Life Moments: That One Time My Boobs Interviewed Willie Nelson

The Red-Headed Stranger. Also pictured: Willie Nelson

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

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

Anyhoo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sugar Coat

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.  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. 

I'm no Ivy League grad-- but that's what a business plan is, right?

And my latest business plan is for a lingerie line that I've elegantly named "Sugar Tw*t."

Why lingerie? you may find yourself asking.  My answer, as it often is when it comes to why I do, think, or say anything is:  I honestly don't know.  It's possible I just wanted to use the word "twat" in a sentence.

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.  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.  Rotting, ickily fragrant garbage.  Seriously-- it's like an episode of "Hoarders" in there.  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.  Hey, also just ignore the pile of horse bones in the driveway.  No crazy to see here!

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.  And I promise you, this is every bit as glamorous as it sounds.  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.  To further further complicate things, we're both lazy, I insist on sleeping in every single 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?  I think not.

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."  For me, this caused an immediate and disturbing mental image of a bear (not of the Prophecy sort) wearing my lingerie.  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.

It is truly frightening what one can find on the internet.

Maybe my real issue with lingerie is in its marketing.  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.  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.  And I can't help but think, "how is that any different than what has always been sexy and why do women fall for this?"  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.  Um, no thanks.  It's for me. Now, if you'll excuse me,  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.

Or maybe it's just because it's stupid.  I mean, seriously?  Do I have to wear something to make you want me to wear nothing?  I'd think that my ratty rank top and men's boxers would be reason enough to disrobe me.

So, back to my brilliantly-conceived "Sugar Tw*t" business plan.

What I need for you to understand is that I'm not talking about doing something on a small scale here.  I'm going BIG-- with multiple lines of business, retail boutiques, a strong online presence, a definitive social media strategy, and an adorable logo:

Special thanks to Chad G for the logo!

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.

• There would be the "Tw*t Couture" line, featuring avante garde and ridiculously expensive unwearable pieces.
• The "Hot to Tw*t" line for our equestrian ladies.
• The "Sugar Tw*t Tween" line for the Hunger Games set.
• "Sugar Tw*t Tot" for the stylish toddler on the go.
• "Alot of Tw*t" for the plus-sized among us.
• "Tw*t Pour Homme" featuring silk robes and whatnot for the gentlemen.
• A line of marital aids called "Fifty Shades of Tw*t" for the literary submissives.
• A cookbook titled "Tw*t's For Dinner."
• An XM radio station called "Tw*t Talk." 

You could follow us on Tw*tter or even call our Tw*tline (Tw*ts are standing by!).  I mean really, the possibilities are endless.  Well, maybe not endless...but let's face it, I could run this into the ground for a really, really long time. 

I think this could be UGE, people. The kind of huge that's so big you can't even pronounce the "H." 

UGE.

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.  I call the look "Whoreporate."

I really only need a few investors...and I know I can count on you.  You in?

The Brady Bunch Experiment

Moving is hard. 

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.

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. 

Sometime in late April, I was granted a drawer.

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.  The horror.  Several hundred dollars later, I was all set.

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.

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 Pinky (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.

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.

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 that, my friends, is what you call "sarcasm"-- because that is one hyper dog) .  You know, he'd say something like "Gus, this is Kip.  He enjoys plastic bags and sunbeams.  Kip, Gus enjoys drooling and waking up at 6:30 a.m." 

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.

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.

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 my 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.

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.

Our little family was complete. 

And happy.

And shedding copious amounts of hair-- and that was just me.

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.

That happens tomorrow, after weeks of packing.  I'm excited.  And nervous.  And exhausted.  And quite frankly, covered in pet hair. 

But now we're finally the Johnson-Ogg Bunch... and we found a name for our tractor:  Cindy.

Woman's Best Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Jackson. Mommy loves you too.

The little hairy love of my life.

Adventures in Dating, Episode Three: Fly-Fishing

This is the third installment in my "Adventures in Dating" series.  Read episodes One and Two here.


We called him "Trout."

Not because he was a fisherman, although certainly many of my match.com suitors were.  The obligatory photograph of man presenting fish to camera always made me smile... single men apparently don't have an over-abundance of photos of themselves and so ones taken on fishing trips or mountain bike rides, or where the previous girlfriend is clearly cropped out of the photo were to be expected.

Honestly, I don't remember what his real name was. But he definitely wasn't holding a fish.

Surely our choice of "Trout" was influenced by the abundance of fish photos we had viewed that morning. But really it was the mustache that did us in. Trout's was huge and full, his upper lip crouching somewhere beneath it's brushy glory.  A girl could get lost in that mustache, and not in a good way-- more like maybe a bread crumb or a random droplet of soup. I don't remember if I said it first or if it was Stacy, but the phrase "Is that a Trout on your lip, or are you just happy to see me?" lives on to this day.

Wouldn't we make beautiful, pensive babies together?

It was Labor Day weekend, 2010. I was visiting my sister Priscilla in Texas and my friend Stacy came up from Houston for the weekend. We were each going through our second divorces (strangely, we went through Round One together as well), and so she was uniquely positioned to understand the shit storm through which I was slogging.

Priscilla had an upstairs guest room that held 5 twin beds and Stacy and I were lying in two of them, reading my most recent batch of match.com emails and crying, we were laughing so hard. And there it was, the email from Trout.

He was a good writer, I'll give him that much.  That alone would've caused him to stand out from the crowd of mouth-breathing troglodytes that were vying for my clearly acerbic attention. And then there was that glorious achievement in facial hair. But what really hit me where I live was the sentiment expressed in his initial email.

He said he was a novelist. We later decided it was probably of the bodice-busting, breast-heaving Harlequin kind.  He said he was looking for love. He said he was 57 (so we assumed 62).

But mostly he said he was concerned about finding a woman who could keep up with his love-making.

Yes, his love-making.

Really, Pops? I think I got it. You know, if I could get past the startling bristle of strawberry blonde hair on your upper lip and the fact that you use the term "love-making" in a completely non-ironic way. And the collarless shirt you're wearing in what looks like a book jacket photo.  And the ponytail.

(Hahahaha, I said "jacket.")

He went on to say that while he had found women who were passionate, they weren't monogamous. And conversely, the monogamous women he met had no desire. So he and his hirsute little friend remained alone, together.  Like a furry little caterpillar clinging to a great oak.

By this point, Stacy and I were screaming with the kind of raucous laughter that causes family members to come upstairs to see what's so funny.  So Priscilla flopped down on the third bed and I read the email to her and soon she was in tears as well. They both wanted me to reply just to see where this thing would go. But cruel sense of humor aside, I didn't want to toy with the poor man. I mean, someone so virile in the twilight of his life...he deserved better. He needed a faithful blind bookworm nymphomaniac...and I simply didn't fit the profile (my corrected vision is 20/20).

I spent the rest of the weekend closely guarding my Blackberry so that Stacy and Priscilla wouldn't send Trout a breathlessly horny email on my behalf.

We must have accessed his profile 52 times that weekend, and each time Stacy and I belly-laughed and felt better about our miserable lives...and wondered who might be skulking through my online profile and taking pot shots at me ("Oh riiiight, she skis!"). And for three glorious days that September, the shit storm abated.

I left Texas with a smile on my face and laughter in my heart...the love of good friends and family can do that to a person.  And when I landed in Colorado, alone and lonely once again, I occasionally looked back at Trout's unanswered email and silently wished him well in his search for a passionate, yet monogamous woman with a taste for Nehru jackets and Yanni tunes. And a completely non-ticklish upper lip.

And sometimes when I was feeling sad, out of the blue Stacy would send me Trout's photo and it would crack me up.

It still does.

Separated at birth?

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.