spent too much time with my friends.</span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">I cried. I cried for not being enough. I cried for not trying harder. I cried for loneliness, for yet another failed relationship. For being 25 and still single! But alas, after the tears had stopped falling I did what so many women who have found themselves tossed and tumbled on the side of the relationship highway have done and will continue to do. I dusted myself off, touched up my makeup and moved on with life.</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">He wasn’t one of those ex’s with whom we stay in contact. A casual text, a brief phone call, a drunken hook up. No – this relationship was deader than a morgue resident with a toe tag accessory. Never to be heard from again.</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">Fast forward 5 years to last month when eHarmony and their 27 degrees of <strike>crazy</strike>…er, compatibility – posted none other than Footballer up on my “New Matches” list! What’s more, he “requested communication”. I was confuse. Slightly amused. Contemplating only two possible scenarios for this sudden outreach from a man I now considered to be of little more significance than a well learned lesson in controlling relationship behavior. </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"><b><u><span style="color: #b11315;">Douchebag Scenario #1:</span></u></b> He had no idea who I was. Didn’t remember us dating. Just saw the red hair (a weakness) and put no more thought into the communications request. This would just make him an idiot.</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"><b><u><span style="color: #b11315;">Douchebag Scenario #2:</span></u></b> He knew exactly who I was. In which case he was playing a game. Instead of just sending me an email to say, “Hi, Scarlett, it’s been a long time, how are you? Etc. etc.” he’s playing a warped, immature game of “getting to know you”.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">It turned out we had encountered Douchebag Scenario #2.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">I don’t know why I decided to meet him for lunch. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? He looked the same. Still cute. Still built. But he was flattering. He was amorous. Complimentary even. It was absolution, pure and simple. </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">If any bit of my psyche still remained scarred, if any shred of my self-esteem was still bruised, if there was any hint of uncertainty left over from the misfortune of dating a man who dumped me because of my weight…it was now vindicated and then some.</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">Because, unlike the woman who dusted herself off, moved on and continued to excel at life, this man had definitely stalled along life’s highway and was forever staring into the rear view mirror. </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">Forced into the ranks of the NFL-injured, he had early retirement thrust upon him and had little to no desire to move forward.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">And after the waitress screwed up his lunch order, I realized, he was still the poster boy for anger management, entitlement issues. Still annoyingly particular about everything. Still the ever suffering hypochondriac. Still the “my way or the highway”, “take me or leave me”, “its obviously your problem and not mine”, “my mother thinks I’m perfect so everyone else should fall in line”, “by the way, let me tell you how to live YOUR life” touting prima donna has been that he was circa 2005!</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"> </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">The only thing different at that lunch table was me. Not a change in weight that tipped the scales, but a massive shift in both self confidence, self worth and self awareness that I found so dramatic</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">.</span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;">Frankly, it was so incredibly satisfying. </span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman',times,serif;"></span></span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"></div><div style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin: 0px;"><img height="44" src="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/uploads/Untitled-1.serendipityThumb.jpg" style="border-width: 0px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;" width="110" /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div></span></span><br />
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-28443222890474883002010-07-21T12:16:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:18:19.816-07:00REDHEAD SPOTLIGHT: Discrimination Pushes A Ginger Over the Edge<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"><i>Imagine the ending of this headline: Man shoots himself and mother because of __________.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;">a) His crystal meth addiction</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;">b) He was breast fed until the age of 10</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;">c) He felt discriminated against as a redhead</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><span style="font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"><i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"><b>Correct Answer: C</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"><i>As a self proclaimed “ginger” celebrator and general reveler of all things carrot-top, strawberry-blond and flaming fabulousness, you can imagine my surprise, shock, awe and general bafflement at this story! </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"><i>Clearly this man was one book shy of a full library but seriously - What’s so wrong with redheads anyway!? </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315; font-family: times new roman,times,serif; font-size: small;"><i>Frankly, makes me wonder if there’s something to the phrase “beating like a redheaded step-child.”</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #b11315;"><i><span style="font-family: times new roman,times,serif;"></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-size: 24pt;"></span></b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-size: 24pt;"></span></b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-size: 24pt;"></span></b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-size: 24pt;"></span></b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><a href="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="post signature" border="0" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-size: 24pt;"> </span></b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-size: 24pt;"><a href="http://www.news.com.au/national/suspended-paramedic-trent-speering-ranted-about-redhead-discrimination-before-murder-suicide/story-e6frfkwi-1225894075937">Suspended Paramedic Trent Speering 'Sent Redhead Rant' Before Murder-Suicide </a></span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Suspended Sydney paramedic Trent Speering fumed that the NSW Ambulance Service was run by "degenerates" and was bigoted towards redheads before shooting dead his elderly mother and himself, a court has been told. </span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">On June 11, 2008, the 40-year-old visited his 70-year-old mother, Monica Speering, at her home in Baulkham Hills, Sydney, and shot her twice in the head before covering her with a blanket and resting her head on a pillow, </span><a href="http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/ambos-redheads-and-a-declaration-of-murder/story-e6freuy9-1225894034176"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="color: blue;">The Daily Telegraph </span></i><span style="color: blue;">reports</span></span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">.</span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Mr Speering then killed himself, a coronial inquest into both deaths heard today.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The day after the shootings, the <i>Daily Telegraph</i> opened a letter to the editor from Mr Speering detailing the reasons for his actions.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">John Agius, counsel assisting the coroner, outlined some of contents of the letter in the NSW Coroners Court today. </span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">"There are two main reasons as to why I've taken the action I have,'' Mr Agius read from the letter.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">"One is that there is a lot of bigotry towards people with red hair in this workplace ... and I've copped my share in my lifetime...</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">"I work for the Ambulance Service of NSW and you would be hard pressed to find an organisation more morally bankrupt, and run by a bigger bunch of degenerates if you tried.''</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Mr Speering went on to say that he would kill his mother and himself.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The letter triggered a police investigation but officers arrived at the house too late.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Mr Agius told coroner Mary Jerram that repeated recommendations from paramedic colleagues and medical experts that Mr Speering undergo a psychological assessment, had not been adopted.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">"There are issues here about the duty of care for the ambulance service to Mr Speering as an employee ... given what the ambulance service ought to have known of Mr Speering's mental state,'' he said.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The inquest, set down for two weeks, is due to hear from numerous witnesses, including senior NSW Ambulance management.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Read more: </span><a href="http://www.news.com.au/national/suspended-paramedic-trent-speering-ranted-about-redhead-discrimination-before-murder-suicide/story-e6frfkwi-1225894075937#ixzz0uJyTXXWi"><span style="color: #003399;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://www.news.com.au/national/suspended-paramedic-trent-speering-ranted-about-redhead-discrimination-before-murder-suicide/story-e6frfkwi-1225894075937#ixzz0uJyTXXWi</span></span></a></span></span></div>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-12534304711183984632010-07-19T12:18:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:21:06.277-07:00Dupont Dating Tour of 2010<div>Round and round the dating pond I went last week and ended up splashing about in my own bit of the city - Dupont. Literally splashing as I got caught in the rain at least once. </div><div> </div><div>The following is a brief recap of last weeks romantic (or not-so-much) episodes. </div><div> </div><div><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">Tuesday: </span></strong><a href="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/archives/270-Playing-Office.html"><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">BossMan</span></strong></a></div><div> </div><div><!-- s9ymdb:159 --><img height="199" src="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/uploads/Untitled.jpg" style="border-width: 0px; float: left; height: 247px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; width: 397px;" width="320" />BossMan was as funny, fabulous and utterly frustrating as ever. A little table at Dupont’s own <a href="http://www.eatyourpizza.com/">Pizzeria Paridiso</a> was casually perfect as always. I impressed him with my knowledge of foreign beer, we caught up, laughed, exchanged work information, he paid me a compliment. We were talking about the girl he broke up with in March or April and he said something to the effect of “most beautiful girl I ever dated. But now I understand why she’s not married. Not to say that beautiful girls have to be married - yourself being a prime example of that.” Upon reflection - not sure whether or not it was a compliment or just an avoidance of insult. Most likely the later I suppose.</div><div> </div><div>With this guy I’ll take what I can get!</div><div> </div><div>By all standards of what makes a date, in fact, a date (i.e., sexual tension, guy picks up the check, rebutting of sexual advances in an attempt to play hard to get and look like a lady) this one fell incredibly short of the typical criteria. But if it WERE, in fact a date - Pizzeria Paridiso is, of course, a great venue. The only problem being that they do not take reservations, leaving the possibility of waiting for quite some time at the over crowded bar. Additionally, if your entire party is not present and accounted for at the host’s stand - good luck charming your way to a table all by yourself. But other than that, I recommend the <a href="http://www.williamsbrosbrew.com/historicales.php">Fraoch Heather Ale</a>, my favorite beer. Pizzeria Paridiso is one of the three bars in town, to my knowledge, that serve it. <a href="http://www.lovethebeer.com/brickskeller.html">Brickskeller and RFDs</a> being the other two. </div><div> </div><div>He promised that we’d hang out again soon and emailed me the next day with some funny links, etc. relevant to our topics of conversation the night before. I really have to get over this as it is leading to nothing but sexual frustration. </div><div> </div><div><strong><u><span style="color: #b11315;">Wednesday: Brew Master (BM)</span></u></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div> </div><div>BM and I have been dating off and on since April - with a brief hiatus in June - owing to the fact that I was basically out of pocket for the 6 week during and post Memorial Day weekend. But we had a lovely reunion over Miller Lites and 8-Balls at <a href="http://www.buffalobilliards.com/">Buffalo Billiards</a>. </div><div> </div><div>Physically speaking, he is pretty much spot on as my type - 6’4, all smiles, redhead, large-ish teddy bear type. Yummy. He manages a local Brewery and is a nice guy. I am attracted/interested…but not uber excited about this one - maybe if I see him with more frequency than every other month. <div> <img height="346" src="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/uploads/032509_irongtate.jpg" style="border-width: 0px; float: right; height: 346px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; width: 248px;" width="248" /></div><div>I’m afraid I may have taken a bit of my residual frustration from the night before out of BM - I don’t think he minded though.</div><div> </div></div><div><span style="color: #b11315;"><strong><u>Thursday: Navy<!-- s9ymdb:158 --></u></strong></span></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div>What are our thoughts on a date getting HAMMERED and barely able to remember his own name let alone yours? I, for one, am NOT a fan. At some point during our post dinner jaunt over to <a href="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/www.jameshobansdc.com">James Hobans</a>, he decided that he needed to prove the existence of his Irish roots by downing no less than 6 Guinesses in perhaps a little over an hour. Excessive? Indeed. Unattractive? You betcha. OH! And let us not forget the little fit of jealous rage I had the pleasure of experiencing when I happen to give one of my favorite bar tenders a hug and a kiss on the cheek upon arrival at said bar. </div><div> </div><div>Thankfully the one redeeming feature of this bizarre little encounter was his choice of meeting place. <a href="http://www.iron-gate.com/">The Iron Gate</a>. A Dupont venue located @ 17th & N St., NW to which I had never gone (gasp!) but will continue to frequent for years to come. </div><div> </div><div>It is a truly, aesthetically unique, reminiscent of a tiny bistro one might find tucked away in a long forgotten Parisian alleyway. I highly recommend the citrus hummus and the goat cheese torte - but be sure this is your first stop of the evening as it closes at 10 p.m.! I found this to be a very dark, romantic and overall amazing date venue. </div><div> </div><div>Frankly, I just hope that next time, I‘ll be there with someone less…objectionable.</div><div> </div><div> </div><img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-45118697779027310082010-07-17T12:21:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:23:51.298-07:00Playing Office<div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He was beautiful. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">My second week of my new job he took over the publicity department. I didn’t fall immediately. It was slow. Gradual. At first glance he was a snappy dresser wearing wide, colorful ties and sporting a huge smile. After a week, he was an organized, no nonsense PR guy who had been in the trenches and whom I admired professionally. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><img height="236" src="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/uploads/PinUp2.jpg" style="border-width: 0px; float: right; height: 236px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; width: 213px;" width="213" />After two weeks he was the charming Italian, New Yorker with a slight Queens accent who accompanied me to the coffee shop every morning. After three weeks, he was my reason for looking pressed and perfect in full makeup and heels in every morning staff meeting. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">After a month, he was making nightly appearances in rated-X, multi-orgasmic sex dreams rendering me incapable of meeting his gaze without blushing a shade of red that put my own hair to shame.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Eventually it was taking every ounce of will power I possessed not to walk into his office, shut the door and crawl across his desk as if channeling some big haired, cat-like, temptress dancing on a mustang in a hair band music video. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It was agonizing. He wasn’t the sort of beautiful-and-knows-it, arrogant political asshole that frequents the political dives of Capital Hill and the networking dens of downtown. In fact, he wasn’t the sort of good looking man that makes you look up from your Cosmo or take notice from across the bar. He’s the kind that sneaks up on you. He’s the kind of man that may not truly knock a girl off her bar stool until you talk to him. And then BAM! Five minutes of snarkey, intelligent banter while he flashes those dimples, waxes philosophical on the Yakees, all things New York, Opera and politics and you’re done for.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I have to admit. I was obvious. I smiled too much. Asked too many questions - lingered a bit too long in his office perhaps. During the Christmas party, I even put myself in charge of desserts, baking 8 dozen cookies of various shapes, sizes, colors, textures, themes and flavors in my itty bitty kitchen. I then bought myself a new suit of beautiful black and red, had my hair blown out and visited the MAC counter at Macy’s for a 40s Marilyn, cat eye/red pout look that was truly, irresistible. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I then skillfully strutted into his office, both red pout and Christmas cookies perfectly presented and beautifully arranged as if to say “not only will I bake cookies for our children, but I will look AMAZING doing it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: tahoma,arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">While he did do a double take…it wasn’t quite the “throw the cookies in the air and take me now” response I had imagined.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Never have I ever put so much time, effort, MAC, Calvin Klein, Victoria Secret shaping or Jimmy Choo discomfort into unsuccessfully seducing a man! 9 months I spent on this man - and to no avail. Sigh. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Utterly disheartening. My one hope was that after the change of Administration, he would no longer be my boss. He would no longer have a position of authority over me (professionally speaking anyway) and he would be free to express his desire with wile abandon befitting a Fabio bedecked romance novel. </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">No such luck - this Republican politico is as utterly unseduceable as a Pope after Mardi Gras. I’ve learned to live with disappointment. Win some loose some.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And tonight, we’re having dinner. We’re just two old friends having dinner. He still makes me nervous, but I will do my own hair and make up and hopefully keep my rather vivid imagination in check.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Frankly, </span></div><img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-8182487877318979162010-06-29T12:26:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:27:27.932-07:00Redhead Spotlight #28<div align="center"><span style="color: #b11315; font-size: large;"><strong><a href="http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/spy_ring_qzWW8bImf9yEDTbtXcQnUL">Spy Ring's 'Femme Fatale'</a></strong></span></div><div class="byline"><em>By BRUCE GOLDING, ANDY SOLTIS and CATHY BURKE</em></div><div align="center" class="date updated"><a href="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/uploads/ac.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/uploads/ac.JPG" style="border: 0px none; height: 432px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; width: 228px;" width="228" /></a><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">A ring of 10 Russian moles right out of a Cold War spy novel was smashed yesterday — and among those busted was a flame-haired, 007-worthy beauty who flitted from high-profile parties to top-secret meetings around Manhattan. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Russian national Anna Chapman — a 28-year-old divorcee with a masters in economics, an online real-estate business, a fancy Financial District apartment and a Victoria’s Secret body — had been passing information to a Russian government official every Wednesday since January, authorities charged. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">In one particularly slick spy exchange on St. Patrick’s Day, Chapman pulled a laptop out of a tote bag in a bookstore at Warren and Greenwich streets in the West Village while her handler lurked outside, receiving her message on his own computer, the feds said. A similar exchange occurred at a Midtown coffee shop at 47th Street and 8th Ave. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">The FBI claimed the two were corresponding via a secret online network. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Last week, an undercover agent pretending to be a Russian official arranged a meeting to talk about the weekly laptop exchanges, pretending to be ready to send the sexy spy on a mission to deliver a fake passport to another female agent, according to the federal complaint. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">"Are you ready for this step?" he asked. "S¤-¤-¤-, yes," Chapman allegedly gushed. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">The undercover instructed her on how she would recognize her fellow spy and how to report back on the handoff, the feds said. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">"Haven’t we met in California last summer?" the spy expecting the fake passport was supposed to say. Chapman was to respond, "No, I think it was the Hamptons," according to the FBI. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Chapman allegedly was also supposed to hold a magazine under her arm so her counterpart would recognize her, and plant a stamp on a wall map indicate the handoff was a success. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">It never took place. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Another spy-movie-like maneuver took place in Brooklyn shortly after the meeting with the undercover agent when Chapman darted into a Verizon phone store to buy a cell using the name Irine Kutsov, and an address of "99 Fake Street," the feds said. She only planned to use the phone to "avoid detection of her conversations," the FBI alleged. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">At her arraignment last night, she was held without bail as federal prosecutor Michael Farbiarz called her a "highly trained agent" and a "practiced deceiver." </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">The other suspects, including four middle-aged couples living seemingly ordinary professional lives, were supplied with bogus names and documents and told by Moscow to become "Americanized," infiltrate "policymaking circles" in the United States and send secrets back to the Kremlin, the feds said. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">All allegedly were on deep-cover assignments and schooled in spying tradecraft — from using high-tech methods like digital gadgets to traditional methods like invisible ink, sending encoded radio bursts of data and using innocent-looking "brush-by" encounters to pass documents. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Among the extraordinary allegations detailed in documents filed in Manhattan federal court yesterday: </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">* A senior Russian spy who used the name Christopher Metsos served as a go-between for agents across the country. He buried cash under five inches of dirt in upstate Wurtsboro that was dug up two years later by a Yonkers couple who were members of the ring. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">* Metsos turned over an orange bag of cash to a Russian government official in May 2004 when they passed one another on a stairway at the Forest Hills, Queens, LIRR stop. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Other handovers and meetings between spies occurred in a Fort Greene, Brooklyn, coffee shop, a Sunnyside, Queens, restaurant and a subway entrance at Columbus Circle, the feds said. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">* In May 2006, spies based in Boston gave their handlers information about changes at the CIA and about the 2008 presidential election. The information came from a well-connected "former legislative counsel for the US Congress," they told Moscow. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">* The Boston spies also boasted in 2004 that one of their agents had talks with a US nuclear expert about research on bunker-buster warheads. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">* A spy in Montclair, NJ, who used the name Cynthia Murphy, told Moscow in February 2009 that she had "several work-related personal meetings" with a prominent New York financier, who was a big campaign fund-raiser and friend of a former Cabinet member. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">"Of course, he is a very interesting target," Moscow replied. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">* Her husband, who used the name Richard Murphy, was told last January how he would be able to identify another spy when he traveled to Rome to get a bogus Irish passport. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">"Excuse me, could we have met in Malta in 1999?" he was told to ask. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">If the contact was legitimate, he would reply, "Yes, indeed I was in La Valetta, but in 2000." </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">But if his contact was carrying a copy of Time magazine in his left hand, it was a signal that the meeting was in danger, according to the instructions from Moscow. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">"You were sent to USA for long-term service trip," one message said. "Your education, bank accounts, car, house etc. — all these serve one goal: fulfill your main mission, i.e. to search and develop ties in policymaking circles in US and [send] intels." </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">The court documents also reveal day-to-day travails of the spy business. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Last March, two of the suspects were watched as they met at a payphone at DeKalb and Vanderbilt avenues in Brooklyn. They went from there to a coffee house for a long chat. One alleged agent complained about the computer Moscow had given him. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">"They don’t understand what we go through over here," he kvetched. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Before they left, one spy gave the other a package believed to contain cash, the feds said. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Moscow Center, the infamous headquarters of Russian intelligence going back decades, closely monitored how much it was spending. In one message, it listed all the expenses for two Boston spies, including $8,500 for rent, $160 for telephone and $180 for a car lease. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">The Yonkers spies, meanwhile, struggled financially, and after one of them flew to an unidentified South American country to collect eight bags each packed with $10,000, he used some of it to pay off nearly $8,000 in back taxes to the country and city, the FBI said. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Neighbors of the suspects were stunned. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">The two Montclair "Murphys" moved to the neighborhood about a year ago and were described by one neighbor as very normal. "They were suburbia personified," he said. Near the crowded, book-filled Yonkers home of suspect Vicky Pelaez — an op-ed columnist for El Diario — and another defendant, Juan Lazaro, neighbors were stunned. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">One, Ellen Shaffren, said that the couple had lived there 12 to 15 years and that one of their two sons is a piano prodigy. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Shaffren said Lazaro was an economics professor. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Two other defendants, Michael Zottoli and Patricia Mills, were arrested at their residence in Arlington, Va. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Mikhail Semenko, was busted Sunday at his home in Arlington. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Donald Howard Heathfield and Tracey Lee Ann Foley, were arrested at their Boston residence Sunday. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Outside their home near Harvard Square, local residents said the couple never quite fit in the offbeat neighborhood. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">"There was no interaction," said neighbor Lila Hexner. "Everything was very nondescript." </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Metsos, who apparently was able to enter the United States repeatedly over several year, is not in custody. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Each of the 10 arrested was charged with conspiracy to act as an agent of a foreign government, which carries a maximum penalty of five years in prison on conviction. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Nine were charged with conspiracy to commit money laundering, which carries a maximum 20 years in prison. </span></div><div align="center" class="story_body"><span style="font-family: courier new,courier,monospace;">Additional reporting by Perry Chiaramonte, Erin Calabrese, Rebecca Rosenberg and Doug Montero in New York and Marcia Harrison in Boston </span></div>Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-91469895299977642262010-05-18T12:27:00.000-07:002010-10-12T12:29:53.457-07:00<span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">Ribbitt. Ribbitt. Ribbitt. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">Plop. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">These are the sounds one might hear standing by the water’s edge. </span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;"><img height="180" src="http://www.thescarlettletters.com/uploads/princess_and_the_frog.jpg" style="border: 0px none; float: right; height: 180px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; width: 238px;" width="238" /></span></span>Alone, under the sleepy watch of fireflies and singing crickets - a soft melodic hum reminiscent of ‘can you feel the love tonight’ and ‘kiss the girl’ seem to dance on the warm breeze. Looking out over the small pond seeming to reflect an aura of possibilities and magic just as brightly as the slightly undulating reflection of the moon against the dark water. You close your eyes, melting away the cares of the world and open your heart up to belief and hope, as though love, never ending love were the only thing standing in front of you. Believing in everything but the possibility of disappointment and pain. And you take a step forward into what you believe to be the waiting arms of someone wonderful and then……</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">SPLASH. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">The unscuffed red soles of your designer peep-toes are now submerged in muck, your beautifully tousled hair gone damp and frizzed beyond recognition. What's more, you’re covered in eager, hopeful frogs who, like some other naïve singleton of recent memory, are crowding around in the hopes of being kissed. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">It seems to be the ones who aren’t hopping into the fray, those submerged and harder to catch which seem to be the most attractive. Even though there may be many an amphibian vying for the opportunity to show off his legendary croaking skills or perhaps to prove that his lily pad is the best in the swamp, I seem to end up face down in the mud trying to kiss some slippery, web-toed, wart infested croaker because I’m convinced the more elusive the frog…the handsomer the prince. A scenario which is seldom, if ever, the case. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">While the prospect of batting one's eyes and puckering up for frog after frog is, admittedly, a daunting one; (after all, you may only have frizzy hair a cold sore and a pair of worn down stilettos to show for your trouble) the possibility still remains that happiness could be waiting for you around the next lily pad. And hope springs eternal, after all. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">Welcome back to the pond, my friend. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">Ribbitt.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333;">Frankly, </span></span></span><img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-36121364698992237022010-04-07T12:20:00.000-07:002010-10-19T12:24:50.911-07:00Blue Brown Eyes<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">Do you ever have those days or weeks where for no particular reason, you just feel….blah?? </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">It started last week – no particular reason – just a general …haze of monotony settled over my head. All of a sudden DC feels too small and leaves me feeling as though I’ve dated every man in it leaving me much less than impressed. General dislike of my apartment, my job, my hair, my skin – the only thing I AM liking is my ass as I’ve been trying to cure the boredom with excessive exercise. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">I feel like my life is at a standstill – no direction – no momentum. The same food. The same bars. The same…everything. Not to mention that anyone within a 5 yard radius seems to have developed an amazing ability to annoy the crap out of me with alarmingly minimal effort. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">And so I tried to shake things up – for instance, I went to my first opera at the Kennedy Center last week, which was lovely despite the fact that I went by myself which is less than ideal. Its no one’s fault, mind you – I didn’t ask anyone – but then again I didn’t anticipate the lack of variety in attendees and thus making for ho hum people watching. Geriatrics and hooker-fied 22 year olds on the arms of barely legal boys. Trying to temper their lack of maturity with Italian arias and buxom sopranos. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">I scored AMAZING DC United tickets for Saturday night – something I’ve never done before, which had pick-me-up potential. Until…wait for it…EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY FRIENDS was either out of town, or busy, had people in town or was otherwise engaged. I even went to THIRD TEIR friends! <em><span style="color: #b11315;">(note: if you actually KNOW me and you're reading this blog, you are NOT a third teir friend).</span></em> The prospect of going to yet another event sans friends and surrounded by strangers was a little too much.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">And with this extreme lack of joie de vivre, obviously I feel as if I have nothing spectacular with which to entertain you, dear readers. Which makes me sad as well and the prescription meds aren’t exactly filling in boredom and self-pity cavity I seem to have carved for myself. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">Ugh – what a truly depressing post. Hopefully I’ll pick myself back up and be back to my generally chipper self! </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #b11315;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>*Cheers*</strong> <clinks glass=""> Here’s to hoping!</clinks></span></em></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #b11315;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></em></span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">Frankly,</span></div><br />
<img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5843206844202219598.post-31614497040355051512010-03-09T12:42:00.000-08:002010-10-19T12:51:37.882-07:00Dating Sagas<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">Soooo date updates. I’ll give you the quick ones first then move on to more detailed craziness that only your dear Scarlett could produce.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #b11315;"><strong>Coffee Date</strong></span>. I haven’t written about Mr. Coffee yet. A friend set us up and we decided to meet on Friday afternoon. He’s very nice, really great smile. I don’t know if I’m all THAT attracted to him, but if he asks me out again, I wouldn’t be completely opposed to the idea. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #b11315;"><strong>Irish Guy.</strong></span> We all remember the fabulous date/marathon make-out session I had with this guy. He emailed me last Sunday and said:</span></div><blockquote dir="ltr" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-right: 0px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><strong><em>Sorry I've been a little flaky. Things have been rather crazy. I unfortunately had to work today, just me and anal retentive boss which is just tons of fun. Are you still up for doing something soon? Things should hopefully calm down for me this weekend. Do you have any plans? Let me know what you think. Hope you had a good weekend.</em></strong></span></span></span></blockquote><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">So after that I said I was free on Saturday and he suggested we touch base closer to the end of the week to decide what to do.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">Friday I emailed a friendly, <span style="color: #b11315;">“hi”</span> to see what the plan was for Saturday and heard…NOTHING back. I’m NOT a fan. We’re kicking this one to the curb.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">And then we have <strong><span style="color: #b11315;">Tex</span></strong>. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">So Friday evening, after sharing a drink with <a href="http://pqnation.com/">PQ</a>, I met him in Gtown and had a lovely dinner at Pizzeria Paridiso. Tres Yummy! We had a great conversation, I had to stop myself from literally staring at length into his piercing blue eyes. He looked like someone…but I couldn’t quite place it. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">After dinner, we walked over to Clyde’s and proceeded to talk, drink and flirt until around 3 a.m. when the bar was closing. He offered to give me a ride home and a I certainly didn’t object. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">So we pull up in front of chez moi and he kisses me ‘goodnight’. Many, many kisses goodnight. 15 minutes of kisses goodnight – and the cars whizzing by on my busy Dupont street got a little distracting. So I very cleverly suggested, as I didn’t feel comfortable inviting him upstairs, that he pull into my building’s parking lot around back. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">Incidentally, my discomfort in inviting him up stemmed from the following three rationale:</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #b11315;">#1.</span> My apartment was/is STILL in disarray as the ceiling has not been repaired and all of the displaced furniture/wall decorations have not been replaced. Not exactly the way to make a stellar first impression.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #b11315;">#2.</span> The way this make out session was going, it would be very hard to put the proverbial sex brakes on outside of the confines of the car. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #b11315;">#3.</span> If said sex brakes were to come off, along with my clothes…my undergarment ensemble didn’t exactly match. (I couldn’t find my mega fabulous black bra…and I didn’t feel comfortable getting naked-ish for the first time in anything else). </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">So….we made out like a couple of teenagers in a car with nowhere to go. That is, of course, until we fell asleep around 4:30 a.m.! We woke up around 5 a.m. when I said, <span style="color: #b11315;"><em>“OK, the sun will be coming up soon…you have GOT to go home and I have GOT to go to bed”.</em></span> He agreed. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">So we resituated and he started the car. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">Correction – he TRIED to start the car. Einstein had left the battery on. Yep! Car – completely dead. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">As ya’ll know, I don’t drive. So I didn’t have a anything to help him jump his car. The rest of my date went thusly:</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #b11315;"><strong>5:00 a.m. –</strong></span> We decide its time to call it a night.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">5:15 a.m.<span> - </span></span></strong>We realize the battery is dead.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #b11315;"><strong>5:30 a.m. –</strong></span> Tex calls a tow truck.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">5:50 a.m.–</span></strong> Tow truck shows up.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">6:00 a.m.–</span></strong> Sun starts coming up.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">6:15 a.m.–</span></strong> The tow truck guy tries to jump the car. It’s not working.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">6:30 a.m.–</span></strong> Tex asks him if he can tow him to the BMW dealership in Pentagon City. The driver informed us that he gets off at 7:00 a.m. and so he’ll have to call ANOTHER truck to tow him to VA.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">7:00 a.m.–</span></strong> The second tow truck comes. He gives me a hug, a kiss and says "we'll talk" and he and his lifeless vehicle get hauled away.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="color: #b11315;">7:15 a.m. -</span></strong> I fall into bed, exhausted. But have lovely dreams.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">Oy! Either I’ll never see him again or it’ll be a great story about our first date!!</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">So THIS week:</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">Tomorrow…I’m having drinks with…..(drum roll please)….<span style="color: #b11315;"><strong>BOSS MAN!</strong></span> Yep – it’s finally happening and so little time to plan! Short skirt or low cut top? Hmmmm.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">Wednesday is lunch with <strong><span style="color: #b11315;">Rugby</span></strong>. A new guy, friend set up. We’ve been emailing/txting/talking on a daily basis.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span style="color: black;">I’ll keep you posted!</span><br />
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Frankly,</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><img alt="post signature" class="left" src="http://i109.photobucket.com/albums/n75/irish_red/Banners/Scarlett.jpg" />Frankly, Scarletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05921843035124478120noreply@blogger.com0