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.

Life Moments: Lou Rawls Has Game

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

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

While I Was Out, 11-08-11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even gorillas are better dancers than I am.

Have an extra 10 minutes?  Spend it here.

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

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

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

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

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

Woman's Best Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Jackson. Mommy loves you too.

The little hairy love of my life.

Defrost: The Saga of Pudge Gazelle

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

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

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

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

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

So, that "Twilight." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh, I hate giving out that candy.

While I Was Out, 10-31-11

So, it's been a week already. 

Here's how I know I'm an awful person:  Yesterday my friend Stacy texted me the following:

I got to use your line this morning in the elevator...only because this lady was so rude.  She said "to make a long story short,' and so of course I said "too late."  Please note she wasn't even talking to me.  It was awesome!  I'm awesome!  You're awesome!

I'm a good friend.  I encourage my friends...and apparently, I encourage them to be rude.

But seriously, that's pretty awesome.

So I started the week by admitting that, like millions of other people, I tend to use technology almost solely to take amusing photos of my pets.

Then, with a nod to Halloween, I explained that I'm a cyborg with very clear death demands.

But when I wasn't being a bad influence on my friends, being a Marketing Genius, or freaking you out with my mortality, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved this week:

Any Halloween clip that features anything dry-humping Al Roker's leg had me at "hump."  But the truly hysterical part of this is that the woman in this segment was demonstrating how to decoupage a pumpkin.  And that's not even double entendre!

Now I know what my Starbucks crew is really thinking when I hit the drive-thru every morning.

Did you hear the hubbub this year about people choosing to dress up as other ethnicities for Halloween?  Apparently the furor went farther than we thought.

I can't help it.  I love squirrels.

This may shock you, but I dig science.  This concept is pretty freaking cool...and by the way, the next time you eat calamari, I think you should say "Wow, this tastes so intelligent!"

That being said, I can't help myself.   Seriously, I have poor impulse control.

Tired of the whole "Occupy" thing?  You're not alone.  Not even in your refridgerator.

God help me, the ski slopes are open in Colorado.

And finally, Happy Halloween, Siri!  And people who ask me stupid questions!

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Cyborg, You Borg, We All Borg

It's almost Halloween, so I have a confession to make:  I'm a cyborg.

That's right.  Part woman, part machine.  Not so much in the sexy and futuristic "Bladerunner" way, but in the "at-least-I-won't-die-in-the-Macy's-parking-lot-clutching-a-coupon" way.  But for fuck's sake, that sale was worth it!

Here's a haiku I wrote about it:

Dumb little defib

wired to my heart always

on you I depend.

One of the uber-cool things about having a defibrillator and being a cyborg-- other than the obvious cosmetic benefit of having a giant scar on my chest-- is that the batteries to the dfib only last 7 or 8 years, necessitating "minor" surgery every so often in which people actually look at and touch your heart. When you're one of the world's pre-eminent naval gazers like me, this means you're forced to deal with your own mortality a little more often than those living the non-cyborg lifestyle.

I had my defib replaced in the summer of 2010, prompting many people to remark on how "brave" I was.  Um, no.  You know how when a celebrity has an illness, everyone writes about his or her "brave battle" against it?  Yeah, not so much.  I was brave in the kind of way where you throw a series of mini fits of rage/panic attacks of the "no wire hangers" sort that would make Joan Crawford proud.  Seriously, in terms of drama it was some of my best work.  William Shatner himself would be shamed by the overreaction.

3 days prior to this surgery, I sent the following email to my sister, and three of my best friends.

Okay, not to be morbid or anything, but I just want to remind you of my death demands, should something go horribly wrong on Monday. I am relying on you!

1. I have two life insurance policies.  I have a loan against one of them, but I don’t know what that means in terms of payout.  
2. I think I may also have a life insurance policy through my company.  Don't know how to tell.
3. I have a 401(k), but I don't really know what that is.
4. 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.
5. I do not have a Will.  But damned if I haven't always had a Way.
6. When I survive this surgery and feel sheepish about sending this email, remind me to get my financial shit together.
7. "Vegetable" is not a good look for me-- you know how I even hate candid photos.  If I go all brain-dead and drooley, pull the plug.  I am not kidding.  Plug the plug or I will haunt you.
8. I wish to be cremated. I’d like my ashes taken back to Texas… not sure where I want to be sprinkled, but I’ll stew on that over the weekend. Won’t that be fun??
9. Mmmmm...stew.
10. I would prefer a cocktail party to a funeral.   It should be catered.  There should be an open bar and definitely a champagne toast (I'm picturing many). Please no 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.
11. Celebrate me, dammit!
12. 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 #7 above because I will completely haunt your asses.
13. There are several songs that must be played at my cocktail party:
    1. Good Riddance, by Green Day
    2. I Won’t Back Down, by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
    3. I’m Gonna Live Forever, by Billy Joe Shaver
    4. Say, by John Mayer
    5. Amazing Grace
    6. You Make My Dreams Come True, by Hall & Oates
14. Everyone, and I mean everyone, must 80s dance to #f above.
15. 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).
16. But I want a cocktail party.
17. If there is an obituary, please make me sound more important and wonderful and happy in death than I was in life. See #10 above.
18. There are some things in my bedside table that I would prefer Mom and Dad not see. Second drawer. Take care of that.
19. Don't judge me for #18.
20. I love you all beyond measure… Time, distance and death will never, ever change that.

Spoiler alert:  I survived the surgery.  It was like a Christmas in July miracle.  The kind of miracle that takes place like 10 times a day in every cardiac unit of every hospital in the world.  Not unlike childbirth...or the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey team.

That's the problem with self-indulgent emails written while in a free-form panic:  They stick around to remind you what a poozer you are. 

Sigh, even as a cyborg, I'm still uncool.

While I Was Out 10-25-11

So, it's been a week + 1 day already.  Sue me, I'm tardy with my wrap-up.

When you're in a relationship, I think it's possible to have separate interests-- as long as you communicate well.  For instance, here's an actual Instant Message conversation between me and The Boy from last night:

Derek:  Hmmm...maybe I need to watercool my PC.

Andrea:  ?

Derek:  It's a super-nerd thing.

Andrea:  And so clearly I know nothing about it.

Derek:  Instead of using fans and air to cool your CPU, you put a radiator and water pump in your PC to  cool it the same way you cool your car.

Andrea:  Sounds...um... overwrought.

Derek:  That's kind of the point.  It's like when guys put big engines and paint flames on their car
  ...but the nerd version of that.

Andrea:  (going thru the mail) Ooooo-- the White House Black Market Catalog arrived!

Derek:  (silence)

Andrea:  Yay!  Patterned tights are in again this year.    I love being "on trend."

Derek:  Yeah, um...I don't have any idea what you're talking about.

Andrea:  It's like when a guy paints flames on his car.

Derek:  Ah.


Okay, so I'll admit it:  This week, the posting was slim.

I started the week by telling you all about the stalker I cultivated last Fall through match.com.

I then admitted I obsess over previous posts and felt compelled to update the one on my stalker to explain how I killed Uncle Marty.

I'd also like to go on record with the following statement:  I do know that if Freddie is an actual shut-in and his Uncle Marty did in fact pass away, I'm a complete and total shit.

Okay, with my conscience now clear, I can move on.

So when I wasn't entertaining you with yet another really uncomfortable dating situation, being a Marketing Genius, or educating The Boy on women's hosiery fads, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

More from my beloved AT AT.

Please take a moment to color my underwear important.

Yet another reason I love Adele.

Afraid of spiders?  See one get his comeuppance.

I have more in common with this guy than just the way I look in my Forever Lazy.

I now have a pretty good idea what life was like for my big sister when we were growing up... although I probably wore a shirt.  Probably.

Happy Halloween, Google Plus!

And finally, Toast toasts toast.

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

While I Was Out 10-17-11

So, it's been a week already.

Have you ever had a conversation with someone on Ambien?  If you ever get the chance, totally do it.  I once had a 15 minute chat with my Ambien-grooving ex about the Dream Police.  No, not the Cheap Trick song-- the actual Dream Police.  I taunted him with this for years. 

Well last night, it was my turn.  The Boy decided he wanted to talk to Andrien (that's me on Ambien) and in an effort to see how out-of-it I was, he asked me "Do you know who I am?"  I apparently smiled and said "Yes. You're my husband."

Oh yes. Yes, I did.

He laughed and said "No I'm not."  And I said "Not yet.  But you will be."

Don't you wish you were this cool?

So this week I started off by admitting that I couldn't Find the Funny but tried to anyway by comparing myself to Elizabeth Shue and sharing the weirdest movie scene of all time.

I then found the funny hiding in the unintentional erotic language of football.  Illegal use of hands!  Roughing the passer! 

And finally this week I showed off my fancy college education by criticizing television commercials.  To be fair, I think it's a feat of writing that I worked the word "Hoohah" into that post 6 times.  I almost can't stop saying it now, which will likely become an HR issue for me at some point.

But when I wasn't entertaining you, being a Marketing Genius, or celebrating my 6 month anniversary with The Boy by telling him that he's going to marry me, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

Now that we've all been waking up Full of Awesome, it's time to start our Daily Affirmations like 4-year old Jessica.  I can do anything good!  On a side note, her dance moves are better than mine.

Poor thing doesn't understand yet that her curls aren't her friends.

Yeah... I'm gonna need you to go ahead and-uh work late tonight.  I am Business Cat!

I seriously almost peed my pants over the whippet dressed like a Star Wars AT-AT Walker.  Do yourself a favor and scroll all the way to the end to see two bonus photos of this hapless creature.

You know it's love when you do your imitation of a "Guy on a Buffalo" naked in the hot tub and your boyfriend not only cannot stop laughing but still inexplicably finds you attractive.

Hey wolf, I've got something for you... it's a kick from a buffalo!

Interested in pursuing a menage-a-trois, but not sure how to invite your third?  Have I got the greeting card for you!

6 degrees indeed.  I love Bacon. 

And finally, I'm not sure when they start with the cookie-selling, but I'd suggest you buy a box.  Perhaps several.

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

First Down-the Hatch

With all due respect to baseball fans... I cry uncle.  It's mid-October and... enough already.  Even the announcers are disinterested and the sportscasters on my local news station are reporting on baseball with all the enthusiasm one would bring to the Bataan Death March.  I don't even understand how teams keep playing when they know they can't go to the World Series.  That's as pointless to me as window shopping.  Or exercise.

So I think the overwhelming question is this:  Are you ready for some football?  Yeah?  Well, let's go to the map:

Um, what's up with the way Texas is split 70/30 Cowboys/Texans?

My team is the Philadelphia Eagles.  This statement generally generates the "Oh, are you from Philly?" question . I'm not.  The next question is always "Why Philadelphia then?"  Well, quite simply, I'm a girl.  So when the Oilers left my hometown of Houston and I was forced to pick another team, I deployed a tried and true female tactic:  I went with my favorite color, green.

As I saw it, the color green gave me three choices:  the Jets, the Packers, or the Eagles.  First, let's get one thing straight:  This Dan Jenkins-reading girl was never gonna cheer for the dog-ass Jets.  And the Packers?  Please.  That just sounded gross.  But the Eagles-- now they sounded like a good, solid working-class team.  Plus the mascot is an animal and everyone knows animals are cute.

Okay, maybe not this animal.



Yes, I now know there was a fourth choice in the Seattle Seahawks but it was the nineties and I honestly was unaware that Seattle had anything except coffee shops, grunge music, and the Space Needle.

And that's the beauty of football:  It doesn't have to make sense.  Any game that asks morbidly obese men to wear white stretch pants while playing in the grass is pretty much saying "Get your freak on, baby.  All are welcome here."  Feel like arriving at the stadium at 8:00 a.m. to stand around and eat burnt hotdogs from a football helmet-shaped grill?  Help yourself.  Feel like foregoing your shirt and grease-painting your expansive belly and man boobs in sub-zero temperatures?  Well, why the hell wouldn't you?  Want to throw batteries at Santa Claus? Welcome to Philadelphia. The City of Brotherly Love.

Football is an hour-long game that inexplicably takes four hours.  For years you had John Madden yammering away like someone's half-deaf grandfather gone off his crazy pills.  Yeah, Turducken, we get it. Now stop screaming and scrawling on the Zonkastrator like a spastic toddler.  There are scantily-clad pole-dancers/cheerleaders, keeping the fans warm with their all-American ass-shaking/team spirit.  Serious sportscasters talk with deep gravitas about some guy's groin injury as if it were a matter of national security.  An almost life-like Troy Aikman quotes statistics like a wooden-faced puppet who just wants to be a real boy.  There's $20 parking, $12 beer, $7 hot dogs and the ability to shriek "We're number 1!" for absolutely free.

I'll admit that in 1994 I didn't know a thing about football.  All I knew was that I was newly-married to a sports fanatic and if I didn't learn the game I'd never see the man.  (Had I known then what I know now about said fanatic, I'd have stayed ignorant.)  But like the dutiful little wife I was never destined to become, every Sunday I sat in front of the TV with a football encyclopedia in my lap and each time a penalty was called or I heard one of the announcers mention the name of a play, I'd look it up in the book.  If that's not dedication people, I don't know what is. Sadly I eventually realized I loved the game more than I loved the man... and threw a philosophical flag at the entire marriage.  Personal foul, you creep.  100-yard penalty.  4th down?  Nah, hit the showers, asshole.

Once I truly understood the game, I really enjoyed watching it, if only for all of the sexual innuendo.  Get your backfield in motion? Ooo-ah, ooo-ah!  Taking it deep into the end zone?  Bow-chicka-wow-wow!  Splitting the uprights?  Oooooh yeah.  The endless possibilities totally appeal to the 12-year old boy in me and any given Sunday will find me giggling like a school girl over the unintentionally erotic quotes from whatever game I'm watching.

So my thought is this:  Let's just end the baseball season due to lack of interest.  Let's talk more football.  In fact, let's talk a lot more erotic football-- and let's have the sportscasters keep score of the outrageously sexual things that get said during a game. 

Even better, let's make it a drinking game.  There are definitely a couple of tight ends that I'd like to see go bottoms up. 

And I honestly don't even know what that means.

What's your favorite football-related sexual innuendo?  I need to add to my repertoire.  And stock my liquor cabinet.

Find the Funny

So here's the deal:  I can't find the funny tonight.

I can't find the funny and I know it's what you expect of me and I don't want to disappoint you this early on in our relationship... but each thing I've tried to write tonight has been a little bit melancholy. And I'm not sure you come here for melancholy.

I'm pretty confident it's the peri-menopause...and you know what?  I'm not anywhere near ready to talk about that.  But does it make me feel sexy?  Oh, hells to the yeah, peeps.  Hells to the yeah.

The good news is that I see Yoda (my shrink) tomorrow for the first time in months...and I usually have plenty to write about once my head has been sanitized for your protection.

But before then, here's a peek at what's happening in my noggin tonight.


Have you ever noticed that TR Knight and Chloe Sevigny are the same horribly glum person?

Or that at some point in the 80's I was Elizabeth Shue?

       

And speaking of Elizabeth Shue, have you seen the creepy kid pointing to his flux capacitor in this clip from "Back to the Future Part 3?"  The blond one on the right, named Vern.  It happens about 20 seconds in. Seriously, is he a troll?  I think you'll be as appalled as the chipmunk.

These are the things I think about, people.  Simply so you don't have to.  You're welcome. 

I'm going to go enjoy a sexy night sweat now.

While I Was Out 10-10-11

So, it's been a week already. 

It started with me telling you about my wacky match.com swan song.  To this day, I have no idea how that didn't work.  Then again, I am also flummoxed by fractions, pivot tables and cartwheels.  And the metric system?  Forget it.  It's like people are just making that shit up as they go along.

And then I told you all about the manic need for acceptance that turns me into Jimmy Durante.  Let's face it, any post in which I recount a toddleriffic pants-pooping episode really only proves the point of this entire blog, which is Hey! Pay attention to me!

I made two big changes that affect how you can interact with me.  The first is that I removed the whole "type this word" thing when you want to leave a comment.  I know that was a pain in the ever-lovin' ass, it just took me this long to figure out it was optional.  I hope this gets you to a-commentin'!

The second change is it's now easier for you to share my blog with others.  Below each post, there is now an adorable little icon that looks like an envelope with an arrow in it.  If you click on that, you'll hit a form that lets you share easily.  So give the gift of Andrea, won't you?  If not for you, think of the children.

But while I wasn't entertaining you, being a Marketing Genius, or entreating The Boy to buy Lion King theater tickets (4th row, baby!), I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

Remember when you were five and woke up FULL OF AWESOME every day?  Buy one of these tshirts for your girl kid!  (I bought two-- one for me and one for my bestie-- not realizing they were kid sizes.  Yep, I woke up full of awesome that day!)

Two of my most favorite things in the world in one commerical:  Pistachios and... the Honey Badger.  Guess who's not eating cobra this week? 

I totally want to live in this house.  I don't even care where it is.  Do you think the dusting would be an issue (for my maid)?

Click here to learn why my new mantra is "Save a pretzel for the gas jets."  You gotta love a politician this inspirational!

And finally...this lil guy just reminded me so much of Boo (one of Derek's dogs)...both in looks and sentiment:

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

All of the People, All of the Time

Recently I was at a cocktail party, because that's the kind of glamorous life I lead.  "Cocktail party" is perhaps a bit grand, so let's just say that people were standing around and drinking.  It's possible it was a sporting event.  Or maybe an intervention, I wasn't really paying attention.  The point is, we were all standing in a group talking and before I knew it, the circle had closed around me and I was standing in the middle of it with everyone waiting for me to say something funny.  Even for me, it felt a bit odd.

I think it's because I'm a people pleaser.  It's the kind of thing that makes me turn on my best Jimmy Durante when there's a lull in the conversation and before you know it, "a-cha-cha-chaaaaaa" all eyes are on me.  Not necessarily because I like people looking at me but because I like people liking at me.  In fact, I need it.  It's also what likely makes me come across as a giant egomaniac whenever people start talking about their kids.

I don't have kids.  So when people talk about theirs, I get a little panicky because we have no common ground.  And without common ground, I can't force people to like me.  In these situations, it never occurs to me to just listen to what they are telling me...No, that would involve the high levels of self-esteem that I have yet to acquire.  I do listen, but while they talk I am scanning my memory files the entire time so that I can share a similar amusing anecdote.  And since the only thing I have in common with kids is that I myself was once a kid....well, I always tell stories about myself.

And fortunately for everyone, I was there the whole time I was a kid, so I have lots of stories.

Wanna tell me about potty training your child?  You can bet I'll reciprocate by telling you all about the amusing way I used to stand in a corner and poop my pants while covering my eyes because I thought if I did that, I disappeared, therefore insuring that my pants-pooping would go undetected.

Oh, a funny family vacation story about a toddler who would only drink apple juice, but pronounced it "appogee?"  Trumped by the classic tale of how I was so difficult on a trip to Yellowstone when I was 3 (why would you drive from Houston to Montana with a toddler?  Why??) that the moment we were seated in a restaurant, without looking at a menu my Mom would quickly say "she'll-have-a-grilled-cheese-and-please-oh-God-please-bring-it-right-away."  Sometimes she'd add emphasis by grabbing the waitress's wrist and imploring "Do you have any crackers?"

Your child is reading?  Delightful!  I'll scarcely pause for breath before I tell you that when I was her age, I would take my books under the kitchen sink and pretend the cabinet was my private library.  On a side note, I still love the smell of bleach. Oh my God, look at me, I'm still talking about myself!

The thing is, I catch myself doing this and I can't seem to stop.  This manic need for acceptance and a sense of belonging in a world in which I clearly don't belong compels my mouth to just keep talking while my brain screams at me to fling myself out the nearest window.

In reality, it's exactly what I'm doing now.  Hey, look at me, look at what I'm doing!  Isn't it funny?  Isn't it cute?  Don't you just want to take me home and put me in a glass box on your mantel?

So, please.  If you find yourself at a cocktail party or some sort of drinking event and you happen to look over to find me in the center of a group of people inexplicably doing the Roger Rabbit, be kind.  Remember, I just want you to like me. 

And if I clamp my hands over my eyes and say "don't see me," do yourself a favor:  Get home to those darling kids of yours.  Some day, I'll like myself enough to let you talk about them.

Like me, only slightly less manically driven to please.

My Kind of Town

I love taking in a new city...and Chicago was a nice surprise.  I'm not really sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn't European architecture, expansive gardens with modern sculptures and cornbread-like pizza crust (honestly, what's up with that, Chicago?).  With the high humidity and abundance of chubby people, I almost felt like I was back home in Houston. I mean sure, I had an unintentional Afro all weekend, but unlike in Denver my chub rub was in good company. There were even times I felt svelte.

The Boy and I flew in to the Windy City for a long weekend before I attended a Marketing conference. This was our first non-family-related vacation and for you eye-rollers out there let me irritate you by saying it was amazing.  I really do think you learn a lot from people based on how they travel...and what Derek learned about me is I can be a tad bit high-maintenance. A smidge.  I suspect this didn't come as a huge shock, but I really did appreciate how good-natured he was about holding my purse, my carry-on bag, my itinerary, my latte, my Nook, my iPad and my Blackberry at various times during our plane-boarding experience. I travel for work quite often and now I have no idea how I've done it without a sherpa. Or at the very least, an alpaca. And I'm pretty sure if I play the heart card, I can arrange for one on future trips. I have special needs, people!

We arrived around midday on Friday and after checking into our hotel and a delightful sheet inspection session, we headed out into a damp and chilly afternoon.  After walking around a bit, we settled in for a late lunch at an Irish gastro pub on Michigan Ave.  Late lunch turned into a second round of totally yummy Dark Horse raspberry ale at the bar and eventually our conversation turned to primate evolution. Obviously.

The Boy got his Masters from Duke in Evolutionary Biology (or as I like to think of it, "Monkeys"), whereas my scientific knowledge is limited to Time magazine cover stories I've partially read.  Don't even get me started on the study of single-celled organisms from the Vendian period-- my grasp of the topic is positively paragraphic!  So perhaps I could be excused for asking Derek if  "Lucy" was the oldest known primate.

Suddenly, he needed a cocktail napkin and a pen... and I knew I was in for something special.  Soon I was being led on an evolutionary romp beginning 50 million years ago with Notharctus running through Neanderthals and ending with Ted Nugent.  Not really that large of a leap, if you ask me.  Seriously, have you seen his brow ridge and the deranged way he runs around the woods killing things?

Oh God, it's just too easy.

You may be incredulous, but my eyes didn't glaze over once!  And I was amazed at how much of the material he remembered. By the time he was finished, 3/4 of the cocktail napkin was covered by a timeline complete with little stick-ape drawings for the non-cranially inclined.  It was clearly my turn to dazzle.

I was a Radio & Television major at the University of Houston and I didn't exactly walk away with an encyclopedic understanding of the subject matter. Still, undaunted, I flipped Derek's cocktail napkin over and began what I hoped to be a comparable lecture on Radio & Television.  I drew a timeline beginning with Marconi inventing the radio and ending with someone (I couldn't quite remember who) inventing the TV. I think I may even have done a horrible impression of Al Jolson somewhere in there.  Man, I'm really lucky I'm hot.

Mammy!



My absolute favorite part of the trip was going to the Field Museum the next day to see Sue.  For you regular folks out there, Sue is the most complete T. rex skeleton ever dug up or unearthed or whatever you call it. Despite the fact that my mother long-believed that dinosaurs (or as I like to call them, "Jesus Horses") were a hoax, I've always been interested in dinosaurs.  And since my friends and family have long-delighted in mocking my T. rex-like arms, for me it was like visiting a long-lost Auntie.

TyrANNIEsaurus rex.  Arms shown actual size.

We soon found ourselves in the museum's wicked awesome evolutionary exhibit where I was able to relive the previous afternoon's discussion, just this time with actual fossils as examples.  I know many of you will think I'm mocking him (okay and maybe I am, just a tad) but seriously, it was amazing to go through an exhibit like that with someone who really understands the science so well. It would be like visiting a White House Black Market museum with me.

Hey, we all have our strengths-- and it's important to recognize them.

We ended our visit in the Whale exhibit, where I made a complete ass of myself by pointing to an X-ray of a human hand and saying "Wow, that looks exactly like a human hand."  I thought it was a flipper.  This is a whale exhibit, Derek.  And then we moved on to things that I know, like pizza, beer and a dive bar where I caused a ruckus by locking the door to the men's room because I was tired of waiting to use the women's.  And where I may or may not have dozed off at the table.  It was late.

So what did I learn about The Boy on this trip?  Well, for starters, he draws horrible stick-apes.  And his intellect is truly dizzying, for another.  And his patience with me knows almost no bounds.  I learned that I love the feel of his hand in mine, the warmth of his breath in my ear as he whispers one Latin word or another, and the look of our reflection in a display case.

And mostly I learned that I still have so much to learn.  I can't wait.