Sasquatch Watch

So it's Monday, and I'm transitioning back into the real world.

For me this means several things, chiefly among them that I'm not revered as a Marketing Genius at work, I live in a sweltering house with no A/C, and my cats use the litterbox. A lot.

Oh, and that my neighbor kids are unclear on the concept of your inside voice being perfectly acceptable for the outside as well. As I type this, one of them is inexplicably yelling "SASQUATCH!" at his brother.

Since said brother is in middle school, I'm guessing I know what this means and I'm distinctly uncomfortable thinking about it. Especially since the apparently hirsute one is my petsitter and, according to The Boy, has likely viewed the contents of my bedside table.

So, your resident Marketing Genius here had her mid-year review today. No big surprises were revealed. I'm apparently still solidly Meeting Expectations and not in any way "Outstanding." Never mind that my work has been consistently lauded by outside Marketing associations as award-winning and Hall of Fame-worthy.  Or that I personally think I'm the cat's pajamas. Don't get me wrong, I'm not bitter (oh wait, yes I am) it'd just be nice to occasionally get more than a little "atta girl" from the people who set my salary, control my career path and set my salary. Did I just say "salary" twice? So the boss and I are gonna do another regroup in three months to see if I've managed to do something Outstanding other than creating and managing the very campaigns for which others clearly recognize my Outstandingness.

At least I'm not Out Standing in the Unemployment office trying to get my gubment cheese.

So I schlep home for the first time since last Thursday morning and walk into a house which feels like a blast furnace. Let me thank those well-meaning Coloradans who assured me during my house-hunting that I didnt even need a/c because Colorado is a little slice of temperate heaven where we ride our unicorns over rainbows and never break a sweat (perhaps even need a sweater), except on the ski slopes where they almost certainly knew I'd never venture.

I realized as I walked into my bedroom that I left my best standing fan at The Boy's house this morning. So now I'm without fans at both work and home.

Perhaps the best part of the inferno that is my upstairs is the smell emanating from the cat box. Seriously, if Colorado had seagulls, I'm fairly certain they'd be circling the ceiling of my office where I've cleverly closeted the box o' shit. Make a note, dear reader, if you ever come to visit me, do not, under any circumstance, hang your clothes in this closet. Unless you REALLY like seagulls and riding alone in elevators ("Oh no, that's okay lady-- you go right ahead, I'll wait for the next one. Even if takes infinity.")

Luckily for me, tomorrow is trash day. So as soon as I can stand to be upstairs for more than a nanosecond, I'll be emptying that little treasure trove.

(On a side note, the little darling from across the street has now hollered "Sasquatch!" for the 16th time and I swear I can feel my ovaries shriveling.)

SASQUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATCH!

What I SHOULD be doing is weeding my front flowerbed. Because the President of the HOA happened to catch me on my mad dash into the house this morning to drop my dog off (Jax and I spend our weekends at The Boy's house in the mountains-- or as I've come to think of it, "my weekend home"). I was pretty sure we were going to have an uncomfortable talk about the Little Shop of Horrors-sized weed shrub that has sprung up out there...but instead he told me he was going to trim my tree for me (apparently the Sasquatch-loving children of the neighborhood feel our trees hang too low for them to cut across our lawns effectively) and that he'd also pull those weeds for me.

I was humbled and grateful for his help and then scurried off to Meet Expectations downtown. But when I came home, the offending monstrous weed was still standing. Hello, what am I paying HOA dues for? How about you catch a little case of the hurry-ups, Wolfgang?

Yes, Wolfgang. You can't write this shit.

So now I'm on the deck, halfway through my second Dos Equis (you think The Most Interesting Man In The World weeds??) contemplating my duties as a homeowner. And giggling because I just said "duties." I'm wondering how a yard sign that reads "I'll take care of this weed situation just as soon as your kid puts a lid on it" would go over. And blogging about the minutae of my day because that's a better and less itchy way to loll (or LOL, see what I did there?) away the evening.

Yep, this is living.  And perhaps I'd like a little cheese with my whine.  But since I'm never home anymore, I have neither cheese nor wine. 

And for the record, the only drinking problem I have is that I'm now out of Dos Equis.

Zin and the Art of Home Maintenance

This may shock you, but my parents are very religious.

While we realize it may be revisionist history, Priscilla and I don't remember them always being this zealous.  I mean sure, we went to parochial school.  And church every Sunday.  And Sunday School.  So yes, basically Priscilla and I went to church 6 days a week...but our parents didn't.  And in fact, sometimes when we were in Sunday School, our parents went out to breakfast.  Heathens.

But at some point in the past 20 years, they got their God back on. 

Don't get me wrong, I have very strong faith... I just rarely reinforce it by attending a church service.  But Mom & Dad...well, they think worshipping Jesus in a sedate, structured and liturgical environment is the Bee's Knees.

(After my divorce, they tried to convince me that church would be a fabulous way for me to meet men.  I debunked this theory when I attended Christmas Eve services with them last year.  I mean come on, this is the most well-attended service of the year and I'm not kidding when I say that I was the only single person in the congregation.  Well, the only single heterosexual person.  Or sexual person.  And certainly I felt my red satin pencil skirt and stilettos had been wasted.)

And you know, honestly, good for them.  It clearly brings them tremendous joy and has taken them all over the world doing missionary work.  And they're in their 70's now.  It's a phenomenon that Priscilla and I refer to as "Cramming For the Final." 

Which is why it's so shocking that they very happily accepted our invitation to stay at The Boy's house while they are in Denver for the next two weekends.

They met him during our trip to Texas in June and adored him... so it's not that I thought they wouldn't want to spend time with him.  It's just, well, Derek and I will be sleeping in the same bed in another room under the same roof and for fuck's sake (literally), we're not married.

Okay, I realize you're thinking "Um, aren't you, like, 45 years old?"  And hot on the heels of that thought was a moment of clarity in which you realized I'm one hot ticket for a 45 year old two-time divorcee with congestive heart failure.  But we both digress.  Yes, I'm closing in on the big Five-Oh and you'd think my parents would realize I've had sex and likely want to have it again at some point... but still, this is a HUGE step.  For God's sake (literally), it's almost like condoning pre-marital sex.  And that's assuming that D and I even get to the marital part.

So tonight, we're cleaning.  Like two wild banshees, if banshees gave a shit at all about cleaning, which I'm guessing they don't cuz mostly they just scream.  And screaming isn't cleaning.

As you might guess, my idea of cleaning has something to do with consuming wine.  Tonight's selection was a little something that I, and the vineyard, distributor, and liquor store all like to call "7 Deadly Zins."  It's a nice Old Vine Red Zinfandel (in the event you, gasp, thought I was drinking white zinfandel, oh good God the horror) that runs about $16 per bottle at my local liquor store.

And this delightful Zin has me thinking on the text convo I had with The Boy yesterday evening, as I did a Target and Bed, Bath & Beyond run to prep his place for the impending arrival of the parental unit.

Andrea: What color is your guest room?


The Boy: Ummmm...teal? You know, greenish gray but also bluish gray?


Andrea: internal thought: How does he not know what color his guest room is?
Andrea: You're such a boy. Okay.
Andrea:  internal thought:  OMG, teal?  Seriously?  How can I find bedding that goes with TEAL?

The Boy:  Well, I guess it's "Sage."  Is that 'Queer Eye' enough for you?

Andrea:  internal thought:  Oh for fuck's sake.  Is it teal or is it sage?  I'm guessing we're going for beige bedding!  Also, how is that gay?

I was so wrapped up in picking the color of the bedding (I went with a buckskin-colored microsuede comforter bed-in-a-bag thing) that I didn't notice that the sheets in the set are a polyester/cotton blend.  So we'll be sweltering in our new bedding on a full-size futon with two Labs and the World's Worst Dog in a windowless basement bedroom that is, in fact, sage green... while my parents live it up in D's bedroom on a pillow-top California King with a window unit.  I'm really, REALLY a good daughter.  Not to mention The Boy's sacrifice...he's clearly caucasing for boyfriend of the year.  And now I'm giggling about the word "caucusing."  God bless wine.

And yes, a futon.  Man, I really hope I ace my finals this semester.

So, wish us luck this weekend.  I think something like "Godspeed" would be appropriate.

The proud parents with their questionably appropriate daughter on the Colorado Trail.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 1: Winner Wonderland

When I was in the thick of my online dating misadventures, I told my married friends "No matter how fucked up your marriage is, make that shit work.  You have no idea how rough it is out there." 

Really, you don't. 

You may be asking yourself, "How could it have been so awful for someone as beautiful, intelligent, funny, successful and humble as Andrea?" Believe me, I thought the same. So in the Fall of 2010 off to match.com I went, thinking "how hard can this be?"

On match.com your first task is to create a profile name. You can't actually see other profile names at this point, so you're at what us marketing types call a "competitive disadvantage." After some quick and not-at-all creative thinking, I came up with "txtrue1." I didn't really consider the fact that, on the whole, Coloradans dislike Texans for our poor ski etiquette. We, in turn, are mystified over their love for the Subaru and their apparent distaste for both cosmetics and body fat.  So, strike one against me.

Your second task is to write an engaging description of yourself-- your likes, dislikes, interests (assuming you have any) and whatnot. Again, you have no other profiles after which to model yours, so you are flying blind.  Unfortunately, mine did not mention anything at all about my love for running marathons, climbing fourteeners, riding centuries or watching hockey-- mostly because I, like you, have no idea what those things are or why anyone would want to do them.  So, steee-rike TWO!

Then you choose some photos of yourself. Best to choose recent photos and to include at least one full-length shot of yourself so as to appear height/weight commensurate. For good measure, I included a full-length shot of myself on skis so that I'd appear athletic and outdoorsy. In case you haven't already surmised, I am neither. In fact, I think I spent roughly 7 minutes on those skis before marching down that bunny slope in a cold, murderous rage and straight into the warm embrace of the hot tub. Still, you gotta love my moxie.

Sadly, match.com men appreciate neither moxie nor the women who can spell the word or use it in a sentence. You'd think this would be strike three against me, but no.  I was swinging for the fence!

Why yes, I loooove to ski!

So like a good singleton on a happening Saturday night, I published my profile (to the tune of somewhere around $75) and sat back, waiting to be dazzled by the plethora of eligible bachelors who would rush to wine and dine me. In my haste, I didn't think to ask for pointers from anyone unlucky enough to venture before me into this winner wonderland. Mistake.

I almost immediately got some nibbles and settled in to see what happened next. Ok, wow, I didn't expect to be IM'd so quickly by someone who wanted to give me a virtual kiss. Eeeww! How do I block this person? Next up, an email from Lee, whose profile painted a portrait of a successful man who has everything but is looking for that missing piece. Oh wait, in his book, that means a piece of ass. We exchanged phone numbers and he immediately texted to see if I wanted to come to his house to "watch football." How about noooo?  Block!

And so it went. Undaunted, I forged ahead, certain that Mr. Right would find my profile charming and pursue me with flowers, trips to private islands and priceless jewels. I mean, why not me?  Those crazy bitches on "Real Housewives" (any version) can't have married all the millionaires.  Plus, my boobs are real.

Within the first week, I was being pursued by roughly 100 interested parties. And so that next Saturday afternoon I found myself chatting by phone with a handsome "executive." After several glasses of wine and some witty repartee, Mark (or as I later came to think of him, "The Tongue") convinced me to meet him for a drink. I figured I needed to take the plunge with a first date sooner or later, and so at 10 pm, tipsy, on a Saturday night, off I went. In retrospect, I understand that I may have been sending the wrong signals.

We met at a restaurant/bar near my house for said drink. Okay, so he was actually handsome in a 52-year-old kinda way, and an engaging conversationalist-- not that I was a tough audience after several glasses of wine. But he kept touching me. OMG, this dude was waaaay in my bubble and I wasn't digging it. In addition, my Blackberry died within minutes of my arrival and I realized that no one knew where I was or with whom. Thoughts of unmarked graves were dancing through my head as I made my excuses to leave. I foolishly let him walk me to my car, where he shoved his tongue down my throat and told me of his plans to woo me. Um, okay, thanks for the drink.  Gotta run home and Windex my mouth now.

Seriously, make that shit work, people.  This is not a drill.

Stay tuned for Episode Two of Adventures in Dating:  The Unusual Suspects.

Lord of the Super-Fly

My therapist's name is Yoda.  Well, really it's Karen...but I call her Yoda and she clearly digs it.  I think I'm totally her favorite patient because she says things like I'm "very entertaining" (um, clinically?) and that she can't believe how much happens in my life in one week.  She once showed me a sample of the notes she took during an appointment last fall and they were hysterical.  It was like a dating flow chart.  "Quinn? Still in.  Freddie? Out.  T?  Questionable."

2010 was a rough year.  In fact, 2010 will go down in the history of my life (as if anyone is compiling one) as The Year I Died in Denver.  It started in January when I said goodbye to my foster daughter of 6 months.  It heated up when I lost the promotion I killed myself to get in February.  It continued with my husband almost drinking himself to death in March (he had a .43 blood alcohol level when I checked him into detox).  It kept on rolling when we decided to separate in May and when he finally moved out at the end of June.  And then on July 26, I died on an operating table during the surgery to replace my defunct defibrillator.

(To be fair, they killed me on purpose to make sure that the defib would work properly.  Which to me is a little like amputating a leg to make sure that your artificial knee is a keeper...but I'm sure they know best.)

I started seeing Yoda in May 2010, I think.  So she sort of got onboard the Titanic late, like Jack Dawson and Fabrizio when they won their tickets in that ill-fated poker game.  And she's been helping me analyze the iceberg ever since.

Yoda is very perceptive and a great listener.  She also is maybe the only person who gets my attachment to Barry Manilow and truly understands what I mean when I say that there were moments last summer and fall where I could distinctly hear a huge Barry Manilow song swell up in the background, as if my life were a tear-jerker of a chick flick.

Yoda, listening to some awesome Barry Manilow tunes.

And to be fair, in 2010 it kind of was.  I struggled mightily with depression and with dating and with just about everything else except sarcasm, self-loathing and snarky Facebook status posts.  And during my darkest hours, Yoda was there in my head, guiding and navigating and fundamentally changing the way I think about things.

A sample exchange from last summer:

A:  But how will I shovel my driveway?  I'm not supposed to do anything that strenuous because of the whole heart failure thing.  Who is going to take care of me?
Y:  It's July, Andrea.  How about we just get you through the next 24 hours?

Another:

Y:  What is that you're really afraid of with the heart surgery?
A:  I'm afraid I'm going to die.
Y:  Let's go with that.  So, you die.  Big deal.  Depending on your belief system you'll either go to heaven or everything will just stop.  Either way, no more pain.
A:  Okay, but no deviled eggs on the buffet or non-premium liquor at the bar at my funeral cocktail party.  And my obituary better have a skinny photo of me.  I don't care if it has to be photoshopped.

Then something miraculous happened...I got better.  And on my last visit, we decided that we'd start throttling back my appointments to every other week.  Mostly we're still working on my self-esteem, which ought to buy her a nice weekend place in the mountains at some point.  It seems I tend to base my self-worth on my relative attractiveness to the opposite sex and this isn't really how it's supposed to work.  Who knew?

A sample of our conversations on this topic:

A:  Whenever I get on a plane, I always check the other passengers to make sure I'm one of the most attractive women.  That way, if the plane crashes and we have to build a new society on an island somewhere, I'll be favored as a breeder.  Is that normal?
Y:  I think what you're really asking is "is that healthy?"  And I'd have to say it's on the extreme end of the bell curve.  And by the way, you can't have children, so how would you be favored?
A:  But they won't know I can't have children.  I'd totally tell them I have 4 kids at home.  And then I'd go all Lord of the Flies on them.

It is so strange to me that other people don't feel or think this way.  That some people just have an innate sense of their worth... and don't have to spend thousands of dollars on pencil skirts at White House Black Market to get there.  And what is the point of looking this cute if it doesn't really matter anyway?

So I think Yoda and I will have many more discussions on the topic...as I work my way to the other side of the bell curve, where I'll apparently be wearing Birkenstocks in a Drum Circle, feeling deliriously happy about how spectacular I am. 

Til then, I'll keep trying to appreciate how life looks atop 4 inch stilettos.  Plus, White House Black Market is having a sale!

Homewrecker

As a child, I took dance lessons...not really because I wanted to dance, but rather because my sister did and I wanted to do anything that my sister did.  It also gave my Mom a weekly 45 minute break from my incessant chatter, which let's face it, she probably earned. While Priscilla was a beautiful dancer-- long, lean and graceful, I was more like a chubby, clumsy and significantly less attractive 70's version of Shirley Temple.  Where Priscilla was a breezy, branchy Azalea in the "Alice in Wonderland" production... I was a lowly ground-covering Bluebonnet.  Where her fingers were always delicately splayed in dance photos like beautiful vines swaying in a gentle breeze, mine were little chunks of wood frozen in space in what looked like a defiant gesture.  Stickin' it to the man, even then.

My first dance recital.  Yes, I was a duck.

I eventually outgrew (well, out-dieted) the chubbiness...but the clumsiness remains. Just ask The Boy, who once described my relative grace thusly: "You're like a gazelle with an inner ear disorder."

I'm also kind of retarded.

I had him snowed for maybe the first week. On our first 3 dates I managed not to spill, trip or harm myself noticeably, despite a near-miss when a barstool took a left while I was taking a right while inexplicably sitting still. And then, enter Andrien (this is what The Boy calls me when I've taken my Ambien but continue to carry on as if I'm not an anesthetized bull in a china shop). In the first week of our relationship, Andrien announced herself in a phone conversation during which she performed a rousing and undoubtedly endearing fifteen minute tribute to the childhood musical classic "Charlotte's Web." Interested parties should contact Derek for a replay as he graciously recorded the performance without my knowledge or consent. Incidentally, I think that's a little illegal and I'll eventually own his ass because of it.

Musical genius and exquisite comedic timing aside, the unintentional physical humor is likely the funniest-- and is often displayed as an Exxon Valdez-like red wine spill.  Take last night, for instance.  The Boy lives on 5 acres in the heart of the Pike National Forest, and his deck and front porch offer an amazing view of Long Scraggy Peak and about 7 layers of mountains beyond.  We were privvy to front row seats during a spectacular summer storm at around 7:30 and decided to watch the light show from his hot tub. 

Because I'm me, this meant pouring roughly half a bottle of red wine into a large plastic tumbler (my tendency to break glasses led to a Target trip a few weeks ago to purchase unbreakable shit).  Look, I was naked and didn't want to climb in and out of the hot tub several times to refill my glass... I can only suck in my stomach so much and there's nothing I can do about my thighs and The Boy still finds my curves dreamy.  No one needs to see the broad side of anyone's ass as they exit the hot tub this early on in a relationship.  Just trust me on this.

So, we're all snuggled into the hot tub, watching lightning split the purple sky and ooo-ing and aaaah-ing in all the right places...and just when it seems like maybe we should kiss or something... I spill my entire tumbler and roughly $10 worth of wine directly into the hot tub.  My mind immediately flashes back to a scene roughly 10 minutes earlier in the evening where I watched Derek cleaning out the hot tub filters and discussing the delicate chlorine balance he has achieved.  So now I'm sitting, naked and chagrined, in an aubergine hot tub wondering if antioxidants can be absorbed through the skin as D streaks into the house (where I hear him slip and crash on the tile floor) to get a bucket in a desperate bid to prevent damage to the ecosystem that is the hot tub.  And he's screaming "Don't move!  Stay where you are!" as if I might cause harm to an otter or heron unlucky enough to chance upon the spill.

He comes running back out with a giant orange Home Depot bucket to find me absolutely belly-laughing because I can't stop thinking of how funny it must have looked when he slipped in the kitchen.  Yep, I'm a clumsy retard-- and apparently not a very nice one.  But seriously, I bet that was hysterical.  I am literally chortling about it as I write this.  Yes, chortling.

To make a long story short (too late, I know), we decided to exit the hot tub.  If not for the risk of some kind of bizarre yeast infection, for the risk of dying a horrible death-- watching an electrical storm while seated in a tub of water is likely not a great idea, especially for those of us with a tendency towards mayhem.  We watched the rest of the storm from the relative safety of The Boy's front porch.  I bet we were the only people in the Pike National Forest who enjoyed the storm doused in wine and listening to the B-52s.

So now it's the Friday afternoon of a long holiday weekend, and I'm comfortably ensconced on D's wine-stained couch (it was Jackson's fault, I promise-- that is one clumsy dog) while he scrubs the hot tub a scant fifty feet from the driveway where I ate gravel in a spectacular spill while in a cocktail dress and 4 inch stilettos.  Later, we'll take the boys on a hike and I'll suspiciously eye the granite boulder I've christened "Hamburger Rock" because of my propensity to scrape my flesh on it the moment The Boy's back is turned while I'm trying to prove I'm a capable "outdoorswoman."  Is that even a word?  It shouldn't be.

Shin Injury sustained while tripping over own feet on driveway

Later, if the mood and the vodka take me, maybe I'll entertain D with some of my dance moves.  Hmmm... maybe not.  It's at least 30 minutes to the nearest E.R.

The Boy, the Bucket...and the scene of the spill.