I've Got No Strings

So imagine I posted a cute little picture of Pinocchio here since my blog isn't cooperating with my photo posts of late. Or a picture of a Danielle Steele novel. They would be telling you the same thing. While my job feels like a 14 hour day choke collar, when I'm on leave I'm a free bird. So I booked a flight tonight to Barcelona in August. I will meet up with a wealthy Manhattan investment banker/jazz musician there who I met in OCS (he's a reservist). We will probably wear white linen clothes and ride horses barebacked on the beach. We will drink red wine.

The only thing that makes it less romantic is that I'm not in love with this man, but that makes the expectations very manageable. And since this is me, he's not exactly standard issue. He's a half Black, half Jewish son of a classical musician and a jazz musician. Grew up poor. Put himself through NYU. Works on Wall Street and is trying to deploy to Afghanistan. Used to be a Seventh Day Adventist.

My week in Spain won't like read like Danielle Steele, but I should return with awkward, disjointed, Pinocchio-type accounts of Barcelona.

God's Guest List Part II

I can tell you who is not on God's guest list for me-- Christian women. I had planned for weeks to attend a women's bible study at the island's hipster church tonight where the artistic, creative dressers go. I never get done with work on time, but for weeks I thought I could make this Tuesday happen since we were supposed to get off early every day, and basically have a fun week. Then I got called in to work at 5:00. And my commander made me sit on the couch to talk (which really only involves listening on my part). It ended up being another dinner on post with my trusty sidekick Brett. 24-year old men are mostly God's guest list for me. I made great strides with that demographic by hanging out at a bar with them from 11:00 a.m. Sunday to 10:00 p.m. (I did take breaks).

Reflect and reconsider-- there are women who want to spend time with me. The new private who was a foodservice worker and has 3 kids in the states. The Iraqi lady who does my eyebrows and was an interpreter, and the special forces wife who talks bad about other woman but is more than friendly to me. Church is not looking like my community, but I may have been invited to hang at jiu jitsu on Saturdays where they need more females. Good bye hugs and sob stories. Hello headlocks and flip cup.

Hiding in Typhoon Lagoon

I am currently in hiding. I'm supposed to be running errands. It was my excuse not to drink at my friend's promotion party this morning. Also a good excuse to get this break from mingling since I need to go back for a 2nd kegs-worth of party. They all but pushed me out the door to run said errands because they want me back there drinking with them. This weekend I have heard about manscaping, weighed in on the question of whether men should shave their chest hair, (No!), and seen the guys compete in the trickiest types of pull-ups they can do. Last night it was a hypothetical competition between 2 guys both claiming their sperm was more powerful and more likely to impregnate someone. I'm mostly an observer here, but it's a good show.

The first typhoon of the season is supposed to hit tomorrow. This meant staying at work Friday until 1:45 a.m. Saturday. Then two hours yesterday meeting with police about a theft we had, plus attending the Army ball.  I'm really hoping this storm comes through for us. I need the company of books and a little time away from work to literally and figuratively let my hair down. Please bring the rain.

Needing Swagger

I should have quit while I was ahead. I had a perfectly nice dinner with the guys. Curried chicken in coconut rice, cucumber salad, strawberry ricotta cups, and vanilla vodka tonics. All enjoyed in my baloncy overlooking the sea. Good conversation. But the good guys were pretty done after a bottle of wine and a bottle of vodka. And I was still awake. And then the Big Bros called me to meet them at the bar just down the street. And they were wolves in wolves clothing.

Tommy- thinks I should wear stilettos and hoop earrings and walk with more swagger. Kept asking me to go out and take a walk under the stars and make out with him. (between checking out the bartenders' asses) (between asking me if I liked my hair pulled, ughhh...)
Ned-- thinks I should work more on my biceps and steaming vegetables his way and let it slip that they were all trying to pick up anyone they could get.
Collin- Trying to get my friend to sleep with him. Asking me if I would take Tommy home with me. Telling me I was rude for saying no.

I'm pretty sure the best company in the bar was the owner's pit bull. I'm trying to walk this tightrope and not fall on either side of complicicty or bitchyness. The result is reserve and fleeing the scene early.

Getting On Board with God's Guest List

I often think of the parable of the wedding banquet when I'm in an invitation funk. This guy was hosting a wedding reception and invited all his friends to come. He had gone to huge expense for the guest list, and it would have been a great night. But they were too busy playing video games, watching TV and shopping. So he rolled the invitation on out to strangers who were mostly delighted to have been chosen. All except for one guy who wouldn't get on board with the dress code and tried to show up in his jeans, favorite shirt, and "comfy shoes." He was thrown out. The poor host can't find anyone who wants to say yes and celebrate. He's surrounded by people who would rather stay home in their sweat pants than really live.  (Matt 22)

I keep trying to believe that I will end up surrounded by exactly the people I'm supposed to be with, having the conversations I'm supposed to have. Just being present and showing up in the right outfit for where the yes is. Right now my yes comes from the young male LTs who aren't with the "in" crowd. The one Christian girlfriend on the island is too busy drinking to do our book study together. The guy who's a kindred spirit left for a month without having time for a planned last meal. So I'm buying the ingredients for curry and moving down the list to the gay couple in my neighborhood-- have plans, the bros I work with-- admit I cannot stomach a night of sex and booze talk, and on to the new LTs who just arrived and have offered to show up with hummus. God, help my heart to show up in its best hostess apron and love exactly who was supposed to arrive at my doorstep. And to remember these are the people who are saying yes to being loved.