I'm The McRib

The human body is amazing.

Well, your 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."

If, as John Mayer insists, my body actually is a wonderland, it's a scientific one that I should donate to medical research (you know, after my death).  It's like the biological equivalent of the Gift of the Magi.

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.

It's not like I didn't know it was going to happen.

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 made you 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 "but look how cute and outdoorsy I am in my new Ann Taylor cargo pants!"

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 up, 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.

Surprise!  On Friday, my lungs were 84 years old.

I'm 46.

I'm forty-FUCKING-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 "I'M FIFTY!").  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.

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?  I. Did. Not. Earn. That.

And, quite simply, I'm pissed.

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 also not a candidate for a Brazilian Blow-out) and slip quietly into irrelevance.

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? Right on, brotha.  Sock it to me!

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 not allow your daughter to purchase a magnified, lighted make-up mirror.  Ever.)  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.

Me at 22.  I'm sure everyone saw what I saw:  An enormously fat girl  with
a huge nose,  asymmetrical nostrils, a week jawline and bad hair. Oh, to look that awful again.

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 appreciate it, construction workers of America!)

And maybe breathe a little easier.

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.

Savor me!

My Name

I didn't even know his name—and I guess that's kind of my point.  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.  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.

I remember his round face.  It was sweet and innocent and sat beneath a shelf of sandy-blonde hair.  His cheeks were always ruddy, like the Campbell's Soup kid—the way that a fat boy's cheeks are year-round.  And he was fat, the biggest kid in school by far, the kind of big that's never going to play football or go to dances.  I remember that he wore overalls every day and I also remember thinking this wasn't really by choice but rather necessity.  Back in the early 80's, I don't think there was a "Big & Tall" shop for boys. 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.

He was in my homeroom and sat by himself at one of the large Biology lab tables.  He was quiet—in fact, I'm not sure I ever heard him speak.  And while I don't remember anyone specifically picking on him, I'm sure he caught hell from the other boys.  I imagine him in gym class dreading the showers, dreading the demeaning towel thwumps he must've suffered, the stinging humiliation of it all.  But mostly I just remember his face and the sadness that lived there.

This was 8^th grade-- a brutal time for many children, including me.  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.  And as much teasing as I endured, as much humiliation as I felt for being unattractive and as much as I ached, literally ached to be accepted, to be "popular," it just had to be worse for him.  I was lonely and mostly alone in school, but I did have friends.  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 Hollywood starlets doing it. But Chris—and for some reason as I write this, I think his name was Chris—he was really alone.  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.

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.  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.  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.

I remember dreaming of being a cheerleader, or even Homecoming Queen—all those things that are emblazoned on a young girl's heart in Texas.  The wish list I had… but would never see realized.  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. At best, we learn to tame our hair, get our teeth fixed and fight the battle of the bulge.  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.  It lives below the surface, where it's not readily apparent, but there nonetheless. 

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.  I wonder who suddenly remembers my face across the chasm of time, and why he never bothered to learn my name.

Mildred-Age Crazy

I bought a really big purse today.  Really big.  And I'm not sure if I'm okay with it.

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.

But it's large.  LARGE.

And it feels like maybe I've crossed over a threshold here.

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 killing in that scenario. After all, this was the woman who cut bacon in half because it "made more."

So I found myself in the Coach store today, in dire 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.

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 "Stars: They're Just Like Us!!" section of Us Magazine 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.

And you know what?  That pisses me off.  Like, A LOT.

I'll be 46 in three months.  This means I am sliding towards 50, which doesn't even seem possible.  Fifty?  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 IS NOT ME. I was supposed to be 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.

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 small purse into the giant old lady satchel I just had to procure.  I got everything crammed in and found myself thinking: Oh my God, I'm not sure this is big enough.

So tomorrow, I'm going out to buy a box of calcium supplements.  Quite frankly, I'm surprised they weren't "Free With Purchase of Large Old Lady Bag."  (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 next size in my journey toward Mildred-Age.

Plus, I think if I cut it in half, it'll make more.

The Return to Ogg: An Odyssey

So, 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.

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 me.

You may find yourself asking "how can it take a full year to get around to that?" 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.

3rd Grade Ogg: Hard to believe my nickname was "Ogg the Dog."

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.

This is how I picture Andrea Domini, pretty much 24/7.  She has way more fun than it really makes sense to be having. 

Damn it, I'm an Ogg.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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.

Caramba, Jaime! Yo soy un medico!

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.  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.

Are you hip to the whole chicken and egg nature of this process by now?

The clerk suggested I go across the street and change my vehicle registration and bring that back to her as proof.  "Um, I'm driving his car today and don't have proof of insurance with me."  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.

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.

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 BY MAIL, DURING TAX SEASON, 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.

That sounds promising, doesn't it?

And then inspriation struck: I bet I have my old SS card, I thought, from when I was a child, that will show my maiden name. Genius! And since I'm in the midst of packing my house...I should be able to find it.

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.

Oh, but wait-- my packrattiness knows no bounds. There are boxes of momentoes in my basement, I thought...and surely among all of these treausres is my original SS card.

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.

But what I didn't find was my motherfucking, God-forsaken, holy-shitballs-where-the-hell-is-it Social Security card.

So what? You may be asking. What do you even need a SS card for? I haven't needed to provide one in decades. 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.

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. (Volunteers?)

I tell you what, I'm never changing my name again. Ever.

Seriously.

Ever.

I'll tell you something else: Homer's got nothing on me.

Life Moments: That One Time I Was Wrong, Episode 1

Howdy, strangers!  Remember me? 

The weird thing about not writing blogs is that the more you don't write, the more you don't write.  Kind of like the whole "an object in motion, tends to stay in motion...an object at rest tends to stay at rest" principle.  Except that while I haven't been writing, I've decidedly NOT been at rest.

Life is hectic, isn't it? 

You look forward to your two-week vacation over the holidays, knowing you need the downtime, knowing not taking those weeks during the earlier part of the year would be worth it, knowing how much you're going to enjoy your vacation time with The Boy...only to get pneumonia and spend those two weeks coughing up blood and generally feeling grumpy, isolated, and out of control.  You tell yourself that your relentless program launch schedule for Q1 2012 will be no issue because you'll be so well-rested from said two-week vacation...only to return to work, still sick, still grumpy only now instead of lying around in your pajamas all day, you're back in a cubicle that was seemingly built for raising veal, having all the creativity sucked from your body by soul-less corporate America.

You tell yourself you're going to blog your ever-loving ass off on your vacation...and one day you look up and it's mid-January and you've gone bone dry.

Well, screw that.

As I often do when navel-gazing, I find myself drawn to a particular time in my life when I said, did or thought something wrong.  So let's start a new series:  That OneTime I Was Wrong.

Once when I was in college, I went to meet my Mom for lunch at her office.  She worked in the Marathon Oil Tower and I remember getting dresed just-so because I didn't want to look like a college student-- I wanted to look like a career woman.  I wore a blue and white houndstooth skin-tight pencil skirt and a white blouse and heels...because even in college, that's how I rolled. 

I met my Mom in the huge cafeteria they had in the building and as I waited for her, I noticed a woman sitting all by herself.  She was wearing a suit (late-80's edition, think "Working Girl" meets high humidity) and was sitting all alone at a four-top.  She looked very important.  Her lunch tray was pushed to the side of her table, untouched and ignored, as she furiously worked on a report that was, no-doubt, due half an hour ago.  She was completely oblivious of her surroundings and certainly never saw me staring at her.

God help me, I have her hair.  Like, right now.

I thought she was probably the coolest, most important career woman I had ever seen and I wanted to be just like her.  I wanted to be exactly that busy, that important and that successful one day.

Oh, how wrong I was.

What I didn't see was her so-called career interfering with her private life.  What I didn't see was that, if she really had been that important, she surely would not have been ignoring her lunch in the worker-bee cafeteria.  What I didn't see was that she was likely turning in version seven of the same pointless report that had nothing to do with her actual job and was likely causing her to have to spend her evenings working on her actual work load.

Glamorous, right? 

What I can see now is that we really do create our futures.  I wanted to be that woman...and I am a version of her.  My version is dressed in some pretty snazzy business casual attire versus the big shoulder-padded suit.  And my version seriously could stand to skip a few meals.  But as I look at my lunch, still sitting in it's bag despite the mad dash I made to pick it up 45 minutes ago, I get it.  I'm her.

Only now I don't want to be.

Man, life is hectic.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 9: The Requirements

This is the 11th installment of my Adventures in Dating series, and yet somehow only episode 9.  It's as perplexing as Herman Cain's candidacy only my approval ratings are higher.  (We do share a similar grasp of foreign policy.)  You can dig on episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 , 7 revisited and 8 here. 

First of all, I take umbrage with a comment I received regarding the Oompa Loompa. Umbrage, I say.

A friend, who shall remain nameless but who I call "Chad" because that's his name, mentioned to Derek that the Oompa Loompa sounded as though he would've been fun to date.

Umbrage alert!

Um...no.  The very fact that you think this makes me wonder if I took it too easy on the OL in my post.  When I mentioned that his eHarmony profile made a big show of his wealth, what I meant was that it was a big show.  As in make-believe, like my enthusiasm for skiing or how I never make my pets wear costumes. 

Look, maybe this makes me seem shallow, but your girl here, desperate or not, had no intention of hitching her wagon to someone needing financial assistance.  Been there, done that.  Twice. And have the collection of last names to prove it.  Trust me, this ain't no soup kitchen.

So maybe this is a good time to lay out what my requirements were...just so we're all on the same judgey page here.

Originally, I described my perfect man thusly:  A childless billionaire quadraplegic octogenarian in failing health.  I'd be unable to seal the deal, you see...and therefore exempt from it.  And there'd be no meddling kids to take me to court once he joined Uncle Marty and the angels.  The world would never find out that I was once an "exotic" dancer in a crappy bar in Mexia, Texas before rising to international fame as a Playmate and Guess model. 

Oh wait, there I go channeling Anna Nicole Smith again.  Hey, we all have our role models.

When my match.com suitors revealed themselves to be a largely shiftless lot with ridiculously large trucks, even larger mustaches and fake British accents-- but no billions-- I realized I might have to redefine my requirements.  And so, in no particular order, here they are.  Or were.  I'm having trouble with tense.

• You must be at least 5'8" to ride this ride.  I once carried on an email conversation with a super-cute guy named Darius for about a week.  We made it all the way to the planning-the-date stage before I noticed his profile listed his height as 5'4".  I'm 5'2"...but consistently wear 4" heels.  And if I can't climb you like a tree, what's the point?
• You must be gainfully employed.  In this instance, "gainfully" is code for a six-figure income.  Otherwise there is no gain for me.  Dabblers need not apply. 
• You must own real estate.  When you tell me that you rent an apartment "by choice" because ownership is such a hassle, it makes my nostrils flare. It makes me want to stand, point at you and yell "LIAR!"  If you meet the requirement immediately above, there's no freaking way you are "choosing" to rent.  You're over 40. Own it.  And some real estate.  
• You must not overuse "LOL" while texting.  If you feel the need to say things like "I had ribs for lunch...lol" then all I have to say is "TTFN."  Lol.
• You must have a firm command of the English language. If you are unsure of when to use "your" versus "you're" or are fond of the dangling modifier, I cannot hold a conversation with you, written or otherwise.  Husband #1 used to use the term "that's a mute point."  'Nuff said.
• You must be masculine.  It's fine if you like pina coladas, just don't order one unless we're alone (aside from staff) on your yacht. Getting caught in the rain is a bonus.
• You must not have tattoos.  I get the whole attraction of tats.  It's just that, should we ever need to go on the lam, you will become a liability with such an identifiable mark.
• Your credit card must not be declined on our third date.  Sadly, this happened.  With a man who represented himself as owning a company that charters flights and sells aircraft.  Um...yeah.  Me too. I'm selling a helicopter as I write this.
• You must be funny.  And not a little funny-- a LOT funny.  I once dated a very tall guy (6'5"-- he met the tree-climbing requirement, seriously, I had to stand on my running board to kiss him goodnight) who I mistook as funny because we laughed alot during our first 4 dates.  What I finally realized, at approximately 8 p.m. on New Year's Eve when there was no escape from the evening until midnight, was that he wasn't funny.  I was funny-- and I was laughing at my own jokes.  Should old acquaintance be forgot indeed.

These are not big things to ask for.  I was looking for an equal.  I was looking for a true partner.  I was looking for someone who could at least pick up the check 50% of the time.  And maybe occasionally pick up my dry-cleaning while he was at it.  What I got, with a few very-nice-just-not-right-for-me exceptions, was a group of men I wouldn't trust (and who were ill-qualified) to hold my purse while I tried on shoes.

But my mama didn't raise no quitters...and so onward I slogged.  And now onward I blog.

Sasquatch Watch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SASQUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATCH!

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

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

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

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

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

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