Life Moments: That One Time My Boobs Interviewed Willie Nelson

The Red-Headed Stranger. Also pictured: Willie Nelson

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

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

Anyhoo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good dog, Jax.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, cue screaming.

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

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

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

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

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

And I've decidedly lost that lovin' feeling.

Straight Sixes

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

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

Straight Sixes

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

My skates.

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

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

I am determined to do this.

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

***

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

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

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

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

The author in her skating costume. And without boobies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

I Want Candy

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

Hi, Andrea!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really need to get to a meeting.

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

Hi, girlfriend!

I need you, Candy. Wherever you are.

Spanx For the Memories

Our moms called them girdles.

I remember as a teenager thinking how old-fashioned and futile they were. Of course that's what a size 7 thinks... and cannot fathom a time when she might need the help of Lycra to reign in her nether-regions.

A few years ago, a very savvy marketer came up with a new brand of girdle...and now we all call girdles the same thing: Spanx. The same way that any tissue is a Kleenex, any bandage is a Band-aid and, particularly if you're from the South, every carbonated sugary beverage is a Coke.

I'm wearing my Spanx right now, waiting on The Boy to get home and take me out to dinner. I have this tendency to pick a new outfit and wear it into the ground... and I've been sporting the new red WHBM turtleneck I got from my parents for Christmas with either jeans or a black mini for three days now. So tonight I did a little shuffle through closet to find something new to wear for our date night.

I landed on an INC long, fitted black sweater with a cowl neck and silver sequined pockets paired with black leggings and tall boots. I bought it when I was 20 pounds lighter back in the salad days (and I literally mean salad) of my post-divorce, singleton skinniness. I LOVE this sweater. It's short-sleeved, which works out well for my not-at-all-pre-menopausal-hot-naturedness, it shows off my curves and is just thick enough to hide any lumps while not being thick enough to add bulk.

A quick look in my full-length mirror (which is one of those magical jobs that makes you look scads thinner than you actually are-- a phenomenon of which I was blissfully unaware until one of my friends cruelly pointed it out to me) confirmed the need for body armor...or as we all now refer to it: Spanx. So I dug my flesh-colored scuba suit out of my undies drawer and struggled into it. I told myself that it was just the altitude that caused the struggle-associated breathlessness, but let's face it: When squeezing your Refrigerator Perry-like thighs into a girdle causes you to pant, it just might be time to step away from the Christmas fudge. And cheese. And crackers. And... oh hell, you know the drill.

In less than a week I'm headed to Houston for my bestie Jen's 40th birthday extravaganza. Jenapalooza? Jenfair? Jenstock? Because she runs in a broad social crowd that includes TLF (my first ex-husband, for the uninitiated-- AKA That Little Fucker), my intention had been to lose these 20 lbs prior to the party.

What is it they say about the best intentions?

Sigh, my refrigerator crisper is lined with now-liquified good intentions and all of the candid photos of me taken at D's parents' anniversary party earlier this month would indicate I've been substituting duck fat french fries for salad. Duck fat everything. In fact, judging by those photos, someone lined my beautiful emerald green velvet dress with duck fat.

Jerks.

Tomorrow night, two sweet friends (Coral and Tami) are coming over to give me a sanity check while I do a parade of the closet. It is imperative that, when faced with the miserable son of a bitch who told me I was"too fat to get pregnant" while we were discussing having our first child (ah, the romance!), the man who on occasion would remove my plate of food from me before I was finished eating (and in front of my friends), the absolute prize who cheated on me even after I was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy and told I had a 25% chance at ten more years of life-- it's IMPERATIVE that I feel good about the way I look if we have to be in the same room at the same time for the first time since I divorced his pathetic, almost legally-short ass, ten years ago.

God, how I wish I didn't care. But I am, after all, me.  And me has very little sense of self when it comes to my physical appearance. Yoda or no Yoda.

And The Boy can't go with me on this trip (he'll be stuck at home with a wolf pack of 6 dogs plus 2 cats, long story) so I have to face TLF and the poor, unsuspecting woman he married 10 months after our divorce all alone. In all of my sausage-like glory.

And still, FUCK him, I will look fabulous, right? Right?? Even though I'll be sashaying around with my hips tucked into a modern day version of the Iron Maiden. I always did look fabulous, you impotent midget. And shocker, I'll be the center of attention like I always was during the 13 years he tried to beat me down... once again reminding him of what he said to me during our divorce, that he was "tired of living in my shadow."

My shadow may be considerably larger than I'd like these days... But yeah, I hope he feels cold and small in it next weekend.

Small shouldn't be a stretch.

Life Moments: That One Time I Terrified Russell Crowe

Russell Crowe and I first fell in love in 1999. 

That was the year “Mystery, Alaska” was released.  We locked eyes in that semi-crowded, dark multiplex and though neither of us expected it, our worlds just fundamentally shifted. Sure, he was on the screen and I was seated in the theater with my then-husband Tony (better known to my friends as “That Little Fucker” or “TLF”).  And sure, we ran with different crowds on mostly different continents.

 But we knew it was for real.  There was no denying the attraction.

Seriously, it's almost embarrassing how much he wants me in this photo.

I mean, look at all we had in common!  He was a movie star—I liked movies.  He was rich and famous—and I had always assumed I would be as well.  He was single, gorgeous, and could have any woman on the planet—I was married, 40 pounds overweight, and could have been almost any woman on the planet.

It started innocently enough, as these things often do, with frequent purchases of “People” magazine.  It quickly escalated to long, lazy afternoons spent Googling for the latest news and photos and reading www.maximumcrowe.net.  Let’s face it, we were hooked on each other.  And I knew, I somehow just knew, that one day fate would put us in the same place at the same time.

Being me, I hedged my bets on this chance meeting by cyber-stalking Russell… and my efforts eventually paid off when I learned that he and his band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts, would be in Austin for a month recording their next album… and would play for 3 consecutive weekends at Stubbs BBQ. Austin was only 160 miles away (I lived in Houston at the time). And my weekends, despite (or perhaps because of) being tied down to the most unlikable man in North America, were unusually free.  My initial thought:  Oh, he will be mine.

My second thought, immediately on the heels of that was: Oh crap, I need to lose weight. And so it began:  My Russell Crowe make-over.  Make no mistake, it was hard.  40 pounds is a lot of weight on a 5’2” frame, and I was almost always hungry.   But was I going to let some jiggly thighs stand between me and the man I was meant to be with?  Puh-SHAW, people!

And so, 3 months later and 40 pounds slimmer, I found myself (and unfortunately TLF as well) standing about 5 rows back from the stage at Stubbs BBQ, awaiting my destiny. I was wearing a black halter top, black shorts and the kind of come hither-stare that one typically reserves for movie stars.

And suddenly… there he was. 

Look, I’m not demented.  I knew I was there with my completely unlikable and not-at-all fun husband.  I knew there was little chance for some sort of meeting of the minds (or bodies, oh yes please, bodies)… so I told myself I’d be happy if we just made eye contact, if I simply knew that he saw me, that we connected for a moment in time.

And you know what?  We DID. 

And that was it.

I returned to Houston, pleased with that moment and yet still unsatisfied.

So two weeks later, I returned to Stubbs.  This time I left TLF at home and brought a girlfriend with me.  We arrived late and subsequently were much farther back in the crowd than on my previous visit. And yet, and yet… I knew it was going to happen. I had come too far.  I had planned too much.  I had lost 40 mother-fucking pounds, for God’s sake.  Friends and neighbors—it was ON.

So the concert ended, the venue emptied, and my friend and I found ourselves standing in the now almost-empty amphitheater, awaiting some new friends we had met in the crowd to return from the ladies room.  The plan was to go hit 6^th Street and drown my unrequited love sorrows.  Wait, I said almost empty amphitheater… right?  There was one man left in the vast expanse of empty space.  One man, and somewhat inexplicably, one folding chair in which he was sitting.  

And because I had spent MONTHS stalking Russell, I happened to recognize the man:  It was Russell’s brother, Terry.  (Terry was a shorter, stockier, and much less rich and famous version of his brother.  Still, he was my TICKET.)

Well, as you might imagine, I just marched right on over to Terry and introduced myself.  We struck up a conversation about the upcoming “Cinderella Man” and Jodie Foster and God only knows what else.  Seriously, I was at my most maniacally charming… and was dancing as fast as I could. I remember at one point, he actually touched my hair and said something about how beautiful it was and I thought “Oh…so…if I can’t land Russell, I think I could nail his brother.  And that would be close, right?”

Listen, I’m not proud.  But at least I’m honest.

Terry invited us to the Afterparty.  He gave us the address of the unmarked private club where we should meet him…and where he’d introduce us to his dreamy brother.  I felt like I might just DIE from happiness!

So off we went.  I had no camera.  I had no pen/paper. I had nothing but my slimmer body, my months of stalking, and my hope.  And oh yes friends and neighbors, make no mistake, hope floats.

We waited outside of the club for Terry to show up.  We said hello to Ron Howard.  We said hello to Sandra Bullock.  Child’s play, people.  I nodded and smiled and said “hi” like they were the janitor in my office building. I was keeping my eye on the prize.

We met the other band members of 30 Odd Foot of Grunts. Like a total weirdo, I happened to know all of their names and momentarily convinced their trumpet player that we knew each other because I was so familiar with him.  I was IN.

And then, a black Ford Explorer pulled up.  The door opened.  And out stepped my future.  The love of my life.  The man of my DREAMS.  He was smiling, looking around…and then he was upon me.  We made eye contact.  He smiled at me, and looked at me expectantly.

This was my moment.  I had spent MONTHS preparing for it.  I had traveled hundreds of miles, dropped scores of pounds.  I had researched this man to the nth degree.  I had chatted up his family and his band mates.  I had learned all of his songs.  I knew what he ate for breakfast, who his favorite artists were, how much he adored his niece. And here he was, smiling at me, looking me in the eye, expecting something.  I smiled back.  And I opened my mouth to speak.

And suddenly and without warning, I started weeping hysterically.

And what came out of my mouth was a garbled and mashed up string of words that made absolutely no sense.  I think I was even hyperventilating.  Through my gasps for air, I managed to say something like “Omigod, yourshowwas sogood, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”  Russell looked at me like… oh, I don’t know… how someone might look at a rabid rabbit that is completely adorable but foaming at the mouth and perhaps even dangerous.

And then, he kept on walking.  All I could hear was my friend whisper “Annie, STOP.  You’re making an ASS out of yourself.”

And then he was gone.  He walked out of my life without looking back.  I think I probably gained back at least 5 pounds in that instant. Fucking water weight.

The next day, my friend and I were driving back to Houston in a companionable silence, when suddenly I announced “You know what?  This is for the best.  Russell and I really didn’t have anything in common anyway.”

She looked at me.  She waited a moment and then said “Really?  You’re just figuring this out now?”

I’m a slow learner.

And then, without ceremony, Russell and I broke up.  It was over.  And I never looked back. Sure, I recalled our summer together fondly…and I knew I’d never forget him…but we were finished.  I went on to divorce and then remarry and then divorce again.  And he married a beautiful actress and had some kiddos.

We were happy for each other.

Until this morning, when I learned that he and his wife had separated.  And of course, my phone started ringing.  I could see on Caller ID that it was a New Zealand number, so I of course ignored it.

I love Derek.  He’s The Boy.

Russell had his chance.  And he blew it.

I’m sure the next time he finds himself in a dark, semi-crowded multiplex, he’ll think of me. And honestly, who could blame him?

Plus, I totally could still nail his brother.

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!