Gypsy

I love writing. 

The act of creating something from nothing, of making up entire people with histories and quirks, of fictionalizing parts of my life and rewriting the endings-- it's powerful.  So from time to time I hope you don't mind if I post some of my work for you. 

Today I'd like to share my version of a Thanksgiving story.  I wrote this in one afternoon in 2006, while sitting out on my deck in Houston.  Like most of my short stories (and rest assured, this one is quite short), it sprang almost fully-formed from my head.  This is both a blessing and a curse because to me, editing is kind of like getting plastic surgery for a newborn baby.  "Yes doctor, she's beautiful-- but I was hoping she'd have more pronounced cheek bones."

So is it perfect?  Nah.  My old writing professors would criticize me for telling you the story versus showing it to you.  I did try to weave a little symbolism into it and some of you will get it.  But perhaps most interesting of all is that when I wrote this particular one, I didn't think it was about me.

That being said, I think you'll recognize the storyteller.

So get comfy...and enjoy "Gypsy."

He had a gypsy soul.

She knew it well before he did… and moved in with him anyway. The knowledge that the day would come when the wanderlust would overcome the regular lust… well, let's just say she wasn't interested in being alone.

And that was always her undoing—she just wasn't much good at keeping her own company. Never had been. Attracting them was never the problem, hell, any fool with a reasonably good rack and a smart mouth can cast a net. Keeping them proved to be a bit more difficult. Time after time.

His brother had a place on the lake that they liked to visit on the weekends, especially in the winter. The starkness of the bare trees scratching the sullen sky… the wistful call of the loons who also wintered there… the homes shuttered for the season… it was perfect for them. Sufficiently broody, if you get my drift. And they always had it to themselves—no summer wave runners, no pervasive smell of roasting burgers and dogs, no happy shouts and laughter. Just them, and the obvious distance growing between them.

He kept asking her what was wrong and she wouldn't tell him. She couldn't explain how she always knew the axe was about to fall, could damn near hear the thing dangling above her head. He would never understand that she mourned the endings before they came so that she could walk away unscathed. So they sat out at night, bundled in store-bought quilts, drinking homemade White Lightning and naming the stars. And when he slept, she cried.

Thanksgiving weekend was the loneliest weekend of all on the lake, so it was no surprise that they both loved to spend it there. They did it up right, baking a turkey and mashing a huge pot of potatoes. They laughed when they sliced into their beautiful golden bird to find it still pink and raw on the inside. Both were content to eat the trimmings instead and then gorge themselves on pumpkin pie. As they pushed back from the table, he dabbed a bit of whipped cream on the end of her nose and said "I love you." She thought of suitcases and boxes, bare walls and empty rooms... but gave him a smile anyway.

On Sunday morning, she awoke to the sound of him playing his sax at the end of the pier. The notes hung in the air like fog, drawing her out of the warm bed they had shared and into the grey light of the morning. She didn't recognize the tune and realized it was something he had been working on, hiding from her, the way he always did with the new ones. He must have heard her bare feet on the deck because he didn't start when she placed her hand on his shoulder. He played on, filling the sky with music and as she walked around him, she wasn't surprised to see his tears.

With the last note hanging in the still morning air, he held her stare and said simply "I'm sorry."

She smiled, swept the hair from his forehead and said "Don't be."

Adventures in Dating, Episode 8: Oompa Loompa Doompity Don't

Okay, I'm having a social media crisis:  The Oompa Loompa sent me a Friend Request on Facebook.

Spoiler alert:  I've decided to ignore the request.  Some stories simply must be told... and the lure of knowing the mundane details of his life, like which Sex & The City girl he'd be or what he ate for breakfast ("Oatmeal with raisins, yes!") cannot stop me.

So here it is, the 10th installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series.  You can enjoy episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 and 7 revisited here.  How am I on #10 if this is the 8th episode?  Well, as previously stated, I'm a mathtard.  I barely understand how money works.

Let's travel back in time, shall we?  It's mid-March.  I've wasted the previous 6 months of my life on the freak show that is known as match.com.  Well, Yoda (my shrink) would say it wasn't wasted-- I was simply practicing my dating skills.  So skills summarily practiced, self-esteem completely deflated, and with nary a spring in my step, I embarked on a new lurch towards love via eHarmony.

For those of you without televsions but with a lot of free time on your hands, let me briefly explain (as if) the difference between the two sites.  On match.com, you can set search parameters and view the entire catalog of men within those parameters, the way you'd build the perfect Volvo for yourself or order a pizza from Dominos.  Romantic, right?  So basically, you've got a bunch of guys looking to get laid by the hottest chick they can score...and a bunch of women lying about their interests, their number of cats, and their level of desperation.  It's like going to a club in the late 80s, only without all the pesky human interaction and spastic dancing.

eHarmony, on the other hand, does not show you the entire oeuvre.  eHarmony is interested not at all in your witty description of yourself.  eHarmony makes you take an extensive survey about your deepest feelings about family, love, sex, money, etc and then ONLY shows you the men with whom you share those feelings.  And by the time you turn to eHarmony, you're so worn out from all of your horrific match.com dates that you're honest.  Except maybe about your number of cats.

In my exhaustion, I agreed to meet Bob. 

Like many men involved in online dating, Bob made a big show of his wealth in his photos (taken at various locations around the world, including the obligatory photo on a boat).  He described himself as an adventurer looking for a partner with whom to explore the world in the style of "The Amazing Race."  And if you know anything at all about me, it's that I'm a natural athlete, so clearly this was right up my alley.  I figured he had a great sense of humor because in one Halloween photo, he was dressed as George Hamilton complete with ridiculous fake tan and cheesy suit.  Plus, the computer said we were a good match, and who am I to argue with Computer Science?  I mean, I come on, I made a D- in COBOL.  That shit's ironclad.

As always, I was nervous before the date and my nerves were compounded by the fact that I was recovering from a sunburn and therefore had a peeling face.  I warned him ahead of time so that he wouldn't think there was something wrong with me...and we laughed and pretended like it mattered or it didn't or whatever, just for the love of God, show up so I don't have to die alone.

We met for dinner at a restaurant on the South side.  As I walked up to the door, there he was.  I definitely recognized him from his photos but was a little bit confused as to why he was still dressed in his George Hamilton costume.  As we said our hellos and shook hands, he took a look at my peeling skin and said "Oh, it doesn't look that bad!" effectively sweeping me off my feet with his gallantry and tact. 

I likely would have been offended if I wasn't trying so hard not to openly stare at his fake tan.  Seriously, he was absolutely tangerine, like Julian from "Bridget Jones's Diary."  And to make matters worse, he was a little on the short side.

We were seated by Vanessa, the hostess.  I know her name was Vanessa, because Bob apparently frequented this restaurant often and felt compelled to introduce me to all of the personnel.  Sadly, Tony wasn't working that night so our water glasses had to be refilled by a relative stranger.

Bob enjoyed talking about himself and was a bit of a name-dropper.  Yes, that Halloween photo was in fact taken at the Playboy Mansion (pause for dramatic effect, wait for gasp).  I tried to play along and act interested, but my heart was sinking.  He was a nice enough guy and he was clearly trying to impress me.  But as I plowed unenthusiastically through my seared ahi salad (my customary date dish-- it says "she's healthy but adventurous-- I can tell because she likes meaty fish") I just kept thinking "How can I take a 52 year-old man who fake tans seriously?"

So the date crawled to its end.  Before we walked out, I took a brief trip to the ladies room where I checked my text messages to find that two of my friends were coincidentally and unexpectedly sitting in the bar of the same restaurant and had been watching my super-hot date.  If I can paraphrase:  "Hey, I can see you.  How old is that guy?"

I didn't want Bob to know that we were being spied on...nor did I want to introduce him to my friends, so I let him walk me to my car.  I drove around the building, waited til he left, then parked again and went back in to join my friends.  I'm sure Vanessa and crew likely ratted me out later, but I really needed the girl time.

Try to contain your shock when I tell you that Bob asked me out again, via text.  I made Yoda tremendously proud by not taking the cowardly way out and was instead honest.  I texted back "You seem like a wonderful man, but this just isn't a match for me.  I wish you luck on your journey."  That second sentence is one that is quite hard for me to say (or text) with a straight face, but Bob was very much the type of man who is on a journey.




But not quite like this.


As bad dates go, it was harmless.  But it reconfirmed what match.com had taught me-- that online dating was never going to work for me.  And also that I should stop lying about my number of cats.  So I decided to give up for good.

But first, I checked my eHarmony inbox one more time... to find that a handsome man with a great-looking dog who lived in a little town southwest of Denver had contacted me. 

Bonus:  He can READ!


Shortly after that, this man became The Boy.  And that has made all the difference.

Life Moments: Lou Rawls Has Game

Every picture tells a story.  In this one, I'm meeting Lou Rawls.  Here's everything I remember:

• It is 1989 and I am at the National Association of Television Programming Executives convention in Houston, TX.
• I was hired to work in a booth dressed up as Jem, the rock & roll Barbie.
• I wanted to be an actress.
• I was a horrible actress.
• Yes, I was serious about that hair.  If I had teased those bangs any higher, they would've taken their ball and gone home.
• The watch I'm wearing did not work, but I liked the look of the fake diamonds around the face of it, so I continued to wear it.
• Lou Rawls and I bumped into each other in a hallway and he asked if I wanted to have my photo taken with him. 
•  I thought he was Ben Vereen and told him how much I enjoyed his performance in "Roots."
• To his credit, he thought this was funny.
• Just before this photo was snapped, Sweet Lou mentioned something about the two of us going to his hotel room.
• That's why he was chuckling and crowding my bubble.
• I had no idea how pasty I was at that time.
• I'm wearing 4 rings...I think that was every ring I owned at the time.  I have no idea why.
• You can't see it against that loud tie of his, but Lou was wearing a huge, solid gold pendant of the Greek Drama masks.  It had to be about 3 inches wide.
• I was the thinnest I would ever be in my adult life... 115 pounds.  I maintained this weight for roughly 45 seconds before I started gaining again.
• I thought I was fat.

While I Was Out, 11-08-11

So, it's been a week already.  Well, a week plus a day...but with the whole "falling back" concept, I'm hoping you missed the fact that I'm late with my weekly wrap up.

So you know that thing where you love a TV show and then for some reason you just stop watching it?  Kind of like how Elizabeth Taylor must've felt about all those husbands?  I hate to say it, but that has happened to me with "Glee."

When this show first came out, I was NUTS about it.  Correction:  BEFORE this show came out, I was nuts about it.  The extended preview made me cry.  "Being a part of something special makes you special, right?"  Oh Rachel Green, how I identified with you. 

And now?  Well the DVR still dutifully records it and hangs on to 5 episodes at a time and so each week, a little piece of musical heaven drops off my watch list like an illiterate kid slipping through the cracks of a public school.

How did this happen, I ask myself?  Well, it was the strangest thing.  At some point in the past year...life showed up on my doorstep.  In full technicolor and with its own glorious soundtrack not featuring the self-indulgently sad tunes of Barry Manilow.  And suddenly I didn't need "Glee" to tell me that all of those days I spent being a little nerdy (read: a LOT) in Show Choir were okay.  Suddenly I knew I was okay.

I credit Yoda (my shrink) with much of the growth, although she would insist that I did all the work.  She's a giver.  And mental health is a glorious thing.

Do I sometimes still get sad?  Absolutely.  One doesn't survive all the loss of the past couple of years without occasionally feeling a little melancholy.  One doesn't grow up being "Ogg the Dog" and "Ogg the Hog" without some bruising.  But on the whole, I'm baaaaa-aaack. 

And being back, safe and secure and confident in your own skin, well shit, that should have it's own show.

And maybe that's what this blog is:  my own show.  Apparently it will take the networks a little longer to get the hint.

So a huge, heartfelt thank you goes out to you-- my viewers (readers).  Your interest in the bizarre thing that has been my life truly sustains me when I'm feeling low.  There are now 584 of you in 9 countries and 40 states.  Italy, the UK, Germany, Vietnam, Norway, Costa Rica, Mexico... and most recently Russia.  It's so amazing to me that people who I don't know... and whose culture is wildly different than mine (assuming they're not all ex-pats) still enjoy my little stories.  Shout out to my peeps!

UPDATE:  598 readers from 10 countries.  G'day, Australia!

So, this week when when I wasn't not watching "Glee," alienating some of you by dogging on "Twilight" and creating a story about Pudge Gazelle and Christopher Phantom, writing a love letter to the Hairy Love of My Life, and being a Marketing Genius and amazing girl friend, I stayed pretty busy.  Here are some things I loved this week:

It's possible I'm becoming a little too ourdoorsy lately, but these are seriously gorgeous photos.

More proof that sometimes "Good morning" just means "good morning."

Even gorillas are better dancers than I am.

Have an extra 10 minutes?  Spend it here.

Hey Buffalo, you make a better door than a window.

So, this is perhaps a bit close for comfort.  How will Ben Affleck save us when he's busy being such a cute Dad?

And finally, if this one isn't appropriate for my life, I don't know what is.

Teaser:  I can feel a new episode of "Adventures in Dating" percolating!

In the meantime, to keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

Woman's Best Friend

Sometimes I feel badly about the way I look...and this line of thinking leads me strange places:

• Had I been born with straight hair, my life would be wildly different.
• Had I been born without the fat gene, I'd have my own TV show.
• Had my maiden name been almost anything other than "Ogg," I would've been the Prom Queen.

And sometimes when I think these things I share them with Jackson because talking to my dog makes sense to me.

Today, Jackson spoke back and it made everything better.  He said:

Mommy, if you had been a straight-haired, thin prom queen with a normal last name that didn't rhyme with unfortunate barnyard animals, I'd never get to see you because you'd be out on the town always being fabulous and I'm a mountain dog and wouldn't want to live in L.A. or Paris or New York.  And I don't know where those places are so how would I find you? If you weren't you, right now we'd be jetting to Europe except you'd be unable to take me because I'm too big to be carried in a purse unless it was a really, really big purse and I know you don't like really big purses and I'd miss you an awful, awful lot while you were gone.

I really love that dog. Even if he speaks in run-on sentences, pees on stuff, and sheds 2 to 3 pounds of hair per day.

Thank you, Jackson. Mommy loves you too.

The little hairy love of my life.

Defrost: The Saga of Pudge Gazelle

It's Halloween.  And to be honest, I truly dislike handing out candy.

I like buying candy.  I like eating candy.  And if we were at the movies together (and we totally should go, by the way), I wouldn't mind sharing my candy with you.

I just don't like handing it out on Halloween.  And because of that, this year I simply dumped my candy in an orange plastic bowl and set it on a plant stand on my front porch.  Come n get it, kiddos!

So it's 8:00 p.m. and I'm crouching in my dark upstairs bedroom alone, watching the same ridiculously bad "Ghost Adventures" special I watched last year and eating a mini box of Milk Duds because I apparently really like my dentist and want to buy him a place in Aspen.  And I think it's about time that I used the bully pulpit of my blog to rip on the "Twilight" series.

Don't get me wrong, I've never read any of the books or seen any of the movies.  But this will not stop me from mocking them.  Oh, no.  I do this in the grand tradition of my Dad dismissing "Sex & The City" (which he has never seen) with a disgusted wave of his hand and the horribly inaccurate statement:  "Single women in their 30's don't have sex with that many men or talk about it like that."  In fact, SATC is among life's most repugnant things to my Dad...and I know this because he refers to it as "that Sex & The City."  In the way that he refers to its star as "that Sarah Jessica Parker," or to any black actor other than Morgan Freeman as "that Will Smith."

So, that "Twilight." 

Look, I totally get that pre-pubescent schoolgirls are going to get breathlessly caught up in the idea of loving a handsome and misunderstood outcast who can and will love them forever.  What I don't get is how sophisticated and normally rational women that I respect fall for it.  I once found myself sitting at a table with four female colleagues, all very accomplished, successful women.  At some point, the conversation turned to "Twilight" and these ladies spent the next twenty minutes arguing the merits of vampire over werewolf and werewolf over vampire as boyfriend material.  I was aghast.  When I had heard enough, I simply asked "Why not a leprechaun?  I mean, there would always be gold."  And they all laughed, of course, and then politely informed me that there aren't any leprechauns.  To which I replied, "For God's sake, there aren't any vampires or werewolves either!"

Which brings me to the actress cast as Bella:  Kristen Stewart. 

Was this some kind of brother-in-law deal?  Is she the Director's niece?  Does she have naked photos of Spielberg and she's not afraid to use them?

She's a somewhat pretty girl...but good GOD, she has negative charisma. It's like watching a young and less homely Barefoot Contessa trying to emote.  Take, for example, this comparison of her emotions to that of the much-superior Emma Watson:

And seriously... the dude that plays Edward...Is this that whole "we like him because his masculinity doesn't frighten us" thing?  I personally could never be with a man (alive, dead or undead) who spends more time on his hair than I do.  And how does he do it if he has no reflection??

And the neanderthal that plays Jacob-- with that massively protuding brow, wouldn't he be better suited for Frankenstein?

And really?  Bella Swan?  Jacob Black?  I can't even mock these names because they are such phenomenally delightful examples of character names that will get you kicked out of the Creative Writing program down at the local JuCo.  Or leisure learning annex.  Or daycare.

Which actually got me to thinking:  With all the new ghost hunting shows popping up on TV, I think ghosts are the new vampires.  And now that food shows have surpassed design shows in popularity, I think I'm on to something.  I'm going to write a book called "Defrost" about a ghost chef.  I'll name him Christopher Phantom and give him a chubby but preternaturally graceful heroine named Pudge Gazelle. 

I'm going to be a gazillionaire.  And you can say you knew me when I came up with the idea while hiding from candy-seeking missiles on Halloween.

And for the record, it's now 8:35 p.m. and those greedy little candy-grubbing bastards have cleaned me out. 

Ugh, I hate giving out that candy.