I would like to finance a taco, please.

I recently visited Urban Taco for lunch with some girlfriends.

Here is a quick run-down:

• Salsas were disappointing at best (How does one actually make a salsa with absolutely NO flavor? It's like magic!)
• Tacos had a nice flavor. Tortilla had a nice texture. Too bad it only lasted about two bites. Don't get me wrong...I love little bites -- especially if we are talking about hors d’œuvre or amuses-bouche -- but not when I think of a taco I'm paying more for than a morning latte.
• White beans were disdainfully evocative of what I can only imagine (and dread) is being served in sub-par nursing home cafeterias.
• Jamaica (hibiscus tea) was so sweet my teeth started to hurt. I guess they need to put a lot of sugar in to justify the high price. It also tasted as if it was made from a mix! I can see how labor intensive it might be to steep dried flowers in hot water, drain, mix in a LITTLE sugar. Silly me.
• The atmosphere was very nice. It's a walk up/order/take a number/food brought to your table kinda joint, but the decor was lovely. The lunch crowd seemed a little thin.

In summary, I will not be heading back to Urban Taco. I will head to Taqueria la Paloma or better yet, Tacos y Mas on Ross & Greenville or on Grand. No, they aren't as swanky or chic as Urban Taco, but what you trade in atmosphere you certainly gain in authenticity, quality, value, and a full belly.

My Gray Hair Moment

It's here. It's really here. I have found my first gray hair. Actually, I didn't find it. One of my wonderful and amazing girlfriends actually found it. Three of us were sitting around, reveling in the post-vegetarian-taco-meal coma, when I decide to ask my friend, our group's resident hair- and skin-care professional, to give my 'do a little snip. The ends were looking rather shabby, you see.

Said friend stands behind me, hair-care implements poised expertly in mid-air, and looks down onto the top of my head. She parts my hair, looks at me in the ginormous mirror and says, "Do ya see it?" I say, "What?" She says, "Oh, a gray hair." (She may have actually said WHITE.) I exclaim, "WHAT??" My friend, who is in a "feeling" profession, is able to pick up on my (not so) subtle non-verbal and verbal cues indicating I am horrified. She quickly asks, "Is this your first?" in a very calm, soothe-the-savage-beast, tone. Nearly speechless, a first for me, I choke out that it is, in fact, my first. I then find my voice and begin to rant and rave and sulk and pout.

Our other best gal is sitting calmly at the table cross-stitching. (I did say cross-stitching....) She looks up and laughs. A sweet, "there, there, honey" laugh. Or a laugh like you might laugh at someone who has finally realized they have their shirt on inside out. Panic-stricken, I ask (bark at) my hair-care friend to please pluck the offensive object from my head. (M -- I wrote "pluck" and not "tweeze" on purpose.) Having had extensive training in crisis intervention, both gals go into action, soothing and normalizing and joking and extracting (<--- the important part). The mission is a success. The hair is pulled. No one got hurt.

So the hair is gone. But so are the illusions that I am still __ years old. It's really not a big deal. But it is, at least for me, one of those moments when I think I should sit back and analyze this milestone and reflect upon my state in life. Take an inventory, so to speak. But I don't want to do that today. So, I try not to think about it. I know it happened. I know it's happening. But I don't really feel like focusing on that part. I feel more like focusing on the other stuff. For instance, when it happened and with whom. I was spending quality "family-fun" time with my amazing friends. We'd had a good meal, great conversation, cold beer and a ton of laughs. I had come home from a day of fulfilling and meaningful work. We had been out shopping for a present for one of our other girlfriends. We were sitting around, being ourselves, chatting away, as usual. I was with people who love me. Who don't care if I have elevendy-billion gray hairs or no hair at all. People who are honest and loving and accepting. Friends who will remove the offensive object, calm me down, and make me laugh. What else is there?

The bottom line is, I know I will have more "gray hair moments". I also know that I will continue to have my friends around me to share those moments with. That's really the important part.

I love you --- Now go away

I've noticed a trend in single women who are around my age. It's a phenomenon I like to call "love me -- but don't." In this phenomenon, a beautiful, funny, engaging, intelligent woman meets a guy at a social gathering (bar, club, party, etc.). Perhaps due to a misalignment of the planets, large quantities of alcohol, low barometric pressure or a combination of these factors, they end up getting all makey-outey. It happens, it's fun, it's not a big deal.

All sounds good so far -- however, for whatever reason, things go awry. It should be an event that was enjoyable to all, but without any serious implications. I mean, really, what are the chances of a person meeting their soul-mate at the bar? I'm sure it happens. I would venture to guess, that in a room full of people, on any given night at the bar, the only thing you are going to have in common with a guy you pick up is that you both like to drink. Hmmmm, great relationship-making material. That being said, you may find you have other things in common. That's cool, too. But, just because a wonderful, amazing woman picks a guy up at the bar -- IT DOES NOT MEAN SHE WANTS TO DATE HIM!!! Getting makey-outey one night doesn't translate into: "Please, please call and text me repeatedly." It does not mean that the two are destined to be together based on swapping spit and inane conversation over a hefeweizen (or ten).

Here's the bigger hang-up. It's really tough for ladies to give them the boot when they do get all puppy-dog-eyed and want to have dinner (and babies) with you. Do you do the "fade away"? Don't answer calls and texts in hopes they will get the hint. Or, when you do respond you're always "busy" or have "other plans." Those "plans" consist of doing whatever possible to avoid this guy. How about being straightforward? "I had a great time making out with you, but you aren't the type of guy I want to date." I wonder how well that goes over... It's not because they are bad guys. They just may not be right for that woman at this time in her life (or in broad daylight and sober...). They might not have a lot in common after all. Remember those hefeweizens? Commonality stopped there. It's so hard for the gals because, despite what anyone will tell you, every woman wants to be liked. We all crave that attention. We want someone to tell us we're pretty or fun to hang out with. We want someone to sweat us. I know, it's sick. So how do my beautiful, wonderful friends work this? We want to do what we want, date who we choose, get makey-outey with who we choose. We want to have relationships with who we choose. We want to be able to have an interaction with a person and end it if we choose. And we don't want to feel guilty about it. Therein lies the rub.

How does a woman communicate "I had so much fun last night, but I only wanted to make out with you because, especially after 27 beers, it sure feels good to have a boy like me and want to pay attention to me. The bottom line is, I don't want to date you. Please, don't call me. Please, don't text me. Please, let me enjoy my the memory of making out with you, (insert boy's name), and leave it at that. I don't want to feel guilty because I don't want to hang out with you anymore. Don't make this hard for either of us. Just go away now. Thank you." I'm sure many women would feel so much better if it worked out this way. If..... we didn't have that little nagging voice in our head saying, "Everyone has to like me." & "You already made out with him, so you basically lead him on." & "(Gasp) You might hurt someone's feelings!" What the hell is that all about? It's those messages that we receive from others, and continue to give to ourselves, that put us in the position of sacrificing what we want and being able to have genuine loving relationships with others, and ourselves.

Ladies, I don't have any answers. But I do hope that we can tell the voice in our head to shut-up. I hope one day we will all know that everyone does not have to like you. I also hope we will come to realize that ONLY you have to like you... Maybe, if we like ourselves more, we won't need to turn to the semi-good-looking-slightly-intelligent-basically-not-our-type guy sitting across from us at the table littered with one-too-many empty bottles and crave his approval and validation. But until then, thank goodness for caller ID.

In the meantime...

All things have a beginning and an end. The beginning is where the building up starts. The foundation is laid for the future -- for what's to come -- for the juicy part. This juicy part -- this time, between beginning and end -- is the meantime. It's the place where all the "stuff" happens: the good, the bad, the funny, the mundane, the tragic and the amazing. It's the place where time seems somewhat inconsequential. Where one knows they have passed the beginning and have not yet reached the end. Where the living actually happens. It's interesting that we give so little thought to the meantime. It seems as if we are waiting for..... for what? For when things are perfect? For when WE are perfect? If that is what we are "waiting" for in the meantime -- it is certainly not time well spent. Time well spent is time shared with others. Time spent with oneself. Time not just doing, but time being. This is my meantime. A time where I am who I am, but can be who I want to be and not what others expect me to be. This is MY meantime, MY middle, MY inbetween. Here goes....