I'd Like Fries with my Revolution

Obama has been in office for 100 days. I think everyone who was fearing that the heavens would plummet, can sigh a breath of relief. Although the economic situation in this country hasn't found the sunnier side of the street, Obama, as the chosen one, has given us a ray of economic hope or should I say, given Fidel Castro an entire sun beam of hope. The President has lifted the travel embargo to Cuba. Wow! I wasn't shocked. Democrats have been trying to lift the embargo for years, and they have finally succeeded. It is the plan of this administration to allow family members of Cubans and Cuban Americans to travel freely, but let's be serious. The only travel will occur one way. Cuban Americans will do what they have always done. They will visit Cuba with tons of medicine, underwear, and soap to family members that can't afford it or that the ration line ran out of. I think it naive or maybe politically wise of the Cuban American community to declare complete support for the embargo. The community has been notorious for going through Mexico to visit Cuba. Am I fuzzy on the principle here? If the whole point of the embargo is to economically weaken Cuba in order for the dictator to relinquish control over the island, I don't think back-door entrance is doing the trick. The highly educated population lives in poverty, and yet there has been no uprising. Cubans just want out without effort. No revolution. They just want to buy Pepsi any time they want, or get from their family for free. Perhaps, making the people taste capitalism more frequently might shake them up, and get them to realize that their Cuban American cousins can't do it for them. They want it. They have to do it for themselves. Civil rights violations, food and medical supply shortages, and travel and religious restrictions should be enough to get the crowd fired up. But when five television channels of Fidel blast the horrors of the "Junited" States' embargo and your family continues to send you what you need, you believe there is a North American Monster. What can you do? Just turn on the Salsa music, and pray that the revolution will be over soon. Viva la revolucion de complacencia!

Bump and Grind To A Little Distraction

Dancing in a club is an interesting adventure. I use the word interesting because I haven't decided if I like it or not. The cocktails blur my opinion on the matter. There are three main components to the experience: finding the prime location, the ability or the inability to dance, and the infamous spilling of drinks.

You get to the club in a tastefully slutty top. You believe that this low-cut-cleavage-showing-back-exposed blouse will open the Red Sea. The problem is always the same; every girl is sporting the identical look...some better than others. Was that catty? You push and pull your friends through the crowd to find a vacated space where your party can dance, can talk, and can see the possible candidates in full frontal. I feel I have to do Geometry in my head when I look at the dance floor. If the floor is 8 feet by 9 feet, and there is a group of good looking guys to my right, but the bar is at the other end, and the bar tender has a nice smile, how will I get to the restrooms in these heels fast enough to discuss the dork trying to dance with us? It's difficult to do such a complicated equation, when you have had two rum and Cokes.

The next stage of development is the problem of dancing. Whether you can or not is not the dilemma. I am speaking of the sardine method of moving to the music. The bass is thumping, the energy is electric, and you are ready to let loose and show the world what you got. Unfortunately, there are two guys, three girls and your friends all on top of you. So, you do the same two steps side to side. Trying to enjoy yourself while you feel everyone copping a feel. You bump purses, elbows, and step on toes. Oh, let's not forget to mention the girl with the long hair that whipps you right in the eyes. Suddenly, the signal is given by one of your gals to exit and regroup. Should we leave the dance floor? We just got this spot? Desperate times, desperate measure! An attempt is made to broaden the circle of dance. If you create a space in your group, maybe you can filter out some people from the floor. It is a strategy with no guarantees, but you go for it. Like a Hail Mary in football, you take the chance, and hope that it works.

Finally, the drinking problem the majority of society has in clubs is a reoccurring theme, I would personally like to see eliminated. They pay outrages amounts of money for a drink with second grade liquor, and then are physically challenged in keeping it in their glass. They feel a need to demonstrate their ability to consume alcohol and keep a beat all at the same time. It is impossible to do, especially in the severe conditions of an overcrowded dance floor. There is always someone who is under the impression they have more room for flaying arms, and in that moment, the drink spills. The only consolation is that it happens so frequently, you just get used to the dampness, and continue dancing with your friends. Your feet are sticky. Your top is moist. Your jeans smell of cranberry juice. It is the risks we are willing to take.

The experience is harmless enough, so I return. I find that every time we go, we smile, we laugh. I guess a room full of strangers, gyrating to loud music, and getting tipsy is therapeutic to our stress-filled lives. Viva le club!

Absolved? Is That What You Young People Call It These Days

I got it the minute I looked at you. There was nothing left, but the cold reality...it was over. I tried. Everyone says so. Perhaps, it's even written down somewhere. I did all I could. I have reviewed the facts over a hundred times in my mind, and yes, it is confirmed. There was nothing else I could do. I just can't get the information past the think-tank stage. They are just suggestions, ideas, just brainstorming. I'm not quite sold on it. The presentation is lacking something. I'm not convinced. I think the audience is jaded. I should know, I am the audience, the demographic, the focus group. I just can't see myself wanting it enough. In this economy, and with a new Larry David/ Woody Allen project coming in June, you really have to pitch me the concept of life without guilt. So, go back to the the drawing board, and pull an all-nighter if you must. I need a fresh angle, because I'm not feeling it. And that's the problem...I just don't feel.

Meredith in the Midst of the Darkness

It's night again. The lights are off. When you are in a poorly lit room, a lot can happen or at least, imagined. Being in the dark is a lot like being in an ocean. The water engulfs you. You are subject to it. I must submit to the blackness. I want to break free from its grip, but I have gone down this road before, and the journey is long and complicated. The road has no direction. No clear indicators of an end. I do find that Meredith is a distant glimmer. A flicker that I am drawn to in hopes of finding a final destination. A place full of light and irrational contentment. Meredith, bring some distraction, some diversion. You make the path to enlightenment less difficult, less demanding. You are able to pull me through the current, through the cross roads. Frivolousness and foolishness that you provide do the trick for me. Come on, who doesn't like magic? Slight of hand is useful in changing your perception. You are exceptional at creating an alternate universe. Bizarro me would be good right about now. I am sick of the deep waters, and I am ready to wade in the shallow end. Yeah...shallow would be a refreshing turn. Shallow would be light. I really need light.

The Guy in the Red Shirt

I travel about a 5 mile radius. It isn't a surprise I see a lot of the same people in the same places. Like the woman at Starbucks with six kids, who has to be one of those Mormon wives from the polygamous compound in Texas. I look at her almost everyday and wonder to myself how is "Big Love" good living. She looks like hell...they all look like hell. I think Child Protective Services in Schleicher County should have hired "What Not To Wear's" crew for an ambush makeover. Then there is the kid that bags my groceries, he is always talking to the clerks about the latest video games. It's like he has had one conversation for the past year. He is frozen in time when I leave, and then is revived to resume the exact same dialogue again. Halo, Resident Evil, or fill-in-the-blank movie sponsored game. That's all he talks about, that is his full repertoire, and I hear it every week. There is one gal I love to see every week, and that is my esthetician. My one hour BFF. My confidant. She listens to me as she performs some act of pampering. I lay there getting waxed, getting exfoliated, or getting a mani/ pedi, while I open up emotionally. She listens to me rant, while massaging my neck and shoulders...ahhh. In contrast, there is the gal that I see every day at the gym. I think there is one of these in every gym. You know who I am talking about...the lady who has the Nike gym clothes, hair done, make up on and doesn't work out. They spend the whole time talking...while sitting on the equipment I want to use. I do believe this woman has actually gained weight, yet she is at the gym every day. Moving on. There is Alan. I have a deep appreciation for this kid that mans the counter at the corner bakery. He gives me free stuff. I don't know if he has a crush on me or I remind him of his mother, but yeah! He will offer me coffee and baked goods with no charge...crush away, Alan. Finally, the man in the red shirt is my in-house flirt. The resident "come-hither-look" guy. He smiles at me, nods an hello, or sometimes give me a passing compliment on my outfit. I find it fun. I think every woman should have a red shirt guy. What would I do without these familiar faces? They establish my routine. They are essential to my daily grind. These very souls make up my universe. Those men and women bring order and harmony to my world. Oh my God! I really need to get out of this town.

Did You Notice My Dress?

I believe in the little black dress. I think every woman should own one. It should hug her curves, and accentuate her God-given endowments. I think it should be short enough to entice, but not so much that you're advertising the goods for free. I think that the right dress can make a woman control any room, and let's face it for women, Commander and Chief is always the prettiest girl. Ahhh...the little black dress is a feminine treasure, unless it comes in blue. I find that blue, teal, or even an aqua dress cut just right can be quite the eye-opener, and that a neck line that runs south always gets attention. When that dress is on, ladies, we're on! Our outlook has changed. Look out! Here she comes! An older more mature man might see a woman in this little blue dress, and shower her with clever conversation in order to buy time enjoying the vista. However, younger men lack a lot more refinement in this area of male-female interaction with the intent to observe. A young man might gawk, stare, or even make a rude comment or jester at the sight of this particular "little number." Or they might even ignore her completely. Men of limited experience lend an ear! A little black dress is like a tiara. We don't put it on so that no one notices. I understand that you are caught between the bipolar urges inside of you. You evade in order to ensure a sense of propriety and decency, yet on the other hand, you fix your sights on her until you have mentally accomplished the undressing. It is difficult to imagine the dilemma a simple wardrobe selection can do to a man. Glamour and In Style profit from a man's voyeuristic needs and a woman's desire to be pretty. I find that as long as Allure, Vogue, and Bizarre keep producing those "show stoppers" , we are bond to find the perfect one. We have a moral obligation to search out the "wow-she-looks-hot" dress. Every fashion line suggests, encourages, well more like demands we have one. So gentlemen, the cards are stacked against you. That little black dress will make its appearance, and when it does, don't look away nor ogle just pay the compliment with witty discourse and enjoy the view.

What I Meant Was Meredith Black

Dear Meredith,

It has been awhile since I wrote to you, so I am taking this opportunity to let you know what is happening in my life. I have had a lot of changes occur. I am not the same person you knew or thought you knew. Due to the circumstances that have presented themselves, I have chosen to do what I believe is best for those that share my inner circle. I am not afraid or timid any more. I am not bound by self-loathing or self-criticism. I have decided to hold fast to the very fact that I am a woman ready for any trial or triumphant that comes my way. I stand alone when the rubber hits the road. I just want you to know that I am standing, sometimes on one foot, but I am still standing. I don't air my grievances because I want a response, because I know you are not able to. I air them so that you know that in the midst of everything you are someone I reflect upon. I reflect on the carefree feelings you bring to my perplexed heart. I reflect on the uncomplicated conversations we have had. I reflect on the way you brought into vivid color every emotion. I reflect on how you made my future appear, however, delusional. I reflect, yet you are not a consideration. I ponder, yet you are not a reference point. I imagine, yet you are not a reason why. Could I let you know face to face in a soft conversation? Listen without the disturbances of this world. Laugh without hurrying off. Savor the wit and the puns without a time restraint. I am seeking after an opportunity to let you know the thoughts that I entertain. Chatter. Dialogue. Yes, I have been known to be a great conversationalist.



Sincerely is what I meant Meredith,

Tomorrow Make Time For Rehab

I have this nasty habit. It is something that I have tried to get rid of, but at which I fail miserably. I have made resolutions at the beginning of the year and by the month's end fell hard. I have made pacts with friends and relations to keep me accountable and I just can't keep my end of the bargain. I have even kept a journal to record my progress and regression in order to plan out and execute a workable strategy, but the journal has collected dust. I have a bad addiction, a tedious routine, and a quirk in my personality that is destructive. I must say that religious leaders and theological entities don't have a position on my problem. I have never read or heard any sermon, dissertation, or seminar on the subject. There must be some opinion by the political right or even the liberal activists on this. It has had to have been addressed by someone in a position of intellectual authority. Perhaps a dean in some upstate university that caters to the indecently wealthy might have a viewpoint that is worth lending an ear to. I fail to believe that I am the only one that carries this burden, bears this cross, or treads through these waters. My weakness should be on the agenda of the conference room of a think tank in a metropolitan area. How can we combat this with reason, logic, and human understanding? Well, I wish them all the best of luck. I have tried everything, made every possible attempt, and have undergone the latest in quick fixes. However, if an Ivy league graduate wants to take a stab at it, please give it your best college try. I would appreciate it. I have no objection to a Hollywood executive taking the regns on this ailment of mine, and creating a reality show to air in the Fall schedule. I could even see it as a mid-season replacement. Hence a quandary is there to profit from, and I know that with the right advertisement my filthy habit will be cured and I will be able to buy that summer house in the Hamptons.

Tiger Beat At My Age

There are some celebrities I find delightful. Yes, I said it, delightful! I am not just saying this because they are hot, or play great characters, or are extraordinary actors...no, I say this because they have a quality that transcends the screen and pulls at me, attracts me, and makes me want to leave house and home. There is one in particular that has a hold on me. The allurement has no scientific evidence except I feel it. There is a Seinfeld episode in which Kramer is accused by the Latvian Orthodox Church of possessing an aura called the kervorcah. An animal magnetism that women can't resist. This one guy has it; oh, does he have it. He can change this sophisticated, articulate, well-educated lady into a star-struck, screaming, obsessed teenager. I get so excited, so elated, so electrified by the mere mention of his name. I can not explain the power he has over me. I know it is a fantasy, a delusion, a well constructed with thoughtful detailed day dream, yet the desire is so strong that I am overwhelmed and weakened when I see his face on a magazine or hear his voice on T.V. I literally stop in my tracks to read anything about him. I do believe I might be border lining on an illness of some sort. However, I wouldn't be the first...Elvis fans, Beetles fans, New Kids On The Block fans. The sensuality of some individuals is stronger than others, and maintains a supernatural control over us. When I see him perform, my heart begins to beat so hard and so fast. You know when you can sense each palpitation so distinctly, you are convinced you might be suffering a coronary. Thus is the dominance of a true star, a 21st century Valentino...Seth Rogen. I think I'm drooling.

Morally Iffy For Your Approval

I look at the persons that drape history with acts of cruelty and terror. The events that they orchestrated to bring about human destruction, human defilement, and human degradation. These souls walked on this earth with one purpose to spread evil and carnal injustice. We read about and discussed them in philosophy classes and analyzed them in sociological essays. They are hit-rock-bottom, plummeted-to-the-seventh-level-of-hell individuals, and yet, they don't scare me. You see they only have one place to go...that is up. They can only be redeemed. They are perfect candidates for righteous living because they have done the despicable and have arrived at hell with their hand baskets. However, the ethically ambiguous, the ones that appear with white hats and sinister smiles, the glad-handling, get-along-with-others, say-the-right-thing so and sos, they are the ones to look out for. They offer you a good conscience with a side of "maybe," upright decisions with a little "what if." You see, it is easy to be drawn in. The surroundings seem wholesome, almost "Leave it to Beaver-esque," so you have to ask yourself: "Is it wrong?" They always have the best suggestions. They are enthusiastic and real crowd pleasers. That's the problem! They can charismatically convince any gathering to do shots until someone drops, or play strip poker, or explore an alternative lifestyle in a game of truth or dare. Yeah, these spectators of the naughty are always cheering you on, encouraging the "no-nos" and bringing on the "girls-gone-wild" moments in your life. We all have a friend like this, maybe you are that friend. You say to your buddy, "Chug, chug, chug, chug!" And he does. Four Irish Car Bombs later...last night's activities become the topic of conversation as you sit around nursing the hangover. They just have a special knack for getting you to not think twice, to let loose, to forget about pesky consequences. I have to give props to their effort and ability to subtly bring down the good ones. Their finesse and their suave aptitude toward redefining standards of conduct has to be commended. Is it nature or nurture that makes them artist in the field of spinning principles? All I know is the morally iffy seem to always be the life of the party. So, we continue to be prodded by their influence, and with no pensive pause take a jelly-shot and flash our boobs.