The Return to Ogg: An Odyssey

So, lately I've been on a journey. This one isn't to the center of the earth, or a totally awesome 80's band, or even something written by Homer... but rather a long and ridiculously drawn out odyssey that will take me, finally and fully, back to my maiden name. I've come to think of it as "The Return to Ogg." An Oggyssey, if you will.

As I've already pointed out, I separated from my ex-husband in June 2010 and was officially divorced in January 2011. In the divorce, I had my maiden name legally restored. So here it was more than a year later, and yes, I was finally taking the steps to change my name on every piece of paper or plastic that makes me and my debits and credits me.

You may find yourself asking "how can it take a full year to get around to that?" And my first response would be to tell you back off, Judgey McJudgerson.  I've been busy.  But the real truth is that I am returning to Ogg with some trepidation. I haven't been Ogg since February 15, 1992.  I've spent my entire adult life as either Andrea Rocha (1992 - 2005) or Andrea Moravits (2005 - 2011)... or even occasionally as a French transfer student, a paleobiologist, or stunt driver-- but those are stories for another blog. And to be quite frank, many of my memories of being an Ogg aren't so pleasant.

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

For a while, I toyed with taking my Nana's (my Mom's Mom) maiden name, which was Domini. I really dig the name Andrea Domini. Seriously, that chick is cool. And maybe kinda hot. People want to hang out with Andrea Domini, likely behind a velvet rope somewhere fabulous. But you know, when push comes to shove, I'm not actually an actress or novelist or singer, so I likely don't need a freaking stage name. (Well, I'm all of those things-- just usually all at one time which makes me kind of manic but not at all a triple threat.) I just couldn't do it.

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

Damn it, I'm an Ogg.

In December, I made my first trek up to the Drivers License office in Castle Rock. It was the first day I was able to leave the house after being snowed in with pneumonia for about 10 days...and I was feeling remarkably optimistic. My optimism was short-lived, however, when I learned that I would first have to get a Social Security card with my new name, and then I could get a new Drivers License. I had lunch plans with my Southie girls Coral & Melissa, so I couldn't head over to the Social Security office, and I figured I'd likely need some sort of form anyway, so I held off.

Fast forward about two weeks. Per the SSA website, I completed a form, brought my passport and the divorce decree I received in the mail, and trudged up to the SSA office in Lakewood. After waiting for an hour, my number was finally called and I approached the window feeling really superior for being so prepared. Um...what do you mean I need a certified copy of my divorce decree? This is the decree they sent me in the mail, it's the only one that exists. Oh, I need to go to the court house and get a copy with a meaningless stamp on it? Goodie, I'm always looking for a reason to go to the courhouse and deal with bureaucrats.

So I raced off to the courthouse, waited forever in line in 5 inch stilettos behind someone who apparently had TB, paid $20 and got my stamped copy. I asked the clerk why in the world they wouldn't just send a stamped copy in the first place versus a completely worthless one and shockingly she had no answer. These people never do. It was too late to go back to the SSA office, so I had to abort my mission.  And disinfect myself.

Fast forward about two weeks to when I finally had the time and the permission to miss a little work again in order to go back to the SSA office, which is only open, oh-so-conveniently for those of us who work, Monday through Friday, 9 a.m. - 3:30 p.m.  Apparently you are supposed to leave there, go to eat your early bird special dinner at Denny's and head straight home to watch "Matlock" or "Murder, She Wrote."  I once again waited an hour, inexplicably watching "Star Trek" on a Spanish language TV channel, and finally made my way up to the window. Aaaaaand...success! I was told I'd receive my new card in the mail in less than 2 weeks.

Caramba, Jaime! Yo soy un medico!

Two days later, I headed back to the Castle Rock Drivers License office, triumphant in my Social Security name change success. I told the clerk I also wanted to change my address. She told me I needed to provide proof of address-- like a bank statement or credit card bill.  Um, I've been waiting to change my address on those things until I change my name, which I can't do until I have my new Drivers License.

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

The clerk suggested I go across the street and change my vehicle registration and bring that back to her as proof.  "Um, I'm driving his car today and don't have proof of insurance with me."  She raised her eyebrow at me. New name, new address, some random person's car, no proof of insurance... Yeah, I seemed like Citizen of the Year and not at all suspicious. Had she been allowed, I'm pretty sure she would've asked for a urine sample at that point.

As I frantically tried to check several online accounts to show her my address, I realized that the mobile apps for these accounts don't show your profile information. I dug through my briefcase, thinking I must have at least one Bed, Bath and Beyond coupon with The Boy's address listed...aaaaand, negative. In fact, they all had my former father-in-law's name listed (misspelled) at my old address, where he never lived. Finally, after I had exhausted all of my resources, I deployed a new strategy: I just cried. I told her I'd been there three times now (okay, a slight exaggeration which she called me out on), and I just really couldn't afford to keep taking off work to get my documentation squared away. She took pity on me and after looking surreptitiously around the room, agreed to change it without documentaiton. You gotta love small town America.

Fast forward two weeks and I still hadn't received my new Social Security card. It turns out the reason for this was that I had a mail forwarding order with the Post Office because I am in the process of moving in with The Boy...and guess what?  The Post Office doesn't forward Social Security cards. I'll need to change my address with the IRS BY MAIL, DURING TAX SEASON, in order to go BACK to the SSA office, wait for an hour watching "I Dream of Jeannie" in Spanish, to request a copy of my new Social Secuirty card, bearing the Ogg name.

That sounds promising, doesn't it?

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

Strangely, it wasn't in my safe. My birth certificate was. Passports as Andrea Ogg, Andrea Rocha and Andrea Moravits were there. Two marriage certificates and two divorce decrees were in there. Seriously, if you need to assume an identity and go on the lam, call me and let's work out a deal. But I found no superflous SS cards.

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

So I continued my search. I found front pages from the Houston Chronicle from 9/11, from Y2K. I found a blank check from my very first checking account. I found a copy of my first paycheck from 1982. But no Social Security card. I have the invoice sticker from my 1984 RX7, every report card and every Iowa Test score, and the mum my first love gave me for Homecoming 1983. But no god damn Social Security card. I found the plastic cup my pastor used to baptize me in the hospital as a very sickly newborn, a cigar from the bunch that my Dad gave out when I was born. But no ever-loving Social Security card. I found a business card from every job I've ever held and an envelope containing every ticket stub from every concert, play or musical I ever attended. I found baby shoes, baby teeth, my Indian Princess headress and the sling I wore for my broken arm in the third grade. I found every drivers license I've ever held and every badge I've ever been issued, including a media pass from the first post-Challenger Shuttle launch at the Johnson Space Center in 1989.

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

So what? You may be asking. What do you even need a SS card for? I haven't needed to provide one in decades. My first reaction would be to suggest that you stop being so smug. And then I'd tell you this: My employer is requiring it so I can change my name in our corporate directory. And until I change my name in that directory, I can't change my name on my insurance cards or on any travel documents.

Which is why I'll be traveling to Las Vegas for business next week on an airline ticket for Andrea Moravits, while carrying a Drivers License for Andrea Ogg. Thankfully I'll also be carrying a passport for Andrea Moravits as I haven't tried to change that one yet, since it will require me sending in my passport itself along with a birth certificate, 2 marriage certificates, two divorce decrees, and likely a fingerprint, a lock of hair, a blood specimen and 2 - 3 eye witnesses. (Volunteers?)

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

Seriously.

Ever.

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

The Place to Be

It's true, my transformation to Eva Gabor is almost complete.

When I started dating The Boy MORE THAN TEN MONTHS AGO (but who's counting?), he mentioned that winters at his place were a little tough. At the time, we were sitting on the deck on a gorgeous summer night after yet another ordinarily gorgeous summer day. We were sunkissed, nicely exhausted from a long hike, and our bellies were full of delicious food. There was likely wine involved. And I remember breathlessly thinking "I bet it's beautiful here in the winter."

And I was right-- it is beautiful here in the winter. But there really is an awful lot of winter. And even more driveway. Very steep driveway. 200 yards of it, to be exact. As previously established, I'm no math whiz-- but I'd guess that driveway is like at a 400 degree angle. And my rear-wheel drive tank of a Durango is just no match for it.

We suspected as much pretty early on, so the plan was always to just leave my car at the foot of the driveway when it snowed. I kept a walkie-talkie in my car so that when I got home in the evenings, I'd call "Dogfort, this is Red Leader, over" and Derek would drive down to pick me up and drive me back up the almost impossibly steep driveway. It was a perfect scheme.

My first exposure to how things were really going to go down was after our first good snowfall, sometime in October. We walked out onto the front porch on a random Friday morning, and I could see his 4-Runner across the broad expanse of the driveway-- which had been magically transformed overnight into an ice rink. The ice was literally like 3 inches thick. It was magnificent. Because I'm me, I was wearing some fabulous 5 inch platform peep toe stilettos. Boldly, I stepped out onto the ice, immediately becoming Bambi as he walked onto the frozen pond, just without all the cuteness and free time. Derek grabbed my arm and said "Don't move. I will come to pick you up."

On our way down the traitorous driveway that morning, he mentioned that he probably needed to outfit me with some proper winter gear or I was going to end up hospitalized. As he was already indoctrinated by then, he mentioned he'd make sure I had a high heel cast like the one in "Inglorious Basterds."

Yep, that's exactly how I would roll.

(And true to his word, he went on his first ever shopping spree for me. While I had the shopping montage from "Pretty Woman" in mind, what I actually got was a parka, snow pants, long johns, water-proof gloves, a hat, and some waterproof snow boots. When fully outfitted, I look not unlike the Michelin Man. But I digress.)

So the shuttle arrangement worked for quite some time...and then came to a screeching and unceremonious halt when we got two feet of snow at Christmas. The 4-Runner joined my Durango at the foot of the driveway...and I spent two weeks sitting on the couch. As fate would have it, I had pneumonia and was basically as dead to the driveway as the driveway was dead to me.

Eventually the snow melted. And so we limped through January, with the Durango occasionally making it up the driveway...and with shuttle service restored. I thought the worst was behind us and was looking forward to Spring, to bare skin and open-toed shoes. I congratulated myself on my adaptability and heretofore unknown ruggedness.

And then Snowmaggedon 2012 unleashed three feet of snow on us. And let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've seen the Michelin Woman on snowshoes trudging up the K2 of driveways. (Shout out to my girl Jen, who was with us for all of the glory that was Snowmageddon-- it seriously would have been a bust without you, sista!)

A natural, no?

There was so much snow, we couldn't even get the Durango up the canyon, much less to the foot of the driveway, so it sheltered comfortably in the garage of my house, forty-five minutes away. Oh, how I envied it. Because now your girl here was routinely snowshoeing up and down that motherfucking driveway in super-cute work outfits, refusing to admit defeat. I tried to act like I was born for this.

But alas, we all know I was not. What I was actually born with was a third of a functioning heart AND asthma...but damn it, I wouldn't back down. For a few days, I think The Boy was both amused by and proud of my valiant driveway-climbing efforts. And then came the night that the asthma attack hit me about 50 feet from the house and neither of us could find my rescue inhaler in the depths of my purse. It was scary for me-- but even scarier for him. And I know this because yesterday he bought me the nicest gift a man could ever buy for a woman.

Kubota Orange is the new black!

Yes friends and neighbors, I'm in love.

And I kinda like The Boy, too.

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

Howdy, strangers!  Remember me? 

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

Life is hectic, isn't it? 

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

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

Well, screw that.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how wrong I was.

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

Glamorous, right? 

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

Only now I don't want to be.

Man, life is hectic.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 9: The Requirements

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

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

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

Umbrage alert!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gypsy

I love writing. 

The act of creating something from nothing, of making up entire people with histories and quirks, of fictionalizing parts of my life and rewriting the endings-- it's powerful.  So from time to time I hope you don't mind if I post some of my work for you. 

Today I'd like to share my version of a Thanksgiving story.  I wrote this in one afternoon in 2006, while sitting out on my deck in Houston.  Like most of my short stories (and rest assured, this one is quite short), it sprang almost fully-formed from my head.  This is both a blessing and a curse because to me, editing is kind of like getting plastic surgery for a newborn baby.  "Yes doctor, she's beautiful-- but I was hoping she'd have more pronounced cheek bones."

So is it perfect?  Nah.  My old writing professors would criticize me for telling you the story versus showing it to you.  I did try to weave a little symbolism into it and some of you will get it.  But perhaps most interesting of all is that when I wrote this particular one, I didn't think it was about me.

That being said, I think you'll recognize the storyteller.

So get comfy...and enjoy "Gypsy."

He had a gypsy soul.

She knew it well before he did… and moved in with him anyway. The knowledge that the day would come when the wanderlust would overcome the regular lust… well, let's just say she wasn't interested in being alone.

And that was always her undoing—she just wasn't much good at keeping her own company. Never had been. Attracting them was never the problem, hell, any fool with a reasonably good rack and a smart mouth can cast a net. Keeping them proved to be a bit more difficult. Time after time.

His brother had a place on the lake that they liked to visit on the weekends, especially in the winter. The starkness of the bare trees scratching the sullen sky… the wistful call of the loons who also wintered there… the homes shuttered for the season… it was perfect for them. Sufficiently broody, if you get my drift. And they always had it to themselves—no summer wave runners, no pervasive smell of roasting burgers and dogs, no happy shouts and laughter. Just them, and the obvious distance growing between them.

He kept asking her what was wrong and she wouldn't tell him. She couldn't explain how she always knew the axe was about to fall, could damn near hear the thing dangling above her head. He would never understand that she mourned the endings before they came so that she could walk away unscathed. So they sat out at night, bundled in store-bought quilts, drinking homemade White Lightning and naming the stars. And when he slept, she cried.

Thanksgiving weekend was the loneliest weekend of all on the lake, so it was no surprise that they both loved to spend it there. They did it up right, baking a turkey and mashing a huge pot of potatoes. They laughed when they sliced into their beautiful golden bird to find it still pink and raw on the inside. Both were content to eat the trimmings instead and then gorge themselves on pumpkin pie. As they pushed back from the table, he dabbed a bit of whipped cream on the end of her nose and said "I love you." She thought of suitcases and boxes, bare walls and empty rooms... but gave him a smile anyway.

On Sunday morning, she awoke to the sound of him playing his sax at the end of the pier. The notes hung in the air like fog, drawing her out of the warm bed they had shared and into the grey light of the morning. She didn't recognize the tune and realized it was something he had been working on, hiding from her, the way he always did with the new ones. He must have heard her bare feet on the deck because he didn't start when she placed her hand on his shoulder. He played on, filling the sky with music and as she walked around him, she wasn't surprised to see his tears.

With the last note hanging in the still morning air, he held her stare and said simply "I'm sorry."

She smiled, swept the hair from his forehead and said "Don't be."

Adventures in Dating, Episode 8: Oompa Loompa Doompity Don't

Okay, I'm having a social media crisis:  The Oompa Loompa sent me a Friend Request on Facebook.

Spoiler alert:  I've decided to ignore the request.  Some stories simply must be told... and the lure of knowing the mundane details of his life, like which Sex & The City girl he'd be or what he ate for breakfast ("Oatmeal with raisins, yes!") cannot stop me.

So here it is, the 10th installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series.  You can enjoy episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 and 7 revisited here.  How am I on #10 if this is the 8th episode?  Well, as previously stated, I'm a mathtard.  I barely understand how money works.

Let's travel back in time, shall we?  It's mid-March.  I've wasted the previous 6 months of my life on the freak show that is known as match.com.  Well, Yoda (my shrink) would say it wasn't wasted-- I was simply practicing my dating skills.  So skills summarily practiced, self-esteem completely deflated, and with nary a spring in my step, I embarked on a new lurch towards love via eHarmony.

For those of you without televsions but with a lot of free time on your hands, let me briefly explain (as if) the difference between the two sites.  On match.com, you can set search parameters and view the entire catalog of men within those parameters, the way you'd build the perfect Volvo for yourself or order a pizza from Dominos.  Romantic, right?  So basically, you've got a bunch of guys looking to get laid by the hottest chick they can score...and a bunch of women lying about their interests, their number of cats, and their level of desperation.  It's like going to a club in the late 80s, only without all the pesky human interaction and spastic dancing.

eHarmony, on the other hand, does not show you the entire oeuvre.  eHarmony is interested not at all in your witty description of yourself.  eHarmony makes you take an extensive survey about your deepest feelings about family, love, sex, money, etc and then ONLY shows you the men with whom you share those feelings.  And by the time you turn to eHarmony, you're so worn out from all of your horrific match.com dates that you're honest.  Except maybe about your number of cats.

In my exhaustion, I agreed to meet Bob. 

Like many men involved in online dating, Bob made a big show of his wealth in his photos (taken at various locations around the world, including the obligatory photo on a boat).  He described himself as an adventurer looking for a partner with whom to explore the world in the style of "The Amazing Race."  And if you know anything at all about me, it's that I'm a natural athlete, so clearly this was right up my alley.  I figured he had a great sense of humor because in one Halloween photo, he was dressed as George Hamilton complete with ridiculous fake tan and cheesy suit.  Plus, the computer said we were a good match, and who am I to argue with Computer Science?  I mean, I come on, I made a D- in COBOL.  That shit's ironclad.

As always, I was nervous before the date and my nerves were compounded by the fact that I was recovering from a sunburn and therefore had a peeling face.  I warned him ahead of time so that he wouldn't think there was something wrong with me...and we laughed and pretended like it mattered or it didn't or whatever, just for the love of God, show up so I don't have to die alone.

We met for dinner at a restaurant on the South side.  As I walked up to the door, there he was.  I definitely recognized him from his photos but was a little bit confused as to why he was still dressed in his George Hamilton costume.  As we said our hellos and shook hands, he took a look at my peeling skin and said "Oh, it doesn't look that bad!" effectively sweeping me off my feet with his gallantry and tact. 

I likely would have been offended if I wasn't trying so hard not to openly stare at his fake tan.  Seriously, he was absolutely tangerine, like Julian from "Bridget Jones's Diary."  And to make matters worse, he was a little on the short side.

We were seated by Vanessa, the hostess.  I know her name was Vanessa, because Bob apparently frequented this restaurant often and felt compelled to introduce me to all of the personnel.  Sadly, Tony wasn't working that night so our water glasses had to be refilled by a relative stranger.

Bob enjoyed talking about himself and was a bit of a name-dropper.  Yes, that Halloween photo was in fact taken at the Playboy Mansion (pause for dramatic effect, wait for gasp).  I tried to play along and act interested, but my heart was sinking.  He was a nice enough guy and he was clearly trying to impress me.  But as I plowed unenthusiastically through my seared ahi salad (my customary date dish-- it says "she's healthy but adventurous-- I can tell because she likes meaty fish") I just kept thinking "How can I take a 52 year-old man who fake tans seriously?"

So the date crawled to its end.  Before we walked out, I took a brief trip to the ladies room where I checked my text messages to find that two of my friends were coincidentally and unexpectedly sitting in the bar of the same restaurant and had been watching my super-hot date.  If I can paraphrase:  "Hey, I can see you.  How old is that guy?"

I didn't want Bob to know that we were being spied on...nor did I want to introduce him to my friends, so I let him walk me to my car.  I drove around the building, waited til he left, then parked again and went back in to join my friends.  I'm sure Vanessa and crew likely ratted me out later, but I really needed the girl time.

Try to contain your shock when I tell you that Bob asked me out again, via text.  I made Yoda tremendously proud by not taking the cowardly way out and was instead honest.  I texted back "You seem like a wonderful man, but this just isn't a match for me.  I wish you luck on your journey."  That second sentence is one that is quite hard for me to say (or text) with a straight face, but Bob was very much the type of man who is on a journey.




But not quite like this.


As bad dates go, it was harmless.  But it reconfirmed what match.com had taught me-- that online dating was never going to work for me.  And also that I should stop lying about my number of cats.  So I decided to give up for good.

But first, I checked my eHarmony inbox one more time... to find that a handsome man with a great-looking dog who lived in a little town southwest of Denver had contacted me. 

Bonus:  He can READ!


Shortly after that, this man became The Boy.  And that has made all the difference.

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.