A month?

I can't believe it's been a month since I've last posted on here. 

I'd love to tell you that I've been distracted with a new foreign lover Sven, or Romero but sadly that's not the case. I've been setting up the StudioPlex Farmers Market in Atlanta. The town I hate to love, love to hate---but it's just once a week and the people are so cool that I get to interact with, it's worth the drive.  I love coming back to the farm though...trust me. Give me chickens and fireflies over gridlock any day. Bringing farm to table is the most important work I've done besides that time when I saved all those orphans from the collapsing building, but it's close get more info on it here. And support local farms. Farms need farm hands. Farm hands add to my dating pool. See? Full circle. 

So the search for the right man/cub continues. The one who's enamored by me, but who has an aversion to moving in on the second date. The one who smells like cocoa butter and salty sandalwood when he takes his shirt off instead of those gross cologne thingies that are stuck in magazines. The one who doesn't say much but when he does it's often poetic and clever. He loves my cooking. He's well traveled. Open to other cultures. Never blames anyone for anything. He never tells me what I did wrong, he just offers to help. He isn't a know it all, but seems to know well, it all. He thinks manscaping is for tree pruners and circuit body builders- (would someone bring back man hair please? I know it's fun for all you boys to dabble in the exciting fun world of body shaving...but you MUST keep up on it. You must. Body stubble is like bumping bellies with a plucked chicken.) But most of all, he makes me laugh. 

You know. THAT guy. Fantasy man. 

Turns out I'm way better at finding organic heirloom tomatoes grown by Amish farmers in South Georgia. But I'll press on. 

The Muse: Whore or Mistress?

Well, a lot of you wish I'd write more about food, maybe post a recipe now and again. We LOVED your cooking! It's all so flattering of course, but I kinda got that part after being able to keep a bistro open for ten years. You like me. Or you like me when I cook your dinner. And to that I say, come on up and take a cooking class or hire me to cook for your private dinner party. I don't wanna talk about food here. This is a different thing. This "me" is flirting with other Muses. 

1. Sometimes it's The Word Muse. I simply must write another book or my head will explode. Or I must write an epistle of an email to someone. (Sorry Joni and J.) But this is a tricky Muse. It's elusive at times and leaves me just dull. Or too full I can't even get it out in any sort of cohesive manner. Like that last sentence. This is the dangerous lover that makes you feel really good sometimes but when you really need him to come through for you, he's doing his own thing, not answering your calls, or just flirting with another. That pit in my stomach that clenches when I see another chef memoir published or Ruhlman ignores my latest book. Fine. This Muse will almost always nearly break your heart, but then he'll resurface and it's all fine again. You're hooked.

2. The Design and Redo Muse is like my friend with benefits. Fun to do but not an emergency. Too much HGTV and I'm moving all the furniture from the living room to the den and my office to the bedroom and the bed in the middle of the floor. Then it's over. I don't really think about this muse in my off times. It's really only when I'm having a craving. I'm not particularly good at it but I enjoy the process. 

3. The I'm Going to Do Something Important in the World Muse. You know that one friend who loves you to bits and thinks you are the next huge thing and you get all pumped up when you're around them and then when you leave the party you realize the Emperor has no pants? Yea. Somedays I'm like, what are you thinking? You're a marginally talented nobody with a messiah complex and an aversion to laundry folding. You are going to do nothing that anybody remembers ever. But the Muse steps in and tell you that you're just using that as an excuse to take the pressure off the burden of Greatness. Good for both guilt and creative paralysis. 

4. The Find a Lover Muse. I think this is hormonal. Okay of course it is. I can chart a Swiss train by it. But a lot of times I think if I have the right lover, the kind that makes me lose my mind for a few days--- I'll emerge from bamboo sheets like Barbarella.  I'll be recharged and more creative than ever. Silkier. Shinier. Smilier. Bustier. But this Muse has a big imagination. There is a huge difference between the elusive 'right lover' and a 'lover' person for now, insert name of curly headed Latino waiter here. Patience is not a strong suit with this Muse. She is eager to unearth the worm so to speak but grows weary of digging in the dirt for it. Compromise not recommended. Leave Carlos out of it. 

5. The Food Muse. Ahh, we are like old married people this Muse and I. A trusted friend and confidant, we finish each other's sentences and know when the brisket is done by smell, the fish by a poke, the bread by color. It's easy. Comfy. Safe. We'll always be there for each other and it's that long growth period of love that doesn't need much tending to. So when you ask me if I saw something on Food Network, or tried the newest and greatest restaurant. No. I was canoodling with my old friend, in between new sparks. I'm not cheating exactly...we have an open marriage.

And that is why I don't write about food in this blog. And probably never will. 

The Secret Sex

Well into my first real attempts at growing my own food, I have some legitimate gardens coming of age. Nothing huge yet, but peppers are hanging, tomatoes are blushing and swelling, and cucumber vines are slithering. I'm fascinated by how erotic everything is. While searching to see about the best way to harvest my squash blossoms that I stuff with goat cheese and basil and quickly fry, I read that it's okay to eat as many of the males (always more prolific than the female) as you like. Leave one or two for pollination, but the females bear the fruit. Same with my chickens. The hens are the queens. They'll make the eggs whether rooster man comes through or not. And guess who ends up in the stock pot first. That's right. Cocks. But they live loud and proud while they're here. 

By comparison, we humans seem almost barbaric by comparison. Like sexless robots. Clunking around each other, everyone unsure of their roles. Do I lead? Follow? Am I the bread winner? Who's on top? How did we lose our dance steps? What happened to our pheremones? Are we so out of touch with nature that we don't know how things work any more? 

This is, as one friend tells me, why I tend to be attracted to men who are rather, um, shall we say, unsophisticated. I mean no harm in saying this, but we all know that Mowgli (my sometimes gardener when he feels like it) can't use a fork and he grunts a lot. There is a risk of him spitting on the floor. He never says please. He hasn't learned the art of persuasion. He shows up because he wants to be near me. Whether or not, I'm accepting visitors. If he doesn't show up for 3 days he will tell me it was because he was drunk. He doesn't ask, he tells. He is, in fact, a caveman. But on the flip side, lest you think I'm insane, he is beautiful, he can be adoring, will bleed to please me, is incredibly talented with his hands in the garden...and other places...and sometimes I hear him practicing his English on the dog. 

"How are you Buddy..."

"What happened?"

"Thank you so much..."

And all of this of course amuses me. I don't ask for much else from my men. Amusement. Pick up heavy things. Sex. 

And I'm learning that although I don't know much, in fact my friend and spiritual advisor Michelle B. suggests the mantra I Know Nothing...(try it!) The one thing I'm real clear on is that I don't want my man to be my girlfriend. I've made this mistake a million times and now that I've dodged a marriage bullet and have kept myself rather footloose in the man department, I see that I've made the right decision. This is where it all went wrong. First women acted like men at work and women at home and they felt cheated. Men weren't multi taskers like women so women started pushing for more domestic duty from men. Talking. Feeling. Mind reading. 

Emasculating. Men can clean the toilet of course, but they aren't the natural caretakers. Say what you want. Write me an email, I don't care. Men are trained to be caretakers. And then there are some (gay) men who I say are more highly evolved. And they can manage many different roles. But they aren't going to have sex with women, so you do the math.

Double or nothin' straight men are faking it because they feel that they have to. And it may keep marriages together. I dunno. We've got more dual incomes in this country than any other and more personal debt. Hmmm. Do over. 

It's not working. We're not flowering. We're not respecting the cock, the layer or the setter. We're trying everything. Even self pollination. It's weird. I vote for role playing. Although one of my girlfriends has described me as the biggest gentleman she's ever met...I'm not sure what my role is. But I know that I'm not going to try and make my man do and be everything to me. It's not fair. It makes them feel funny. 

So although Mowgli is an exaggerated version of Man at his worst/best and definitely not someone I'll be taking to a cocktail party, it has illustrated to me that clear definitions may make more sense than all these blurred lines. Maybe coloring outside of the box wasn't such a good idea. 

Missed Manners

My friend Jennifer is a genteel southern woman with great manners. Not weird fakey manners of the elderly or the pinched...she is up front, forth coming and astute. She is well liked and knows everybody. If you haven't met her yet, you will. She will either be at the dinner party, cracking you up at a poetry reading, caring for your dog or teaching you a class. She petitions against things like gas powered blowers, cigarette butt littering and smoking on terraces during otherwise pleasant evening meals.  You'll never know what hit you as she slides in next to you wearing some little kid jeans in size 6x and some flowered pearl snap top. With Breck girl hair and a beaming smile, she could quite easily tell you how to pound salt, and make you relish the task. 

I am not Jennifer. 

I bluster. I walk too fast. I am Viking sized. I get all worked up. My face gets pink. I yell. There are veins in my neck that shouldn't come too close to the surface. I debate. I will fire you. Three times.  I DO take it personally. And I get mad when I have to think of a polite way to get around addressing your very inappropriate behavior. So I have suggested that Jenn write a HumpDay Manners column on her blog. She has. But since I'm not Jennifer, I'm going to tackle some of the things that she is either lucky enough to avoid or too well mannered to cop to. 

#1. If you are going on a blind date with someone and you are missing your front teeth, you should let the person know BEFORE you go to dinner with them. The date isn't really "blind" it's just a saying.

#2 If I email you something you've asked for, say, an address, or a link to my book, or you are just saying hi after 10 years, and I am nice enough to write you back long time no hear stranger person I don't really know and I get over 125 emails a day but I acknowledged you... you can take a minute to write back and say ha! good to year from you. Or, 'got your proposal' be in touch. Seriously. Techy fast communication isn't HARDER than the old fashioned way you know. I mean it's not, oh, god--I've gotta respond to this letter. Get the scribe and the inkpress ready, I'll start etching plates and call the man on the horse...

it will take 6 seconds to find the I GOT IT on the key board and press send. Coco the Monkey could do it. 

#3 If I write about you in my book and you think I make you sound like a jerk, a cad, a cheapo or an ingrate, tell me about it. Or shrug. I mean if you can't wrap your head around the part that it's memoir writing and that EVERY detail isn't the police report of what happened...it's the way I SAW it happen on that one day, and how I choose to write about it for that essay. Don't like, not talk to me anymore. That's dumb. And won't you feel stupid if I'm the next David Sedaris and you're all mad because I said you were complaining about the beer selection at our brother's funeral. 

#4 Do not ask me to IM as a dating preamble. I'm a grown up. Write me a letter or call me on the phone. No texts, no IM. Dig? 

#5 On the subject of awkward online dating (oxymoron, I know, I know.)--if we are writing back and forth and you say you'd love to talk, you don't spend much time on the computer...and I give you my number, don't get my number and decide not to write or call anymore. Not if you're over 14, anyway. It's like some internet version of the Victorian era: She gave me her number on the fourth email. What a tramp. Repeat after me: It's 2009. 

#6 If my ex boyfriend has moved to Puerto Rico with his new girlfriend (a doctor) and their baby to live on the beach and open a bar...called La Isla Bonita? Don't tell me. Ever.

The Grouper

I'm kind of a loner. I nuzzle up to the idea of Sole Proprietorship more than Corporation. I self publish, DIY, self love and march to the beat of my own drum. I grew up like an only child. I have brothers and sisters but most were grown and gone by the time I came around. I've never been interested in the marriage. I had a roommate. Once. 

But as much as I value self reliance, I have felt that teeny niggling gap that I'll bet sneaks up on a lot of single folk from time to time. It's not the mommy tug. Trust me. It's a community thing. Where is my tribe? Who are my people? The gradual sift of sand through the sieve that lets the not so great friends fall through the cracks. You know, the ones you outgrow. The ones who won't stop partying like it's 1999. The ones who never reciprocate. The ones who talk about the same malarky for decades and never change the record. The ones who never read your blog. 

I'm just saying. 

So there you are. 42 and in the same place you were in kindergarten. Hating your outfit and wondering if you'll make new friends, without the benefit of recess or a lunchroom. 

So what to do? I'm not a joiner. A team player. But as I slide gently into the good night of middle age, I find that I'm learning from groups. Maybe even missing something. Even groups I don't initially think I'll have anything in common with are opening my eyes. I'm watching the dynamics and I'm fascinated. It's the sum of parts that works. When one of my chickens is ailing, for example, I see how the sturdier and more well feathered will snuggle the little one back to health. All on their own, they may not be that interesting, but their village mentality works like a well oiled theater troupe. I am only familiar with this in business. 

But it turns out it's all around me. It's the Indian guy who runs the convenience store in this one horse town where I live who is going to hire the out of work handyman that we all want to keep afloat, it's the group of great friends who take their pal who gets tipsy too quickly out to a hammock to tuck him in for a 'sleep it off' nap, complete with sunscreen and no judgment. It's the houseful of Mexican guys who band together to chip in $100 a piece to post an $800 bail for a friend who was yet again, driving to work without a license. It's getting a referral from a friend who is so avid in her support of your endeavors it's like having a really un-irritating publicist. It's getting invited to Costa Rica to celebrate a friend's birthday with 20 others and realizing that actually, that sounds like a BLAST. Hey, wait, and how about having a big group dinner out for my birthday? Yes! 

So my 20s was all about the gaggle, devil may care. My 30s were about coupling and then striking out for independence. My birthday wish (yes, in case you're wondering, I claim the entire WEEK) is to collect the most interesting, supportive, good humored folk I can find and make them my flock. So far so good. I hope I can return the favor.