Disturbia, My Kind of Town

The first day of our fabulous European vacation began with Mike’s friend Bill picking us up at our house. He was to drive us to the airport shuttle station where we would hop on a bus to our gate. As Bill was graciously loading my suitcase into the back of his SUV, he commented on its small size. “My wife would have had three of these cases at least. All filled with shoes”

While he meant this as a compliment, telling me in not so many words that I was low-maintenance, I instinctively worried that I should go back in and pack the additional five pairs of shoes I had forced myself to remove just hours before. I had worked so hard to convince myself that my first trip to Europe would still be complete even without my favorite red platforms or my Kenneth Cole peek-toes. Now Bill was making me doubt my decision.

I let Mike ride shotgun and I got in next to the empty babyseat in back to ponder what was surely my worst packing job ever. I knew that I had to fit everything into a small bag because I am not the best at maneuvering through crowds, and doing so carrying a huge bag would just add more disaster-triggering elements to the equation. I know better than to put myself in that kind of situation, and I was used to taking preventative measures. I resigned myself to accept that the three measly pairs of shoes tucked safely in my tiny suitcase would just have to get me through the next two weeks.

At the bus station, Bill dropped us off with perfect timing, and we got right on the airport shuttle, basically just a regular city bus that drives to and from the airport all day. We sat up front, and the excitement finally began to settle in. I hadn’t slept at all the night before; I was actually going to leave the country for the first time ever. I double checked my passport in my purse and then checked it again. Mike was fumbling around with his effing iPhone, and so I amused myself with people-watching and staring out the window at the changing leaves. Then I saw a huge sign at the front of the bus. It read:

Causing a disturbance on this or any DIA shuttlebus is punishable by up to 20 years in federal prison and fines of up to $750,000.

Seriously, three quarters of a million dollars in fines for causing a disturbance on a bus? 20 years in federal prison? This seemed really steep to me. What if I caused a disturbance, but it wasn’t on purpose? I started to worry a little bit about exactly what exactly was entailed by the phrase ‘causing a disturbance’.

A couple years ago, on a plane, I dropped my purse as I was walking down the aisle in front of a long line of people. Everyone was desperate to get off of what had been a particularly bumpy, three-hour flight, and my stuff was strewn absolutely everywhere holding them up. I was crawling around on the floor trying to find my cell phone and my wallet, picking up a random brush or tampon here and there while people just stepped over me grumbling and growling. I swear one lady even said ‘idiot’ under her breath as she stepped directly on my empty purse-carcass. That was also the last time I saw my perfect shade of Bobbi Brown lipgloss, which consequently, they no longer seem to make.

At Target last year, I knocked four jars of pickles onto the floor causing a noise reminiscent of something in the sonic-boom genre, splashing kosher brine all over a man’s shoes, and rudely interrupting the lunch hour of a four-man crew ---apparently the proper cleanup ratio is one mop to one jar of pickles---who showed up armed with supplies and smirks. I left without purchasing my items and drove straight home.

While doing my chubby-girl duty on the elliptical at the gym, I saw my good friend Tim on the stair-climber in the row in front of me. I removed my headphones and said his name approximately 47 times, getting louder each time. He didn’t have headphones on, so I ascertained that he obviously just couldn’t hear me over the din of fifty cardio machines.
“TIM!” “TIMMY” “TIM!” I kept yelling as I climbed off of my machine and stomped over to his.
“Hey, Tim!” I said, grabbing the cuff of his shorts and tugging a little bit.
As he turned around, I realized my mistake. This was not Tim. This was an innocent bystander, persevering through his daily workout against all odds while being stalked by a crazy woman with early-onset Alzheimer’s. I knew my face was purple with embarrassment, and I knew that all of the exercisers on all of the machines were watching the show. I gave a weak wave to my new friend on the stair-climber and made a beeline for the locker room.

The last time I went skiing, I had to be towed down the hill in a Ski-Patrol toboggan.

I choked on my gum in a dark movie theater a few months back, sending myself into a horrific five-minute coughing fit.

At work, during the monthly creative team meeting last week, something our VP said struck me as funny, (even though it wasn’t really meant to be) and I could not stop laughing. For the entire hour. No one else even smiled, and a couple of people haven’t really spoken to me much since then.

I talk too much, and too loudly, and mostly about myself.

When I get to the front of a line, I can never find my credit card, or Safeway Card, or DSW shoe discount card, or whatever other elusive item the checkout person needs from me before he can move on and help the next person in line.

I accidentally swear in front of people’s toddlers. Then I can’t suppress my laughter when the little buggers repeat the things I’ve said.

I am the reigning queen of TMI.

I cause disturbances every single day. I am a disturbing person. I am always holding people up, or making a mess, or putting my huge foot into my huge mouth. I try so hard to remain calm, to not speak unless spoken to, and to keep a tight grip on whatever I am holding, but it just never seems to work out for me. Wherever I go, I always end up doing something stupid that will inevitably cause a disturbance to those around me.

I wanted to ask the bus driver what was implied by the sign, and if I was, in fact, in danger of spending the rest of my thirties in prison if say, hypothetically, something beyond my control were to happen on this short drive. I never asked him, though. I sat quietly, holding my purse in a death grip. I checked on my passport again. As we climbed down the stairs and off of the bus, I held onto Mike’s arm as if it were holding me up, and it very well may have been. Success. I made it through the first travel leg of our trip without being arrested or having any strangers roll their eyes at me. I let out the deep breath I had been holding in, smiled, and held my head high. I guess I am finally growing up and getting control of myself. Just don’t ask about what happened on the plane to London later that day.

Ladies Room-ology 101

Recently, I found myself involved, albeit silently, in a very odd bathroom situation, and it occurred to me that there are apparently some women out there who are unaware of the rules. So, I am here to offer some friendly advice. If there is a woman in the stall next to you waiting quietly for you to leave, then that is exactly what you should do. Leave her alone in peace. One day, it will be you in there, begging with tacit hand gestures and desperate foot stomps for someone else to do the same. It is all about karma.

Laurie Notaro is a hilarious columnist who now has several books out. In her first (and one of my favorites) book, The Idiot Girl’s Action Adventure Club, she writes an article about the different bathroom behaviors of women, pegging those who, like me, need a little privacy to do a number two, as Waiters. The nemesis of the Waiter is the Primper, known by the loud ‘thunk’ of her monstrous purse on the bathroom counter. Notaro hits every nail on the head, and the result is an essay that is absolutely hilarious. However, her attempt to educate the rest of the world of proper ladies-room conduct has apparently been unsuccessful. Case in point, last Friday night.

Every year about forty of Mike’s closest friends get together for a huge, Italian, family-style dinner at a downtown restaurant before attending the Denver premier of Warren Miller’s newest ski movie. Warren Miller creates a new movie each year highlighting the world’s top skiers and slope tricksters, and each year, we fork out almost $30 per person (not counting beers) to go see it. I secretly think the movie is just the same as the prior year’s movie except with new opening credit scenes each time, but I never say this out loud because Mike looks forward to it so much. Either way, the intent of the film is to get everyone geared up for the coming ski season, and it has become the unofficial kickoff to the holidays for Mike and I and many others, too. Fun is typically had by all, and this year was no different, with the exception of the bitches in the bathroom.

Mike and I were a little late to dinner. This is the norm because I have a hard time getting his sorry ass in gear whenever we have to be anywhere; I think he secretly likes to be late. I do not, and so it is a constant battle with us.

We sat down at the table after saying our hellos to the group. In the past, the table had always been crowded with all of Mike’s college friends and their significant others, people he had known for years and with whom I had, by default, become friends, too. This year was a little different. Todd was there, of course, and Matt, and Nicole, all sitting way at the other end of the table, and Denver, (his actual name is Denver, and I think he moved here specifically to ignite the irony of it all) and that is about it. The rest of the huge group of people at the table were basically unknown to both of us, and because we were late, we ended up sitting with a bunch of strangers.

As is his way, Mike dove right in and began making friends with everyone he didn’t know. I did my best with the very-nice couple seated next to us, but that is about as far as I took it because, quite simply, I am not as friendly as Mike is, and I have a severe aversion to small talk. Still though, I was at least trying. Across from us, there were four girls sitting together. They were nice enough, and cute, and younger than most of the early-thirties crowd at the table. I never really got the chance to talk to them during dinner, but we exchanged smiles while passing the colossal plates of pasta back and forth.

Somewhere around dessert, it hit me. I had to go to the bathroom, and it needed to happen right then, and there was some pretty harsh, acute intestinal trauma involved.

I absolutely hate doing a number two in public. I have driven home from the mall, and from Target, and from friends’ houses with my insides in knots, just to avoid the horror of doing what I consider to be world’s most private deed in public. My friend at the office and I have even coined it a “Number 9” referring to the un-leased floor in our old building where it could be done confidentially. Consequently, we have openly lamented the fact that there is no suitable 9th floor-like replacement bathroom in our new building, although the Number 9 moniker stuck . Basically, I’m like that guy from the American Pie movies they call Shitbreak. I hate doing it in public, and I avoid it at all costs, but sometimes it cannot be prevented.

I sat at the table very aware of my dire situation. I stared at my empty plate, which was most certainly the culprit, and pondered my options. There was no way I could make it home between now and the start of the movie, plus, Mike, who has been trying to cure me of this psychological bathroom glitch, definitely wouldn’t have allowed it. I decided that the best thing to do would be to go while we were at the restaurant, rather than making an uncomfortable ten-block walk to the Paramount Theater where the bathrooms would certainly be filthy and teeming with ski bunnies. I excused myself.

Once in the restroom, I locked myself into the nearest available stall, the one in the middle, and I sat down and began my waiting game. The occupant of the stall to my right flushed, washed, and left. Good girl. I continued to wait as the woman to my left started to button and tuck. She flushed, opened the door, walked toward the sink, and… CRAP!!!!! (no, not literally, but figuratively)…her friend walked in and they began chatting. This is when I realized that these were two of the girls who had been sitting across from us at the table. I assumed they were unaware of my presence as they continued their conversation.

“What time does the movie start?”
“I don’t know, but we better get the bill and head out pretty soon"
“That one guy is pretty cute, huh?”
Then silence.
Then more silence.
Then whispering.
Although I was hidden by the steel door, I wasn’t in a sound-proof booth, and I was only sitting approximately four feet from them as the crow flies; their whispers were coming in clear as a bell.

“That girl from our table is just sitting in there,” the first girl stage whispered, and I’ll assume pointed accusingly at my stall door.
“Which girl?”
“That really tall girl in the white sweater”
“What is she doing in there?”

First of all, my sweater was ivory, not white. Second of all, I was really glad they said tall instead of fat, or ugly, or snotty or something. Third of all, I CAN FRIGGIN HEAR YOU!!! I wanted to say it out loud. I wanted to say, “Do you think I’m in here waiting for my health? NO! I am waiting for you bitches to leave so I can tend to my very-important stomach business!!!”

But, alas, I am not that brave. Instead, I coughed. Twice. Then I waited for the first chick to leave and the second one to pee (surely staring at my shoes for identification purposes the whole time) and leave. Then, I was alone. And of course, at this point, I couldn’t even do anything. Those pretty, skinny, young girls with their conniving bathroom sneak attack had constipated me. I would spend the rest of the evening in horrible discomfort, thinking of about fifty different smart-ass retorts I could have spewed from my throne in the stall to shut those bitches up. Had they never shat in public before? Were they just so perfect that theirs really didn’t stink? Did they have no souls!!?!??!

Back at the table, I tried to quietly explain to Mike what had just happened, while simultaneously avoiding the blatant stares of the bathroom princesses who were now huddled together with their two friends in a gossiping hive of blonde ponytails and Prada bags.

“Honey, why can’t you just go like normal people?” Mike asked pleadingly

He really didn’t get it, and it suddenly occurred to me that my very own boyfriend might be just like the disgusting guy at my work who tucks a copy of the Wall Street Journal under his arm and strolls into the men’s room to perform his Number 9 Symphony with no shame whatsoever. It’s just so sad.

Seriously, I don’t know why I have such an issue with what is most certainly a natural bodily function. I don’t know why I have to hide it from the world, but I do, and I know I am not alone. I have my friend from work, and Laurie Notaro, and (I know for a fact) my sister, as allies. Aren’t there any others out there? We need to band together and get the word out before we all do irreparable damage to our colons, not to mention our pride. If there is someone waiting, leave her the hell alone. Tell all your friends; because I now have proof that there are some women in the world who do not know this very basic rule. It is all up to us now.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner...

The mayor stopped by my house a couple of weeks ago. The actual mayor of Denver.

Let me preface this by saying that I am sort of obsessed with Mayor Hickenlooper. Not only do I find his politics inspiring, but I also think he is just plain cool. Remember his dorky little self-deprecating campaign commercials where he was riding around on the scooter? I mean, what other “normal” politician does that? And what other large city has a mayor who owns a bar? Plus his wife is a writer, so I feel that he understands my creative plight, and that if he were to get to know me, he would really like me, too. In summary, I think our mayor is the best. He is trying to help the homeless and save the environment and make Denver a great place to live, and I just really like him. In fact, I’m not shy; I’ll say it. I LOVE MAYOR HICKENLOOPER!

I suppose I should also preface the story with the fact that this night in particular was Halloween. And the mayor lives in my neighborhood. Oh, and he has a son who is about 6 or so. And also, uh, he didn’t really stop by to see me, but instead to bring his son trick-or-treating. But still, he did stop by.

After having lived in an apartment for the past seven years, this was the first time that I have had my very own house, and therefore my very own trick-or-treaters vying for their chances to take my candy. I was so excited to hand it out that I rushed home from work and carefully prepared my stash. I made sure to purchase the good stuff, too, none of the crappy candy that kids hate. I was going to do this right so that these kids would be talking about me for years. There were Snickers, and Skittles, and Mike and Ikes, and KitKats, and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. Oh yes, only the best for my very first trick or treaters.

The first group of kids came to the door. They rang the bell, and instantly my crazy dog decided that he was not down with little goblins and Power Rangers hanging out on our doorstep. As I opened the door, he started with his low growl and then crescendoed into his loudest, most ferocious bark. Blue is about the sweetest dog in the world, and he is usually a huge wuss. However, this night, he was determined to protect me from the throngs of 8-year-olds who were plotting to steal the chocolate that he would otherwise pilfer from the bowl while I slept, in turn, adding a trip to the vet to that week’s to-do list. He wasn’t going to give it up that easily.

When the next group of kids came to the door, I figured Blue would get the hang of it and calm down. Instead, he bared his teeth and started growling and barking again. This time, one of the kids on the porch burst into tears and turned and ran without even getting any candy. I could see that my suddenly certifiable Australian Shepherd was making damn sure that this would be my first and last year of catering to the trick-or-treaters of Denver. I could be giving out laptop computers next year, and they still wouldn’t risk ringing the bell. My dog was ruining Halloween, but I had an idea.

The weather was gorgeous, so I loaded up my arms with the huge orange bowl full of candy, my magazine, and a monster glass of wine and I went outside to sit on the porch and wait for the kids. Blue stared at me through the window as I flipped pages and sipped from my glass. He wore a look that said, “you will pay for this,” but I didn’t care; I was hell-bent on enjoying it.

The kids started to come in droves, and they were adorable. Chubby little pumpkins, a pair of identical-twin angels, a couple of those prostitute-y Bratz girls, a very believable Dracula, and even a little rap star with his own bling. I was loving it. My perfect neighbor from across the street came by with her daughter, world’s cutest two-year old dressed as a little, tiny, chubby-cheeked cow. We chatted for awhile, and then they headed back home.

Just as they were leaving, my favorite kid of night walked right up to me like he knew me. He was a Storm Trooper which, as a child of the 80’s, I totally appreciated. He said “trickertreeeeet” and I reached into the bowl and lifted a big handful of candy, about to drop it into his bag. He examined what was in my hand, then looked down into my bowl and said, “Actually, I’ll just pick my own” which he did. He deliberated, then selected two pieces and said “This will be fine, thank you” as if he were my boss reviewing a document I had just dropped on his desk.

I love kids who are so precocious like that. He was with a grown-up, a man dressed in all black, topped off with a witch’s hat. I looked up to see what genius had raised this adorable Storm Trooper. There, standing on my front steps, was the mayor, and in my infinite wisdom, with my internal editor completely starstruck, that is exactly what I said.

“Oh, the mayor is here,” I bleated out to no one in particular.

And I’m sure he was thinking no shit, lady, but instead he just smiled and said “Shhhhhhhh” because, with my highly intellectual and apparently somewhat loud words, I was giving away his presence to the entire population of the neighborhood.

That's when I saw him look directly at the biggest glass of wine in the world which just happened to be sitting next to my feet. I saw him look at it, and then he looked back at me and then immediately ushered his son back down the steps. I just stood there like the idiot that I was, devastated that I had just completely embarrassed myself in front of the man whom all of Denver would cheerfully elect President tomorrow if given the chance.

I’m sure that the mayor now thinks that I am the crazy lady of the neighborhood who gets drunk and tries to hang out with little kids for kicks. I’m sure that as soon as he was out of sight, he took away the candy I had given to his son and threw it in the bushes. I’m sure that he has probably placed me under some sort of government watch; if I look closely I bet I can see the undercover officers on stakeout in front of my house, blowing on their hot coffee, staring at my door, taking turns for bathroom breaks like on Law and Order. I’m sure of all of this.

Anyway, about twenty minutes later, I saw the mayor and his son again, this time walking up the other side of the street heading to my perfect neighbor’s perfect house. She opened the door wide, giving the mayor a glimpse of how the perfect residents of his city lived, gorgeous art, shiny hardwood floors, not a rabid dog in sight. She graciously introduced herself and made perfect small talk about the upcoming light rail projects and the Democratic National Convention coming in August. She did what I wanted to do, and she did it with style, and grace and without a gallon of cheap wine in her hand. I just sat there silently berating myself for being so inarticulate, and for wearing a ripped sweatshirt, and for not thinking to at least put my wine in an opaque plastic cup of some sort like all the other classy people would have done. I looked on as the mayor and my perfect neighbor chatted like old friends. Then it got even worse when the mayor turned around and caught me staring at him longingly over the top of my magazine. I was just innocently watching him and wishing that I weren’t such an idiot, but I am sure that, to him, my mournful gaze resembled borderline stalking. ARRRRRGGH! Why am I such a loser??

So, that was my Halloween experience. I finally met the mayor, and I acted like an enormous ass. I guess there is an upside, though, and that is that I will definitely get the chance to see my hero, the mayor, in person again. Unfortunately, it will be when he and his lovely wife pull up for their dinner date at my neighbor’s house next week. Why didn’t I think of that?

Winter Whining

The first Fall chill hit just weeks ago followed shortly thereafter by the inaugural snowstorm of the season. I have always treasured the first snow, and in seeing this year's, I realized that I had no real memory of last year's. Breaking local tradition, the first snow this year came before Halloween, passing through a week or so early and allowing the trick-or-treaters to conduct their business with fabulous costumes unencumbered by the dreaded winter coats. Halloween was mild, and even today it is a downright San Diego-esque 76 degrees with the sun bright and sharp, slicing through the perfect blue sky. It does not fool me, though. I am a Colorado native, and I know the sneakiness that comes with Winter in Rockies. I know the feeling of falling asleep after a day spent golfing or hiking in the warm sun only to wake suddenly during the night to hear it, the turmoil outside as something new blows in on a strong wind. It is only the next morning when I come to in a different world, one blanketed in white, that I realize it wasn't a dream, that I was truly awake, albeit it for a fleeting moment, an aural witness to the brewing storm.

If I had possessed the wherewithal in those dark and early morning moments to go to the window, I am sure I would have seen the snow beginning its descent on the sleeping Denver streets, sneaking in when no one is paying attention, executing its plan of attack in silky silence. But in my sleep-starved state, I typically roll over, and wake in the morning to the smell. I swear there is a smell. Or maybe it is not a smell, but a feeling, the combination of the slight chill of my nose, and the low hum of the warm, dusty air rolling out of the vents, and the strange innate understanding that, outside the house, someone has carelessly depressed Mother Nature's mute button and forgotten to release it. There is nothing like that feeling, and everyone from Colorado knows it well.

I didn't realize it then, but I missed Winter last year. Yes, there were the silent overnight snowstorms and the sight of my excited dog plowing nose trails through the yard, whiskers and lashes coated with flakes each time he came up for air. Winter was definitely here last year, but I barely remember it. I remember skiing exactly twice, the second time resulting in a horrible fall, a torn MCL, and the remainder of the season spent snuggled down reading while all of my friends frolicked their weekends away on the slopes. I have a few Christmas gifts to show from last year, too, a book I truly love, and a sweater I wear frequently. The specifics are there, but the larger picture is a blur. It is a section of my memory, a piece of the continuum that both flew by and dragged on at the same time, and it left a scar. I'm sure that this scar will fade, in fact, it has already faded some, but it seems, if this year is any indication, that it will sting a little each year as Fall passes into Winter.

Last September, my mother was killed in a car accident. She was 53. I am, or was, her spitting image; strangers were always commenting on the similarity in our looks, friends always mentioning the way our voices were indiscernible over the phone. At age 30, right before the accident, I had even started to find myself saying her grown-up mom-isms and acting in her grown-up ways; the words would escape my lips and then my eyes would roll with the dread that every girl feels when she is faced with the realization that she is turning into her mother. Now, though, I do not dread it so much.

My mom was one of those moms who celebrated each season with decor and food and silly traditions. I forced myself last year to attempt the traditions that my mother had instilled in us as so important, but instead I was tormented by grief and anger and a brokenheartedness that can only be described as debilitating. I started to bake the things we had always baked, but ended up in a helpless ball of tears on the kitchen floor as soon as the smell of my mother's Rum Ball recipe hit my nose. I put up my Christmas tree, and then stared at it pointlessly and for hours at a time, the lights turning to blurry stars as my eyes welled over. I couldn't bear to shop for the traditional "ornament of the year"; 2006 will forever be without one on my tree, the year that was simply missed. When a blizzard shut the city down, I was mistakenly halfway through dialing her phone number before I realized that she would not be around to talk the wasted day away.

This year, I think things will be better. I can feel it. What I have realized in the past few months that had evaded me before is that I am resilient and that I can make it. I have learned to laugh again at the things my mother would have thought funny too, and I have learned that her traditions, so many for each season, are actually gifts and not tortuous memories. So this Winter, I am looking forward to what is ahead. I have accepted that the Rum Balls will always have the tiniest amount of bitterness from now on. There will be no more snow day marathon phone calls, and I will always ache just a little bit at Christmastime. However, I am ready to face those things because they come along with a happy snow-dog carving trails in the yard, and a Sunday morning cup of coffee enjoyed while staring out the window at the clean, crisp, white world, and a ride up the ski lift above the wintery planet, with a knee and a heart that are still a little sore, but healing.