My Wilby

His name was Roger.

We met in junior high home room, on the first day of 8th grade. I was the new kid, and probably the weird kid, my first year in public school after seven years in parochial. I was nervous and alone and knew I didn't fit in and I was terrified no one was going to like me. He sat next to me and was kind and open and funny. We became friends. He was my first junior high friend, the first to extend a hand and make me feel welcome and a little more safe.

In the 9th grade, I went to his birthday party. It was one of those make-out, 7-Minutes-in-the-Closet things and I had a big crush on another boy whose name I no longer remember.Olivia Newton-John's song "Magic" was playing when I arrived at the party and I remember Roger watching me walk into the room, smiling ear-to-ear. And not long after the party, he told me that a boy had a crush on me but he wouldn't reveal who it was. I hoped and hoped it was the now long-forgotten boy... only for Roger finally to admit that it was actually him. That HE had a crush on me.

It was sweet and painful because he was clearly in the friend zone and I didn't feel the same. But we stayed friends anyway. And then we went to different high schools and grew apart.

My sophomore year in college I remember sitting in my Micro-Economics class and watching this gorgeous guy walk into the auditorium. I very clearly remember thinking "sit by me, sit by me!" and being so happy when he looked me directly in the eyes as he approached me with a big smile and open arms, shouting "ANNIE!" It was Roger. And my, how he had changed. He wasn't the chubby boy from junior high anymore. And he was so happy to see me. I couldn't believe my luck.

I was living in the sorority house at the time and I remember getting ready for our first date. ABC's "Be Near Me" was playing and I was singing along "All my dreams came true last night, all my hopes and fears..." and thinking that maybe this was it. That maybe he was going to be the love of my life.

I had no idea how absolutely right and completely wrong I was.

We went out on a couple of dates and then things just fizzled. I can remember us driving around in my little red RX7, listening over and over to Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" and singing at the top of our lungs. We were so young, so full of life and possibility.

By the time I turned 20, we had both dropped out of school. I was living in my first apartment and had just had a huge falling out with a group of girlfriends. I was pretty much alone again in the world for the first time since 8th grade and so desperately lonely...and one night after going to see the musical "Cats" with my family, I called him out of the blue. I had wept through "Memory" at the show and for some reason it made me think of him and so I just called, not knowing what his response would be.

"ANNIE!" he yelled into the telephone, so happy to hear from me, so happy to reconnect. We started seeing each other again and one thing led to another and then we were dating. I was friendless and alone one moment... and in the next moment there he was and my life was full and happy again. He picked me up, dusted me off and made me feel loved and worthy again, always with that brilliant smile, those beautiful blue eyes, that amazing brain, that quick wit.

One of our favorite movies was "Mr. Mom" and in the film we both loved Kenny's relationship with his blanket. In hindsight I think it was named "Wooby," but at the time we thought it was "Wilby" and that's what we started calling each other: Wilby. And that's what we were to each other: Safety and security in a world that was suddenly so large and so frightening. Wilby was also a play on words. It meant "you will be mine, always." We clung to each other and though I thought we were happy, years later a look through my "Roger Box" (a shoebox full of momentoes from our relationship) revealed a very tumultuous relationship...and by then I knew why.

Roger was gay. When he shared that with me, I was devastated. He didn't want to be gay. He didn't want a life on the outside (this was 1987). He wanted a wife and a family and the white picket fence and the PTA and ALL of those things. And he wanted it with me...but he couldn't live a lie anymore. Our breakup was terrible and we stopped speaking for many years. And as much as it hurt (and as much as I didn't understand it at the time), I still always missed him. Because he was mine. Always.

I got married and divorced. And then married again. And in 2007 just before moving to Colorado, I met Roger for sushi. We had such a nice evening, catching up on each other's lives, reveling in our successes, comforting each other over our losses. It was so great to see him again. He was just that man that I felt instantly comfortable with... he was still my Wilby and yes, I was still his. We became Facebook friends and followed each other's lives from an admitted distance, but we were still bonded.

I moved and divorced again. Fell in love with a wonderful man and moved in with him and watched Roger do many of the same things via Facebook. Last Fall after the break-up of a long-term relationship, Roger and I chatted online a great deal. He was hurting and floundering and planning on coming to visit me, to get away from it all, to come to my mountain hideout and do some soul-searching. I was so excited for him to meet The Boy, I really thought they'd like each other as they shared so many qualities, not the least of which was their ability to make me feel safe and loved. But then Roger met someone new and the trip never happened.

He privately messaged me on New Year's Eve, telling me he had proposed to his new love in London and he was over the moon that he said yes. I congratulated him and he wished me a Happy New Year. The last thing I said to him was "I love you."

And then last night he died.

My sweet Wilby, the one my heart kept returning to over the course of 34 years, one of the very few men in the world who ever made me feel safe, special and loved... he's gone. There won't be another reunion. I won't see that smile again. I'll never hear his enthusiastic "ANNIE!" again. It always felt like we'd have another chance, that there would never be an end, that we'd keep finding each other over and over and over and finding joy in one another each time.

But my Wilby is gone. And I'm alone in this grey city... so far from The Boy. So far from anything that feels remotely safe or anything like my home. I don't have my photos of Roger, I don't have my Roger Box. All I have are memories...and a heart suddenly so very empty in a world that no longer seems as safe.

Godspeed, Wilby. If I can't find you again in this life, I promise I will in the next.

Rest in Peace, my beautiful Wilby. June 1, 1966 - February 16, 2014

Homecoming... and Homegoing

I sat outside on the front porch today and just looked and listened.

Our front yard in Colorado

I looked at Long Scraggy and remembered the first time I saw it in April 2011, so excited about the possibility of finally finding real and lasting love. And I remembered the last time I saw it, a month ago, through the tears of a woman completely panicked about leaving behind one life and beginning another.

I listened, and I remembered after a month in a concrete jungle exactly what my home sounds like. If you've been here before and have stolen a few private moments outside, you know what I'm talking about. You hear absolutely nothing except the wind in the trees...and at this time of year, you hear the wind in the trees and the sound of melted snow trickling between the boards of the deck and dripping off of the roof.

It's the sound of nothing and it's the sound of everything. And after 30 days of hearing the harshness of car horns and sirens and people yelling at each other on the street, it's heartbreakingly beautiful. After all these weeks of not hearing anyone say my name, of not feeling the warm touch of someone who truly has my best interests at heart, of sleeping alone and uncuddled and sitting lonely and alone in a well-appointed but sterile corporate apartment...and especially after a beautiful weekend spent with the man I love and our furry family, I have to leave again in 2 hours. I have to once again walk out of the house where we shared our first kiss, drive away from the kiddos who clearly miss me so much, and fly away from the mountains I accepted as a gift and from the man who gave them to me.

Leaving again so soon, it's just kind of overwhelming. I didn't anticipate I'd feel this way today when I boarded Friday's plane so full of excitement and anticipation. I gave no thought to how hard it would be to leave again so soon.

I know how lucky I am. I know what the new job at the new company means for my career. I know I will soon be moving into a beautiful new dream house that I get to furnish and that I will grow to love. I know that in two months, my family will join me and we'll turn that house into our home. And I know that The Boy and I will have all new adventures being tourists in our new city and new state.

I know all that. 

It just seems so far away. So very far away.

And sometimes it just feels like all of this change is going to eat me alive.

Tomorrow, I will wake up and look out on this cold and lonely new life again... and I'll wait. I'll wait for my family to come to me, I'll look at all of the animal hair I brought home on my clothes, I'll smell The Boy on my skin, and I'll remember what my home sounds like.

My front yard in Seattle

On Platypuses & Buttercream Frosting

In keeping with the sharing that's going on over in Facebookland, here are 16 things that I bet absolutely nobody knows about me... because they aren't true. That did not stop them from making me belly laugh. Special thanks to The Boy for his many contributions to this list.

1. As a child I had a pet platypus named Corky.
2. I have 6 toes on my right foot and often have to pay an additional fee when getting a pedicure. I affectionately refer to my 6th toe as Anne Toeleyn and sometimes dress it in ruffled collars.
3. I'm deathly afraid of heights, which is why I'm only 5'2".
4. I once punched David Spade in the throat during an argument over an egg salad sandwich.
5. In my early 20's, I actually knew a man from Nantucket.
6. I suffer from Hypertrichosis ("Werewolf Syndrome") and shave my entire body up to 16 times per day.
8. I wrote the jingles for "You're Gonna Love Love My Carpet," "By Mennen," and "Nobody Doesn't Like Sara Lee."
9. Each year I hand make all of my Christmas gifts. Last year I gave my Dad a TV.
10. My sweat tastes like buttercream frosting.
11. In 2010 I went on a date with The Most Interesting Man In The World...He bored me.
12. I was born on an Indian reservation in New Jersey. My Indian name is "Pork Chop."
13. I once fed a fig & goat cheese crepe to a Sperm Whale. It was magical.
14. Until the age of 13, I slept standing up. I thought everyone did!
15. In high school, I was a competitive Hog Caller. For reasons I don't understand, my nickname was "Sweet Lou." There is a recording of one of my hog calls in the Smithsonian (in the "Americana" exhibit).
16. I don't own a TV or a computer, so I'm not sure who this Miley Cyrus child is, but I sure dig her chutzpah.
Bonus thing:
17. I don't really speak Yiddish, so I don't know what "chutzpah" means.

This Post is Not Even Remotely About Syria, Slut-Shaming or Miley Cyrus

There are things you don’t know about me.

Even if you follow me on Facebook, where I seemingly blurt out every random thought that appears in my frizzy little head…yes, there are things you don’t know. And shockingly, things I don’t say.

Proof Point #1: The Boy and I were talking about possibly doing something kind of stupid that possibly involves large predatory wildlife the other night and he mentioned that if we DID it, I couldn’t post it to Facebook. I looked at him in all seriousness and said “If I can’t post it to Facebook, why would we even do it?”

Proof Point #2:  Last week we were watching “Orange is the New Black” and there was a scene where two lovely women were making out in a pretty sexy way and I casually asked him if I ever went to jail if he’d mind if I cheated on him with a woman out of sheer loneliness. His eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning and he (kinda) shouted “You don’t have to wait for prison!” I totally wanted to make that my Facebook status, but I wasn’t sure my parents would see the humor and it’s possible I’ve horrified them enough already. Also? From his response, I think The Boy thinks a stint in prison is something imminent in my future. (Note: Whatever it is or whenever it happens, clearly I WAS FRAMED.)

So yes, there are things I do and things I say that you know nothing about and would likely be either outrageously entertained by or maybe mortified. Either way, I’m holding out on you. Or at least I was, prior to the two Proof Points above. Now maybe you actually do know everything I think.

Whatever the case, there are also things I DON’T do that I keep from you, and one of these is this tasty little nugget: Despite the fact that both cats in our household are Ogg children (and one of them is a decidedly barfy lil guy), I refuse to clean up cat vomit.

There, it’s out. I REFUSE TO CLEAN UP CAT VOMIT.  And I’m really, really good at it-- and clearly not ashamed to admit it.

I think at first The Boy thought he could just wait me out, thought that surely after a few hours or a day or so I’d give in and just clean it up. But NO. I can studiously avoid cat vomit for WEEKS if I have to. That shit can be close to disintegration and I still do not “see” it there on the carpet. Seriously, it’s a gift. Or maybe an art. Or maybe something totally new: A gart.

Which leads me to one of the reasons that I love The Boy so much: He cleans it up. And usually he does so without fanfare or any expectation that I’ll fawn all over him for it (because, eeeewww gross, he just interacted with cat vomit). As I type this, he has just completed shampooing about a dozen different vomit spots in our living room and bedroom and is actually whistling as he lugs the giant shampooer thingie (that I don’t even know how to operate and am unable to actually lift) down the stairs to start on the basement spots.

Seriously you guys, he’s a keeper. 

And clearly so am I. Just to prove it, here's an artfully composed kitteh photo for your viewing pleasure.

Kip: The barfy lil guy.
What I lack in cat vomit-cleaning skills, I MORE than make up for in cat costuming skills!

The Insomnia-ing

When I was a toddler, I had a life-sized doll.

Her name was Mary Jane* and I loved her. In fact, I loved her so much and played with her so often that she ended up with only one arm and one leg.  I’m not sure if that’s because she was poorly made (likely in China out of lead-based plastic, broken glass and old creosote-soaked axe handles, as the year was 1970), or if this was just the result of my parents allowing us to play with our toys—we were decidedly not a “still in box, collect the whole set” kinda family.

Once Mary Jane became a one-legged, one-armed doll, she was relegated to the back of my bedroom closet, or as I now think of it: The Closet of (Evil &) Misfit Toys. One night as I slept the sleep of the just and the untroubled, Mary Jane lurched out of my closet and tried to kill me. Or at least I dreamt that she did, and when you’re a toddler that’s pretty much the same thing. I’m not sure what became of Mary Jane after that, but she was exiled by my parents and I returned to my normal nightmare-free childhood. Or what passes for normal when you’re me.

Until Raggedy Ann showed up.

This was, I think, in the 4^th grade. She was a Christmas present—brand new, life-sized, and my parents were so excited to give her to me. I remember feigning happiness upon opening the box and pulling out the doll because even though I didn't want to touch her,  I also didn’t want to hurt her feelings (or those of my parents)… but the reality was, I was scared of her. I was pretty sure that Mary Jane was going to use Raggedy Ann to kill me. I mean, that’s how these things work, people-- and I couldn’t fathom why my parents would place me in such obvious danger.

For years, that giant Raggedy Ann sat on a wicker chair in my pink little bedroom with the pretty little pink hand-me-down canopy bed. She smiled her garish smile and bided her time, waiting for me to drop my guard. Every night after my parents tucked me in and turned off the light, I’d lie awake in that canopy bed, my strawberry blonde ‘fro peeking out from under the covers, my chubby little fingers grasping sweatily at my pink bedspread, staring at Raggedy Ann, noticing how the light from the streetlamp reflected off her cold, black button eyes, and wondering when I’d see her move ALL ON HER OWN. I knew it was inevitable.

And then we moved. And I was allowed to redecorate my room. Raggedy Ann moved into the attic where I still occasionally thought of her, plotting my demise. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I’d imagine I could hear the attic door creaking open and the telescoping stairs sliding down into the hallway right outside my door. During my senior year in high school, I even had a nightmare in which she painted “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU ANDREA” in giant capital letters IN BLOOD on my wall and then she walked out of the house and drove off in my RX7. Just and untroubled, indeed.

Ever since then, I’ve been somewhat afraid of life-sized dolls. Somewhat, as in completely and totally. Any horror movie featuring them is guaranteed to flip me the fuck out. And my charming family has delighted in tormenting me with Raggedy Ann, who still lives in my parents’ house. When I return home to visit, Raggedy Ann pops up in the most unusual places: Often sitting on a chair in the guest room, occasionally rigged to swing out at me when I open a closet door, and once incongruously contemplating my murder from the toilet seat. 

Enter “The Conjuring.”  Enter Annabelle. Enter the supposedly true story of a haunting based on the experience of Ed & Lorraine Warren, featuring the world’s creepiest looking doll. Enter the realization that NO ONE TOLD ME THIS MOVIE HAD A LIFE-SIZED DOLL COMPONENT, YOU GUYS.

Say hello to Annabelle, as featured in "The Conjuring."
I was seriously afraid to even download this photo...thinking I was risking bad juju.

What a delightfully frightening movie! I gasped many times, may have shrieked a little, and once the hair on my arms and legs even stood up. But the thing is, I’m a grown-up now and I know that dolls can’t hurt me. I live 1200 miles away from Raggedy Ann, who clearly was no Annabelle.  And besides, I have no tie to this Annabelle. Subsequently, she should have no beef with me. Right? RIGHT?

So yesterday during lunch I got curious about Annabelle’s story and did a little research. Thank you, Interwebs!  You can imagine my delight when I came across a photo of the REAL Annabelle doll. The one that remains locked in a glass case in the Warren’s occult collection so that she can’t hurt anyone anymore. The one that allowed a demonic spirit to possess her, all the better to terrify her hapless owner.

Check her out, in all her glory-- I assure you, she's even more terrifying than the one they used in the movie:

Note: Still in box

Seriously you guys, I’m never sleeping again, ever.

EVER.

*P.S. I did a Google Image search to find a photo of my particular Mary Jane doll and the results were so hair-raisingly creepy that I had to abandon the idea.

An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley:

I get it. 

You're 20 years old and clearly desperate to prove that you're no longer a child. 

But what I think you'll learn over the next 25 years or so (and likely as the uncomfortable and unfortunate result of a series of poorly-conceived and sloppily-executed cries for attention like your performance on the VMA's last night) is that the best way to prove you are an adult is to make mature decisions about many, many things-- including how you behave in public.

Hey, I was 20 once (and thank God only once because I would not want to have to learn those lessons again). I made really poor decisions. I embarrassed myself frequently in public and even more frequently in private. So I get it Miley, I really do. I did all of those embarrassing things despite having advantages you couldn't dream of, like parents who realized I was a child (not a meal ticket or a brand) and who set appropriate boundaries and expectations on my behavior.

I even did those things in relative anonymity... and yet they haunt me still. Like many people my age I am mortified at some of the poor decisions I made, at how I casually hurt those around me, at how I humiliated myself-- even though there is little to no paper trail of those moments, unlike those you are very publicly creating.

At the time, I couldn't even fathom that the day would come when I'd think the way I do now... and yet here I am, pontificating on my blog about it from the comfort of and with the 20/20 hindsight of my Middle Age (ugh, cringe). And you know what? You'll be doing the same thing-- because that's how the maturation process works.

My advice: Take some time off. Rest your twerking muscles. Do some soul searching. Think about the type of person you'd like the 47-year old YOU to meet. Perhaps even purchase and wear some full-length pants.
Miley, there are so many things you can be: Be fun. Be talented. Be cool. 

Be well-traveled, well-read and well-educated. Be an interesting conversationalist. Be a good friend. Be quick to laugh and slow to anger. Be careful with other people's feelings. Be a philanthropist. Be exceptionally kind to animals and to those less powerful than you. Be outspoken and proud of who you are and all that you've accomplished. But for the love of all that you will EVER be, mostly be AWARE that the 47-year old you is not going to fondly remember the night where in a desperate attempt to prove to the world you are an adult you donned a flesh-colored bikini and simulated masturbation with a giant foam finger in front of millions of people... and in doing so, you proved to the world that you are, in fact, still a child.

Sincerely,
A woman who has been many things... some that she is even proud of

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.