On Platypuses & Buttercream Frosting

In keeping with the sharing that's going on over in Facebookland, here are 16 things that I bet absolutely nobody knows about me... because they aren't true. That did not stop them from making me belly laugh. Special thanks to The Boy for his many contributions to this list.

1. As a child I had a pet platypus named Corky.
2. I have 6 toes on my right foot and often have to pay an additional fee when getting a pedicure. I affectionately refer to my 6th toe as Anne Toeleyn and sometimes dress it in ruffled collars.
3. I'm deathly afraid of heights, which is why I'm only 5'2".
4. I once punched David Spade in the throat during an argument over an egg salad sandwich.
5. In my early 20's, I actually knew a man from Nantucket.
6. I suffer from Hypertrichosis ("Werewolf Syndrome") and shave my entire body up to 16 times per day.
8. I wrote the jingles for "You're Gonna Love Love My Carpet," "By Mennen," and "Nobody Doesn't Like Sara Lee."
9. Each year I hand make all of my Christmas gifts. Last year I gave my Dad a TV.
10. My sweat tastes like buttercream frosting.
11. In 2010 I went on a date with The Most Interesting Man In The World...He bored me.
12. I was born on an Indian reservation in New Jersey. My Indian name is "Pork Chop."
13. I once fed a fig & goat cheese crepe to a Sperm Whale. It was magical.
14. Until the age of 13, I slept standing up. I thought everyone did!
15. In high school, I was a competitive Hog Caller. For reasons I don't understand, my nickname was "Sweet Lou." There is a recording of one of my hog calls in the Smithsonian (in the "Americana" exhibit).
16. I don't own a TV or a computer, so I'm not sure who this Miley Cyrus child is, but I sure dig her chutzpah.
Bonus thing:
17. I don't really speak Yiddish, so I don't know what "chutzpah" means.

This Post is Not Even Remotely About Syria, Slut-Shaming or Miley Cyrus

There are things you don’t know about me.

Even if you follow me on Facebook, where I seemingly blurt out every random thought that appears in my frizzy little head…yes, there are things you don’t know. And shockingly, things I don’t say.

Proof Point #1: The Boy and I were talking about possibly doing something kind of stupid that possibly involves large predatory wildlife the other night and he mentioned that if we DID it, I couldn’t post it to Facebook. I looked at him in all seriousness and said “If I can’t post it to Facebook, why would we even do it?”

Proof Point #2:  Last week we were watching “Orange is the New Black” and there was a scene where two lovely women were making out in a pretty sexy way and I casually asked him if I ever went to jail if he’d mind if I cheated on him with a woman out of sheer loneliness. His eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning and he (kinda) shouted “You don’t have to wait for prison!” I totally wanted to make that my Facebook status, but I wasn’t sure my parents would see the humor and it’s possible I’ve horrified them enough already. Also? From his response, I think The Boy thinks a stint in prison is something imminent in my future. (Note: Whatever it is or whenever it happens, clearly I WAS FRAMED.)

So yes, there are things I do and things I say that you know nothing about and would likely be either outrageously entertained by or maybe mortified. Either way, I’m holding out on you. Or at least I was, prior to the two Proof Points above. Now maybe you actually do know everything I think.

Whatever the case, there are also things I DON’T do that I keep from you, and one of these is this tasty little nugget: Despite the fact that both cats in our household are Ogg children (and one of them is a decidedly barfy lil guy), I refuse to clean up cat vomit.

There, it’s out. I REFUSE TO CLEAN UP CAT VOMIT.  And I’m really, really good at it-- and clearly not ashamed to admit it.

I think at first The Boy thought he could just wait me out, thought that surely after a few hours or a day or so I’d give in and just clean it up. But NO. I can studiously avoid cat vomit for WEEKS if I have to. That shit can be close to disintegration and I still do not “see” it there on the carpet. Seriously, it’s a gift. Or maybe an art. Or maybe something totally new: A gart.

Which leads me to one of the reasons that I love The Boy so much: He cleans it up. And usually he does so without fanfare or any expectation that I’ll fawn all over him for it (because, eeeewww gross, he just interacted with cat vomit). As I type this, he has just completed shampooing about a dozen different vomit spots in our living room and bedroom and is actually whistling as he lugs the giant shampooer thingie (that I don’t even know how to operate and am unable to actually lift) down the stairs to start on the basement spots.

Seriously you guys, he’s a keeper. 

And clearly so am I. Just to prove it, here's an artfully composed kitteh photo for your viewing pleasure.

Kip: The barfy lil guy.
What I lack in cat vomit-cleaning skills, I MORE than make up for in cat costuming skills!

The Insomnia-ing

When I was a toddler, I had a life-sized doll.

Her name was Mary Jane* and I loved her. In fact, I loved her so much and played with her so often that she ended up with only one arm and one leg.  I’m not sure if that’s because she was poorly made (likely in China out of lead-based plastic, broken glass and old creosote-soaked axe handles, as the year was 1970), or if this was just the result of my parents allowing us to play with our toys—we were decidedly not a “still in box, collect the whole set” kinda family.

Once Mary Jane became a one-legged, one-armed doll, she was relegated to the back of my bedroom closet, or as I now think of it: The Closet of (Evil &) Misfit Toys. One night as I slept the sleep of the just and the untroubled, Mary Jane lurched out of my closet and tried to kill me. Or at least I dreamt that she did, and when you’re a toddler that’s pretty much the same thing. I’m not sure what became of Mary Jane after that, but she was exiled by my parents and I returned to my normal nightmare-free childhood. Or what passes for normal when you’re me.

Until Raggedy Ann showed up.

This was, I think, in the 4^th grade. She was a Christmas present—brand new, life-sized, and my parents were so excited to give her to me. I remember feigning happiness upon opening the box and pulling out the doll because even though I didn't want to touch her,  I also didn’t want to hurt her feelings (or those of my parents)… but the reality was, I was scared of her. I was pretty sure that Mary Jane was going to use Raggedy Ann to kill me. I mean, that’s how these things work, people-- and I couldn’t fathom why my parents would place me in such obvious danger.

For years, that giant Raggedy Ann sat on a wicker chair in my pink little bedroom with the pretty little pink hand-me-down canopy bed. She smiled her garish smile and bided her time, waiting for me to drop my guard. Every night after my parents tucked me in and turned off the light, I’d lie awake in that canopy bed, my strawberry blonde ‘fro peeking out from under the covers, my chubby little fingers grasping sweatily at my pink bedspread, staring at Raggedy Ann, noticing how the light from the streetlamp reflected off her cold, black button eyes, and wondering when I’d see her move ALL ON HER OWN. I knew it was inevitable.

And then we moved. And I was allowed to redecorate my room. Raggedy Ann moved into the attic where I still occasionally thought of her, plotting my demise. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I’d imagine I could hear the attic door creaking open and the telescoping stairs sliding down into the hallway right outside my door. During my senior year in high school, I even had a nightmare in which she painted “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU ANDREA” in giant capital letters IN BLOOD on my wall and then she walked out of the house and drove off in my RX7. Just and untroubled, indeed.

Ever since then, I’ve been somewhat afraid of life-sized dolls. Somewhat, as in completely and totally. Any horror movie featuring them is guaranteed to flip me the fuck out. And my charming family has delighted in tormenting me with Raggedy Ann, who still lives in my parents’ house. When I return home to visit, Raggedy Ann pops up in the most unusual places: Often sitting on a chair in the guest room, occasionally rigged to swing out at me when I open a closet door, and once incongruously contemplating my murder from the toilet seat. 

Enter “The Conjuring.”  Enter Annabelle. Enter the supposedly true story of a haunting based on the experience of Ed & Lorraine Warren, featuring the world’s creepiest looking doll. Enter the realization that NO ONE TOLD ME THIS MOVIE HAD A LIFE-SIZED DOLL COMPONENT, YOU GUYS.

Say hello to Annabelle, as featured in "The Conjuring."
I was seriously afraid to even download this photo...thinking I was risking bad juju.

What a delightfully frightening movie! I gasped many times, may have shrieked a little, and once the hair on my arms and legs even stood up. But the thing is, I’m a grown-up now and I know that dolls can’t hurt me. I live 1200 miles away from Raggedy Ann, who clearly was no Annabelle.  And besides, I have no tie to this Annabelle. Subsequently, she should have no beef with me. Right? RIGHT?

So yesterday during lunch I got curious about Annabelle’s story and did a little research. Thank you, Interwebs!  You can imagine my delight when I came across a photo of the REAL Annabelle doll. The one that remains locked in a glass case in the Warren’s occult collection so that she can’t hurt anyone anymore. The one that allowed a demonic spirit to possess her, all the better to terrify her hapless owner.

Check her out, in all her glory-- I assure you, she's even more terrifying than the one they used in the movie:

Note: Still in box

Seriously you guys, I’m never sleeping again, ever.

EVER.

*P.S. I did a Google Image search to find a photo of my particular Mary Jane doll and the results were so hair-raisingly creepy that I had to abandon the idea.

An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley:

I get it. 

You're 20 years old and clearly desperate to prove that you're no longer a child. 

But what I think you'll learn over the next 25 years or so (and likely as the uncomfortable and unfortunate result of a series of poorly-conceived and sloppily-executed cries for attention like your performance on the VMA's last night) is that the best way to prove you are an adult is to make mature decisions about many, many things-- including how you behave in public.

Hey, I was 20 once (and thank God only once because I would not want to have to learn those lessons again). I made really poor decisions. I embarrassed myself frequently in public and even more frequently in private. So I get it Miley, I really do. I did all of those embarrassing things despite having advantages you couldn't dream of, like parents who realized I was a child (not a meal ticket or a brand) and who set appropriate boundaries and expectations on my behavior.

I even did those things in relative anonymity... and yet they haunt me still. Like many people my age I am mortified at some of the poor decisions I made, at how I casually hurt those around me, at how I humiliated myself-- even though there is little to no paper trail of those moments, unlike those you are very publicly creating.

At the time, I couldn't even fathom that the day would come when I'd think the way I do now... and yet here I am, pontificating on my blog about it from the comfort of and with the 20/20 hindsight of my Middle Age (ugh, cringe). And you know what? You'll be doing the same thing-- because that's how the maturation process works.

My advice: Take some time off. Rest your twerking muscles. Do some soul searching. Think about the type of person you'd like the 47-year old YOU to meet. Perhaps even purchase and wear some full-length pants.
Miley, there are so many things you can be: Be fun. Be talented. Be cool. 

Be well-traveled, well-read and well-educated. Be an interesting conversationalist. Be a good friend. Be quick to laugh and slow to anger. Be careful with other people's feelings. Be a philanthropist. Be exceptionally kind to animals and to those less powerful than you. Be outspoken and proud of who you are and all that you've accomplished. But for the love of all that you will EVER be, mostly be AWARE that the 47-year old you is not going to fondly remember the night where in a desperate attempt to prove to the world you are an adult you donned a flesh-colored bikini and simulated masturbation with a giant foam finger in front of millions of people... and in doing so, you proved to the world that you are, in fact, still a child.

Sincerely,
A woman who has been many things... some that she is even proud of

Life Moments: That One Time My Boobs Interviewed Willie Nelson

The Red-Headed Stranger. Also pictured: Willie Nelson

The year was 1990. And yes, that’s Willie Nelson crouching behind my right breast.

Jammin’ Jane (nee' Jane Trent) and Rockin’ Annie O (yours truly) were both interning at a Country & Western radio station in Houston called KIKK.  For those NOT from around those parts, KIKK was NOT supposed to be a not-so-subtle throwback/hint to a certain Klan of folks who are partial to wearing robes and hoods around a campfire… but instead, it was short for “Kicker,” which is what we Texans called the Cowboy-lovin’ folk at the time. Sure, it’s shorthand for “Shitkicker,” but that is, in fact, what happens when one spends a lot of time around barnyard animals. Said shit does indeed get kicked.  At least as far as I understand it. Which is to say, not far at all. There’s a dearth of both barnyard and barnyard animals in my life, although I’ve been trying to talk The Boy into getting a goat because I think they are super-cute. I guess what I'm trying to say is don't be offended by the radio station call letters, for the love of God.

Anyhoo.

Jammin' Jame and I were unofficially known around the station as the” KIKK News Kittens” and we weren’t yet liberated enough to understand that we shouldn’t find that moniker insulting to our journalistic integrity.  I’m not sure we even HAD journalistic integrity, although we did both pass a mandatory Communication Ethics course at the University of Houston. As I recall, the class included lectures I did my best to miss, a book I skimmed perfunctorily and a couple of tests I stayed up all night popping diet pills and drinking highly caffeinated hot tea cramming for. I seem to recall hearing something from my parents about not “applying” myself. Harrumph. 

On this night, Jane was supposed to cover the grand opening of Willie Nelson’s brand-spankin’ new C&W bar in Northwest Houston. I’m fairly astounded that I can’t remember the name of it… must’ve been the diet pills and hot tea which led to this type of memory loss and a solid “C” average. I also can’t remember if we knew that we were going to meet Willie Nelson or not… what I CAN remember is thinking that my outfit was hot. H-O-T HOT, people.

For the uninitiated, I am wearing a leopard-print mock turtleneck paired with a black Lycra mini-skirt jumper thingie. What you CAN’T see is that in addition to drawing massive attention to my ridiculous breasts, this little beauty also had a peplum that virtually had an arrow pointing to the world’s most unfortunate hips—“Hey, when you’re finished gawking at the headlights, check out the mudflaps on this rig, Bubba!”  I paired all of this with slightly shiny jet black pantyhose and black, pointy-toed flats. If I recall correctly, the clothing was from Contempo Casuals and the shoes were from Mervyn’s.  I don’t think either of those clothing chains exist anymore and I think we can all agree that it’s for the best. It might have been this outfit that did them both in.

I don’t think we can go much further without discussing my hair, because really? I’m counting about 5 inches of air there on the top of my head and I can assure you it was intentional. If one were to go looking for my journalistic integrity, I'd suggest my hair would be a good place to start because God only knows what could be hidden up there. I think I was just attempting to be a normal-heighted person. Or I lost a bet. Or humidity. Or perhaps my mirror was broken that day. Regardless, whoever styled my hair in 1990 should be taken out to the woodshed and given a stern talking-to. 

You might also notice that I am standing on the wrong side of Willie (that sentence made me giggle). This is because I had not yet learned that I am only to be photographed either head-on or from the right side—and never, NEVER candidly. The Boy finds it amusing, but honestly just take one look at the jowls I have in this photo and tell me I’m wrong to demand to be photographed only from certain angles. You can’t do it because JOWLS. I once caught sight of my backside in one of your precious “candid” photos and I’m pretty sure that’s when I started seeing a therapist.

The lesson here is that despite my clear 1990 reliance on the “more is more” approach to styling, less really is more. And leopard print has never been the new black. And perhaps jeans and boots would have been more appropriate for the occasion, although clearly a hat was out of the question.

And photos like this FREAK ME OUT each time I look in my full-length mirror and kind of dig on my outfit and hair. Because YES, this look happened, and I'll be damned if I didn't think I looked GOOOOOOD.

Maverick

I love having houseguests. If you ever come to visit me, I will do my best to make you feel welcome, loved, and extremely well-fed.  I will get you exquisitely drunk, talk your ear off, make you guffaw, and provide you with cold bottled water and aspirin the next day. (If you’re an early riser, however, you’re on your own.)

I do all of this because I love having you here.  Unless you’re this guy.

Disclaimer: I am not the FREAK that lovingly took this photo. I have good sense, you guys.

Last fall we ordered a cord of wood (or whatever, I don’t know how one measures wood unless it’s with a ruler), and upon delivery it was unceremoniously dumped on the flat part of our property here at 7000 feet in the Colorado foothills. The Boy enjoyed all of the opportunities this presented for utilizing Cindy to haul small amounts of this wood up to the house and stack it on our front porch throughout the winter. Each time it needed to be replenished, he’d just fire Cindy up and do some hauling. Everyone wins.

In June we were having a group of friends over for dinner and I decided that the woodpile that remained down on the flat part (that is just what I call it, excuse my lack of imagination here but my brain is awfully preoccupied dreaming up scenarios where I can eat whatever I want and somehow be thin), well it just looked messy and I asked him, giggling, to make one final large firewood haul up the Driveway of Doom and onto our front porch. Getting to discuss wood and the woodpile makes me giggle. What can I say? I’m a teenaged boy.

He complied, which is one of the reasons I like him.

As soon as the wood was all neatly stacked on the front porch, our dogs went nuts. Well, Jax in particular, which I’m sure you find shocking cuz that is one chill dog. The other two were mildly interested.  But for WEEKS Jax pawed at that damn woodpile, tried to crawl under the deck directly beneath it, and was otherwise a giant pain in the keister each time we opened the front door.

We thought it odd, thought maybe chipmunks had been crawling all over it down on the grassy flat part, and just told ourselves that Jax would eventually get over his complete and total fascination with the wood pile (unlike his mama). Little did we know that my precious and gifted child was trying to warn us.

Good dog, Jax.

Because a few nights later, The Boy was out front with the dogs in the dark and he hollered “Hey honey, come look at this bug!” (This is where you ask yourself: Does he know her at all?) But he sounded so excited that I thought it must be some fabulously beautiful and heretofore unknown nocturnal unicorn butterfly, so I dutifully scooted outside to be amazed and enchanted.

The Boy was squatting over a large, brown, VW-sized cockroach-looking thing and to my horror, he reached down to stroke its back, making the monstrous thing HISS.

HISS. I cannot emphasize this enough, hence the underlined bold italics. If there were a giant, blinking neon arrow I could point at the word hiss, I assure you I would do so.

I ran screaming into the house, utterly distraught that someway, somehow, a Houston cockroach had made it across the span of 1200 miles and six years to find and terrorize me. I had the heebie-jeebies like a BOSS. The Boy did his best to try to convince me that it was just some sort of beetle he’d never seen before and not a cockroach at all.

But STILL. That motherfucker HISSED. And I blame that fucking woodpile. I decidedly side with Jax on this one.

A few nights later we were out front after dark and I saw something the size of a pterodactyl flying towards our porch light and realized it was that crapulently monstrous beetle. I once again ran screaming into the house, trying to think of bunny rabbits and teddy bears, trying to calm myself down with the rational thoughts of “it’s too cold for too long in Colorado for cockroaches to take hold” and “it’s too dry here for them.” And trying not to notice that because we don’t have A/C, the only thing keeping this prehistoric predator out of my house were some flimsy window screens.  I briefly considered the relative benefits of just turning this place into a sweat lodge. I mean, I’ve heard it’s a transcendental experience and you know how much I enjoy sweating! I settled for turning off all of the lights and hiding in the dark instead.

The next night, the dogs were out on the deck after dark and Gus scratched to come in. As I walked towards the sliding glass door, I noticed him looking down with what could only be horror and backing away from the door…but I didn’t realize until the DAMN THING WAS ALMOST IN THE HOUSE that it was that beetle again, doing its dead-level best to gain entry to my cockroach-free sanctuary. Seriously, my 85-pound DOG was afraid of this thing.

Again, cue screaming.

The Boy came running, thinking that a cougar or axe-murderer must be forcing his way into the house and was somewhat irritated and a little bemused that I was about to defib over this damn beetle. And believe me, by this time, I had decided that there was only ONE beetle and this was simply my third encounter with it. 

I began to think of him as a loner, as Maverick. Sans wingman. Somehow this made him less terrifying.

There was much discussion over how I literally laughed in the face of a bear that we encountered while hiking last year (well, I laughed at his rapidly retreating and adorably jiggling buttocks as he ran off) but I was reduced to literal terrified tears over a 3-inch beetle. This makes total sense to me, but The Boy says it’s “irrational.” To me, irrational is stroking a gigantic hissing cockroach-looking beetle. But vive la difference, mes amis.

And so here I am, trapped inside my house each night, with the overwhelmingly creepy sensation that Maverick is crawling on me. I seriously just now whipped off my shirt and bra and threw them in the washer because I was pretty certain Mav had somehow found his way INSIDE of my shirt. (Plus I just got a new washer and it's KICK ASS.) Now I think Mav might be in my hair where those giant hairy legs of his will get insanely stuck and I’ll claw at my head like that guy in that scene from “Poltergeist” who ripped his own face off.

Turns out Maverick is a wood-boring beetle. And I live in the woods, in a house made of wood, with a wooden deck, a wooden floor, and a plethora of wooden furniture. For the first time since moving to Colorado, I am praying for snow. Because seriously, I have always preferred The Ice Man to Maverick.

And I've decidedly lost that lovin' feeling.

Straight Sixes

At the request of a dear friend (love you, Deanna!), I'm posting a short story I wrote years ago. It's summertime and I can't figure out why rollerskating isn't on ALL our minds... maybe this will remind you of a time that you believed in both the power of skating-- and the power of YOU.

And yes, I still have them. And they still fit.

Straight Sixes

Another rainy day rolls through Houston. Another day that finds me languishing in a cubicle, scratching out an existence, toiling in relative anonymity—quiet desperation, I've heard it called. This day exactly like the one before it: gray, tedious and without soul. After work, in an effort to unclutter my life, I find myself cleaning out the guest room closet—and I see them, tucked in a corner.

My skates.

The tears in my eyes can't truly be explained away. The yearning in my heart, either. What those skates represent… well, there just aren't words. Later, I drift off to sleep with snatches of a song I once knew echoing in my ears, and when I wake to another gloomy day, I know what I have to do. There must be something wrong with my eyes-- because I don't see myself going in to work. Thank God for sick days.

As I skate out onto the hardwood floor of the rink, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall of the changing area. I look absolutely ludicrous. If I was a child and I caught sight of a slightly paunchy adult in this get-up, I would probably laugh until I soiled my pants. Although I feel strongly that I made the right decision by leaving my helmet at home, my knee pads, elbow pads and wrist braces make me look like a cross between a transvestite hockey goalie and a minor character from some futuristic sci-fi thriller. Still, better safe than sorry. Falling down when you're eleven years old is one thing. Falling down when you're forty-something is something entirely different.

I am determined to do this.

Fortunately, the skating rink is virtually deserted this morning. I think I might've seen the pimply-faced, flannel-festooned snack bar attendant smirking at me, but I'm not sure. So, ankles trembling, pride suffering, and thighs no doubt a-chub-rubbing, I step out onto the floor: A middle-aged woman, in thirty-five-year old skates. As I scoot along, getting a feel for the floor, finding a rhythm, my confidence grows. And by the time I complete my second shaky lap, my mind is doing some skating of its own.

***

"Surprise!" Mom squeals as I open the large, heavy box and remove the clunky skates. "They're the ones you wanted, right?" I nod my head in agreement, never taking my eyes off of my new red, white and blue roller skates. The other sixth grade girls at the slumber party have somewhat lost interest in the present-opening and are sitting on the white, deep-pile shag carpeting, chattering amongst themselves. The Captain and Tenille are singing about "Muskrat Love" on the eight-track system and my Dad is taking candid Polaroid pictures with his new toy. Tessa and Katie are sitting close together, as always, sharing some secret and giggling like crazy. I'm pretty sure they're talking about Steve Bradford and how Katie kissed him at the Spring carnival behind the dunking booth. Jenna and Danielle, dressed in matching outfits, are mad at each other again and are arguing about which one of them will have the honor of sleeping on the lemon yellow crushed-velvet sofa.

Hannah is the one who chimes in with her own "oohs and ahhs" over my biggest birthday present. "Now we can skate together!" she says. "This summer is going to be so cool!" I smile shyly in reply. I don't think that I'll ever skate as well as Hannah. I don't think I'll ever do anything as well as Hannah. But I can sure try. My Mom keeps telling me that I can accomplish anything I set my mind to… and I'm still young enough to believe her.

By the time August quietly and humidly announces itself with scorching heat, I'm skating circles around Hannah and everyone else in the neighborhood. I can't believe how good it feels to be "the best" at something—I'm faster, I can do more tricks, and I make it all look so easy. I gradually spend less time skating with the others and more time alone on my driveway, perfecting my technique.

One day after school, I bring my bright aqua blue plastic record player out onto the driveway and plug it into the utility outlet by the back door. My heart starts to beat faster as I lace up my skates—they're all broken in now and more than a little scuffed up... and I could not love them more. Today is a special day because I'm in the final stages of choreographing my new routine. I'm wearing my special skating outfit: High-water Levi's and my green "Star Wars '77" t-shirt. It has this iron-on of Han Solo and Chewbacca sitting in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon… and I think it's really cool. I take the scratched record out of its jacket and place it on the turntable. I drop the needle on the record and hear the delightful hiss that precedes the music… and then it begins.

The author in her skating costume. And without boobies.

I've selected "Going the Distance" from the "Rocky" soundtrack. Everyone else likes the theme from the movie—but not me. It's too predictable. My song has infinitely more soul, a sense of longing that somehow speaks to me. It begins with the tolling of bells, and as I begin to skate, I imagine that I am competing in the Olympics. When I do this, I always see myself as Dorothy Hamill—who I've really admired since the winter games. I sure do wish I could have her haircut, but Mom says my curls just won't cooperate. I know that roller skating isn't an Olympic event yet, but I'm pretty certain it will be in the future. And I'm equally as certain that I will win the gold medal in this event someday. After all, according to my Mom, I can accomplish anything.

Me & Mom, who still believes I can accomplish anything I set my mind to... and my sister, who clearly had her doubts. If you look closely, you can see the skates between my feet. Also pictured is the dog who taught me to love dogs, Shangri-la.

"Today," I tell myself, "I'm going to do it. I'm really going to do the death spiral." I've been very intrigued by this move ever since it was introduced in the Pairs event. And since I'm skating solo, I've created my own variation. As the music spins towards its climax, I pick up speed, circling faster and faster around the driveway, the wind blowing through my golden curls, gaining momentum until at last I throw myself into the air, spin and land perpendicular to the ground, one hand supporting my weight, legs together, toes pointed. It is incredibly painful—but makes for truly dramatic skating. And at 11 years old, I'm already all about the drama. The crowd is going wild in my head and the judges hold up their score cards. I have skated a perfect program… Sixes, straight across the board.

The music stops and the afternoon is very still. I can hear the thump and hiss of the needle as it scuffs to the end of the record again and again. I am panting, spent. I gradually become aware of the vibrantly green smell of the freshly mown grass and the achingly sweet aroma of the pink blossoms of our Mimosa tree. I sit alone on the hot, late afternoon pavement, reveling in my triumph. Then I slowly unlace my skates, take the record from the turn table, unplug the player. I enter the house to help Mom set the table for dinner, and I am aware of my own peculiar scent for the first time—not sweaty or musky like a teenager yet-- just a hot, damp smell. As the screen door squeaks closed behind me, I think that nothing in the world could ever feel better than roller skating.

Of course, in less than a year I discover that boys are even more intriguing than death spirals. Soon my love for skating is all mixed up with my feelings for Billy Bishop. I'm not sure how it happened, but Billy makes my heart race and my stomach feel all tight. I now favor skating at the Bellaire skating rink, more concerned with being cool than with dare-devil, death-defying leaps. My "Star Wars '77" t-shirt is now forgotten at the back of my closet, my high-water Levi's have made their way into the Goodwill collection bin. "Going the Distance" is all but forgotten—Disco is king.

And much sooner than I would have ever thought, I abandon skating all together. It seems that around the same time, I begin to think that my Mom was stupid for ever telling me that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to. I begin to feel that I will never accomplish anything… Zeroes, straight across the board.

***

"Hey lady, watch out!" a small voice cries, bringing me back to the present. I realize I have very nearly plowed over a little girl who has unwittingly strayed too far from the railing. A smile touches my lips when I realize that the girl has called me "lady." So old, I think to myself, far too old for death spirals. But am I really? I might look ridiculous in all of my padding, but I think this old girl may have a few moves left in her, after all.

I skate closer to the center of the rink and begin to gain speed. I circle once, twice, a third time. Beyonce's "Crazy in Love" is blaring from the speakers, but I'm oblivious to it—in fact, I can hear "Going the Distance" pounding through my head. I can feel the wind in my hair, smell the sweet, tangy scent of the Mimosa blossoms, and as the music comes to a climax, I throw myself in the air, spin…

I Want Candy

"Hi. I'm Andrea. And I have ridiculously large boobs."

Hi, Andrea!

You know, there really should be a support group. Both literally and figuratively. And major bonus points if there were free vanilla lattes and donuts at the meetings.

Oh, poor you, you and your normal-sized breasts sneer in your best Olivia Soprano voice. You think I'm lucky. You think having triple D's must be the cat's meow. You think you would've totally ruled the school Senior year if not for your average sweater set. But sista, as much as I want to shrug and say vive la difference (and then swear to stop using the term "sista" cuz we all know I'm the whitest woman in America), you're wrong. These puppies are an albatross.

Did they get me free drinks all through college? Certainly. Did they increase my tips by 1000% when I did singing telegrams? You betcha. Have men waxed rhapsodically about being trapped in their splendor? Um, I'm a lady. And a lady never talks. (Translation: Hells yeah.)

But honestly? Because I grew these goombas organically, shopping is a nightmare.

I'm 5'2"-- unless I'm being weighed for something or setting up an online dating profile, in which case I'm 5'3". Because clearly that extra inch weighs 20 pounds. I'm kind of petite except for the giant U-Boats protruding from my upper body (matched only by the hips that ate Chicago— and yes people, it was delicious) so almost any shirt that isn't skin tight is far too big everywhere else. I buy things that don't look low cut to me when I try them on, but which proudly display my titanic titwillows to anyone taller than I, which is pretty much everyone. And strapless or racerback bra required? You might as well ask me to fly (and by the by, while I may be 89 kinds of dynamic, aero ain’t one of 'em).

So today I found myself in a swim suit store in Austin, TX.  I'm here on business and for God's sake, the bathing suit selection for those of us with decadent dirigibles in Colorado is abysmal. It's as if all department store buyers have gotten together and decided that we should just stay home, lounging around in our giant titslingers and eating whatever mystery thing it is that makes us tumescent, and kindly leave the swimming up to the svelte.  But I'm going to Cabo in two weeks and Kauai not long after that and I'll be damned if those aren't public bathing suit events, and despite what my Mother would prefer, I don't want to look like a member of the East German swim team. My current swim suit and faithful companion since Vegas 2011 has done its dead solid best to support me through the Great 2012 Weight Gain of Happiness, but lately has begun to look a bit "MILFs Gone Wild."

Clearly I'm not oblivious to the power that cleavage can afford, I just don't want mothers shielding their trembling children's eyes as my flying buttresses and I go waddling pornographically past at the pool. Nor am I a fan of the nearly inevitable wardrobe malfunction. I've begun to imagine my bathing suit top has a Scottish brogue and is shouting "Damn it, Jim! I'm a bikini, not a feat of structural engineering!"

The relentlessly perky salesgirl that helped me was named Candice. Of course she was, and I have no doubt that to friends and loved ones she's simply "Candy," with her normal sized boobies, perfectly straight hair, and future Junior League membership. I explained my dilemma and she set about pulling every swim suit in the store that might provide the amount of support and coverage that, let's say, two B-52 Bombers might need for a long weekend at the beach. She checked on me in the dressing room every 32 seconds, each time actually pulling back the curtain and catching me in various unflattering wrestling postures, slightly out of breath and wrangling my gargantuan girls into these bikini tops and skirted bottoms, and calling me "girlfriend" through a blindingly white smile because she likely couldn't remember my name.

And suddenly, there it was: The perfect swim suit. Seriously, the only thing perkier than my tomatoes in this thing was Candy herself.

Admittedly, I had to consider my reflection very quickly before Candy reappeared just in time to catch me in all my semi-naked and somewhat sweaty glory, encouraging me to chub-rub it out to the 3-way mirror for everyone to gaze in wonderment upon my fish-belly white, hail-damaged edifice. But I think I may have actually found that elusive bathing costume that is somehow flattering, sexy, age-appropriate and massively supportive. Seriously, if this thing were any more supportive, it would pour me a glass of wine, massage my feet, and ask me quite genuinely how my day was.

Clearly, I had to have it. And so $259 later, we all exited the store, Candy in tow, wishing the 4 of us (me, my two flotation devices, and my miracle of modern spandex) a fabulous trip to Cabo.

Now I'm back in my hotel room and I'm terrified to try the suit on again to make sure I love it. Candy's not here to coo over how hot I look in it and I'm wearing white socks, no make-up, and a creeping sense of failure. I'm not ready for reality to come crashing back in and ruin this for me and my Everlasting Gobstoppers of Joy.

I really need to get to a meeting.

"Hi, I'm Andrea. And I have ridiculously large boobs."

Hi, girlfriend!

I need you, Candy. Wherever you are.