tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77245662610967170002024-03-13T14:14:40.092-06:00Full-Bodied RedAndreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-55332547251843046162015-07-25T22:20:00.000-06:002015-07-26T09:58:30.613-06:00We Went to British Columbia and All I Got Was... Badass<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you who have been living under a rock, or who
have simply blocked me from your Facebook feed because of my incessant narcissistic posts, I wanted to share with you that I recently went on vacation... and the
<i>most</i> amazing thing happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We went to Whistler, British Columbia. That's all the way in <i>Canada</i>, you guys! It's a "province" (like that's a real thing). The whole trip was
kind of a lark that happened due to my poor impulse control. Back in April I
was recovering from a very minor outpatient procedure to remove a small <i>Tyrannosaurus rex</i> from my left ovary, but that’s a story for another blog (and let’s face it, I’m reaching the age
where a blog in which I discuss my old person medical issues is pretty much on
the near horizon, not to be a tease). So on that Saturday night back in April, we were making
<a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/aarti-sequeira/chicken-in-creamy-tomato-curry-chicken-tikka-masala-recipe2.html" target="_blank">Chicken Tikka Masala</a> and drinking copious amounts of wine and talking about
potential places to travel when The Boy decided to take the dogs outside for a
quick walk. While he was gone, I surreptitiously booked a 5-night stay in a
suite at <a href="http://www.nitalakelodge.com/" target="_blank">Nita Lake Lodge</a> in Whistler. Cuz that, friends and neighbors, is how I
roll.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And sometimes my character flaws pay off.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The trip was spectacular food for the soul. Neither of us actually realized how much we miss the mountains since
moving from Colorado to the Seattle area last year. And we did the right combination of
planned activities (the Planning Tribe for the win!) and spontaneous ones. We
hiked, we <a href="http://www.riverofgoldendreams.com/river-of-golden-dreams.html" target="_blank">kayaked</a> with beavers and over beaver dams with a particularly dreamy
Frenchman named Morgan, we <a href="http://www.whistlerjetboating.com/" target="_blank">jet-boated UP a whitewater river</a> in a boat piloted
by a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Pehota" target="_blank">legitimate extreme skiing celebrity</a>, we took a <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=the+peak+lift+whistler+summer&rlz=1C1CHFX_enUS491US491&es_sm=122&biw=1366&bih=623&tbm=isch&imgil=fAj9OFc2wMwXyM%253A%253BcAb8lVmsIV31YM%253Bhttp%25253A%25252F%25252Ftravelingcanucks.com%25252F2010%25252F09%25252Fpeak-2-peak-gondola-whistler-blackcomb-british-columbia%25252F&source=iu&pf=m&fir=fAj9OFc2wMwXyM%253A%252CcAb8lVmsIV31YM%252C_&usg=__c5cfkgg1s3PFbB4pwRqjuquUxE8%3D&ved=0CDoQyjdqFQoTCPmX4arx98YCFUE7iAod3b4A-Q&ei=Gli0VfmiFsH2oATd_YLIDw#imgrc=fAj9OFc2wMwXyM%3A&usg=__c5cfkgg1s3PFbB4pwRqjuquUxE8%3D" target="_blank">chairlift </a>over a sheer
vertical cliff at 7300 feet straight to the top of Whistler Mountain that took my breath away, and we ate outrageously
<a href="http://rimrockcafe.com/" target="_blank">good food</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And somewhere in all of this outdoorsy and foodie goodness,
I had a breakthrough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some of you know I’ve struggled with my weight most of my life,
and some of you know that I have a genetic heart disorder called <a href="http://www.heart.org/HEARTORG/Conditions/More/Cardiomyopathy/Cardiomyopathy_UCM_444459_SubHomePage.jsp" target="_blank">cardiomyopathy</a>
that makes physical activity rather difficult for me (in fact, there are many
things I’m not even “allowed” to do, like jogging or lifting anything over 20 lbs). Some of you know that I was told 13 years ago that I likely had a 25% chance at 10 more years. To put it in layman’s terms, on an
average day I do everything <i>you</i> do, but I do it with 1/3 of the heart that you
have. There are times in my life where I wish <i>so</i> badly that you could spend 30
minutes in my body, walking uphill. I wish <i>so</i> badly that you could see that I’m
out of breath not because I’m out of shape (although I am) or overweight (guilty
as charged) but because my poor giant fucked up heart is only capable of giving
me 1/3 of the oxygen that your heart is giving you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Most days, this is a source of keen embarrassment for me. I
do the usual tricks to try and mask that I’m out of breath and desperately need
to stop doing whatever it is that I’m doing. I usually don’t tell you that I
have pain shooting up my left arm—the kind of sharp and panic-inducing pain that would make an average
and sane person stop and say <i>“holy shit, I think I’m having a heart attack”</i>—because
I’m ashamed. Because I don’t want to have to discuss my genetic misfortune with
you and because I know that most of you will think I have heart problems
because I’m overweight—even though the truth is that I am overweight in large part because I
have heart problems. I can’t do boot camps or Crossfit or whatever other
extreme weight loss thing you talk incessantly about on Facebook. You know what
I can do? <i><b>Die.</b></i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Or not. And mostly I choose not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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While we were in Whistler, The Boy found a great 5-mile “moderately
difficult” hike for us on the now-aptly named Cougar Mountain called the <a href="http://www.whistler.com/blog/post/2013/10/04/Whistler%E2%80%99s-Ancient-Cedars-Hike-Old-Trees-New-Trail.aspx" target="_blank">“Ancient Cedar Trail.”</a> Easy-peasy, right? Well for you, yes. For me, “moderate” means
extremely difficult, especially if any portion of the hike is uphill, and this
one—being on a mountain—was almost definitely going to be uphill. On the way to
the trailhead, I managed my anxiety by reminding myself that The Boy is
incredibly patient and understanding when I need to stop and catch my breath. I
reminded myself that I’ve been shocked once before by the defibrillator implanted in my
chest and that it wasn’t that bad and that if it happened on the hike, I’d be
fine. I reminded myself that I’m not a hostage and can stop and turn around and
go back to the car at any time. And then I set my mind to it that I would do no
such thing and that no matter how hard this hike was, by <i>God</i>, I was finishing
it. I’m stubborn like that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was beautiful. The flora and terrain in the Whistler area
are so like Colorado, but so different. And the dry air, after the humidity of
Seattle, was fantastic (<i>good hair!</i>). True to form, the first third of the hike
was steeply inclined and required numerous stops for me to catch my breath.
During each of these stops we were attacked by clouds of giant, ravenous,
biting horseflies—or as I came to think of them, “Nature’s Little Encouragers.”
They definitely kept us moving at a decent clip. I am not even kidding when I tell you that we each got <i>really</i> great swats in against these pterodactyl-like things and while they were shaken, they lived to bite another day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The worst part of the hike was a fairly short but stupidly
steep section of trail that was composed entirely of softball-sized limestone
rocks. It was almost my undoing. But I slowed my pace, took tiny steps, and
swore to myself that it wouldn’t defeat me. And it didn’t. In fact, once past
that section, I found a shaded stump on which to sit and carried on a lively if
rather delirious conversation with a biting horsefly in which I found myself
screaming things like <i>“Go ahead, DO IT! Bite me! I WILL END YOU!”</i> Seriously,
The Boy was several switchbacks ahead of me and called back with some alarm to make certain I
was okay. It’s like he doesn’t know me at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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(Sidenote: My tiny steps got me to thinking that I could
create a new fitness craze called Geishacize<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">™</span>. You heard it here first, you guys!)</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R5va_51BocU/VbRaVPCsoPI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/qHm4tBeiY_0/s1600/Stump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R5va_51BocU/VbRaVPCsoPI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/qHm4tBeiY_0/s400/Stump.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet, sweet stump.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Eventually we got to the giant ancient cedars and they were
incredible. Incredible, and yet strangely beside the point. Because this hike,
for me, wasn’t about seeing 1,000 year old trees with 30-foot circumferences.
This hike was about being able to do this hike.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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You see, we don’t know when I’m going to get worse, we just
know that I probably will. We don’t know when I will no longer be able to do
these things because I’m in heart failure, we just know that the time will
come. And I long ago chose not to be bitter about that but rather to let it
propel me farther and to let it push me to do <i>more</i>, see <i>more</i>…all while I can.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We passed probably 8 other human beings on this hike; some
lovely Asian women from the UK, a group of polite and fastidiously-dressed Germans, a May/December couple from Australia, a heavily-tattooed
youngish couple in inappropriate footwear who sounded like they were from the
Midwest. It occurred to me only later that each time we greeted these other
hikers they likely looked at me and saw a heavy-breathing and moderately sweaty
fat girl (but with a “pretty face!”) and her long-suffering but fit boyfriend. And
on the heels of that thought was the
realization that until now, that’s how I’ve seen myself. I’ve spent <i>decades</i> self-loathing and hating this body I’m in and thinking all manner of negative
thoughts about my physical shortcomings…just constantly bashing myself in a
never-ending and very familiar litany of stinkin’ thinkin’.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But not that day. That day, I realized I’m a freaking
badass.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am a warrior. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have died 4 times. And I’m still here. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am a woman who was perhaps dealt a cruel hand when it
comes to hearts, but who has decided to embrace the time she has left and who
refuses to miss a <i>single beautiful thing </i>because it’s physically difficult to get
there. I decided that instead of hating these chunky, graceless thighs and
these wobbly upper arms and yes, this soft little belly that I sometimes feel
moving independently of me when I walk—I should love them. They allow me to do wonderful
things. They carry me through this life, they shovel delicious food into my mouth and let me see and do and experience what
so many people will never get to see or do or experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And that is <i>amazing</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>I</i> am freaking amazing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I will no longer be dismissed as a “fat girl.” Not by you.<br />
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And far more importantly, not by me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hYMVBCTZv-Q/VbRY4_xzmnI/AAAAAAAAAQw/JeEyWVTU4_U/s1600/Andrea%2BCedar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hYMVBCTZv-Q/VbRY4_xzmnI/AAAAAAAAAQw/JeEyWVTU4_U/s400/Andrea%2BCedar.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An organism that has endured and triumphed against all odds. <br />
Also pictured: A 1,000 year old cedar.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-11455670969592630172015-04-04T21:02:00.001-06:002015-04-04T21:40:01.129-06:00If You Read This After Monday, It May Be Too Late<div class="MsoNormal">
In October 2011, I published a post called <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/10/cyborg-you-borg-we-all-borg.html" target="_blank">“Cyborg, YouBorg, We All Borg”</a> that illustrated the folly of setting forth my “Death Demands”
before the heart surgery I had in 2010. Well, it’s 2015 and I’m going back
under the knife on Monday morning, so it’s like déjà vu all over again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I still don’t have a will (see # 5 below) so I thought I
should likely publish my updated list of Demands as I’m sure that what I write
in this blog is <i>totally</i> legally binding and besides, it’s a little late to
engage an attorney at this point, unless watching
last week’s DVR’d episode of <i>“Better Call Saul”</i> will suffice. (Spoiler alert: It was <i>awesome</i>. Fuck Chuck. I hope this show is available in the Afterlife.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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As you may know, despite how outwardly… um, <i>robust… </i>I appear, I’m actually rather a
delicate flower for whom garden variety surgery is a tad more fraught with
danger than it is for your average bear. (And by the by, I’ve <i>known</i> bears, and they are decidedly not
average.) This was reinforced for me
this week when the anesthesiologist assigned to my case took one look at my
chart and said what I imagine to be the professional medical equivalent to “O<i>h, <b>HELL</b> no</i>.” Since that time, my life
has been one giant circus (mmmm... popcorn!) of running to various superfluous doctor appointments
to jump through various medical hoops to prove that Real Life Me is quite a bit
different than Medical Chart Me. Seriously, this dude is going to feel so stupid when I saunter into the operating room on Monday and the scariest thing about me is my thighs. Or my hair in this <i>ridiculous</i> humidity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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All of this hoop-jumping has me on red alert and if I’m
being totally honest, yes, I’m making a big joke of it here because I’m pretty
terrified that I’m going to die on Monday. And of course my way of dealing with just about
<i>anything</i> I'm concerned about is to mock it to the <i>nth</i> degree. <-- <i>OMG,</i> <i>Look at me, doing math and stuff! </i>So here they are, my updated
Death Demands. Learn ‘em. Love ‘em. And for God’s sake, abide by them unless
you want me to haunt you. <i>Because I’m
just crazy enough to do it, you guys.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<ol start="1" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">I have one small life insurance policy. It’s a
Term Life policy, but I have no idea what that means in terms of payout.
The Boy is, of course, the beneficiary—and once the police have ruled out
foul play (hey, I watch "<i>Dateline</i>" and to be fair, he <i>is</i> kinda shifty), give the man his payday. God knows he’s suffered for
long enough.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I think I may also have a life insurance policy through
my company. I don't know how to tell and I refuse to log into my
work computer the weekend before I die. I’m taking this stand right now mostly
so that at my funeral, you can all discuss how I was a woman of principle.
<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I have a 401(k), but I don't really know what that is
or what happens to it unless I do something with it upon retirement, which
clearly isn’t going to happen if you’re revisiting this list after about
11:00 a.m. on April 6. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I own some stock. I’m not sure if there is a
beneficiary for stock or 401(k)s because I’m stupid about that
stuff. But assuming that The Boy isn’t in foul play cahoots with the
medical staff, he should get it all.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I do not have a Will. But damned if I haven't
always had a Way.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">When I survive this surgery and feel sheepish about posting
this blog, remind me to get my financial and legal shit together. Note to
yourselves: You failed to do this in 2010 and look where that gotten us?<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Also, remind me to get some principles.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">"Vegetable" is not a good look for me-- you
know how I even hate candid photos or photos taken from my “bad side”
(pffft—like I <i>have</i>
one!). If I go all brain-dead and drooley, pull the plug. I am
not kidding. Plug the plug or I will <i><b>haunt</b></i> you.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I wish to be cremated. I’d like my ashes mixed together
with Chanel’s (her ashes are in my safe) and to have both of us taken back
to Colorado and scattered from what The Boy calls “Jake’s Rock” on our
favorite hike in Pike National Forest. This will be the first time I’ll
ever get there without breaking a sweat and honestly, I’m kind of excited
by the prospect. You know how I deplore sweating.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I would prefer a cocktail party to a
funeral. It should be catered. There should be an open
bar (premium liquor only) and definitely a champagne toast (I'm
picturing many of them). Please no baby corn (it’s just weirdly unnatural) or
deviled eggs on the buffet and no carnations in the arrangements. You must
make sure this is a festive thing—I wish to be celebrated, not mourned.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal"><i><b>Celebrate</b></i> me, dammit!<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Please find the absolute best photo of me possible and
put it in a frame in lieu of a viewing. I should look thin in this photo,
so Photoshop it if necessary. There will be no “viewing” of my dead body.
If you let there be a viewing, see #8 above because I will completely <i>haunt</i> your asses.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">There are many songs that must be played at my
cocktail party:<o:p></o:p></li>
<ol start="1" type="a">
<li class="MsoNormal">Good Riddance, by Green Day<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I Won’t Back Down, by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I’m Gonna Live Forever, by Billy Joe Shaver<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Say, by John Mayer<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Amazing Grace<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">You Make My Dreams Come True, by Hall & Oates<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Uptown Funk, by Bruno Mars and Mark Ronson<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Pussy Control, by Prince</li>
</ol>
<li class="MsoNormal">Everyone, and I mean <i>everyone</i>, must furiously 80s dance to #f above.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Vicki & Tracye must choreograph a line dance to #g
above prior to the party, and all of the ladies must participate at the
party. This means you, Priscilla. I know how you feel about dancing in
public… but just dance like nobody’s watching. (No one is, they’re all
staring at their phone screens.)<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I chose #h <i>only</i> for how uncomfortable it will make everyone. And that shit is funny.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I understand that Mom and Dad will want a religious
service and that’s okay too. Please be sure they use 1 Corinthians 15:55
and Psalm 27:1 (my absolute favorite). Also, maybe leave out that Prince song from #13 above.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">But I want a cocktail party.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">If there is an obituary, please make me sound more
important and wonderful and happy in death than I was in life. See #11
above. And use the photo from #12. If you’re not going to spring for the
additional cost of the photo, I will haunt you.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">There are some things in my bedside table that I would
prefer no one else see. Second drawer. Ideally, The Boy will be too devastated to remember this, so take care of it for him.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Don't judge me for #20.<o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I made a casserole for The Boy to munch on while he takes care of me post-op. It's in the freezer in the laundry room. Since he's undoubtedly too devastated to eat, someone will need to eat that. Maybe put it on the buffet. I hate to see food go to waste. See principles referenced above.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">If he's <i>not</i> devastated and is instead happily devouring that casserole, don't rule out foul play.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I did not have time to get my hair colored prior to my surgery and I refuse to enter the Afterlife with grey temples. Please engage Kelsey at the Silverdale location of Gene Juarez to take care of that. She's a genius with hair color and I'm sure will take no umbrage with processing my hair once I'm dead. She'll likely appreciate the silence and not having to tell me to stop moving my head.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I love you all beyond measure… Time, distance and death
will never, ever change that.<o:p></o:p></li>
</ol>
<div>
Okay, not to be morbid or anything, but should Jesus take the wheel on Monday and decide to run this car off a bridge (which is kind of how I always imagined I’d die), I am relying on you!</div>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-66400553914983566632015-02-10T22:27:00.000-07:002015-02-10T22:28:14.745-07:00Adventures in Dating, Episode 10: The Boy Meets The GirlThis is the 12th installment of my Adventures in Dating series, and yet somehow only episode 10. It's like I'm paying homage to my adorable inability to do math. You can dig on episodes <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/07/adventures-in-dating-episode-1-winner.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;">1</span></a>, <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/08/adventures-in-dating-part-two-enter.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;">2</span></a>, <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/08/adventures-in-dating-episode-three-fly.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;">3</span></a>, <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/09/adventures-in-dating-episode-4.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;">4</span></a>,<a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/09/adventures-in-dating-episode-45-amazing.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;"> 4.5</span></a>, <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/09/adventures-in-dating-episode-5-night-of.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;">5</span></a>, <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/10/adventures-in-dating-episode-6-truth-in.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;">6</span></a>, <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/10/adventures-in-dating-episode-7-stalk-it.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;">7</span></a> , <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/10/adventures-in-dating-episode-7.html"><span style="color: #d52a33;">7 revisited,</span></a> <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/11/adventures-in-dating-episode-8-oompa.html">8</a> and <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/12/adventures-in-dating-episode-9.html" target="_blank">9</a> here. <br />
<br />
I've been teasing you for a <i>very</i> long time with the lead up to this story, which is probably why it has taken me so long to write it. I've built this blog post into something epic in my mind...and in reality, it's a simple and common little tale told the world over: Boy Meets Girl. Or in this telling, <b>The</b> Boy meets <b>The</b> Girl.<br />
<br />
It might have escaped your notice, but I haven't posted a blog in a year. During that time, much like you, I haven't read any of my former entries, so I thought perhaps to get ourselves back into the groove we shared when I was a blogging <i>fool</i>, we'd rehash things a bit. In the late Summer of 2010, I was back on the dating scene for the first time since 1990. To say my dating skills were rusty would be tantamount to saying the Grand Canyon is a quaint little gulley. So I did 6 months of hard time on the absolute <i>freak</i> show that was match.com, had one date with a tangerine-colored man from eHarmony and had all but given up on ever finding love. Or the perfect pair of black pants.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
And then in March 2011 I received an inquiry on eHarmony from a dimpled, blue-eyed software engineer with a profile photo that purported to show both a love of dogs and an interest in reading. It's not that the bar was set that low, because yes, there are a <i>lot</i> of men out there who love dogs and reading (and I'd dated most of the available ones in the Denver area), it's just that, I don't know, there was something there. It wasn't actually IN his profile, but his profile hinted at it. <i>I'm a man of character. I will keep you safe. I will tolerate your ridiculous puns and outrageously cold feet.</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K27UfhG8Qys/VNrcWQ9Ze5I/AAAAAAAAAQE/7KTYfCGni4Q/s1600/Derek%2B%26%2BGussy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K27UfhG8Qys/VNrcWQ9Ze5I/AAAAAAAAAQE/7KTYfCGni4Q/s1600/Derek%2B%26%2BGussy.jpg" height="268" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first glance: I will admit to being vaguely concerned about the sheep skin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So I did what any rational woman would do: I ignored him. For two weeks.<br />
<i> </i><br />
And then finally, after <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/07/lord-of-super-fly.html" target="_blank">Yoda (my shrink)</a> pushed a little harder than maybe a detached therapist should (people attach to me, dunno why), I responded to him. Unlike match.com, which allows you to IM with the grotesquely horny sort of stranger who invites you over right then "to watch football" the first time you ever have contact, eHarmony puts you through your paces. eHarmony cares not for your instant gratification, sort of like that abrasive <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=millionaire+matchmaker&biw=1787&bih=850&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=M9_aVLXAHNa4ogS_rYKYBQ&ved=0CAcQ_AUoAg&dpr=0.9#tbm=isch&q=millionaire+matchmaker+patti+stanger&imgdii=_&imgrc=lpsCdfsZzLiiTM%253A%3BYdvssCR_ctPaxM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fcdn.inquisitr.com%252Fwp-content%252Fuploads%252F2015%252F02%252FMillionaire-Matchmaker-665x385.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.inquisitr.com%252F1822139%252Fmillionaire-matchmaker-wrestles-mixed-martial-arts-maestro-can-ufc-champ-charm-patti-stanger-video%252F%3B665%3B385" target="_blank">Patti Stanger on "Millionaire Matchmaker"</a> who is always screaming at rich people about "no sex before monogamy" but with less screaming and fewer strangely cheap-looking clothes. Seriously, rayon much?<br />
<br />
So this supposed dream boat of a bookish dog lover sent me 5 questions to answer. They were multiple choice, but with the option to write in another answer. The only question I actually remember was an inquiry into the depths of my financial responsibility. And anyone who knows anything about me in 2010 would know that my idea of financial responsibility was to empty my paltry savings account because White House Black Market was having a pencil skirt sale and it would be irresponsible to miss out on all of those "savings."<br />
<br />
Still, I was <i>trying</i> to become more responsible (or at least dress the part) and so I answered honestly by saying something like I was reformed grasshopper, learning to become an ant. Get it? <i>Aesop's Fables</i>... yep, I read too! Of course, that was one of my childhood books, but clearly the lesson had stuck with me. At least in principle, if not truly in practice. (I also remember that one of the stories had something to do with a fox trying to drink out of a wine glass, which honestly, explains a lot.) Pleased with myself, I sent him 5 questions too. Not because I was actually into that, but because I wanted to put him through the exercise. He replied with his answers, which were all perfectly fine, if perhaps not as poetic as mine, and then he sent me some other hoop through which to jump.<br />
<br />
By this time, I had been on the dating scene for about 8 months and I was smack-dab out of patience. So I sent him an email in which I nicely said something like "Look, I <i>really</i> don't have time for this. If you want to talk to me, here is my home number." (It should be noted that to this day, he <i>swears</i> I didn't actually say it all that nicely.) And then I hit send.<br />
<br />
About 10 minutes later, my phone rang. And of course I didn't answer. Seriously, <i>I didn't mean NOW.</i> He left a voice mail and I liked the sound of his voice-- so friendly and open, in the same way his eyes were so kind in that profile photo. So a respectable time later that clearly said "I'm busy, I've got a lot going on, but I'm happy to hear from you," I called him back.<br />
<br />
I was about to write that it was a memorable conversation, but then I realized I don't really remember what we talked about. What I <i>do</i> remember is that the conversation flowed easily, he was obviously very intelligent, and his quick wit made me laugh. We agreed to chat again, and when I hung up the phone that night, I was feeling cautiously optimistic that I'd get to gaze directly into those kind blue eyes, and likely very soon. Considering that, days before, I had forecast a lifetime of traveling the world solo in a caftan like <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=mrs.+roper&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=CebaVOqAPcbvoAT6q4GoBg&ved=0CAgQ_AUoAQ&biw=1787&bih=850&dpr=0.9#tbm=isch&q=mrs.+roper&revid=2055729560&imgdii=_&imgrc=Il5lnwVdxuaFeM%253A%3Bdyv3X4kwJ90vmM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fsanceau.files.wordpress.com%252F2013%252F03%252Froper.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fsanceau.com%252Ftag%252Fmrs-roper%252F%3B475%3B290" target="_blank">Mrs. Roper</a> while regaling strangers with photos of my many costumed cats (who would, no doubt, eat me when I died alone in my home)...this was a promising turn. <br />
<br />
And that's where I'll leave you for now. Because maybe it <i>is</i> epic, after all.<br />
<br />
<br />Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-84160853085922444782014-02-17T15:50:00.000-07:002014-02-17T16:53:27.161-07:00My WilbyHis name was Roger.<br />
<br />
We met in junior high home room, on the first day of 8th grade. I was the new kid, and probably the weird kid, my first year in public school after seven years in parochial. I was nervous and alone and knew I didn't fit in and I was terrified no one was going to like me. He sat next to me and was kind and open and funny. We became friends. He was my first junior high friend, the first to extend a hand and make me feel welcome and a little more safe.<br />
<br />
In the 9th grade, I went to his birthday party. It was one of those make-out, 7-Minutes-in-the-Closet things and I had a big crush on another boy whose name I no longer remember.Olivia Newton-John's song "Magic" was playing when I arrived at the party and I remember Roger watching me walk into the room, smiling ear-to-ear. And not long after the party, he told me that a boy had a crush on me but he wouldn't reveal who it was. I hoped and hoped it was the now long-forgotten boy... only for Roger finally to admit that it was actually him. That HE had a crush on me.<br />
<br />
It was sweet and painful because he was clearly in the friend zone and I didn't feel the same. But we stayed friends anyway. And then we went to different high schools and grew apart.<br />
<br />
My sophomore year in college I remember sitting in my Micro-Economics class and watching this gorgeous guy walk into the auditorium. I very clearly remember thinking "sit by me, sit by me!" and being so happy when he looked me directly in the eyes as he approached me with a big smile and open arms, shouting "ANNIE!" It was Roger. And my, how he had changed. He wasn't the chubby boy from junior high anymore. And he was so happy to see me. I couldn't believe my luck.<br />
<br />
I was living in the sorority house at the time and I remember getting ready for our first date. ABC's "Be Near Me" was playing and I was singing along "All my dreams came true last night, all my hopes and fears..." and thinking that maybe this was it. That maybe he was going to be the love of my life.<br />
<br />
I had no idea how absolutely right and completely wrong I was.<br />
<br />
We went out on a couple of dates and then things just fizzled. I can remember us driving around in my little red RX7, listening over and over to Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" and singing at the top of our lungs. We were so young, so full of life and possibility.<br />
<br />
By the time I turned 20, we had both dropped out of school. I was living in my first apartment and had just had a huge falling out with a group of girlfriends. I was pretty much alone again in the world for the first time since 8th grade and so desperately lonely...and one night after going to see the musical "Cats" with my family, I called him out of the blue. I had wept through "Memory" at the show and for some reason it made me think of him and so I just called, not knowing what his response would be.<br />
<br />
"ANNIE!" he yelled into the telephone, so happy to hear from me, so happy to reconnect. We started seeing each other again and one thing led to another and then we were dating. I was friendless and alone one moment... and in the next moment there he was and my life was full and happy again. He picked me up, dusted me off and made me feel loved and worthy again, always with that brilliant smile, those beautiful blue eyes, that amazing brain, that quick wit.<br />
<br />
One of our favorite movies was "Mr. Mom" and in the film we both loved Kenny's relationship with his blanket. In hindsight I think it was named "Wooby," but at the time we thought it was "Wilby" and that's what we started calling each other: Wilby. And that's what we were to each other: Safety and security in a world that was suddenly so large and so frightening. Wilby was also a play on words. It meant "you will be mine, always." We clung to each other and though I thought we were happy, years later a look through my "Roger Box" (a shoebox full of momentoes from our relationship) revealed a very tumultuous relationship...and by then I knew why.<br />
<br />
Roger was gay. When he shared that with me, I was devastated. He didn't <i>want </i>to be gay. He didn't <i>want </i>a life on the outside (this was 1987). He wanted a wife and a family and the white picket fence and the PTA and ALL of those things. And he wanted it with <i>me</i>...but he couldn't live a lie anymore. Our breakup was terrible and we stopped speaking for many years. And as much as it hurt (and as much as I didn't understand it at the time), I still always missed him. Because he was mine. Always.<br />
<br />
I got married and divorced. And then married again. And in 2007 just before moving to Colorado, I met Roger for sushi. We had such a nice evening, catching up on each other's lives, reveling in our successes, comforting each other over our losses. It was so great to see him again. He was just that man that I felt instantly comfortable with... he was still my Wilby and yes, I was still his. We became Facebook friends and followed each other's lives from an admitted distance, but we were still bonded.<br />
<br />
I moved and divorced again. Fell in love with a wonderful man and moved in with him and watched Roger do many of the same things via Facebook. Last Fall after the break-up of a long-term relationship, Roger and I chatted online a great deal. He was hurting and floundering and planning on coming to visit me, to get away from it all, to come to my mountain hideout and do some soul-searching. I was so excited for him to meet The Boy, I really thought they'd like each other as they shared so many qualities, not the least of which was their ability to make me feel safe and loved. But then Roger met someone new and the trip never happened.<br />
<br />
He privately messaged me on New Year's Eve, telling me he had proposed to his new love in London and he was over the moon that he said yes. I congratulated him and he wished me a Happy New Year. The last thing I said to him was "I love you."<br />
<br />
And then last night he died.<br />
<br />
My sweet Wilby, the one my heart kept returning to over the course of 34 years, one of the very few men in the world who ever made me feel safe, special and loved... he's gone. There won't be another reunion. I won't see that smile again. I'll never hear his enthusiastic "ANNIE!" again. It always felt like we'd have another chance, that there would never be an end, that we'd keep finding each other over and over and over and finding joy in one another each time.<br />
<br />
But my Wilby is gone. And I'm alone in this grey city... so far from The Boy. So far from anything that feels remotely safe or anything like my home. I don't have my photos of Roger, I don't have my Roger Box. All I have are memories...and a heart suddenly so very empty in a world that no longer seems as safe.<br />
<br />
Godspeed, Wilby. If I can't find you again in this life, I promise I will in the next.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-piEkKi0_Si0/UwKRUck4-5I/AAAAAAAAAPQ/Oe1RufgKu2g/s1600/Wilby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-piEkKi0_Si0/UwKRUck4-5I/AAAAAAAAAPQ/Oe1RufgKu2g/s1600/Wilby.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rest in Peace, my beautiful Wilby. June 1, 1966 - February 16, 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-89325201396975368242014-02-09T16:51:00.000-07:002014-02-10T18:22:38.123-07:00Homecoming... and Homegoing<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<div>
I sat outside on the front porch today and just looked and listened. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: 18px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R1ICBW8itnA/UvgRAkGGtpI/AAAAAAAAAO0/W_U4_Cv7vfk/s1600/Frontyard+Denver.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R1ICBW8itnA/UvgRAkGGtpI/AAAAAAAAAO0/W_U4_Cv7vfk/s1600/Frontyard+Denver.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our front yard in Colorado</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I looked at Long Scraggy and remembered the first time I saw it in April 2011, so excited about the possibility of finally finding real and lasting love. And I remembered the last time I saw it, a month ago, through the tears of a woman completely panicked about leaving behind one life and beginning another.<br />
<br />
I listened, and I remembered after a month in a concrete jungle exactly what my home sounds like. If you've been here before and have stolen a few private moments outside, you know what I'm talking about. You hear absolutely nothing except the wind in the trees...and at this time of year, you hear the wind in the trees and the sound of melted snow trickling between the boards of the deck and dripping off of the roof.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's the sound of nothing and it's the sound of everything. And after 30 days of hearing the harshness of car horns and sirens and people yelling at each other on the street, it's heartbreakingly beautiful. After all these weeks of not hearing anyone say my name, of not feeling the warm touch of someone who truly has my best interests at heart, of sleeping alone and uncuddled and sitting lonely and alone in a well-appointed but sterile corporate apartment...and especially after a beautiful weekend spent with the man I love and our furry family, I have to leave again in 2 hours. I have to once again walk out of the house where we shared our first kiss, drive away from the kiddos who clearly miss me so much, and fly away from the mountains I accepted as a gift and from the man who gave them to me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Leaving again so soon, it's just kind of overwhelming. I didn't anticipate I'd feel this way today when I boarded Friday's plane so full of excitement and anticipation. I gave no thought to how hard it would be to leave again so soon.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know how lucky I am. I know what the new job at the new company means for my career. I know I will soon be moving into a beautiful new dream house that I get to furnish and that I will grow to love. I know that in two months, my family will join me and we'll turn that house into our home. And I know that The Boy and I will have all new adventures being tourists in our new city and new state.</div>
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I know all that. </div>
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It just seems so far away. So very far away.<br />
</div>
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And sometimes it just feels like all of this change is going to eat me alive.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, I will wake up and look out on this cold and lonely new life again... and I'll wait. I'll wait for my family to come to me, I'll look at all of the animal hair I brought home on my clothes, I'll smell The Boy on my skin, and I'll remember what my home sounds like.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: 18px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wOCa2ec3WA0/UvgTKXh4iII/AAAAAAAAAPA/n9I3JgSJ69U/s1600/Frontyard+Seattle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wOCa2ec3WA0/UvgTKXh4iII/AAAAAAAAAPA/n9I3JgSJ69U/s1600/Frontyard+Seattle.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My front yard in Seattle</td></tr>
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Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-23900543148781109432013-11-19T12:50:00.000-07:002014-01-23T22:27:30.852-07:00On Platypuses & Buttercream FrostingIn 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.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">1. As a child I had a pet platypus named Corky.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">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.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">3. I'm deathly afraid of heights, which is why I'm only 5'2".</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 18px;">4. I once punched David Spade in the throat during an argument over an egg salad sandwich.<br />5. In my early 20's, I actually knew a man from Nantucket.<br />6. I suffer from Hypertrichosis ("Werewolf Syndrome") and shave my entire body up to 16 times per day.<br />8. I wrote the jingles for "You're Gonna Love Love My Carpet," "By Mennen," and "Nobody Doesn't Like Sara Lee."<br />9. Each year I hand make all of my Christmas gifts. Last year I gave my Dad a TV.<br />10. My sweat tastes like buttercream frosting.<br />11. In 2010 I went on a date with The Most Interesting Man In The World...He bored me.<br />12. I was born on an Indian reservation in New Jersey. My Indian name is "Pork Chop."<br />13. I once fed a fig & goat cheese crepe to a Sperm Whale. It was magical.<br />14. Until the age of 13, I slept standing up. I thought everyone did!<br />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).<br />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.<br />Bonus thing:<br />17. I don't really speak Yiddish, so I don't know what "chutzpah" means.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-79439370201347660212013-09-05T16:29:00.000-06:002013-09-05T16:33:30.067-06:00This Post is Not Even Remotely About Syria, Slut-Shaming or Miley Cyrus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
There are things you don’t know about me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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, <i>things I don’t say</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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, <i>why would we even do
it</i>?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Proof Point #2: Last
week we were watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2372162/" target="_blank">“Orange is the New Black” </a>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 <i>“You don’t have to wait for
prison!”</i> 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. <i>(<b>Note: Whatever it is or whenever it happens, clearly I WAS FRAMED</b>.)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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>I’m holding out on
you</i>. Or at least I was, prior to the two Proof Points above. Now maybe you actually <i>do</i> know everything I think.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever the case, there are also things I <i>DON’T</i>
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There, it’s out. <b>I REFUSE TO CLEAN UP CAT VOMIT</b>. And I’m really, really good at it-- and clearly not ashamed to admit it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>WEEKS</i>
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 <i>gart.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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, <i>eeeewww gross</i>, 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 <i>whistling</i>
as he lugs the giant shampooer thingie (that I don’t even know how to operate and am unable to actually <i>lift</i>)
down the stairs to start on the basement spots. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously you guys, he’s a keeper. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And clearly so am I. Just to prove it, here's an artfully composed kitteh photo for your viewing pleasure.</div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KHTK2TSh5iI/Uij6zp6NhQI/AAAAAAAAAOI/9nSpCMVJd0Y/s1600/Kip+in+Sombrero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KHTK2TSh5iI/Uij6zp6NhQI/AAAAAAAAAOI/9nSpCMVJd0Y/s400/Kip+in+Sombrero.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kip: The barfy lil guy.<br />
What I lack in cat vomit-cleaning skills, I MORE than make up for in cat costuming skills!<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
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</div>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-32538722182645081602013-08-30T16:22:00.000-06:002013-08-30T18:02:15.949-06:00The Insomnia-ing<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a toddler, I had a life-sized doll. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her name was Mary Jane* and I <i>loved</i> 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 <i>play </i>with our toys—we were decidedly not a “still in box, collect the whole set” kinda family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Until Raggedy Ann showed up.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This was, I think, in the 4<sup>th</sup> grade. She was a
Christmas present—brand new, life-sized, and my parents were <i>so </i>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<i> touch</i> 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 <i>fathom</i> why my parents would place me in
such obvious danger.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<i> ALL ON HER OWN.</i> I knew it was
inevitable.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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>“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU ANDREA”</i> 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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>flip me the fuck out</i>. And my charming family has<i> delighted</i> 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. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enter <a href="http://youtu.be/ejMMn0t58Lc" target="_blank">“The Conjuring.”</a> Enter Annabelle. Enter the supposedly true
story of a haunting based on the experience of <a href="http://www.warrens.net/" target="_blank">Ed & Lorraine Warren</a>,
featuring the world’s creepiest looking doll. Enter the realization that <i>NO ONE TOLD ME THIS MOVIE HAD A LIFE-SIZED
DOLL COMPONENT, YOU GUYS.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OfhEFnAZ3Lc/UiEUR0ffFVI/AAAAAAAAANs/d4Xth3cSuaQ/s1600/Annabelle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OfhEFnAZ3Lc/UiEUR0ffFVI/AAAAAAAAANs/d4Xth3cSuaQ/s1600/Annabelle.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Say hello to Annabelle, as featured in "The Conjuring." <br />
I was seriously afraid to even download this photo...thinking I was risking bad juju.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<i> this</i> Annabelle. Subsequently, she
should have no beef with me. Right? <i><b>RIGHT?</b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So yesterday during lunch I got curious about Annabelle’s story
and did a little research. <i>Thank you,
Interwebs!</i> 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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Check her out, in all her glory-- I assure you, she's even more terrifying than the one they used in the movie:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uRWE3sYUyk8/UiEU5CmB-FI/AAAAAAAAAN0/6fUyAPWZNYU/s1600/Raggedy+Ann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uRWE3sYUyk8/UiEU5CmB-FI/AAAAAAAAAN0/6fUyAPWZNYU/s1600/Raggedy+Ann.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note: <i>Still in box</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously you guys, I’m never sleeping again, ever.</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
EVER.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*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.</div>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-74678230803887099502013-08-26T19:08:00.000-06:002013-08-26T22:32:25.747-06:00An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Dear <a href="http://assets.nydailynews.com/polopoly_fs/1.1437014.1377523749!/img/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/landscape_635/2013-mtv-video-music-awards-show.jpg" target="_blank">Miley</a>:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I get it. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">You're 20 years old and clearly desperate to prove that you're no longer a child. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">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 <i>best </i>way to prove you are an a</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">dult is to make mature decisions about many, many things-- including how you behave in public.<br /><br />Hey, I was 20 once (and thank <i>God</i> 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.<br /><br />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 <i>very</i> publicly creating.<br /><br />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 (<i>ugh</i>, cringe). And you know what? You'll be doing the same thing-- because that's how the maturation process works.<br /><br />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.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Miley, there are so many things you can be: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Be fun. Be talented. Be cool. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">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. </span><i style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">But for the love of all that you will <b>EVER</b> be</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">, mostly be </span><b style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">AWARE</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> that the 47-year old you is </span><i style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">not</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> going to fondly remember the night where in a desperate attempt to prove to the world you are an adult you donned a </span><a href="http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/thumbnail_570x321/2013/08/miley_cyrus_robin_thicke_vmas_h_2013.jpg" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" target="_blank">flesh-colored bikini and simulated masturbation with a giant foam finger</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> in front of millions of people... and in doing so, you proved to the world that you are, in fact, still a child.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br />Sincerely,<br />A woman who has been many things... some that she is even proud of</span>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-83722728728157649002013-08-05T16:30:00.000-06:002013-08-26T21:51:06.572-06:00Life Moments: That One Time My Boobs Interviewed Willie Nelson<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hs8ic_nw7Ss/UgAh1Uj52dI/AAAAAAAAANc/tyo1W3Atcbk/s1600/Willie+Nelson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hs8ic_nw7Ss/UgAh1Uj52dI/AAAAAAAAANc/tyo1W3Atcbk/s1600/Willie+Nelson.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Red-Headed Stranger. Also pictured: Willie Nelson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The year was 1990. And yes, that’s Willie Nelson crouching
behind my right breast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jammin’ Jane (nee' Jane Trent) and Rockin’ Annie O (yours
truly) were both interning at a Country & Western radio station in Houston
called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/KIKK" target="_blank">KIKK</a>. 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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Any</i>hoo.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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. <i>Harrumph</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <b><i>HOT, </i></b>people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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—<i>“Hey, when you’re finished gawking at the headlights, check out the
mudflaps on this rig, Bubba!” </i> 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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lesson here is that despite my clear 1990 reliance on
the “more is more” approach to styling, less really <i>is</i> 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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-74527061006112775892013-08-03T14:53:00.003-06:002013-08-26T21:57:11.535-06:00Maverick<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do all of this because I love having you here. Unless you’re this guy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mkMJ1JLlaMc/Uf1oQML05ZI/AAAAAAAAANQ/4ASjB7OU_iE/s1600/Maverick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mkMJ1JLlaMc/Uf1oQML05ZI/AAAAAAAAANQ/4ASjB7OU_iE/s320/Maverick.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Disclaimer: I am not the FREAK that lovingly took this photo. I have good sense, you guys.</td></tr>
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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 <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2012/02/place-to-be.html" target="_blank">Cindy</a> 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 <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2012/02/place-to-be.html" target="_blank">Cindy</a> up and do some hauling.
Everyone wins.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He complied, which is one of the reasons I like him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Good dog, Jax.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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: <i>Does he know her
<b>at all</b></i>?) 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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">HISS.</u> I cannot emphasize this enough, hence the underlined bold italics. If there were a giant, blinking neon arrow I could point at the word<i> hiss</i>, I assure you I would do so.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <i>BOSS</i>.
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But STILL. That motherfucker <b><i><u>HISSED</u></i></b>. And I blame that <i>fucking</i> woodpile. I decidedly side with Jax on
this one.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Again, cue screaming.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. </div>
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I began to think of him as a loner, as Maverick. <i>Sans</i> wingman. Somehow this made him less terrifying.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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 <i>me</i>, irrational is stroking a gigantic hissing cockroach-looking beetle. But <i>vive la difference, mes amis</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I've decidedly lost that lovin' feeling.</div>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-85677999708468350652013-07-18T19:35:00.001-06:002013-08-26T21:57:47.091-06:00Straight Sixes<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">And yes, I still have them. And they still fit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><b>Straight Sixes</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">My skates. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">I am determined to do this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">*** <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">"Surprise!"</span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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 <i>so</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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 <i>easy</i>. I gradually spend less time
skating with the others and more time alone on my driveway, perfecting my
technique. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QnCUYrSjRA4/UeiP2JPBLhI/AAAAAAAAAMo/YecXiPhfZHQ/s1600/Straight+Sixes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QnCUYrSjRA4/UeiP2JPBLhI/AAAAAAAAAMo/YecXiPhfZHQ/s320/Straight+Sixes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The author in her skating costume. And without boobies.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YMO7PYbkSvg/UeiVzptY9sI/AAAAAAAAAM4/xaKSJSX4e8w/s1600/Straight+Sixes+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YMO7PYbkSvg/UeiVzptY9sI/AAAAAAAAAM4/xaKSJSX4e8w/s1600/Straight+Sixes+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">"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.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">*** <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">"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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">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</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">music
comes to a climax, I throw myself in the air, spin…</span>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-32583353123567443112013-03-19T13:26:00.002-06:002013-08-26T21:58:27.627-06:00I Want Candy<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hi. I'm Andrea. And I have ridiculously large boobs."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi,
Andrea!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Oh, poor
you,</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> you and your
normal-sized breasts sneer in your best <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOSXeNjvhoU" target="_blank">Olivia Soprano voice</a>. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>You</i> think I'm lucky. <i>You</i>
think having triple D's must be the cat's meow. <i>You</i> 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 <i>vive la difference</i> (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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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: <i>Hells
yeah.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But honestly? Because I grew these goombas organically, shopping
is a nightmare. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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, <i>it was delicious</i>) 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,
<i>aero</i> ain’t one of 'em).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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 <i>"Damn it, Jim! I'm a bikini, not a feat
of structural engineering!"<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The relentlessly perky salesgirl that helped me was named Candice.
Of <i>course</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And suddenly, there it was: The perfect swim suit. Seriously, the
only thing perkier than my tomatoes in this thing was Candy herself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I really need to get to a meeting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hi, I'm Andrea. And I have ridiculously large boobs."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi,
girlfriend!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I need you, Candy. Wherever you are.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-8463847061050777832012-12-28T23:07:00.000-07:002013-08-26T21:59:11.260-06:00Spanx For the Memories<br />
Our moms called them girdles.<br />
<br />
I remember as a teenager thinking how old-fashioned and futile they were. Of course that's what a size 7 thinks... and cannot fathom a time when she might need the help of Lycra to reign in her nether-regions.<br />
<br />
A few years ago, a very savvy marketer came up with a new brand of girdle...and now we all call girdles the same thing: Spanx. The same way that any tissue is a Kleenex, any bandage is a Band-aid and, particularly if you're from the South, every carbonated sugary beverage is a Coke.<br />
<br />
I'm wearing my Spanx right now, waiting on The Boy to get home and take me out to dinner. I have this tendency to pick a new outfit and wear it into the ground... and I've been sporting the new red WHBM turtleneck I got from my parents for Christmas with either jeans or a black mini for three days now. So tonight I did a little shuffle through closet to find something new to wear for our date night.<br />
<br />
I landed on an INC long, fitted black sweater with a cowl neck and silver sequined pockets paired with black leggings and tall boots. I bought it when I was 20 pounds lighter back in the salad days (and I literally mean <i>salad</i>) of my post-divorce, singleton skinniness. I LOVE this sweater. It's short-sleeved, which works out well for my not-at-all-pre-menopausal-hot-naturedness, it shows off my curves and is <i>just</i> thick enough to hide any lumps while not being thick <i>enough</i> to add bulk.<br />
<br />
A quick look in my full-length mirror (which is one of those magical jobs that makes you look scads thinner than you actually are-- a phenomenon of which I was blissfully unaware until one of my friends cruelly pointed it out to me) confirmed the need for body armor...or as we all now refer to it: Spanx. So I dug my flesh-colored scuba suit out of my undies drawer and struggled into it. I told myself that it was just the altitude that caused the struggle-associated breathlessness, but let's face it: When squeezing your Refrigerator Perry-like thighs into a girdle causes you to pant, it just might be time to step away from the Christmas fudge. And cheese. And crackers. And... oh <i>hell</i>, you know the drill.<br />
<br />
In less than a week I'm headed to Houston for my bestie <a href="https://www.facebook.com/JenKJones">Jen's</a> 40th birthday extravaganza. Jenapalooza? Jenfair? Jenstock? Because she runs in a broad social crowd that includes TLF (my first ex-husband, for the uninitiated-- AKA <u>T</u>hat<u> L</u>ittle <u>F</u>ucker), my intention had been to lose these 20 lbs prior to the party.<br />
<br />
What is it they say about the best intentions?<br />
<br />
<i>Sigh</i>, my refrigerator crisper is lined with now-liquified good intentions and all of the candid photos of me taken at D's parents' anniversary party earlier this month would indicate I've been substituting duck fat french fries for salad. Duck fat <i>everything. </i>In fact, judging by those photos, someone lined my beautiful emerald green velvet dress with duck fat.<br />
<br />
Jerks.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow night, two sweet friends (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/coralhigby">Coral</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Hokielady">Tami</a>) are coming over to give me a sanity check while I do a parade of the closet. It is imperative that, when faced with the miserable son of a bitch who told me I was<i>"too fat to get pregnant"</i> while we were discussing having our first child (ah, the romance!), the man who on occasion would remove my plate of food from me before I was finished eating (and in front of my friends), the absolute<i> prize</i> who cheated on me even after I was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy and told I had a 25% chance at ten more years of life-- it's <b><i><u>IMPERATIVE</u></i></b> that I feel good about the way I look if we have to be in the same room at the same time for the first time since I divorced his pathetic, almost legally-short ass, ten years ago.<br />
<br />
<i>God</i>, how I wish I didn't care. But I am, after all,<i> me</i>. And me has very little sense of self when it comes to my physical appearance. <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/07/lord-of-super-fly.html">Yoda</a> or no Yoda.<br />
<br />
And The Boy can't go with me on this trip (he'll be stuck at home with a wolf pack of 6 dogs plus 2 cats, long story) so I have to face TLF and the poor, unsuspecting woman he married 10 months after our divorce all alone. In all of my sausage-like glory.<br />
<br />
And still,<i> FUCK</i> him, I will look fabulous, right? <i>Right</i>?? Even though I'll be sashaying around with my hips tucked into a modern day version of the Iron Maiden. I always <i>did</i> look fabulous, you impotent midget. And <i>shocker</i>, I'll be the center of attention like I always was during the 13 years he tried to beat me down... once again reminding him of what he said to me during our divorce, that he was "tired of living in my shadow."<br />
<br />
My shadow may be considerably larger than I'd like these days... But yeah, I hope he feels cold and small in it next weekend.<br />
<br />
Small shouldn't be a stretch.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-56071424951448134932012-10-15T22:29:00.000-06:002013-08-26T21:52:32.767-06:00Life Moments: That One Time I Terrified Russell Crowe<br />
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Russell Crowe and I first fell in love in 1999. </div>
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<br /></div>
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That was the year <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0134618/">“Mystery, Alaska”</a> was released. We locked eyes in that semi-crowded, dark
multiplex and though neither of us expected it, our worlds just fundamentally
shifted. Sure, he was on the screen and I was seated in
the theater with my then-husband Tony (better known to my friends as “That
Little Fucker” or “TLF”). And sure, we
ran with different crowds on mostly different continents. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But we knew it was
for real. There was no denying the
attraction.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gK-I4eeizGY/UHzdtd1TobI/AAAAAAAAAMA/npg0pb1GOYg/s1600/russell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gK-I4eeizGY/UHzdtd1TobI/AAAAAAAAAMA/npg0pb1GOYg/s1600/russell.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously, it's almost embarrassing how much he wants me in this photo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I mean, look at all we had in common! He was a movie star—I liked movies. He was rich and famous—and I had always
assumed I would be as well. He was
single, gorgeous, and could have any woman on the planet—I was married, 40
pounds overweight, and could have been <i>almost
any woman on the planet. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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It started innocently enough, as these things often do, with
frequent purchases of “People” magazine.
It quickly escalated to long, lazy afternoons spent Googling for the
latest news and photos and reading <a href="http://www.maximumcrowe.net/">www.maximumcrowe.net</a>. Let’s face it, we were hooked on each
other. And I knew, I somehow just <i>knew,</i> that one day fate would put us in
the same place at the same time.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Being me, I hedged my bets on this chance meeting by cyber-stalking
Russell… and my efforts eventually paid off when I learned that he and his
band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts, would be in Austin for a month recording their
next album… and would play for <i>3
consecutive weekends</i> at <a href="http://stubbsaustin.com/">Stubbs BBQ</a>. Austin was only 160 miles away (I lived in Houston at the
time). And my weekends, despite (or perhaps
because of) being tied down to the most unlikable man in North America, were
unusually free. My initial thought: Oh, he <i>will</i>
be mine.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My second thought, immediately on the heels of that was: Oh
crap, I need to lose weight. And so it began: My
Russell Crowe make-over. Make no mistake, it was hard. 40 pounds is a lot of weight on a 5’2” frame,
and I was almost always hungry. But was I going to let some jiggly thighs
stand between me and the man I was <i>meant </i>to
be with? Puh-<i>SHAW</i>, people!</div>
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<br /></div>
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And so, 3 months later and 40 pounds slimmer, I found myself
(and unfortunately TLF as well) standing about 5 rows back from the stage at
<a href="http://stubbsaustin.com/">Stubbs BBQ</a>, awaiting my destiny. I was wearing a black halter top, black shorts
and the kind of come hither-stare that one typically reserves for movie stars.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And suddenly… <i>there he
was</i>. </div>
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Look, I’m not demented.
I knew I was there with my completely unlikable and not-at-all fun
husband. I knew there was little chance
for some sort of meeting of the minds (or bodies, <i>oh yes please</i>, bodies)… so I told myself I’d be happy if we just
made eye contact, if I simply knew that he saw me, that we <i>connected </i>for a moment in time.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And you know what? We
<b>DID</b>.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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And that was it.</div>
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I returned to Houston, pleased with that moment and yet still
unsatisfied.</div>
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So two weeks later, I returned to <a href="http://stubbsaustin.com/">Stubbs</a>. This time I left TLF at home and brought a
girlfriend with me. We arrived late and
subsequently were much farther back in the crowd than on my previous visit. And yet, and yet… I <i>knew</i>
it was going to happen. I had come too far.
I had planned too much. I had
lost 40 mother-fucking <i>pounds</i>, for
God’s sake. Friends and neighbors—it was
<i>ON.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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So the concert ended, the venue emptied, and my friend and I
found ourselves standing in the now almost-empty amphitheater, awaiting some
new friends we had met in the crowd to return from the ladies room. The plan was to go hit 6<sup>th</sup> Street
and drown my unrequited love sorrows. Wait, I said <i>almost</i>
empty amphitheater… right? There was one
man left in the vast expanse of empty space.
One man, and somewhat inexplicably, one folding chair in which he was sitting. </div>
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And because I had spent <i>MONTHS</i> stalking Russell, I happened to recognize the man: It was Russell’s brother, Terry. (Terry was a shorter, stockier, and much less rich and
famous version of his brother. Still, he
was my <i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">TICKET.)</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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Well, as you might imagine, I just marched right on over to
Terry and introduced myself. We struck
up a conversation about the upcoming “Cinderella Man” and Jodie Foster and God
only knows what else. Seriously, I was
at my most maniacally charming… and was dancing as fast as I could. I remember
at one point, he actually touched my hair and said something about how beautiful
it was and I thought “Oh…so…if I can’t land Russell, I think I could nail his
brother. And that would be close, right?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Listen, I’m not proud.
But at least I’m honest.</div>
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Terry invited us to the Afterparty. He gave us the address of the unmarked
private club where we should meet him…and where he’d introduce us to his dreamy
brother. I felt like I might just <i>DIE</i> from happiness!</div>
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<br /></div>
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So off we went. I had
no camera. I had no pen/paper. I had
nothing but my slimmer body, my months of stalking, and my hope. And oh yes friends and neighbors, make no
mistake, <i>hope floats</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We waited outside of the club for Terry to show up. We said hello to Ron Howard. We said hello to Sandra Bullock. Child’s play, people. I nodded and smiled and said “hi” like they
were the janitor in my office building. I was keeping my eye on the prize.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We met the other band members of 30 Odd Foot of Grunts. Like
a total weirdo, I happened to know all of their names and momentarily convinced
their trumpet player that we knew each other because I was so familiar with
him. I was <i>IN.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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And then, a black Ford Explorer pulled up. The door opened. And out stepped my future. The love of my life. The man of my <i>DREAMS</i>. He was smiling,
looking around…and then he was upon me.
We made eye contact. He smiled at
me, and looked at me expectantly.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This was my moment. I
had spent <i>MONTHS</i> preparing for
it. I had traveled hundreds of miles,
dropped scores of pounds. I had
researched this man to the <i>nth</i>
degree. I had chatted up his family and
his band mates. I had learned all of his
songs. I knew what he ate for breakfast,
who his favorite artists were, how much he adored his niece. And here he was,
smiling at me, looking me in the eye, expecting something. I smiled back. And I opened my mouth to speak.</div>
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And suddenly and without warning, I started weeping hysterically.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And what came out of my mouth was a garbled and mashed up
string of words that made absolutely no sense.
I think I was even hyperventilating.
Through my gasps for air, I managed to say something like <i>“Omigod, yourshowwas
sogood, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”</i> Russell
looked at me like… oh, I don’t know… how someone might look at a rabid rabbit
that is completely adorable but foaming at the mouth and perhaps even
dangerous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, he kept on walking. All I could hear was my friend whisper <i>“Annie, <b>STOP</b>. You’re making an ASS out of yourself.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then he was gone.
He walked out of my life without looking back. I think I probably gained back at least 5
pounds in that instant. Fucking water weight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day, my
friend and I were driving back to Houston in a companionable silence, when
suddenly I announced “You know what? This
is for the best. Russell and I really didn’t
have anything in common anyway.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked at me. She
waited a moment and then said “<i>Really?</i> You’re just figuring this out now?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m a slow learner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, without ceremony, Russell and I broke up. It was over.
And I never looked back. Sure, I recalled our summer together fondly…and
I knew I’d never forget him…but we were finished. I went on to divorce and then remarry and then
divorce again. And he married a
beautiful actress and had some kiddos.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were happy for each other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until this morning, when I learned that he and his wife had
separated. And of course, my phone started
ringing. I could see on Caller ID that
it was a New Zealand number, so I of course ignored it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love Derek. <i>He’s</i> The Boy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Russell had his chance.
And he blew it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sure the next time he finds himself in a dark,
semi-crowded multiplex, he’ll think of me. And honestly, who could blame him?<br />
<br />
Plus, I totally could still nail his brother.</div>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-42889462746856993652012-09-18T20:53:00.002-06:002013-08-26T22:00:10.521-06:00I'm The McRibThe human body is amazing.<br />
<br />
Well, <i>your</i> human body is amazing. Mine is rather an inefficient, codependent mess of barely functioning systems that somehow manage to both keep me almost robustly healthy and completely flummox medical professionals across the country. Seriously, around our house it's a joke in which I say things like "Well sure, but aside from the congestive heart failure, I'm perfectly healthy." Or "Yeah, but aside from the asthma, I'm perfectly healthy." Or "Certainly, but aside from the malfunctioning thyroid, I'm perfectly healthy."<br />
<br />
If, as John Mayer insists, my body actually <i>is </i>a wonderland, it's a scientific one that I should donate to medical research (you know, <i>after</i> my death). It's like the biological equivalent of the <i>Gift of the Magi.</i><br />
<br />
Take last week for example. After a wonderful but late Thursday night with my bestie Vicki in town, I awoke feeling just as poorly as I had for many, many days after inheriting what appeared to be a rather uncommon cold from The Boy. It had run its course for days: First a horrible sore throat, then a stuffy/runny nose (how can it be both, seriously?), then a cough. And then a bad cough. And then a body-wracking, soul-shaking cough that left me gaping for breath while SEATED.<br />
<br />
It's not like I didn't know it was going to happen.<br />
<br />
Asthma is a fucking awful thing. And yes, I'm standing by my decision to invoke the F word there. It's one of those things that makes you seem like a totally normal person until you find yourself having to run in high heels through downtown in cold weather because you're late coming back from a lunch that your old boss <i>made you</i> schedule with visiting coworkers and which she then chose not to attend...and then suddenly you're late to her ridiculously self-important 90-minute staff meeting (for 2 people) and completely chagrined, fighting for air like a goldfish that has leapt from her bowl onto the counter. Or until you make the mistake of trying to clean your basement shower with a product containing ammonia and realize too late that your puffer is two stories over your head and there's no one around to fetch it for you and you're single and no one even goes into your basement so who cares if this shower is clean anyway and why are you willing to die for it? Or until your new boyfriend takes you on a hike (which I think was to test my relative fitness level) and then looks on in dismay when you begin to wheeze and sputter and try to maintain some sense of<i> "but look how cute and outdoorsy I am in my new Ann Taylor cargo pants!"</i><br />
<br />
So on Friday my doctor conducted another breathing test on me as I sat all clammy and feverish in his office for the third time in nine months. For those of you who have the luxury of fully functioning lungs and have never had to do this, it involves you blowing as hard as you can into a little tube (insert oral sex joke here and yuck it<i> up</i>, people). The end result is that once the sensation that you're going to pass out subsides and the black dots at the corner of your vision disappear, the computer can tell you the relative age and capacity of your lungs.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Surprise!</b></i> On Friday, my lungs were 84 years old.<br />
<br />
I'm 46.<br />
<br />
I'm forty-<i>FUCKING</i>-six years old and already dismayed at the damage time and gravity have wrought on my face and body (not to mention my discomfort at knowing how close I am to Molly Shannon's skit of <a href="http://youtu.be/aiehDcVZ-vA">"I'M FIFTY!"</a>). Like most of you, while I certainly was aware that an "aging process" existed, I honestly didn't expect it to happen to me. Like I would somehow be that elusive beast that stays looking 30 my entire life-- a wrinkle-free unicorn with taut skin and supple thighs. But no such luck. <br />
<br />
And you know what? I've earned each of these wrinkles, every bit of the droop, and I've mostly enjoyed the calories that have padded my squishy parts (I could've done without most of the broccoli and ALL of the parsnips). But my lungs? I didn't earn that. My heart that now relies on a battery to kickstart it in the case of a stall? I didn't earn that. My thyroid that decided I should gain weight even on a 1200 calorie per day diet? <b> I. Did. Not. Earn. That.</b><br />
<br />
And, quite simply, I'm pissed.<br />
<br />
Pissed that I'm middle-aged (if I'm lucky). Pissed that my eye doctor has informed me I'm not a candidate for Lasik and will likely need bifocals soon. Pissed that I'm supposed to tame my hair into something more age-appropriate (although I'm apparently <i>also</i> not a candidate for a Brazilian Blow-out) and slip quietly into irrelevance.<br />
<br />
Have I gained wisdom along the way? Absolutely. Do I have more economic power than ever before? Sure. Have I enjoyed a privileged life, many vacations, and lots of luxury that millions of people will never know? You betcha. Have I been lucky enough to be loved fully and truly? <i>Right on</i>, brotha. <i> Sock it to me!</i><br />
<br />
But what I really want is my 22 year old body back (without having to attend a pedantic and desperate bootcamp kinda gig or actually do any real work for it cuz God knows my traitor of a heart isn't going to allow that). I want to enjoy it this time around and not lament the tiny flaws that loomed so large when I looked in the mirror at myself back then. (Note to the Moms out there: Do<i> not</i> allow your daughter to purchase a magnified, lighted make-up mirror. <b>Ever</b>.) I want to embrace that beautiful, optimistic girl and tell her to love herself and to revel in how little she knows about all that will begin to go SO wrong inside of her and on her face.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7FchdsSeDMc/UFkqUhslm5I/AAAAAAAAALw/sSYp9clGCvM/s1600/22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7FchdsSeDMc/UFkqUhslm5I/AAAAAAAAALw/sSYp9clGCvM/s320/22.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me at 22. I'm sure everyone saw what I saw: An enormously fat girl with <br />
a huge nose, asymmetrical nostrils, a week jawline and bad hair. Oh, to look that awful again.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But mostly I think I just want to wear a mini skirt and not look stupid. Or to elicit a catcall once again (I promise this time I'll <i>appreciate</i> it, construction workers of America!)<br />
<br />
And maybe breathe a little easier.<br />
<br />
But apparently like a McRib, I'm packed with fat, full of inorganic matter, and only available for a limited time. So savor me, people. <br />
<br />
<i><b>Savor me!</b></i>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-86005316854540329672012-08-21T22:05:00.000-06:002012-08-21T22:13:10.535-06:00My Name<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">I didn't even know his name—and I guess that's kind of my point.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">He was an outcast like I was,
but much further out, circling the other kids in that literal no-man's-land
that exists for the kid who has not a single friend.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">I hadn't thought of him for
more than 30 years until today—when I saw the man he might have become through
the window of a Hallmark store.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">I remember his round face.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">It was sweet and innocent and
sat beneath a shelf of sandy-blonde hair.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">His cheeks were always ruddy,
like the</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">Campbell's Soup kid—the way
that a fat boy's cheeks are year-round.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">And he <i>was</i> fat, the biggest kid in school by far, the kind of big that's
never going to play football or go to dances.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">I remember that he wore overalls
every day and I also remember thinking this wasn't really by choice but rather
necessity.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">Back in the early 80's, I don't think there was a "Big
& Tall" shop for boys.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">Levi's made their
"husky" line (and I know this because in elementary school, I wore
them), but there was nothing out there that would accommodate a boy of his size
other than overalls.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">He was in my homeroom and sat by himself at one of the large
Biology lab tables.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">He was quiet—in fact, I'm not sure I ever heard him speak.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">And while I don't remember
anyone specifically picking on him, I'm sure he caught hell from the other
boys.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">I imagine him in gym class dreading the showers, dreading the
demeaning towel thwumps he must've suffered, the stinging humiliation of it
all.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">But mostly I just remember his face and the sadness that lived
there.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">This was 8</span><sup><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;">th</span></sup><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">grade-- a brutal time for many
children, including me.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">It seems some of us existed only to serve as fodder for the
popular kids, another reminder of the complex hierarchy that existed long
before we walked those halls and undoubtedly echoes there still.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">And as much teasing as I
endured, as much humiliation as I felt for being unattractive and as much as I
ached, literally</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">ached</span></i><i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span></i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">to be accepted, to be <i>"popular,"</i> it just had to be worse for him.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">I was lonely and mostly alone
in school, but I did have friends.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">We huddled together at lunch
time and between classes at our lockers—watching the popular kids lead better
lives, the way we now watch the</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">Hollywood</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">starlets doing it.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">But Chris—and for some reason as I write this,
I think his name was Chris—he was really alone.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">I saw it and I pitied him and I
wished for him that life would get better, get easier… but I didn't befriend
him.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">And as I stood in the aisle at the Hallmark store and watched the
man who could be him 31 years later, I was wracked with shame.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">Shame at how easily I shunned
him—him and many others—the same way that the kids higher in the caste system
shunned me, unless they needed answers at test time.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">Shamed to know that my parents
raised me better than that, that they taught me compassion, that as much as I
like to think I'm a good person, I never reached across the divide and
offered him a kind word.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;"><br />
I remember dreaming of being a cheerleader, or even Homecoming Queen—all those
things that are emblazoned on a young girl's heart in</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">Texas.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">The wish list I had… but would
never see realized.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">Because curly-headed chubby
girls with bad teeth, well, we may learn to touch the hearts of our readers,
but we'll never be the Homecoming Queen.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">At best, we learn to tame our hair, get our
teeth fixed and fight the battle of the bulge.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">But the damage of Junior High,
the damage that was done before we even had time to know our own worth, it's
still there.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">It lives below the surface, where it's not readily apparent, but
there nonetheless.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.25pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">And on those nights when sleep won't come, the nights when The Boy
sleeps with his back to me, the hours where my mind tells me over and over that
I'm not good enough, I've never been good enough… I wonder.</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif"; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "inherit","serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">I wonder who suddenly remembers
my face across the chasm of time, and why he never bothered to learn</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">my</span></i><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; padding: 0in;">name.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-2962546073845623182012-07-22T14:45:00.001-06:002013-08-26T22:18:59.842-06:00Boys Are Stupid...And So Was IIt was March 2011 and <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/07/lord-of-super-fly.html">Yoda</a> (my shrink) was proud of me.<br />
<br />
She said that I was approaching my dating life as if I were looking for a new job... sending out resumes, going on interviews, getting rejected and dealing with it, and ultimately learning to reject as well. I was playing my dating life like a numbers game. <br />
<br />
My coworkers were certainly enjoying it-- we actually whiteboarded my prospects like they were in a sales funnel... and each post-date weekday morning found me giving them the hysterical play-by-play of the previous night's disaster. Other people in the building that I hardly knew would stop by to see if one of their favorites had moved up in the standings or had been sunsetted.<br />
<br />
But after eight months of it, I was playing the game without much joy.<br />
<br />
I had been out with architects, TV reporters, pilots, entrepreneurs, <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/09/adventures-in-dating-episode-5-night-of.html">dabblers/zombie aficionados</a>, interventionists, <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/07/adventures-in-dating-episode-1-winner.html">executives</a>, plumbers, log home salesmen, general contractors, and people whose careers were so mind-numbingly boring that I can't remember what they did. Seriously, throw in an Indian and it was like I had dated the freaking <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&sa=N&biw=1366&bih=613&tbm=isch&tbnid=EPZuvN7KjhsvmM:&imgrefurl=http://blog.nienlam.com/2010/04/02/the-village-people-game/&docid=fNLY0ToIvO0j5M&imgurl=http://www.nienlam.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/Village%252BPeople%252B538840653_452839dd1c_o.jpg&w=400&h=385&ei=H2UMUL3xBcXvqwG4-7DZDw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=397&vpy=161&dur=1443&hovh=220&hovw=229&tx=127&ty=113&sig=102076553411187144425&page=1&tbnh=115&tbnw=112&start=0&ndsp=24&ved=1t:429,r:2,s:0,i:148">Village People</a>. I had wasted countless gallons of hair goop and eyeliner on dates that couldn't end quickly enough to please me. I had shaved my legs almost raw and purchased copious amounts of new lingerie in the event I felt anyone was worth "greenlighting." I had more scoop-necked clingy sweaters, pencil skirts and stilettos than good sense. <br />
<br />
But I hadn't met "the one."<br />
<br />
I had <em>thirty-one</em> phone numbers programmed into my phone with the last name "Match." There was both a Brian and a Bryan, a Greg and a Gregg, a Mike and a Mikael; a Rich and a Rick. I had been out with a man who was beyond morbidly obese (and had both a pronounced limp and facial warts), a man who may have actually weighed less than me, a six-foot-fiver and a five-foot-fourer. I'd briefly dated a man 12 years my junior and had gone out with several who were at least 10 years my senior. I had made out with and been subsequently drenched by a man who apparently sweats when he's nervous. I'd been out with both a Quinn and a Duke. I occasionally had more than one date a day. I met for coffee, for cocktails, for wine-tasting, for sushi, for appetizers, for whitewater rafting and for football watching. I once even met a guy for a first date at a grocery store. <br />
<br />
Where was he?<br />
<br />
I provided small talk for hours on end, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, feigned interest in stories that were mind-numbing. I texted and <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/09/adventures-in-dating-episode-45-amazing.html">sexted</a> and tried to remain my charming best at all times. I had been <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/10/adventures-in-dating-episode-7-stalk-it.html">stalked</a>. I waxed, I plucked, I shaved. I colored my hair, did my nails, kept my feet free of dead skin. I flossed obsessively. I had my teeth whitened and used ridiculously expensive creams on my "dark spots" and wrinkles. I counted calories like my life depended on it and went to bed hungry so often it was almost Dickensian. I constantly re-applied lipstick and powder throughout my work day in the event that a single guy would stumble into the building and notice me.<br />
<br />
I was <em>fucking</em> <em>exhausted</em>.<br />
<br />
And yet, I was still alone.<br />
<br />
With Yoda's help, I had made the very important self-esteem journey between wondering what was wrong with <em>me </em>to wondering what was wrong with everyone else. One night I found myself on the phone with a friend, ranting and raving about how stupid men were for not noticing what an amazing catch I was. While I wish I had an actual transcript of the conversation because I was clearly having a remarkable moment of high self-esteem that I'd like to roll out for myself from time to time (like when my "fat jeans" are too tight), here's what I remember:<br />
<br />
<em>"I'm a green-eyed redhead with a six-figure income and double Ds. I own my own home. I am debt-free. I'm a college-educated award-winning marketer with a great career. I play the piano. I'm a classically-trained vocalist, an excellent writer. I have an IQ of 146. I have a family that loves me and a wide circle of friends who <strong>adore</strong> me. I'm quick-witted and highly creative. I like<strong> football</strong>, for God's sake. I'm <strong>pretty</strong>, damn it. I'm well-traveled, well-read and a great conversationalist. I'm the thinnest I've been in a decade and I'm fucking <strong>funny</strong>. <strong>WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MEN? WHY CAN'T THEY SEE ME?"</strong></em><br />
<br />
And I was so lonely and focused on that sense of being alone that I couldn't see that what had been missing all along was finally here. I didn't need a man to tell me I was wonderful-- I needed to<em> know</em> I was wonderful. I finally had an appreciation for who I was, for what I had accomplished in my life and for all I had overcome. If I could travel back in time, I'd smack myself. <br />
<br />
And that's when I stopped looking...and the greatest cliche of all played itself out right in the middle of my life: It found me.<br />
<br />Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-23705538757475196862012-06-15T10:06:00.000-06:002013-08-26T22:20:10.785-06:00Sugar Coat<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although I spend my days toiling in relative marketing anonymity for a large company in a cubicle more suitable for raising veal, like many of you I have delusions of grandeur.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And every now and then, one of these delusions becomes a full-blown business plan-- which to me is really just a long, often drunken, rant about something that someone should do or create or stop doing and for which I then design an elaborate marketing plan that no one will ever implement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">I'm no Ivy League grad-- but that's what a business plan is, right?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">And my latest business plan is for a lingerie line that I've elegantly named "Sugar Tw*t."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">Why lingerie? you may find yourself asking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My answer, as it often is when it comes to why I do, think, or say anything is:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <em> </em></span><em>I honestly don't know</em>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's possible I just wanted to use the word "twat" in a sentence.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lingerie has little importance in my life, as is evidenced by the fact that every piece of it that I own is sitting in a moving box in the garage-- and has been sitting there for 4 months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's been out there for so long that I now realize I need to wash it all because aside from my lingerie and yearbooks, the number one thing we store in our garage is garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rotting, ickily fragrant garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously-- it's like an episode of "Hoarders" in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had friends over last weekend and I made them promise me they wouldn't go into the garage because honestly, I'm afraid people will think we're insane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>Hey, also just ignore the pile of horse bones in the driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No crazy to see here!</em></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The problem is, there is no trash service in our rural "neighborhood"-- which means to dispose of garbage, we have to pack it into our cars and drive it to the dump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I promise you, this is every bit as glamorous as it sounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Calling it a "trash run" doesn't make it fun or less smelly. To further complicate things, the dump is conveniently located 25 minutes away and is only open on Saturdays and Mondays until 2 p.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To further<em> further</em> complicate things, we're both lazy, I insist on sleeping in <em>every single</em> Saturday and there's not a chance in hell I'm letting The Boy pack garbage into my brand-spanking new BMW X3. Would Molly Ringwald's "Breakfast Club" character Claire do a trash run? <em> I think not.</em></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I once tried to point out to him that I'm certain there are people who would come and pick up our trash if we put it out-- to which he replied, "Yes, they're called bears."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, this caused an immediate and disturbing mental image of a bear (not of the </span><a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2012/04/self-fulfilling-prophecy-bear.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Prophecy</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> sort) wearing my lingerie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't share the visual with him as there are many mental associations I'd like for him to make when it comes to me-- and a fat, furry, hirsute thing in ill-fitting lingerie is not one of them.</span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Icn-V4P-G8/T9pyUA1-uII/AAAAAAAAALM/tOXhtJzjjvQ/s1600/Furries-Lingerie-Bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Icn-V4P-G8/T9pyUA1-uII/AAAAAAAAALM/tOXhtJzjjvQ/s320/Furries-Lingerie-Bear.jpg" width="232" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It is truly frightening what one can find on the internet.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe my real issue with lingerie is in its marketing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time I see a Victoria's Secret ad that attempts to show me "What's Sexy Now," I almost black out because I roll my eyes that far and high in my skull.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently "what's sexy now" is super-thin 17-year olds with such massive overbites that they can't even close their lips over their own teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I can't help but think, "how is that any different than what has<em> always</em> been sexy and why do women fall for this?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, my issue could be that lingerie is really not designed for girls like me...and because when purchasing it I live in fear that the saleswoman will assume I need a gift box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><em>Um, no thanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's for me. Now, if you'll excuse me,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've got a date with a McDonald's chocolate shake. And I suspect we're gonna have to super-size it at this point. So, you know, thanks for that.</em></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">Or maybe it's just because it's stupid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean,<em> seriously</em>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do I have to wear something to make you want me to wear nothing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd think that my ratty rank top and men's boxers would be reason enough to disrobe me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">So, back to my brilliantly-conceived "Sugar Tw*t" business plan.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">What I need for you to understand is that I'm not talking about doing something on a small scale here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm going <em><strong>BIG</strong></em>-- with multiple lines of business, retail boutiques, a strong online presence, a definitive social media strategy, and an adorable logo:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YxYAq0qsYw8/T9tPyTIIzuI/AAAAAAAAALY/QaAD8jyw27U/s1600/Sugar+logo+small.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" pca="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YxYAq0qsYw8/T9tPyTIIzuI/AAAAAAAAALY/QaAD8jyw27U/s1600/Sugar+logo+small.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Special thanks to Chad G for the logo!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">I'd make some effort to have a "typical" line of lingerie that everywoman could purchase at a reasonable price. This would just be the "Everyday Tw*t " line.</span></div>
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<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There would be the "Tw*t Couture" line, featuring avante garde and ridiculously expensive unwearable pieces.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The "Hot to Tw*t" line for our equestrian ladies.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The "Sugar Tw*t Tween" line for the Hunger Games set.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Sugar Tw*t Tot" for the stylish toddler on the go.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Alot of Tw*t" for the plus-sized among us.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Tw*t Pour Homme" featuring silk robes and whatnot for the gentlemen.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A line of marital aids called "Fifty Shades of Tw*t" for the literary submissives.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A cookbook titled "Tw*t's For Dinner."</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An XM radio station called "Tw*t Talk." </span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">You could follow us on Tw*tter or even call our Tw*tline (Tw*ts are standing by!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean really, the possibilities are endless. Well, maybe not <em>endless</em>...but let's face it, I could run this into the ground for a really, <em>really </em>long time. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">I think this could be <strong><em>UGE</em></strong>, people. The kind of huge that's so big you can't even pronounce the "H." </span><br />
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<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><strong>UGE</strong></em>.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And if not, I can always go with my back-up fashion line for the corporate woman who isn't fond of the sensible pantsuit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I call the look "<em>Whoreporate."</em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: ArialMT;">I really only need a few investors...and I know I can count on you. You in?</span>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-57846018176814687982012-04-27T15:31:00.000-06:002013-08-26T22:21:23.083-06:00Self-Fulfilling Prophecy BearI love springtime in the woods.<br />
<br />
Watching the aspen trees wake up and cloak themselves in <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/26230150@N08/3536384101/">fuzzy catkins</a>, seeing our plum tree erupt into beautiful lavender & pink blooms, being able to finally show some skin after months and months of putting on winter weight underneath my flannel jammies and bulky sweaters... It's gorgeous. Well, not so much the skin I'm showing, which is more like dried-out fishbelly-white leather rippling with dimples in all the wrong places. But the nature stuff, it's dazzling.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the best part is that we start to get thunderstorms in April here at 7,000 feet. <br />
<br />
Last night we had a pretty decent storm. The Boy and I turned off all of the lights, wrapped up in fluffy robes, poured ourselves a springtime cocktail (make yourself a Chilton sometime: Citron vodka, club soda, squeeze of fresh lemon), and sat on the porch to watch.<br />
<br />
Wow.<br />
<br />
The moon was still fairly new and it must have been cloudy because it was dark. <em>Daaaaaaaaaark.</em> Like <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&sa=N&biw=1441&bih=677&tbm=isch&tbnid=97jCsme6F-VEVM:&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dark_Shadows&docid=Ae17s0BKGh8hCM&imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/7/70/Darkshadows.jpg/250px-Darkshadows.jpg&w=250&h=188&ei=HO-aT8zeGqmfiQLr4oiWDg&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=1188&vpy=158&dur=1541&hovh=150&hovw=200&tx=120&ty=89&sig=101051956774189408921&page=1&tbnh=150&tbnw=200&start=0&ndsp=12&ved=1t:429,r:11,s:0,i:176">"Dark Shadows"</a> dark.We live far enough outside of Denver that we don't get any light pollution and with little light coming through the clouds, we couldn't tell where the sky ended and the treeline began... until lighting would crash and expose everything as if a giant flash bulb had gone off. We gasped each time it happened and then laughed at ourselves for gasping. It was amazing.<br />
<br />
And then... I thought of <em>Ka Tah Din.</em><br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dBa07k3YSqg/T5rV5LvwrII/AAAAAAAAALA/C7dg6Hgr3fU/s1600/Ka+Tah+Din.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dBa07k3YSqg/T5rV5LvwrII/AAAAAAAAALA/C7dg6Hgr3fU/s400/Ka+Tah+Din.jpg" width="370" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Behold: Ka Tah Din</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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That's right, the Prophecy Bear.</div>
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You may find yourself asking: <em> Um, what?</em></div>
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In 1979 for my friend Terena's birthday, her Mom took a couple of us girls to the movies. We saw a horror film named <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0079758/">"Prophecy."</a> To the best of my recollection, the monster from the movie was this giant mutant bear-- created by the toxic waste generated by a saw mill. I honestly don't remember much about the movie except that it took place in the woods and there was this horribly ugly mama bear that looked like a burn victim covered in strawberry jelly-- and let me tell you,<em> she was</em> <em>pissed. </em>And I may not be remembering this correctly, but I believe the final scene of the movie featured a shot of this extraordinarily angry mutant bear standing on her hind legs and shrieking and roaring towards the sky as her tormentors flew away in a helicopter.<br />
<br />
There was no helping this bear. She didn't belong here, not unlike the<em> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1710900974">T.rex</a></em><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&biw=1441&bih=677&tbm=isch&tbnid=zXP-wsccWzqulM:&imgrefurl=http://jaymckinnon.com/blog/movies/all-time-best-random-but-acceptable-movie-appearance&docid=lBpcJBUYpgB6JM&imgurl=http://jaymckinnon.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/Jurassic-Park-T-Rex-Ending-e1323185225515.jpg&w=620&h=340&ei=zPeaT_-6DeW0iQKMncDoDg&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=1094&vpy=338&dur=174&hovh=166&hovw=303&tx=197&ty=63&sig=101051956774189408921&page=2&tbnh=109&tbnw=198&start=18&ndsp=24&ved=1t:429,r:5,s:18,i:122"> inside the buidling lobby at the end of "Jurassic Park."</a> I was terrified of her-- but I also pitied her. If only we humans didn't need so much saw-milled wood, this poor creature could have lived a normal, cuddly bear life.<br />
<br />
And last night for some reason, in the dark out here, my mind reached across the span of 33 years and conjured up the image of this ickily frightening bear standing on her hind legs, railing against her fate. And per my recollection of the ending of the movie, <em>she is still out there.</em><br />
<br />
And it spooks the <em>hell</em> out of me.<br />
<br />
I told Derek about Prophecy Bear for the first time last weekend as we drove home late from a night on the town.We were on the lonely, winding road that goes up through the canyon, and after such a delightful evening of amazing food (Bistro Vendome) and wonderful theatre ("<a href="http://www.wickedthemusical.com/#">Wicked</a>," OMG so good), the thought of a giant mutant jelly-covered she-bear seemed laughably preposterous.<br />
<br />
But last night, in the booming, flashing dark...<em>Ka Tah Din </em>seemed entirely plausable. And quite possibly nearby.<br />
<br />
So there we were, seated on the front porch, holding hands and delighting in nature's light show. There was a giant explosion of light followed by a huge rumble of thunder...and I whispered <em>"I'm thinking of Prophecy Bear."</em><br />
<br />
We both laughed. Him, at me, because it is<em> clearly</em> ridiculous to be afraid of a fake mutant bear from a horror movie I saw before I even got my boobies. And me, because I was spooked and didn't want to show it. And because I also know it's stupid. And<em> yet</em>...<br />
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We stayed outside until the storm was over, then went to bed. Derek dozed off quickly after lights-out...but I lie awake for quite a long time, thinking of poor, misunderstood, terrifying Prophecy Bear. And wondering if she still roams the woods, looking for her creators. My house is made of wood, after all-- and doesn't that count me among the guilty?</div>
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Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-55050678653530927152012-04-24T13:18:00.000-06:002013-08-26T22:22:12.791-06:00Rosie-Colored GlassesI enjoy people watching.<br />
<br />
It is probably more grammatically correct to say that I enjoy watching people, but "people watching" just sounds better...and somehow less stalky. <br />
<br />
I think I learned this behavior from my Dad. Sometimes when we'd have Father/Daughter outings, he'd make up stories for me about the people around us on the highway or in a store or in line at the bank. Once we were cruising down Interstate 45, headed to Galveston for a day of fishing (yes, fishing-- Dad wasn't sure what my interests were), and he noticed a couple driving a camper in the next lane. He decided their names were Jim & Rosie. He told me that Jim & Rosie criss-crossed the countryside in their little camper, regaling new friends with their travel tales and delighting their tastebuds with Rosie's famous campfire biscuits. Jim, the perfect gentleman who adored his wife...and Rosie, the perfect little homemaker, even on the road.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I am not making this up, although he certainly was.</span> </div>
<br />
It's funny, the things we learn from our parents. It's likely he was just filling the silence or trying to prevent my incessant rambling, but I loved that he made up stories for me while we people watched. It was vastly preferable to his concerted attempts to embarrass me-- whether that was by pretending to trip on a curb when crossing the street downtown, or by loudly singing "The Star-Spangled Banner" while driving through our neighborhood with the windows down, or by telling perfect strangers that I took dance lessons. Dad loved to make people laugh and if he could embarrass me by doing so, all the better.<br />
<br />
I like to watch people in their quiet moments, when they are unaware they are being observed, like an elusive snow leopard chasing a mountain goat, or a chimpanzee studiously picking his nose. Or like a human being doing either of those things, and preferably with a tissue.<br />
<br />
Once I was in the drive-thru at Starbucks and noticed an older couple seated at a table inside, talking. I was pulled up parallel to the window, and while I could see the woman's face, the man had his back to me. She appeared to be in her early 80's...and she was animatedly telling a story. Her eyes were flashing and she was smiling and gesturing and I could kind of see what she must have looked like when she was young. The late afternoon sunlight was falling through the window onto her creased face and I thought to myself that she was quite beautiful as she spoke.<br />
<br />
And then the man seated across from her reached out and gently caressed her face while she talked. His wedding ring actually glinted in the shaft of sunlight.<br />
<br />
It was lovely. <br />
<br />
It was so private and caring...and in that moment, my head made up an amazing love story for the two of them that involved ill-timed wars, hardships, laughter in the rain, and a wrap-around porch covered in grandkids, rocking chairs and cats. My mind told me these two people had weathered the good and bad times and still loved each other with such force that he couldn't help but touch her face when she spoke. The quiet, comfortable stillness between them was gorgeous.<br />
<br />
(Nevermind that I was thinking of World War I or II and the timing would be totally off. Clearly my Mathtardedness doesn't hinder my imagination. I know this because when I imagined the lifetime of these two people who were sitting in full-color right in front of me, I imagined them in black & white.)<br />
<br />
I never did see the man's face. The line in front of me moved, I pulled up to the window, paid for my skinny vanilla latte, and headed to my then-empty home. I started crying in the car because I so desperately wanted what those two people had...or rather what I imagined they had. For all I know they were on their second date and he was making her uncomfortable by touching her and infringing on her bubble. Or perhaps, this was Jim & Rosie thirty-five years later... and the camper was resting comfortably in the parking lot. Maybe in his twilight years, Jim developed a fondness for scones that Rosie's campfire biscuits simply couldn't satisfy. <br />
<br />
It was late March 2011. I had received a couple of communications through eHarmony from a man named Derek who lived in a town I'd never heard of somewhere in the mountains. He had kind eyes, a thoughtfully written profile...and I had been ignoring him for weeks. Earlier that day I had exasperatedly asked <a href="http://full-bodiedred.blogspot.com/2011/07/lord-of-super-fly.html">Yoda (my shrink)</a> just exactly where Sedalia was anyway in the hope that it was too far... and I realized that for some time, I had been looking for reasons to stop trying to date. I was close to giving up on the kind of love I had sought for a lifetime... and quite possibly, it was sitting in my eHarmony inbox with dimples and a love for mountain biking and dogs.<br />
<br />
I went home, curled up with my laptop, opened Derek's email, and replied by asking him if we could skip all the e-Harmony hoop-jumping. "Here's my phone number, I'd love to chat with you."<br />
<br />
Then I cried a little bit more, because I was terrified that I'd never be loved like Rosie.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-18859569716687565362012-03-24T10:44:00.002-06:002013-08-26T22:23:28.538-06:00Mildred-Age CrazyI bought a really big purse today. <em> Really</em> big. And I'm not sure if I'm okay with it.<br />
<br />
Sure, it's a Coach. A finely crafted leather bag, if ever there was one, and at a moderate price point. And of course it's in basic black...cuz I'm still just traditional and budget-conscious enough to realize that it goes with EVERYTHING. And yes, I can put my iPad in it, which should quiet the constant nagging fear I carry with me that I will leave the best birthday present EVER somewhere.<br />
<br />
But it's large. <em> LARGE.</em><br />
<br />
And it feels like maybe I've crossed over a threshold here.<br />
<br />
When I was growing up, my Grandma Mildred carried a very large purse. It was white, and as I recall it had many compartments, the way an old lady's purse does. She kept her head scarves in there, for when her hair was freshly set. And a plastic rain bonnet for when it was raining. And empty Wonder Bread bags that she used in lieu of baggies (she had lived thru the Depression and was quite thrifty). I don't know what else she carried, but whenever I watched "Let's Make a Deal" with my Mom and Monty Hall would bargain with the ladies in the audience for totally bizarre items they might have in their purses, I always thought that Mildred would make a<em> killing</em> in that scenario. After all, this was the woman who cut bacon in half because it "made more."<br />
<br />
So I found myself in the Coach store today, in<em> dire</em> need of retail therapy after an exceptionally emotional and grueling week at work (survived big layoffs and a re-org-- more on that at some point, I'm still digesting). My current purse, while quite stylish in its own right, was beginning to seem too small for the things I find I now need to carry in addition to my wallet and a small make-up bag: Prescription glasses (in a large case) for meetings in which a projector is used or for driving at night; prescription sunglasses (in an even larger case) for daytime driving; asthma inhaler; random wads of Kleenex; iPhone; work badge (for admittance to building); Tums (for very recent onset of stress-induced acid attacks); various prescription meds...aaaaaand the extremely unglamorous list continues. I found that each time I needed to retrieve something from this purse, I had to take EVERYTHING out of it. And on work mornings, when I'm speed-walking from the parking garage to the building in 5 inch stilettos while on a conference call juggling a Venti Starbucks, a briefcase and the purse that ate...hmmm, let's say Kokomo, Indiana...I can't play Tiny Purse Jenga. At least with my current number of arms.<br />
<br />
In no time, I found a nice large black leather hobo bag that seemed to fit the bill. I threw it over my shoulder picturing all the skinny Hollywood starlets and their giant handbags featured in the <em>"Stars: They're Just Like Us!!"</em> section of <em>Us Magazine</em> and stole a glance in the mirror to see how it looked. And you know who I saw? Grandma Mildred. With a pretty decent dye job and stiletto heels...but Grandma Mildred nonetheless.<br />
<br />
And you know what? That pisses me off. Like, <em>A LOT.</em><br />
<br />
I'll be 46 in three months. This means I am sliding towards 50, which doesn't even seem possible. <em>Fifty?</em> That's a bad surprise party waiting to happen. That's a Buick LeSabre. That's a character that Molly Shannon used to do on SNL, for Christ's sake. But that for sure as hell<em> IS NOT ME</em>. I was supposed to <em>be</em> someone-- I was supposed to be a wunderkind, a child prodigy. I was at least supposed to be a skinny starlet with a gigantic bag.<br />
<br />
Long story short, I bought it. I brought it home, placed it on the kitchen table and eyed it suspiciously all evening as it quite literally loomed largely in my peripheral vision. And then finally I unwrapped it and started transferring the contents of my now super-chic and somehow young <em>small</em> purse into the giant old lady satchel I just had to procure. I got everything crammed in and found myself thinking: <em>Oh my God, I'm not sure this is big enough.</em><br />
<br />
So tomorrow, I'm going out to buy a box of calcium supplements. Quite frankly, I'm surprised they weren't <em>"Free With Purchase of Large Old Lady Bag."</em> (Marketing genius?) Not only will I be able to carry them in my new purse-- but they will help to prep my old lady bones for lugging around the<em> next</em> size in my journey toward Mildred-Age. <br />
<br />
Plus, I think if I cut it in half, it'll make more.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-18125660264460559052012-03-02T13:57:00.001-07:002013-08-26T22:24:31.202-06:00The Brady Bunch ExperimentMoving is hard. <br />
<br />
Especially the way I do it, which ought to be captured via time-lapse photography. Kind of like glacial movement, lichen-growing, or the compounded interest I'm earning on my many, many investments.<br />
<br />
For those of you playing at home, I began splitting time between my house and The Boy's last April. It started with me and Jackson (my high-strung and highly vocal dog) heading out to the woods on Friday nights and returning to our place in the 'burbs Sunday evenings. It was a great arrangement, except for my two cats Kip and Cali, who had to spend their weekends seething and staring into space, respectively, in relative silence. Occasionally, I'd spend a Friday night at my house in the event I had Saturday in-town stuff to attend to-- but on the whole, I started thinking of D's place as my weekend home in the mountains. <br />
<br />
Sometime in late April, I was granted a drawer.<br />
<br />
Shortly thereafter, I took the drawer ownership as an opportunity to go buy duplicates of all hair and make-up necessities, including (but not limited to) creams, powders, gels, mousses, products, brushes, combs, mirrors, balms, appliances and various accoutrements. The whole toiletry packing and unpacking thing had grown quite tiresome and I lived in fear that I would awaken Monday morning to find that I had left something crucial (mousse, eyeliner) at D's. And if you know me at all, you know I'd call in sick before showing up at the office with air-dried hair or unlined eyes. <em>The horror</em>. Several hundred dollars later, I was all set.<br />
<br />
I loved being at D's house...but it had never really accommodated a girly-girl prior to my arrival. As he once remarked, none of his drinking glasses had ever even been contaminated by the ever-present and dishwasher-resistant scourge of lipstick prior to my occupation. So clearly we all had to make sacrifices. I became nomadic and now responsible for laundry and cleaning at two houses, and he became adept at pre-washing glasses and removing wine stains from the furniture and carpet.<br />
<br />
Before too long, Friday through Sunday just wasn't enough as we left the early stages of infatuation and moved right into the "I can't breathe without you" phase. So now Jackson and I were heading out to the woods on Thursday evening and I wasn't returning to my house until Monday morning, and that was just to drop Jax off before heading to work. It was wonderful, except for my cats, who now engaged in an all-out war for my affection Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday night. There was cat drama of the highest accord... plotting, grooming, stalking, chasing, biscuit-making, hissing, pfft-pffting, and enough subterfuge to make me feel like <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&sa=N&rlz=1T4IRFD_enUS410US415&biw=1280&bih=572&tbm=isch&tbnid=Y2jAV3Mkti9nNM:&imgrefurl=http://stylesouffle.blogspot.com/2011/04/pinky-brain.html&docid=Qyx_udJ_m1R0vM&imgurl=http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AcBUSVxs82w/TDTFxGbUzSI/AAAAAAAAfUg/PbGCFK4O5t0/s1600/Pinky-And-The-Brain-Wallpapers.jpg&w=1600&h=1200&ei=DP5PT9rmHOmosQLL6Y29Dg&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=0&sig=107409706928069024580&page=1&tbnh=161&tbnw=215&start=0&ndsp=10&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0&tx=140&ty=106">Pinky</a> (or was it The Brain?)... and I felt horribly guilty. I was also fairly certain that Jax was taunting them with woodsy adventure tales featuring large amounts of shellfish and bragging that I loved him more, as was clearly evidenced by my active and weekly cat-snubbing.<br />
<br />
This continued for some time, with D and I getting more comfortable together and talking more and more about cohabitation...and my house in Lakewood serving as nothing more than an incredibly expensive cat storage device.<br />
<br />
Finally, we decided it was time to conduct what we thought of as "The Brady Bunch Experiment." This entailed packing up the cats and taking them out to the woods to introduce them to Gus and Boo, Derek's yellow and black labrador retrievers, respectively. I kind of thought Jax could serve as an intermediary, since he already knew everyone and had such a calming demeanor (and <em>that</em>, my friends, is what you call "sarcasm"-- because that is one hyper dog) . You know, he'd say something like <em>"Gus, this is Kip. He enjoys plastic bags and sunbeams. Kip, Gus enjoys drooling and waking up at 6:30 a.m."</em> <br />
<br />
So the weekend before Thanksgiving, we all headed into the mountains. Two very angry cats that had been unceremoniously stalked, trapped and stuffed into traveling crates, then transported for 45 very loud and mewling minutes out to Derek's house...and two labs who had no idea they were getting new and very miffed siblings. And Jax, who just wanted to eat pork products.<br />
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Cali (my girl cat) was definitely the Jan Brady of the bunch: Quiet, lacking self-confidence, prone to wearing afro wigs to parties in a relentless search for her own identity. Kip was decidely the Peter Brady, quick with a joke, a fan of pork chops and apple sauce, and always looking for a get-rich-quick scheme. Gus, aka "Mr. Perfect," served as Greg Brady-- captain of the football team, good with the ladies, and deserving of his own bedroom (largely due to a flatulence issue, if you ask me). Boo was definitely Bobby Brady, bringing a little goofiness mixed with a large dose of bon ami, and a fresh freckled face. And Jax? With his golden locks, prissy demeanor and obsession with all things sausage-- well, he was definitely Marsha Brady.<br />
<br />
Clearly we were missing a Cindy...and that was okay. Cindy was so fucking annoying and who needs a new Shirley Temple anyway? That's <em>my</em> role. And no doubt between 2 houses, 2 adults, 3 dogs and 2 cats, we needed an Alice. But this was not to be. Although Jackson did make a strong and deeply-felt case for the necessity of Sam the Butcher.<br />
<br />
And strangely...it worked. Kip immediately became a dog and ran with the pack around the living room. Cali hid for approximately two weeks, as was her nature, and then surprised all by joining us on the couch to watch movies one evening. Gus and Boo were very curious about her and so respectful of her shyness, they immediately seemed like the big brothers she never had (although she's the eldest by 10 years). And Jackson mostly ran around, barking and peeing on things, just like Marsha Brady.<br />
<br />
Our little family was complete. <br />
<br />
And happy.<br />
<br />
And shedding copious amounts of hair-- and that was just <em>me</em>.<br />
<br />
So we knew it would work. And one night two months later, after none of us had made the trek back to the 'burbs to what had now become just a very expensive furniture and emotionally-charged momento storage unit, we decided it was time to put my house on the market and move from the "I can't breathe without you" stage fully into the "Holy crap, there's no place to put all my things" stage.<br />
<br />
That happens tomorrow, after weeks of packing. I'm excited. And nervous. And exhausted. And quite frankly, covered in pet hair. <br />
<br />
But now we're finally the Johnson-Ogg Bunch... and we found a name for our tractor: Cindy.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-47403764467773960052012-02-23T10:00:00.005-07:002012-02-23T18:22:21.856-07:00The Return to Ogg: An OdysseySo, lately I've been on a journey. This one isn't to the center of the earth, or a totally awesome 80's band, or even something written by Homer... but rather a long and ridiculously drawn out odyssey that will take me, finally and fully, back to my maiden name. I've come to think of it as "The Return to Ogg." An Oggyssey, if you will.<br />
<br />
As I've already pointed out, I separated from my ex-husband in June 2010 and was officially divorced in January 2011. In the divorce, I had my maiden name legally restored. So here it was more than a year later, and yes, I was finally taking the steps to change my name on every piece of paper or plastic that makes me and my debits and credits <em>me. </em><br />
<br />
You may find yourself asking <em>"how can it take a full year to get around to that?"</em> And my first response would be to tell you back off, Judgey McJudgerson. I've been busy. But the real truth is that I am returning to Ogg with some trepidation. I haven't been Ogg since February 15, 1992. I've spent my entire adult life as either Andrea Rocha (1992 - 2005) or Andrea Moravits (2005 - 2011)... or even occasionally as a French transfer student, a paleobiologist, or stunt driver-- but those are stories for another blog. And to be quite frank, many of my memories of being an Ogg aren't so pleasant.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fjMKSOQkEQ8/T0Zk4-Q4rLI/AAAAAAAAAKE/TYxtcyKcXYg/s1600/3rd+Grade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" lda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fjMKSOQkEQ8/T0Zk4-Q4rLI/AAAAAAAAAKE/TYxtcyKcXYg/s320/3rd+Grade.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">3rd Grade Ogg: Hard to believe my nickname was "Ogg the Dog."</span><br />
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</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></div>For a while, I toyed with taking my Nana's (my Mom's Mom) maiden name, which was Domini. I really dig the name Andrea Domini. Seriously, that chick is cool. And maybe kinda hot. People want to hang out with Andrea Domini, likely behind a velvet rope somewhere fabulous. But you know, when push comes to shove, I'm not actually an actress or novelist or singer, so I likely don't need a freaking stage name. (Well, I'm all of those things-- just usually all at one time which makes me kind of manic but not at all a triple threat.) I just couldn't do it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GjIRXhaYXo0/T0ZlpdrY4ZI/AAAAAAAAAKM/LhBDc3NyrQM/s1600/Andrea+Domini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" lda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GjIRXhaYXo0/T0ZlpdrY4ZI/AAAAAAAAAKM/LhBDc3NyrQM/s320/Andrea+Domini.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This is how I picture Andrea Domini, pretty much 24/7. She has way more fun than it really makes sense to be having. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Damn it, I'm an Ogg.<br />
<br />
In December, I made my first trek up to the Drivers License office in Castle Rock. It was the first day I was able to leave the house after being snowed in with pneumonia for about 10 days...and I was feeling remarkably optimistic. My optimism was short-lived, however, when I learned that I would first have to get a Social Security card with my new name, and then I could get a new Drivers License. I had lunch plans with my Southie girls Coral & Melissa, so I couldn't head over to the Social Security office, and I figured I'd likely need some sort of form anyway, so I held off.<br />
<br />
Fast forward about two weeks. Per the SSA website, I completed a form, brought my passport and the divorce decree I received in the mail, and trudged up to the SSA office in Lakewood. After waiting for an hour, my number was finally called and I approached the window feeling really superior for being so prepared. <em>Um...what do you mean I need a certified copy of my divorce decree? This is the decree they sent me in the mail, it's the only one that exists. Oh, I need to go to the court house and get a copy with a meaningless stamp on it? Goodie, I'm always looking for a reason to go to the courhouse and deal with bureaucrats.</em> <br />
<br />
So I raced off to the courthouse, waited forever in line in 5 inch stilettos behind someone who apparently had TB, paid $20 and got my stamped copy. I asked the clerk why in the world they wouldn't just send a stamped copy in the first place versus a completely worthless one and shockingly she had no answer. These people never do. It was too late to go back to the SSA office, so I had to abort my mission. And disinfect myself.<br />
<br />
Fast forward about two weeks to when I finally had the time and the permission to miss a little work again in order to go back to the SSA office, which is only open, oh-so-conveniently for those of us who work, Monday through Friday, 9 a.m. - 3:30 p.m. Apparently you are supposed to leave there, go to eat your early bird special dinner at Denny's and head straight home to watch "Matlock" or "Murder, She Wrote." I once again waited an hour, inexplicably watching "Star Trek" on a Spanish language TV channel, and finally made my way up to the window. Aaaaaand...success! I was told I'd receive my new card in the mail in less than 2 weeks.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Ja0vhr0Zf8/T0aIOm4k5TI/AAAAAAAAAKU/WR_z3HPf5Rc/s1600/Damn+it.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" lda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Ja0vhr0Zf8/T0aIOm4k5TI/AAAAAAAAAKU/WR_z3HPf5Rc/s1600/Damn+it.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Caramba, Jaime! Yo soy un medico!</span></em></div><br />
Two days later, I headed back to the Castle Rock Drivers License office, triumphant in my Social Security name change success. I told the clerk I also wanted to change my address. She told me I needed to provide proof of address-- like a bank statement or credit card bill. <em>Um, I've been waiting to change my address on those things until I change my name, which I can't do until I have my new Drivers License.</em> <br />
<br />
Are you hip to the whole chicken and egg nature of this process by now? <br />
<br />
The clerk suggested I go across the street and change my vehicle registration and bring that back to her as proof. <em>"Um, I'm driving his car today and don't have proof of insurance with me."</em> She raised her eyebrow at me. New name, new address, some random person's car, no proof of insurance... Yeah, I seemed like Citizen of the Year and not at all suspicious. Had she been allowed, I'm pretty sure she would've asked for a urine sample at that point.<br />
<br />
As I frantically tried to check several online accounts to show her my address, I realized that the mobile apps for these accounts don't show your profile information. I dug through my briefcase, thinking I must have at least one Bed, Bath and Beyond coupon with The Boy's address listed...aaaaand, negative. In fact, they all had my former father-in-law's name listed (misspelled) at my old address, where he never lived. Finally, after I had exhausted all of my resources, I deployed a new strategy: I just cried. I told her I'd been there three times now (okay, a slight exaggeration which she called me out on), and I just really couldn't afford to keep taking off work to get my documentation squared away. She took pity on me and after looking surreptitiously around the room, agreed to change it without documentaiton. You gotta love small town America.<br />
<br />
Fast forward two weeks and I still hadn't received my new Social Security card. It turns out the reason for this was that I had a mail forwarding order with the Post Office because I am in the process of moving in with The Boy...and guess what? The Post Office doesn't forward Social Security cards. I'll need to change my address with the IRS <strong><em>BY MAIL, DURING TAX SEASON</em></strong>, in order to go BACK to the SSA office, wait for an hour watching "I Dream of Jeannie" in Spanish, to request a copy of my new Social Secuirty card, bearing the Ogg name.<br />
<br />
That sounds promising, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
And then inspriation struck: <em>I bet I have my old SS card</em>, I thought, <em>from when I was a child, that will show my maiden name.</em> Genius! <em>And since I'm in the midst of packing my house...I should be able to find it.</em><br />
<br />
Strangely, it wasn't in my safe. My birth certificate was. Passports as Andrea Ogg, Andrea Rocha and Andrea Moravits were there. Two marriage certificates and two divorce decrees were in there. Seriously, if you need to assume an identity and go on the lam, call me and let's work out a deal. But I found no superflous SS cards.<br />
<br />
Oh, but wait-- my packrattiness knows no bounds.<em> There are boxes of momentoes in my basement, </em>I thought...<em>and surely among all of these treausres is my original SS card.</em><br />
<br />
So I continued my search. I found front pages from the Houston Chronicle from 9/11, from Y2K. I found a blank check from my very first checking account. I found a copy of my first paycheck from 1982. But no Social Security card. I have the invoice sticker from my 1984 RX7, every report card and every Iowa Test score, and the mum my first love gave me for Homecoming 1983. But no god damn Social Security card. I found the plastic cup my pastor used to baptize me in the hospital as a very sickly newborn, a cigar from the bunch that my Dad gave out when I was born. But no ever-loving Social Security card. I found a business card from every job I've ever held and an envelope containing every ticket stub from every concert, play or musical I ever attended. I found baby shoes, baby teeth, my Indian Princess headress and the sling I wore for my broken arm in the third grade. I found every drivers license I've ever held and every badge I've ever been issued, including a media pass from the first post-Challenger Shuttle launch at the Johnson Space Center in 1989.<br />
<br />
But what I didn't find was my mother<em>fucking</em>, God-<em>forsaken</em>, <em>holy-shitballs-where-the-hell-is-it</em> Social Security card.<br />
<br />
<em>So what?</em> You may be asking. <em>What do you even need a SS card for? I haven't needed to provide one in decades</em>. My first reaction would be to suggest that you stop being so smug. And then I'd tell you this: My employer is requiring it so I can change my name in our corporate directory. And until I change my name in that directory, I can't change my name on my insurance cards or on any travel documents.<br />
<br />
Which is why I'll be traveling to Las Vegas for business next week on an airline ticket for Andrea Moravits, while carrying a Drivers License for Andrea Ogg. Thankfully I'll also be carrying a passport for Andrea Moravits as I haven't tried to change that one yet, since it will require me sending in my passport itself along with a birth certificate, 2 marriage certificates, two divorce decrees, and likely a fingerprint, a lock of hair, a blood specimen and 2 - 3 eye witnesses. (<em>Volunteers</em>?)<br />
<br />
I tell you what, I'm never changing my name again. Ever.<br />
<br />
Seriously. <br />
<br />
Ever.<br />
<br />
I'll tell you something else: Homer's got nothing on me.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7724566261096717000.post-21664946900484937412012-02-12T22:20:00.000-07:002012-02-12T22:20:05.949-07:00The Place to BeIt's true, my transformation to <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=green+acres&hl=en&biw=1366&bih=557&gbv=2&tbm=isch&tbnid=pypkMn8yl2cqTM:&imgrefurl=http://www.maggiore.net/greenacres/&docid=kUBbMUH74YRrDM&imgurl=http://www.maggiore.net/greenacres/images/Anim_Homepage.gif&w=400&h=266&ei=nZY4T67MF6zXiALCl-HICg&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=262&sig=100438501172127956290&page=1&tbnh=152&tbnw=205&start=0&ndsp=12&ved=1t:429,r:2,s:0&tx=73&ty=56">Eva Gabor</a> is almost complete. <br />
<br />
When I started dating The Boy MORE THAN TEN MONTHS AGO (but who's counting?), he mentioned that winters at his place were a little tough. At the time, we were sitting on the deck on a gorgeous summer night after yet another ordinarily gorgeous summer day. We were sunkissed, nicely exhausted from a long hike, and our bellies were full of delicious food. There was likely wine involved. And I remember breathlessly thinking "I bet it's beautiful here in the winter."<br />
<br />
And I was right-- it <i>is</i> beautiful here in the winter. But there really is an awful lot of winter. And even more driveway. Very steep driveway. 200 yards of it, to be exact. As previously established, I'm no math whiz-- but I'd guess that driveway is like at a 400 degree angle. And my rear-wheel drive tank of a Durango is just no match for it.<br />
<br />
We suspected as much pretty early on, so the plan was always to just leave my car at the foot of the driveway when it snowed. I kept a walkie-talkie in my car so that when I got home in the evenings, I'd call <em>"Dogfort, this is Red Leader, over"</em> and Derek would drive down to pick me up and drive me back up the almost impossibly steep driveway. It was a perfect scheme.<br />
<br />
My first exposure to how things were <i>really <b></b></i>going to go down was after our first good snowfall, sometime in October. We walked out onto the front porch on a random Friday morning, and I could see his 4-Runner across the broad expanse of the driveway-- which had been magically transformed overnight into an ice rink. The ice was literally like 3 inches thick. It was magnificent. Because I'm me, I was wearing some fabulous 5 inch platform peep toe stilettos. Boldly, I stepped out onto the ice, immediately becoming <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=bambi+on+frozen+pond&hl=en&gbv=2&biw=1366&bih=557&tbm=isch&tbnid=A9x9NmUlfoBkTM:&imgrefurl=http://homepage.ntlworld.com/maurice.abraham/kids/bambi.html&docid=tsb810Ud-Rv3FM&imgurl=http://homepage.ntlworld.com/maurice.abraham/kids/bambi4.jpg&w=240&h=262&ei=y5c4T-j5GLOMigKPwvGbBQ&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=266&sig=100438501172127956290&page=1&tbnh=106&tbnw=97&start=0&ndsp=12&ved=1t:429,r:15,s:0&tx=44&ty=92">Bambi</a> as he walked onto the frozen pond, just without all the cuteness and free time. Derek grabbed my arm and said "Don't move. I will come to pick you up."<br />
<br />
On our way down the traitorous driveway that morning, he mentioned that he probably needed to outfit me with some proper winter gear or I was going to end up hospitalized. As he was already indoctrinated by then, he mentioned he'd make sure I had a high heel cast like the one in "Inglorious Basterds."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bhJgyRCSGQQ/TziYeAtU0jI/AAAAAAAAAJo/VC4gFD48ZGM/s1600/High+Heel+Cast.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" sda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bhJgyRCSGQQ/TziYeAtU0jI/AAAAAAAAAJo/VC4gFD48ZGM/s320/High+Heel+Cast.bmp" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Yep, that's exactly how I would roll.</span></div><br />
(And true to his word, he went on his first ever shopping spree for me. While I had the shopping montage from "Pretty Woman" in mind, what I actually got was a parka, snow pants, long johns, water-proof gloves, a hat, and some waterproof snow boots. When fully outfitted, I look not unlike the Michelin Man. But I digress.)<br />
<br />
So the shuttle arrangement worked for quite some time...and then came to a screeching and unceremonious halt when we got two feet of snow at Christmas. The 4-Runner joined my Durango at the foot of the driveway...and I spent two weeks sitting on the couch. As fate would have it, I had pneumonia and was basically as dead to the driveway as the driveway was dead to me.<br />
<br />
Eventually the snow melted. And so we limped through January, with the Durango occasionally making it up the driveway...and with shuttle service restored. I thought the worst was behind us and was looking forward to Spring, to bare skin and open-toed shoes. I congratulated myself on my adaptability and heretofore unknown ruggedness.<br />
<br />
And then Snowmaggedon 2012 unleashed three feet of snow on us. And let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've seen the Michelin Woman on snowshoes trudging up the K2 of driveways. (Shout out to my girl Jen, who was with us for all of the glory that was Snowmageddon-- it seriously would have been a bust without you, sista!) <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wLfkofE5fc4/TziY5Y5zLMI/AAAAAAAAAJw/2jhLwVVfPWA/s1600/Snowshoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wLfkofE5fc4/TziY5Y5zLMI/AAAAAAAAAJw/2jhLwVVfPWA/s1600/Snowshoes.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A natural,<em> no</em>?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>There was so much snow, we couldn't even get the Durango up the canyon, much less to the foot of the driveway, so it sheltered comfortably in the garage of my house, forty-five minutes away. Oh, how I envied it. Because now your girl here was routinely snowshoeing up and down that <em>motherfucking</em> driveway in super-cute work outfits, refusing to admit defeat. I tried to act like I was born for this.<br />
<br />
But alas, we all know I was not. What I was actually born with was a third of a functioning heart AND asthma...but damn it, I wouldn't back down. For a few days, I think The Boy was both amused by and proud of my valiant driveway-climbing efforts. And then came the night that the asthma attack hit me about 50 feet from the house and neither of us could find my rescue inhaler in the depths of my purse. It was scary for me-- but even scarier for him. And I know this because yesterday he bought me the nicest gift a man could ever buy for a woman.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HwzeO-_GEFQ/TziadRmVitI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/qyh1FaasV7w/s1600/Tractor" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HwzeO-_GEFQ/TziadRmVitI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/qyh1FaasV7w/s320/Tractor" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Kubota Orange is the new black!</span></div><br />
Yes friends and neighbors, I'm in love.<br />
<br />
And I kinda like The Boy, too.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16254783843257941953noreply@blogger.com1