MiddleSister

Countdown

2010-01-22T08:31:00.000-07:00

I am currently taking some time off from MiddleSister to work on my first book. My current writing is tied into what I am working on over at 5-4-3-2-1, something that is very important to me. Please take a look! See you all soon!

Just When I Figured Out Who I Am

2009-09-08T16:00:00.013-06:00

(Please forgive the formatting issues. I have no idea what is wrong with it, and I'm pretty sure it isn't me this time )

My dog changed his name this month, or more accurately, I changed it for him. We moved into our newly purchased home, and along with all of the other address changing activities, I miraculously remembered that I needed to get a new tag for Blue's collar. At Petsmart I selected an appropriately blue, bone-shaped tag in the self-serve engraving machine and then I began to type in the same words I have typed on that same screen every time I have moved in the past six years: Blue Volle. Then I had to stop for a second. In just months I am getting married. Blue is already the pseudo-adopted son of my fiancé, Mike, but when we get married, it occurred to me, his adoption will become final. To non-pet owners, this might seem strange, but pets actually do have last names. At the vet, on their registrations, and, for many of them, on their tags. I tapped the delete key a few times, and then filled in Mike’s last name. I hit print before I could change my mind, and watched through the glass as the electronic engraving arm screeched out each letter on the metal. It’s official, Blue has a new last name, and it didn’t even require a trip to the DMV.

While I understand that marrying someone comes with the option for a woman to change her last name, that thought has only half-occurred to me on and off over the years until I actually stood there in Petsmart as a soon-to-be-married person. It's easy for a dog. I just changed it for him, and he is still the same mutt he's always been.

I’ll be honest, though, I don’t want to change my own. At all.

I am not marrying Mike early in my twenties as was the custom not so long ago. I am 33, and have a 10-year career and a life and an identity, all under the umbrella of the name I already have. I have published work as Cara Volle, and have started a business as Cara Volle, and beam proudly when I am referred to as one of the Volle girls, or the middle Volle sister. When my younger sister got married, she changed her name instantly, and it always felt strange to me to say it. It never rolled off of my tongue or pen, and the dissonance always echoed after I had said or written it. She would always remain a Volle sister to me, but my older sister, who kept her last name, remains a Volle sister to everyone. I always want to be a Volle sister, too, and that is the first reason I don’t want to change my last name.

The other reason is that Mike is the proud owner of a 13-letter monstrosity of a last name. It rarely fits in the allotted space on forms; his email address takes a full minute to type out, and at the request of every customer service person he meets, he has to spell it a minimum of three times, with the tricky double A, and a times-two on S-C-H and then a bunch of other letters thrown in for good measure.

I have a friend who, upon hearing me say Mike’s last name, said incredulously, “His last name is Schnarf-Schnarf?” And while I won’t plaster Mike’s name all over the Internet, I will say that this isn’t far off.

I have frequently seen Mike hand over his driver’s license or credit card, only to provoke the girl behind the counter to stare at it wide-eyed, turn it from left to right in her hands and say something like, “Wow, that is a helluva last name.” That happens to him every single day. Mike has even told me, with a last name like his, that his first name is basically irrelevant. People don’t even notice it. Great. Just what I strive for in life, more irrelevancy.

All humor aside, I think that this name-changing decision belongs to each and every woman who marries, and I think it is personal and that there is not a right answer. We all have our reasons for keeping our names, taking their names, or constructing some combination of the two, or just making something up. The great thing about living in this century is that we can do whatever the hell we want, and I hold that right very dear to my heart.

I have chosen to take Mike’s name, and while there is a large element of biting the bullet involved, I appreciate that it is my choice, and that my reasons can be whatever I want them to be.

I know that my taking of Mike’s name is important to him, and I can respect that he feels that way. He even said, “I don’t care what our last name is as long as it is the same,” which made me respect his feelings even more, although I won’t say that I think he totally meant it. His point was that he wants us to be a family, and to him, a name feels like part of that. That makes me feel a little warm and fuzzy for sure.

Having the same last name as my children is also very important to me. I don’t think it necessarily makes a difference, or that it scars a child in some way to have a mother with a different last name. In fact, I am sure there is a good lesson about strong women with their own identities to be presented in that scenario, but it is a personal requirement, vital enough in my mind to cause me to give up something that I treasure.

I know that I will always be a Volle on the inside, and that I will always be a part of where I came from, part of a family who is hilarious and classy and smart, where sarcasm and hugs are intertwined, and where everyone always gets it and where no one has to prove anything to anyone else. Those are things that never go away no matter what my name is. In addition, I told Mike that I will continue to write under my maiden name and that will be my way to keep a little part of my Volle world in, what is to me, a very big way. As I strive to one day become a published author, I know that I will get to do that as the original me, and I’m pretty sure I can explain that to my future children.

In the meantime, I will stick to planning our wedding and settling into our home and try not to dwell on the paperwork and emotions that will come with changing my name next year, and with that, selling off just a little piece of the person I am. Instead, I will think of my Mike and I a few years down the road, walking off into the sunset hand-in-hand with a gangly child or two and our big scruffy dog. The Schnarf-Schnarf family on their way to living happily ever after.

For Kate. We'll Always Have Vegas

2009-08-12T12:27:00.010-06:00

This is my best friend, Katy. She works a demanding corporate job, has a beautiful four-year old daughter, and a husband, and a dog and a home and a busy family life. I have Mike and our house and dog, but we live a fairly carefree, childless existence and have a lot of late nights, and last-minute social events and vacations that we cram in between our jobs and my extracurricular writing and the twelve sports we train for. Mike and I ski all winter, Kate takes her daughter ice skating or to the library on those cold weekends. I stay up late tippy-tapping on my laptop several nights a week, then float in and out of my contract job as I’m needed, while Kate is at her desk by seven AM every day being the boss of people. Mike and I make our home in the heart of the city; she lives a 40 minute, traffic-infested drive away in suburbia. With our crazy and opposite schedules, it becomes really difficult to see each other on a regular basis. We manage to fit in the occasional drink, and I never miss a Chuck E Cheese birthday celebration for one of my favorite little girls in the world, but our quality time has quickly diminished over the years as we have gone from blithe twenty-somethings to card-carrying members of the responsibility crowd.

Katy is a Catholic Republican; I’m an Agnostic, bed-wetting liberal. She’s an organized logic master; I’m a head-in-the-clouds wanderer. She always says the exact right thing in every situation, and I have my foot in my mouth so often that I’ve actually acquired the taste for it. We miss each other.

Our daily emails are hilarious (if I do say so myself) and fill a small void, and the random days when we can sneak away for a glass of wine, though few and far between, are godsends. A couple hours together is a way of recharging that neither of us can explain. We have our soul mates and life partners at home, and we love and appreciate them with every fiber of our beings, however, we share something that only the two of us understand. There is a Gaelic term, Anam Cara, meaning soul friend. My mother was Irish, and my name is actually the Gaelic word for friend, which is maybe one reason why this term has always resonated with me, but it’s also because it has such a strong meaning behind it. I don’t think there are many times in life when people end up being so close that they truly know your soul. Your spouse, a sibling, maybe a parent, but people from the outside world don’t always get it. Katy gets mine, and I get hers. We will be connected for the rest of our lives.

With Kate there are deep, questioning conversations about life and relationships, and politics and careers and who in the hell we are. Then there are the uncontrollable comedy routines where we feed off each other for hours and end up clutching our stomachs and wiping our tears while those around us wonder what happened that was just so damn funny. I can go to Kate with my most confusing relationship problem or my most petty fashion question and come out on the other side with an answer that I know is honest and in my best interest. There are the times when it is completely unspoken, like Katy silently taking care of all the food and drink at my mom’s funeral reception without being asked because she knew I, drowning in shock and grief, had simply forgotten about it. Or the times when we say it all, even the hard things like “I think you’re making a mistake” and “Are you really happy?” and “How do you really feel?” and even “You’re being ridiculous.” or “Maybe you shouldn’t wear that.” The boys definitely couldn’t get away with all of those. Sometimes, we really dig in deep and get to the core of who we are, and other times, there is the pure and harebrained fun.

It is because of the fun that we came to a consensus about the necessity of an annual trip. We needed a weekend together once a year to get away. Away from the boys, from our separate responsibilities, and even away from town. It would be toward the end of summer or beginning of fall, before the craziness of the holidays starts to take over, which, lately, seems like sometime in early October. It was decided. And we were psyched.

As we embarked on the planning for the inaugural trip (Vail), I was picturing the next 50 years or so, spending a weekend in a different random spot in the country each year and exploring together, all while laughing hysterically and having a few glasses of wine. We would start in our wilder years going out on the town wearing sassy outfits, spend the in-between years hitting the cities with the best museums and bookstores while bitching about our teenagers and how our husbands still seem incapable of taking out the trash after 20 years of training, and finish sometime in our early 80’s when one or both of us had just become too old to travel after last year’s trip to the Bingo World Cup or the Knitting Hall of Fame. Then we would reluctantly hang up our annual tradition and rock in our creaky chairs side by side reminiscing over photos and black coffee at the retirement home. There would be no regrets because we would have seen it all.

This week, after returning from a hilarious weekend in Vegas, our emails were flying back and forth, filled with inside jokes from the trip that I will write about someday if I ever find it possible to recapture the actual outrageousness of it all. At the end of about my third email, I said, “Well, I guess it’s time to start thinking about where we should go next.”

Katy responded back in about three seconds, “Why mess with a perfect thing, Vegas again next year?”

The sparkle, I'm sure, was already dancing in her bright blue eyes, and I immediately knew that the World’s Largest Ball of Twine would have to wait.

Here’s to soul-friends, lifelong laughter, and the best comedy partner a girl could dream of. Here's to weddings where the priest sees my underwear, hockey games when you should never have worn clogs, and curly-headed princesses with adorable, itchy butt cheeks. Here's to dead roots, real pearls, and the great state of Connecticut, all at the same craps table. Here's to five chairs here and three chairs there and two girls who aren't with us. Here’s to the memories and the future craziness of it all. Here's to Vegas, Sass.

Why I Tri

2009-08-03T19:56:00.008-06:00

I signed up for my first sprint triathlon almost four years ago. It was January, and I was sitting in my cubicle at my old job, my leg splayed out in the aisle next to me encased in a metal brace. It was the armor around my torn MCL that I had damaged while on the ski slopes. I was sad and depressed, and I was 60 pounds overweight, not to mention finding it almost impossible to quit smoking. I felt empty and ugly.

I’m not sure what possessed me to sign up for the race, although I am pretty sure I felt the need to scare myself out of the depression and the pattern of emotional eating that seemed to always accompany my funks. I had previously read about the Tri for the Cure somewhere, but that day I had a sudden surge of guts that caused me to check out the website. It was a sprint triathlon for women only. There would be a half-mile swim. (I hadn’t been in the pool since my days on the high school swim team 13 years prior, and the thought of seeing myself in a bathing suit caused acid to rise into my throat.) There would also be a 12 mile bike ride. (I thought about it as I studied the website some more and realized that the last time I had been on a bicycle was right before I had gotten my driver’s license.) And the last part of the race would be a 3.1-mile run. No problem. I could totally do that. I mean, sure I was out of shape, and heavier than I had ever been before, oh, and my knee was currently in a brace that barely allowed me to walk, but I thought, it couldn’t be that hard. Right? I paid my 85 dollars, and convinced myself that I could accomplish a lot in the seventh months before the race.

Or maybe not.

I spent five out of the next seven months not really doing much of anything except continuing to feel sorry for myself, eating and drinking too much, and complaining about the way I felt and looked, but never owning it and taking action. Two months before the race my friend, Brenna, asked me if I was still going to do it. I hemmed and hawed and said, “I don’t know; probably not.”

And then I made a bunch of excuses. My knee was still bothering me a lot. I needed to get my old bike back from someone I had lent it to. I hadn’t been feeling so great lately. I needed a gym membership with a pool. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Somehow though, she managed to talk me out of the haze I was in and into doing the race. She was signing up, too, and we would tackle it together. She could barely swim; I was vastly unsure of my cycling and running skills. We had two months to figure it out.

My first outing on a bicycle was traumatic to say the least. Brenna and her then fiancé and Mike and I hit the road. All three of them are avid cyclists. Next to that trio, I was a hot mess. I was wobbly and tentative on a hand-me-down bike that was about six inches too small for my six-foot-one, bordering-on-obese frame. I felt like a circus clown cruising around on a child’s tricycle, although I was much less coordinated. My brand new helmet and rolled up yoga pants reeked of my amateur status. As soon as Brenna saw my bike seat, she said, “You’re going to have to get a new saddle.”

Once I realized that a saddle and a seat are the same thing, I asked why. She said, “If you don’t know why when we’re done riding today, I’ll explain it to you”

The brief ride that followed was devastating. I fell just short of having a seizure as each car drove past me. I was in the bike lane, sure, but all I could keep picturing was one false move, me falling sideways into the road, and my head being crushed like a grapefruit beneath the tire of an aggressive Prius. The other three rode ahead of me, going only slightly faster than my snail’s pace of about two miles an hour. They almost couldn’t go slow enough to let me keep up.

When we returned from our ride, which couldn’t have been more than about 6 miles or so, I said to Mike, “I’m going to have to get a new saddle,” and hobbled inside to remove the sandpaper that had seemingly been planted in my underwear

One down.

I dragged Mike to the pool at 24hour Fitness the following weekend, and I was delighted to discover that I could still swim. In fact, I had finally found the one thing I was better at, athletically speaking, than Mike is. Even though putting on my newly purchased, plus-sized bathing suit was depressing, the weightlessness I felt in the water, and the fact that I was still capable of effortlessly gliding through lap after lap did wonders for my severely broken self-esteem. I felt just like myself for the first time in a long time, and the muscles beneath my thick layer of fat felt suddenly useful again. My body was remembering what it felt like to be an athlete instead of a professional depression victim. After swimming for an hour, I reluctantly dragged myself out of the pool, showered, went home, and promptly slept for 10 straight hours. It wasn’t the usual depression-induced sleep; it was a good, tired, earned sleep. While I was sleeping, the old me was just starting to wake up.

Running is the obvious third member of the trifecta. I have always had a weird relationship with running. I actually like it. But I have never been good at it, even when I was really slender. Add 60 pounds to that, and a few more years of puffing on Marlboro Lights, and I was basically screwed.

That first attempt at running will stick in my mind for probably the rest of my life and will keep me from ever becoming sedentary again. I slipped into a pair of XXL sweat pants and a giant t-shirt and put my dog on his leash. My knee was mostly healed, although the strain of weighing almost 250 pounds was still the cause of some occasional pain. With my trusty dog, Blue, by my side, I walked out the door and up the block towards the corner. I told myself that when I reached the corner, I would begin to jog. And that is what I did. As each foot hit the ground, I felt every extra pound that had gathered on my tall body jiggle and jump around. After I heard the smack of Nike to pavement, I would feel the meat of the corresponding thigh continue it’s Jello-like motion for a full second afterwards. A car drove by, and the driver stared openly. Tears started to run down my face as I realized that I must look absolutely ridiculous. I made it one block before I had to stop. My knee was screaming and my lungs were on fire. I walked for about a mile and made another attempt at a run. This time, I made it about half a block and could go no further. This was not going to be good.

Eventually, the day of the triathlon arrived. As I stood in the water with all the other women who were between the ages of 30 and 35 waiting nervously for the gun to start us off, I felt like I was going to throw up. I felt fat and exposed and scared out of my mind about what I was about to do. Then the race started. The water became a whirlpool of athletic 30- to 35-year old limbs and torsos. It was organized chaos, only organized in the sense that everyone was headed in the same direction. I took a foot to the face and got a noseful of water. I freaked, but then realized that my feet could still touch. I thought, I am just going to stand up and turn towards the shore and walk my fat ass the hell out of here. Then suddenly the wake of 100 swimming women picked me up, and I was doing something that I had done naturally my whole life. I was swimming, and I was good at it. I swam past half of the women in my wave, cranked my propeller arms around and around, and felt better about myself than I had in a year.

I finished my swim in a very respectable 19 minutes. The bike and run would be a different story, and it would ultimately take me almost two hours and twenty minutes to complete the race. But complete it I did.

Yesterday, I completed my fourth sprint triathlon. I did it in 2 hours and 2 minutes, feeling slightly defeated because I really thought I was going to break that damn two-hour mark this time. Real triathletes would probably laugh at a time of two hours for a sprint race. It is hardly impressive, and many everyday athletes do it in an hour forty five or less. The elite do it in just over an hour. But I only let myself feel defeated for a few minutes when I remembered that I’m not competing with the elite triathletes of the world. (if I was, I'm pretty certain they wouldn’t feel too threatened) I am competing with the sad, fat girl who started this race three years ago, and I am competing against her with everything that I have. And she is backing down. In this competition, I get a little faster every time. I weigh 47 pounds less than when I first put my shaky toe in that tepid reservoir. I will never touch another cigarette in my life. I can lift heavy things and do hard stuff. When I absentmindedly reach to scratch my arm or leg, I am shocked to find that the flesh is firm and muscular. I sign up for scary things like half marathons and 10k races and then I show up and do it. I log miles and miles running around my neighborhood knowing that the drivers are now staring at my backside in a good, albeit chauvinistic and degrading, way.

Today I turn 33, and I do so knowing that I will never go back to being what I was; I’m in too deep now. Instead of being addicted to ice cream and nicotine, I’m addicted to the endorphins and the runner’s high, and the happy lolling tongue of my dog as we hit mile three. I’m addicted the rhythm and purpose it gives my day and the way it allows me to have an ice-cold Coors Light or two on a summer afternoon without worrying about the calories. I’m addicted to the thought that I will someday raise children who are strong and aware of what their bodies are capable of and who takes risks to see what they can do next. I have more goals to meet along this road: shorter times, longer distances, smaller jeans. There is nothing standing in my way, though. Tri me.

Due to Trying Economic Times...

2009-01-28T16:14:00.002-07:00

Please don’t expect the usual today. I am venting a bit.

I knew it was coming. I started my new job in August; the banks started begging for government money in September. My company made the first round of layoffs in November. I kept quiet, did my work, tried not to cause any problems or be a bitch to anyone, and attempted to look busy even though I really wasn’t. That worked through two more rounds of layoffs, my friend from the marketing department even getting cut two weeks ago. Then Monday morning my boss sent me a meeting invite with no subject. Just me and her. I knew it was going to happen before it actually happened, but for some reason there was a relative calm involved. At least on my part; my boss looked like a wreck. I went back to my desk and turned on my computer. The headline on CNN read “68,000 Jobs Cut Today in North America” I am suddenly not alone.

It was a good job, albeit short-lived. The pay was great, I never felt stressed out, and I left at four everyday with everything in my inbox completed. While writing about electronic components (motherboards, AC/DC converters, accelerometers, microchips of various shapes and sizes) was new to me, I never once found it all that interesting, and creativity in a company comprised of almost solely engineers is seemingly frowned upon. I never felt passion about working there, but I did feel stability.

I write this from my favorite neighborhood bar. Mike and I frequent this place because of the great burgers, nice staff, and the proximity to our house (stumbling distance for sure). I have never really been in here in the light of day, though. There are three older gentlemen to my left talking animatedly about past drinking encounters and establishments. Another man sits to my right in silence, sipping a Budweiser and staring at ESPN, still donning his knit hat with Elmer-Fudd style earflaps. There is one guy in the far corner at a table sitting in front of his own laptop. I imagine that he is working on his resume, which is what I should be doing. The Beatles sing Blackbird out of the speakers. I am so not ready to be out of work again.

I am trying to have a good attitude. Having been laid off before, I have learned that being positive is important. So here are the positives as it stands right now:

I am going skiing tomorrow with my also-laid-off marketing friend.
My hair looks awesome because I dropped $200 on it last weekend before I knew what was coming.
They say the economy should hit bottom and head back up any time now.
I have a few writing projects that could potentially use a dusting off so that they can become more than just projects.
I get a paycheck and health benefits through the end of March.
My dog is very happy about the situation. He knows the drill: more walks, more tennis ball throwing, more rides in the car.
I have some freelance work basically lined up already.
Umm.. I write this from my favorite neighborhood bar.

The last time I got laid off, the company I was working for eliminated their entire marketing department so I had many friends in the same situation. We were in our early to mid-twenties, and they made the mistake of giving us six month’s salary in one check. We did what any other intelligent, unemployed young people would do: we took our giant checks and went to Vegas. I am older and wiser now. With that comes being scared shitless even though I don’t have to be. Mike does well in the recession-proof beer industry, which actually tends to thrive in times like these when people need a cheap way to forget about their troubles. I am not above letting him handle things until I find something. I feel above it, but I’m pretty sure I’m actually not. Life has a funny way of always working out; I know this. Even the shittiest things have a way of teaching lessons and all of that other crap that supposedly makes you a better person.

This could be a chance in disguise, the kick in the ass I needed, or a break with a reason. I know these things. And I know that I shouldn’t be whining right now because there are 67,999 other people who are going through the same thing I am this week, (and apparently millions more since September) and I’m sure many of them don’t have a beer-magnate sugar daddy to save them. Still the visions of buying our cute little Craftsman bungalow and having an awesome wedding are suddenly slipping down the drain, and I am feeling a little pissed off about it. Wasn’t Barack Obama supposed to put on a red cape and come save everyone?

I am going to give our President a few weeks. And I am going to give myself a little time to figure this all out. And I am going to be productive with this time that I have been given. I can catch up on the laundry and be a mooch and write the great American novel at the same time. Stay tuned.

Not Marlo Thomas, But That Other Girl

2009-01-09T21:46:00.009-07:00

In the past, I was never one to picture getting married. I never went husband hunting. I never accepted dates with the thought in my mind that I would potentially marry the suitor. I never swooned over white dresses and flowers and never felt even the slightest bit jealous during the seven times I have served as a bridesmaid. I have even been proposed to before in a young, dumb, lovestruck moment, and as young as I was, I still had the wherewithal to say no. Then I broke up with that guy a week later because it was just too much pressure.

I planned on making my own way in the world. Living the single life, getting a couple more dogs and a house with some land, maybe adopting after forty, traveling the world, writing quietly in a sunny corner of my own house, on my own terms, doing things my own way. In fact right now, as I type these thoughts on to the screen of my little MacBook, it all still sounds really appealing.

I’ve changed though.

I don’t know what the life-altering event or moment was, but I have definitely had a serious change of heart. Maybe it was meeting the right guy, or reaching a certain age, or becoming the recipient of a ticking biological clock that I never asked for or expected. Maybe it was seeing my niece and nephew and my best friend’s daughter and how they become more like those people that I love each day--- yeah, I’ll take some of that. Maybe it was realizing that sad and scary things are going to happen in life, and while being independent and self-sufficient will always be considered virtues in my mind, I now know that there will be times when I need a true teammate and he needs me back. Maybe it is a combination of all of the above. I just never thought I would turn into that girl, but I think it may have happened while I wasn’t paying attention.

Maybe just a tiny little bit.

Mike and I are going on four years of togetherness. We are in our early thirties. We love each other and want to be together. We share a home and a budget and chores and furry children. We both want children of the non-furry variety. I was ready just to dive in and start with the babies, but Mike thought we should be all traditional-like and get married first. This discussion took place about a year ago. We’ve looked at rings. We’ve talked about potential wedding venues and styles. We’ve talked about the future children we would have, potentially redheaded, and definitely tall, and surely with golden eyes. Daniel (if I get my way) for a boy, Alexis for a girl. These are real discussions we have had. He even screwed himself by setting a deadline, stating “We will definitely be engaged by the end of the year”

Then my friends started to get in on the action.

Mike and I went backpacking in July and all of my friends convinced me that he was taking me out into the middle of the woods to ask me to marry him. I bought into that theory. It made sense, right? Just the two of us and our trusty dog alone in the wilderness. Side by side climbing mountains, making macaroni and cheese, and sipping whiskey from a flask by the fire. The blue skies, the birdsong, the majestic Colorado mountains on all sides. What a perfect place to propose. Ok, except for the shitting in the woods, and the dog romantically sharing our two-man tent. Giant blisters? Check. Dreadlocks forming in my formerly cute hair? Check. Both of us smelling very similar to large farm animals. Check and check. Maybe the backpacking proposal scenario wasn’t the way to go.

A couple weeks later, I raced in a triathlon on my birthday. A girlfriend became convinced that Mike was going to propose as I crossed the finish line. She spun a romantic tale of me triumphing over a major physical challenge on the same day I turned 32, and then being rewarded at the end of it all with a giant romantic and public gesture from my ultra creative and adoring boyfriend. I was horribly sick during the race, and it was 97 degrees outside that day. There were a couple times during the last stretch of the run where I thought I might not make it. The thought of Mike asking me to marry him as I crossed the line pushed me through. As I finished the race, Mike was standing at the line poised to go down on one knee, when suddenly he whipped out his effing iPhone and began telling me what my splits were (worse than last year when I was not in the throes of bronchitis, and when it was 70 degrees outside). My dad stood beside him and said “You don’t look so good, Cara; you’re very red.”

Needless to say, there was no romantic marriage proposal.

There have been other opportunities over the past few months, too, but no such luck. However when the holidays rolled around and Mike voluntarily booked a romantic, secluded, riverside cabin in wine country where we would stay for two nights before heading down to his parents’ house in San Francisco, I knew what was coming. He did this voluntarily. He PLANNED stuff out that didn’t involve purchasing furniture or six hundred-dollar ski boots. He did it all on his own.

I told friends and co-workers that this was it. That was a really dumb thing to do.

Upon arriving in the Russian River Valley, we stopped at the grocery store before heading to the cabin so that we could enjoy a light dinner of wine and cheese and fruit and dark chocolate. It was all very romantic. I began to analyze every move furiously. I applied lipgloss approximately every three minutes. I fussed with my hair and tried desperately to make my 22-hour-roadtrip sweatpants look as sexy as possible. We sat in front of the fire. We sat in the hot tub. We snuggled up on the couch. We gazed into each others eyes. And then... nothing happened. Except for that I started to get a little tired of being so polite and ladylike.

The next morning we were going to taste wine at several vineyards. I put on a little extra mascara and actually blew out my hair.

I wasn’t real smart at the first tasting. Mike was buying wine from the guy behind the counter, and apparently when they find out you’re buying, they start to get a little more liberal with the pouring. I was really enjoying myself. I was sampling champagne and pinot noir one after another, a lethal combination. As we were leaving, I stated tipsily that I needed a sandwich to which Mike replied, “You are so cute.”

Ummm, just for the record, neither one of us say things like that very often. I mean we both dish out the compliments on a regular basis, and we are affectionate and loving, but we really don’t dote that much. I knew it was a sign. But first, I needed that sandwich.

That night, back at the cabin, we cooked together and talked and laughed and joked around the way we do all the time. After all that fun, we went to sit on the couch in the living room in front of the fire. Mike dimmed the lights and handed me a glass of wine. I got super nervous. This was it. I was going to get engaged right then. I was going to say yes and spend the rest of my life with this crazy redhead whom I adore. I was going to get jewelry! Mike sat down next to me, threw his arm around my shoulders, kissed me haphazardly, half on my cheek, half in my hair. Then he said the words I will never forget.

“Packers-Bears have Monday night, wanna watch?”

And under normal circumstances my answer would have been a resounding yes. Do you know why? Because unlike so many other women, I actually know football. This alone should be grounds for proposal! But alas, it was not to be. And so I did what any other low-maintenance, sports-loving, marriage-quality girl would do. I shrieked at him. And I teared up. And I became everything about being a girl that I have always hated “What in the hell are we doing here? We came here to watch FOOTBALL!?!?” I was aghast and Mike was, well, he was simply floored. Needless to say, it was a long discussion that followed.

His beloved Packers lost to Chicago that night, and I lost the game I had been playing with my own emotions. I admitted defeat, and gave up trying to control everything. I am not proud of my behavior. I am not that girl. Adding insult to injury, a girl who is dating one of Mike’s buddies told one of my best friends that all I talk about is getting married. I don’t think she realized she was talking to one of my closest friends and that it would get directly back to me, and you know how girls can be sometimes. But still, as a smart woman with what I believe is a lot to offer intellectually and conversationally, it stung a little bit to hear that. (in my defense, another girl at the table had just gotten engaged, and we were on the subject, but whatever)

So, I am going to take a moment to write my own vows. Only these aren’t wedding vows.

I am vowing to let it go.

I vow to not mention weddings or marriage to Mike or to anyone else until I actually have a wedding and a marriage to plan. And even then, I will keep it to a bare minimum, because everyone knows that girl, too.

I vow to wait patiently for what I know will happen in due time, even though it makes me feel like one of the secretaries from Mad Men waiting around for a man to save her. Still, I vow to enjoy the moments we have together as a young, childless, unmarried couple while I still can.

I vow to not again, in passing, say things to Mike like, “Did you know that babies born to women over the age of 35 have a forty per cent increased chance of Downs Syndrome?” and then glide effortlessly out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

I vow to be the low-maintenance girl he loves, and I vow not to put pressure on him.

I vow not to be that girl anymore.

Till death do I part.

A Cabbage Patch Christmas Special

2008-12-03T14:41:00.005-07:00

It was December 1984. I was an eight-year old third grader dealing with a serious issue, and I needed some answers right away. Some of the kids in my class had started fairly somber discussions about the fact that Santa Claus may not actually be real. I joined in with a couple of the other believers, arguing the fact that Santa Claus did indeed exist and offering proof in the form of munched-on cookies that I had left for him last year and a pink bicycle under the tree that I was certain my single mother could not afford. This debate going down right in the middle of Mrs. Green’s class was a heated one, so much so, that I turned to my mother for some adult wisdom. I knew she would be straight with me.

However, instead of being straight with me when I asked her outright if there was a Santa, she pulled off a skilled move. “Do you think there’s a Santa?” she asked me in the way she had of always talking to children as if they were grown ups.

I thought about it a lot. What did I think? Was it possible that I had been a victim of a cruel prank each year for my entire life? Was my mom really the one putting the gifts under the tree each year like the kids were saying at school? It seemed totally plausible and absolutely impossible at the same time. That is when a genuine stroke of genius hit my tiny eight-year old brain.

The holiday season of 1984 went down in history as the year of the Cabbage Patch Kid. There were stories all over the news every evening about how the illusive dolls were impossible to find. Mothers and fathers were fighting and pushing and yelling in order to get their hands on one of the ugly things for their precious children. There were brawls in the aisles of K-Marts across the country, and footage on CBS of grownups playing angry games of tug-o-war with the innocent, dimpled cloth children. It was mayhem, and my little sister and I watched enrapt, totally impressed that a toy for kids our age could garner so much adult attention. The news stories were all saying the same thing: it was completely impossible to get a Cabbage Patch Kid.

I’d only seen one of them in person once. A girl in my class had one and brought in to show it off. It had blonde yarn hair with wide blue eyes and a blue and white checked dress reminiscent of Dorothy’s in the Wizard of Oz. I asked if I could hold the doll, and the girl was actually a real bitch about it, so I let it go. Some people’s kids. Either way, I knew we were kind of poor, so I understood that this was probably going to be as close to a real live Cabbage Patch Kid as I ever got. Until, of course, the aforementioned stroke of genius.

I told my mother right then, about two weeks before Christmas, that I would know there was a Santa Claus if I had a Cabbage Path Kid waiting under the tree for me that year. I even added on that my Cabbage Patch Kid would have green eyes like me, just to make sure that Santa, whoever he or she may be, knew that I meant business.

Had I been old enough to notice such things, I’m sure there was an obvious twinkle in my mother’s eye as I said this. I know the twinkle well from my older years, but as a kid, I just wasn’t as attuned to those nuances.

Sometime during the previous July, my mom had been out shopping while my sisters and I were at my dad’s for the weekend. She had picked up a couple of strange looking dolls on sale thinking that they might make cute Christmas gifts for me and my little sister. She stuck them up on the top shelf of her closet with a few other gifts that she had purchased throughout the year and there they sat. Those poor little Cabbage Patch Kids sat in the dark closet for the next six months, never realizing how popular they had become out in the real world. My mom just sat back and watched all the crazies with what could have only been a slightly smug look on her face.

On Christmas morning 1984, my sister and I ran down to the Christmas tree the way that small children are wont to do. We tore into our stockings and the piles of fabulous gifts under the tree. Among many other things, there were Cabbage Patch tee shirts and cassette tapes for each of us, and while I appreciated these items, I was still vocal about the fact that they did not count. Just as I was about to throw in the towel and write off Santa Claus for good, my mom pointed out two larger wrapped boxes, side-by-side, tucked at the very back of the tree against the wall. Bingo. I knew the shape of the box by heart. I grabbed my sister by the sleeve of her nightgown, “Courtney, look!”

Hungrily, we ripped the paper from our respective boxes. Two Cabbage Patch Kids with green eyes. Mine was a pigtailed redhead named Lee-Ann Lottie (scarily, this is what my real children may actually look like if I hang on to Mike). Courtney’s was a brunette who actually bore a striking resemblance to her. They had been delivered to us straight from Santa Claus, and we were basically the luckiest kids in the world at that very moment. It was a Christmas miracle right there in our little townhouse. Just for that last bit of proof, I pulled Lee-Ann from her box and yanked down her tiny pants. Sure enough, right across her right buttock was the signature. Xavier Roberts. It might as well have been signed by Santa himself; I was officially a believer again.

A few months later, because she felt it was time and because I was obviously a little too dense to figure it out on my own like all the other third graders, my mother explained to me how the whole Santa thing really worked. I took it sort of hard, but told her that I understood. She then asked me not to tell my sister, who was only six and was still young enough to believe. I promised not to…

…and then went directly upstairs to find Courtney. I found her in the bathroom sitting on the toilet with a Berenstein Bears book in her lap. “Corky, we have to talk,” I told her, trying to portray the seriousness of the situation on my face. I went on to explain to her everything my mom had asked me not to. She got upset and went running to my mom who had no choice but to confirm the bad news. I had done what I felt I had to. It was only fair that we should both be given the option of grieving the loss of Santa at the same time. My mom told me a few years ago that she got a call from Courtney’s teacher not long after my spilling of the beans. Apparently some of the other first-graders’ parents were upset that Courtney was explaining the Santa concept to their children prematurely. I’m sure my mom wanted to strangle me at that point.

A couple of months after we lost our mom in 2006, I randomly opened one of her boxes of stuff right before Christmas. I am not sure what I was looking for, and I had been pretty reluctant to open any of it until that point. But for some reason I opened a box that was full of random paperwork and photographs that had been haphazardly tucked away. I sat on the floor of my little office ,which had been converted into a storage room for my mother’s things until I could figure out what to do with them, and I went through that single box. There were a few old bills, a 1950’s picture of my great grandfather and his dog back in Ireland, some random photographs of my sisters and I as little kids. I pulled out my mom’s nursing license and her citizenship papers, probably two of the most important papers that she had in her lifetime, and right beneath them were the two most important papers that she had left behind. Two ornate birth certificates from the summer of 1984 for two very special dolls, signed by Xavier Roberts. Right then, right when I was so broken, so devoid of holiday spirit, and so desperately craving something, anything at all to believe in, I got all the evidence of Santa Claus that I will ever need, and I will never doubt again.

The Furniture Row

2008-12-01T20:40:00.008-07:00

Mike and I belong together, this much I know. What is baffling to both of us, and to many of our family members is how we figured out that we belong together without killing each other. The writer and the engineer, the creative and the math-nerd, the seat-of-the-pants flyer and the extensive analyzer.

We somehow managed to get through the first year and a half of our relationship by cracking each other up while enjoying many of the same outdoor activities. I think all of the skiing and hiking and wrestling with my dog and laughing like crazy was enough to keep our minds off of the fact that we are fundamentally and absolutely complete opposites to our cores. We drank a lot, too, so that probably didn’t hurt either.

After that first year or so, he stuck by my side, no questions asked, while I went through the hardest thing that has ever happened to me and the subsequent grief-stricken personality 180 that accompanied it. Strangely, though, even with a personality 180, we still remained opposites, and while I won't attempt to explain how this is possible, I'm sure Mike could provide you with some analysis of the situation if you really need to understand. Anyway, this led to us moving in together two years ago where it quickly became clear that we were going to have to work really hard to overcome our giant personality differences. We have worked at it, and so far no on has gotten hurt, at least not irreparably so. We remained in love and happy and meant for each other. Until this week, after almost two years of living-in-sin bliss we decided to make our first large purchase together.

We need new furniture. In a very bad way. We needed new furniture two years ago, but it kind of got away from us, and so we have spent the last two years attempting to make my ten-year old, first-apartment, American Furniture Warehouse clearance special look clean in lieu of the fact that it has survived Blue's puppyhood along with several out-of-hand red wine nights with the girls back in my old apartment. The dog hair is permanently woven into every inch of the fabric of this couch; no amount of vacuuming or brushing can remove it. The arms of the once-trendy and decorative chair were destroyed during a particularly traumatic time in my cat's life. The once silvery-grey color is now a musty brownish-green, and the pillows are so misshapen that they resemble musty, brownish-green sacks of trash. This is not the furniture for classy grown ups to have in their cute little Park Hill bungalow. This stuff is at the end of its life, and even desperate college students would have put it out of its misery months ago. Off we went on our mission forgetting momentarily how horribly we shop together.

I knew there was trouble when Mike and I first moved in together. I asked him to go grab some dish soap at the store while I wandered in search of mascara. After getting my preferred brand of mascara, and then poking around with some of the fancier lotions that Target has to offer for a few minutes, I went in search of Mike leaving a scented trail of green tea and freesia in my wake. I rounded the corner into the household aisle and stopped short. There was my boyfriend at the end of the aisle reading the labels of two large bottles of dish soap. His forehead was creased in concentration and his lips were moving, reading the words on the back of each bottle. Then he stopped reading and actually started to think. He was thinking about soap. Really hard.

“Hi,” I said, although I was reluctant to break his concentration. He looked up at me, his eyes still glassy from his soap coma. “Come on, just get the one that’s on sale” I grabbed the bottle from his left hand.

“That one is more expensive per ounce,” he informed me, “this one is a better deal, but it could be drying to our hands”

This very important four-dollar decision took about 20 minutes and a couple of math equations. Furniture costs a thousand times that. That is 20 thousand minutes of analysis according to my math. I didn’t think we were going to make it through this. But alas, we did.

Tuesday night we headed into Sofa Mart after I got done swimming at the gym. This is when we discovered that shopping for sofas after a day at work followed by a strenuous workout is very similar to grocery shopping when starving. Every couch I threw myself down upon suddenly became the most comfortable couch I had ever encountered. I was just so happy to be off of my feet. As the only customers in the giant store on a weeknight during a recession, we quickly became the salesman's favorite people in the world. Especially once I began lying down and dramatically stating, "We'll take it" or "Sold" over and over on every single couch with Mike turning narrowed eyes on me each time. I sat on every leather couch in the place, found one that was attractive, fit into our budget, and seemed to me like it would fit into our living room, and told Mike that we should get it. The salesman perked up from his spot on my future recliner and moved to get the paperwork. "We'll sleep on it", Mike said, causing the poor guy to slump back into the chair.

On the way home, Mike explained to me that we still had several stores to check out, many more couches on which to sit, and numerous additional sales people who were all dying to be bothered by us. I was confused. I had done my furniture shopping, had made my decision, and was eagerly awaiting the date of delivery so that my living room would look gorgeous and modern. Mike had other plans entirely.

And these plans involved graph paper and rulers and some advanced schematic design.

He put himself to work, one eye on the Nuggets game, one eye on his project. He measured and drew a to-scale rendering of our living room, and then cut out mini-versions of the furniture I had chosen based on the specs the salesman had given him. He then proceeded to move the little paper cutouts around in circles on the page until he declared that the furniture I had so painstakingly decided on based on amenities such as “brownness” and “proximity to the entrance of the store” would simply not fit in our living room. “Ummm, ok,” I said, eager to be helpful, “we just won’t get the ottoman.”

Mike shook his head and went back to his nerds’ version of paper-dolls while I stared at my laptop pretending to write while trying to think of ways to get out of going to look at more furniture even though I did actually care about what we ended up with. With electronics, it is much easier. I feign stupidity and tell him that he can decide, and I will chip in for whatever he gets as long as I am not forced to go and look at seven-point-three million HD, LCD, flat screen, super-duper, crystal vision, sports-monster televisions. The TV that I bought at the same time I bought the godforsaken furniture was 100 dollars at Target, and it is a Daewoo. I’m not kidding. Daewoo. And guess what. Ten years later, the picture is still great, and we can even play RockBand on it. Who needs a 1500-dollar Samsung?

After four days of shopping in seven furniture stores, three trips to Macy’s, and only one argument, we will have our new furniture in just a couple of weeks. And we even both learned something. I learned that not every single decision can be made on a whim (although I stick to my guns that this method has served me well for my life thus far.) Mike learned that, at some point, it becomes time to simply decide, even if not every single sofa in the 48 contiguous states has had his ass in its seats. And as usual, we both remembered that our differences are what keep our relationship so fun and interesting and stimulating, and yes, sometimes frustrating, but usually in a good way. We love each other and are capable of making large and important decisions together despite our differences, which is a skill that will serve us well in our long, healthy future together.

Speaking of which, what in the hell is taking him so long with that ring?

Never Let Them See You Sweat

2008-11-12T16:52:00.008-07:00

It’s official. I have to switch gyms.

I have mentioned before how I always feel awkward at the gym, but last week, I really took that to a new level. I went straight to the gym after work and actually felt kind of pretty strolling in wearing a cute dress, control top pantyhose, and sassy heels, my Nike gym bag slung ever-so-casually over my shoulder. I walked straight back to the locker room, changed into my workout clothes, and got ready to hit the floor. I realized that I had forgotten a ponytail holder. This wasn’t a HUGE deal, not like forgetting running shoes, or even a sports bra, however, it still takes away from the sanctity of a workout when you have wet, sweaty hair stuck to your face and neck. I decided that I would go to the front desk and ask for a rubber band thinking that having a few broken hairs would be a fair trade for keeping my mane out of my face for the next hour. First though, I had to pee.

The bathrooms at 24Hour Fitness are not always in the best of shape. So while I am not normally a huge germ freak, I do take serious precautions at the gym in order to protect my nether regions from horrible locker-room concoctions like staph and athletes’ foot. So, I spread toilet paper liberally on the seat before sitting down. (my bad knees just can't handle the squat method)

After going to the bathroom, washing my hands, and shutting my locker, I strolled towards the front desk to ask if they had a rubber band I could have. They did not, so I decided I would check the depths of my gym bag pockets one more time before resigning to a sticky workout. As I was walking back towards the locker room, I absentmindedly reached to scratch an itchy spot on my lower back. That is when I discovered that I had about three feet of toilet paper hanging out of the waistband of my workout pants and trailing behind me like a cheap wedding dress.

Devastation ensued.

I had paraded through my crowded gym with a toilet paper tail while the onlookers could only stare, rather than graciously stopping me. And who were these girls in the packed locker room who let me walk out like that?

As I yanked the TP from the back of my pants, I looked up to see three guys standing together in front of the water fountain all staring at me with smirks. I disappeared into the solace of the locker room and hung out in the doorway for a minute pleading with my cheeks to go back to their normal color. It took every ounce of courage I had to go back out into the gym for my workout, but I did it.

After the first five minutes on the elliptical with my hair already plastered against my neck, one of the smirkers from downstairs hopped on the machine next to mine. I looked up. He smirked again. I rolled my eyes. And then I proceeded to do what any self-respecting woman would do in this situation. I kicked his proverbial cardio ass.

I looked at his screen and, with purpose, set my cross-ramp higher than his. Then I upped my resistance so that he looked wimpy by comparison. He looked at my screen and turned up his cross-ramp. I only cranked mine higher. He started going faster. I zoned out on my “best-workout-mix-ever” playlist and got my pace up about three times faster than his. When he got off 30 minutes later, I went for ten more minutes, completely aware of his stares from across the room. I finished my workout and walked out on wobbly legs, smirking at him where he was sprawled innocently on the ab roller.

“Take that!” my smile said, “This is MY gym! I will wear my toilet paper proudly, and I will beat you at any machine out there! Bring it!”

In what can only be a moral to this story, I spent the rest of that evening feeling like crap from over-exerting myself and suffered from a pulled muscle for the rest of the week.

Totally worth it.

Prisoner of Wishing

2008-11-05T20:29:00.012-07:00

I overslept by a few minutes this morning; Mike startled me out of a dream to rouse me. Just seconds before, I had been following my mom around our old house. She was looking for something, and I was helping her look while carrying a bag of chocolate chip cookies. I was shoving cookies in my mouth one after another. Upon waking, the dream immediately began to fade, and because I so rarely dream of my mother, I tried to make my brain hold on to it. I stumbled sleepily to the shower, threw my pajamas on the floor, stood beneath the hot water and closed my eyes, willing the image to come back, desperate to remember her voice.

I focused. The cookies I could explain. After spending the past few months working out and limiting calories like a fiend, I am accustomed to waking up with a rumble in my stomach and very odd dreams about junk food. But what was my mother looking for in my dream? I kept thinking about it and trying to get it back, and eventually it came to me. My mom had been searching for her MIA-POW bracelet. Room to room she wandered through the old townhouse we had moved into when I was in 6th grade. And I was following her, helping her look, still eating the stupid cookies. It made total sense. Except for the part where it didn't at all.

My mom was born in 1953, slightly too young to be a real hippie in the 60’s. There were no cross-country treks to the Haight-Ashbury, no real love-fests or drum circles, and she was too young to be allowed to march on Washington without parental supervision. However, the attitude of the times had definitely affected her, and she spent her life knowing, preaching, and demonstrating the importance of tolerance, peace, and equality, and she made sure that those values were passed directly to me and my sisters. She told us stories of the 60’s on rare occasion. Her best friend, Teri, usually had a starring role, and her stories of rebellion seemed thoughtful and with purpose, in contrast with my high school crimes of skipping class and smoking Camel Wides for the sole purpose of pissing her off.

At some point in the early 70’s, right after high school, she and Teri took a trip to San Francisco. I am pretty sure that was where she purchased her MIA bracelet. A student group in California had started printing the simple, cuff-style bracelets bearing the name and rank of a soldier missing in Vietnam to bring much-needed attention to the MIA-POW issue and to the families who were struggling in the vast unknown. I imagine that my mom purchased it because it was something she believed in strongly, although I know that the bracelets were also very trendy with the aspiring-hippie types. My mom hung on to that bracelet for the next 20 years.

Until I got ahold of it.

The hippie culture came back in style while I was in high school, although we called it grunge. It was an Eddie Vedder- and Kurt Cobain-fueled attitude and uniform that bore a small resemblance to the hippie lifestyle of the 60’s, at least that’s what my friends and I told ourselves. (Hell, we even tried to bring back the Dead.) In trying to keep with staying super-cool and hippie-ish with my high-school friends, I frequently begged my mom to let me borrow her MIA bracelet, knowing that wearing a real piece of the 60's would make me even more popular than my ripped flannel shirt and Lollapalooza tee already had. While she had always been generous with her things, that bracelet was the one thing she wouldn’t let me borrow. In retrospect, I think it was the last remaining tangible piece of her sordid youth after marrying into an instant family, having kids, and divorcing all while still in her 20’s, and she wanted to protect it, keep it sacred. But I wasn’t thinking in retrospect then; I was a selfish 15-year old who only cared about being cool.

So I took the bracelet out of her jewelry box one morning before school and wore it. Over the course of the day, after bending the three-dollar, 20-year-old piece of aluminum for the umpteenth time to keep it from slipping off my bony wrist, the bracelet broke into two pieces. I was initially very upset. However, after thinking it through, and being the honest, responsible, and respectful little snot that I was, I threw the broken piece of history into the dumpster, and then swore to my mother for the next two years that I hadn’t seen it every time she went looking.

I never told her what really happened. Even later when we became friends in my twenties I still didn’t spill it. I told her about smoking pot in high school a couple of times, and I told her how old I was when I lost my virginity, and I told her who really stole the bottle of tequila from the pantry (not, as she had so innocently assumed, the house sitter from the summer vacation of ’92.) But I never told her what I did to her bracelet. Maybe it was because it never came up, but probably it was because I still felt horrible about it. Still do. In fact, even more now.

So, any psychoanalyst worth her salt could easily pinpoint the meaning of this morning’s dream, the one that has been haunting me all day. It’s pretty easy to figure out a dream when it is about something that actually happened. What I couldn’t understand, though, was what brought up that old bracelet-guilt after almost 20 years.

At some point today, it occurred to me, and I was actually able to decode the way my normally jacked-up mind was working

The feeling that I have had in my adult life every time I have thought about that bracelet is actually very similar to the feeling that I had last night watching Barack Obama win the presidential election. I know that sounds weird because I was ecstatic last night. But as that initial euphoria wore off, there was momentarily a familiar wishful longing.

I wish I wasn’t such a spoiled brat when I was 15. I have wished a million times since that day that I had just left that bracelet where it belonged, nestled on the blue velvet that lined my mom’s antique jewelry box. I wish. I wish. I wish.

I wish that my mom would have been around to see what happened in America last night, to see that the things she believed in and instilled in her children were actually, finally coming true in the rest of the country. She would have been so happy; she would have cried tears of joy just like I did.

I wished that Senator Obama would win, and it came true, but I also wish that history wasn’t happening without my mom around to see it. I wish she wasn’t MIA. I wish. I wish. I wish. Sometimes I feel like I will never stop wishing.

(But, on the bright side, I am glad I didn’t really eat all of those cookies.)

Dear Michael Phelps

2008-08-21T21:15:00.006-06:00

Dear Michael Phelps,

This isn’t a fan letter, so don’t go getting any ideas. I’m a little too old for that. It isn’t a letter resulting from a schoolgirl crush either, although I will admit that I have a grown up appreciation for your goofy ears and puppy dog eyes and probably wouldn’t kick those sinewy legs and torso out of bed for eating crackers.

But I digress.

This is, quite simply, a thank you letter. I was raised the right way and know to send a thank you in return for something I’ve been given; and you, my aquatic friend, have given me something. Maybe you’ve given it to many more than just me, but I really see its value and just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for getting me back in the water.

My triathlon was over just a week before the Olympics began, and in the same tradition as my triathlon last year, the end of the race seemingly marked the annual hanging-up of my cap and goggles until training begins again next summer. I’ll still ride my bike and go for a run on a fairly regular basis, but the swimming always seems like too much of a pain.

Then came 08-08-08 and along with it the buzz that surrounded your attempt at a record-breaking eight gold medals. The spotlight was all over you, and swimming was suddenly cool again. What was the coolest about it for me, though, wasn’t necessarily the racing or the world records or the amazing hundredth-of-a-second finishes. For me it was all about watching you before and after the races. Sitting at the end of the lane, crouching against buoyancy with shimmering turquoise lapping at your neck, hanging over the lane-lines to talk to your buddies. You belong in that water. I used to, too.

Being raised in a single-parent household meant that my sister and I were also partially raised by the Village Seven Swim Club. My mom was a nurse who worked nights and needed to sleep during the day. During the school year this was the perfect schedule, however, when summer vacation rolled around, my mom had to get creative. The pool was within walking distance of our house, open from 6am to 8pm, and had lifeguards on duty at all times. For fifty dollars a month, she could send my sister and I down the street and know that we were happy and taken care of all day.

We donned brightly colored bathing suits, Courtney taking pride in the fact that hers was one of the few pieces of her wardrobe that wasn’t handed down from me. This was because a suit would never last us more than one summer after being worn every single day subjected to the chlorinated chemical warfare, our little butts barely covered by the threadbare material that scraped across the cement each time we lifted ourselves out of the pool. We looked like alien children with our green hair and chocolate skin and sturdy quadriceps muscles. We thought we owned that pool.

I was on the Village Seven club team for the first time the summer between the fourth and fifth grades. I was a backstroker from the start, a five-foot-six nine-year old built like a toothpick wearing a backpack. I was an average swimmer relative to my team.

I made the high school team, too, but was still average. 100 meter backstroke, 200 meter backstroke, the team’s only backstroker, but still just average in the grand scheme of high school sports. There would never be any state titles, never any Olympic dreams, and never anything to write home about. Once high school was over, I basically forgot about swimming.

I signed up for a triathlon last year as a goal to help me rehab my knee. Later in the training than planned, I went to the pool at 24Hour Fitness and jumped into the water for the first time in over ten years, just to make sure I could still swim. Mike got in too, although he had never spent much time swimming.

Weightless in the water, I suddenly felt at home again. Not chubby, not injured, just at home. I stroked out three quick laps then stood to look for Mike. I squinted though my goggles to see him hanging on to the edge of the lane at the other end huffing and puffing. I glided 25 meters underwater and came up for air right in front of him. The man who has beat me handily at every single sport, who leaves me in the dust on every mountain trail and ski slope, the man who has climbed Kilimanjaro and played soccer for 25 years asked me “How in the hell can you do that?” I grinned at him. Later during that same workout, an elderly woman doing water aerobics in the corner of the pool asked me in a thick Eastern European accent if I had been a “stet chomp-ee-yun”. I laughed and thought of my mediocre high school career. Had I actually gotten better in all of these years of swimming apathy? I strutted into the locker room with my head held high, but then I practiced for a few weeks, competed in my triathlon, and for some reason forgot about swimming again.

Keep listening, Michael Phelps; we’ll get back to you here in a second.

A few weeks ago, I had drinks with an old high school friend whom I had randomly found on Facebook. She was a standout on our high school swim team, and during the course of our feverish catch-up conversation I asked her if she was still swimming at all. She said no, and it shocked me in a way. But then she went on to talk about how it ruined her hair, and was so time-consuming what with the multiple showers and wet towels and musty locker room showers. I totally related, knowing that part of swimming sucks.

A few days later, I raced in this year’s triathlon while suffering from a chest-cold and sadly added almost four minutes to my time from last year. I raced, vowed to get ‘em next year, then hung up my cap and goggles, leaving those musty locker rooms behind for awhile.

Then I saw you. Crouching in the end of the lane, eyes upturned towards the scoreboard, waiting on the results of your first semi-final with chlorine-laced water flowing freely into your open mouth. You were almost breathing it in. Like a fish.

I could taste that water. I could suddenly remember the way it felt to be at home in the water. Not even just the way it had felt last year in my tiny moment of fame with the old ladies at the gym. You made me remember the glory days of swimming. For some reason watching you made me think of those late summer afternoons at the VSSC. I could remember my red, burning eyes, and my squeaky brown skin. I could smell the hot pavement mixed with chlorine, taste the melty PB and Js that my mom packed for lunch. I could even remember the swell of responsibility I felt in being in charge of my sister everyday, always making sure to keep an eye on her in the pool. I haven’t thought about those days in years.

I don’t know what it was about your focused, calculated journey to victory that made me think about my lackadaisical, childhood dog-days at the pool. I think I just saw something in your eyes that said “this is still fun.” Whatever it was, I came home from work yesterday and decided to go for a swim.

I packed my bag. With towel and shampoo, and ultra-moisturizing conditioner. And comb, and lotion, and underwear and shower-flops. I pulled my cap and goggles down from their proverbial hang-up all the while praying that my (completely unnatural) blonde hair wouldn’t turn green. I got to the pool, jumped in, and powered through a few laps then stopped for a drink of water from my bottle at the end of the lane. The guy in the lane next to me had been swimming slow physical-therapy drills with a kickboard when he stopped and looked over at me. “Were you some kind of state champion or something?” he asked. I just laughed and told him “Let’s just say I’m no Michael Phelps”

I think I’ll go back tomorrow. So thanks.

Sincerely,

Cara Volle

Photo courtesy of LA Times

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2008-08-06T21:07:00.003-06:00

(you asked for it, Leigh Ann)

I am starting a new corporate job in a week and a half. After making the huge decision to go freelance, I am changing my mind as is my God-given right as a female and an American. I have been off of “real” work since the end of April, and in that four months have realized a few things about myself. One: it is quite lonely staying at home all day, especially with Mike still traveling more than half of the time. Two: it may not have been the smartest move I have ever made, leaving behind a steady paycheck and a 401k match at the start of a recession to start my own business. Three: I wouldn’t mind having a job that pays well whilst Mike and I are in the throes of buying a house and wanting to have a fantastic wedding in the next year or so.

So, I got a great offer from a seemingly great company and I took it. And I am actually looking forward to putting away my flip flops in favor of my old business casual threads, meeting new people, learning a new industry, and bringing home my share of the bacon. I have one more week of the luxurious life, hanging out with my dog, being totally on top of laundry, and leisurely mornings spent cranking on my future bestseller at the Lowry Starbucks, then I’m ready to give it all up. Once again, I become a copywriter instead of a freelance writer. Life is good.

So this is what happened during my four months off:

I learned how to mow a lawn and took it over as my very own chore.

I had my blog recognized by one of my favorite writers.

I saw Kanye West in concert and wasn’t even the oldest person in the crowd.

I made a long-overdue trip to see my grandmother and uncle and had a great time.

I went hard-core backpacking for the first time.

I gained and lost the same five pounds at least three times.

I got accepted as “freelance staff” for a really cool magazine but have yet to come up with a great pitch.

I officially switched from PC to Mac and will never go back (although the jury is still out on the iPhone.)

I finished a triathlon while suffering from remnants of a chest-cold and another unmentionable condition in 95 degree weather and survived.

I met a homeless man named Cowboy (call-sign: Nightcrawler) and bought him some whiskey.

I turned 32.

I alienated myself at the Democratic National Convention Volunteers’ Orientation.

I had drinks with a high school friend whom I found on Facebook, seeing her for the first time in 15 years and realizing that people change just as much as they stay the same.

I raised over $1500 dollars for breast cancer research.

I became the proud owner of world’s coolest bicycle.

I watched helplessly as my little sister turned 30, making me feel even older than I felt on my own thirtieth birthday.

I felt even older than that when I attended the wedding of a girl I used to babysit.

Mostly though, I sat and thought a lot about things that I needed to think about. Things I had been putting off thinking about in favor of work, things that were desperate to be thought about and healed and then thought about some more. I finally sat for hours at a time grieving the loss of my mother in a way that I had avoided before because there was never the time.

I think it is rare in this life to take a real break before the age of 65 or so. We are always running around trying to climb the ladder and make the dollars and be at the appointments and functions and meetings without ever realizing what we might be sacrificing. Our sanity, for instance.

I spent the first portion of my break feeling guilty for not making enough money and not working hard enough. However, with a week and a half left to do whatever I want, I am leaving the guilt behind and replacing it with the things that I never had time for before. Then it is back to the corporate grind with a new appreciation for the good that can come out of being with other people and getting paid to write about things that are alternately really interesting and super boring, but getting paid just the same. Until then, I will be riding my cool bike to the library and Top Nail and the cineplex, because there is just enough time left to read the new David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, squeeze in a mani/pedi, and see Mama Mia before I start chasing the other rats again.

I'd Like to Thank the Academy

2008-07-03T11:44:00.007-06:00

I am taking a break from my break. I am leaving the confines of my blog-sabbatical and coming to you live and in-person. The reason? Today I won a major award. My favorite writer, blogger, and faraway-friend, Leigh Ann, presented me with this:

Here's the lowdown:

The rules of this award are whatever you want them to be. It would be nice if you linked back to the originator of the award and to give it for the reason he created it:

This award is "dedicated to many who nourish and enrich the spirit and creativity. They see dedication, creativity, camaraderie, joy and above all, ART - much art. I wish that this prize is entertaining to all bloggers who share this space and enrich it a little more each day." ~ Arte Y Pico
**************************************************************************************

I am am honored to receive such a great award from such an amazing writer. I would like to thank her for keeping me on my toes, praising me when I needed it, and showing me how far a kick-ass chick can go with a bunch of talent, some grit, and a little bit of pink hair. I aspire to follow in her footsteps. Around our house, That Girl From Shallotte is famous. Remember her name because tomorrow, it'll be the world!

I would also like to thank Mike for always providing me with great material and for always sitting immediately at his computer no matter what else is going on when he learns that I actually posted that day. It's nice when someone who loves you is also a fan.

This has inspired me to get back on this horse and ride. Writers' block be damned!!

*************************************************************************************

In turn, I would like to pass this award on to two others who are very deserving.

First to KatieO from Sister Skinny. Her blog is now finished due to the fact that she reached her goal of becoming a size 6. She may be a stay-at-home mom and a fitness and weight-loss guru, but above all, she is a writer. I have never "met" someone who is so super-sweet and totally mischievous at the same time. I can't wait until she starts a new blog.

I would also like to pass this award on to Bex from The Blog of Bex. She is dirty and crass, and no subject is off limits, and she makes me laugh so hard about everything from pop-culture to the bathroom habits of her three children that I border on incontinence. Seriously, she puts the really LOUD in LOL.

So, thanks again, Leigh Ann. You are the best blog-buddy a girl could wish for.

Summer Vacation

2008-06-26T09:22:00.002-06:00

Ok, so in case you haven't noticed, I've been gone again for a couple of months. I am in the middle of working on a big writing project and have been completely neglecting my blog. Thank you to everyone who sent emails and comments. Yes, I am alive. I will return to blogging the first week in August. Have a great summer, everyone!!!

The Real Housewives of Denver County

2008-05-01T20:38:00.007-06:00

I quit my job last week. Initially, I did this to take another job, but after a long discussion with Mike and some serious soul-searching, I turned the other company down. It didn’t feel right, and I am in a position right now to take some time to build on my freelance writing career. I will also be going back to school in the Fall. So, I am suddenly spending a lot of time in my house.

Normally, our house is empty all day. Blue and Fletch (dog and cat respectively) typically rule the roost while Mike and I are at work. When we are home on the weekends, we usually sleep late, and then take the dog hiking, and hang out with friends, and do all the other weekend things that keep us from noticing anything odd.

However, for the past week or so I have been getting up early, making coffee, and then working quietly at the computer in the living room for the better part of the day. What I have noticed is that there is some pretty weird shit that goes down around here while no one is watching.

Monday morning, I was sitting at the computer researching some freelance jobs when I heard two people having sex through the window right next to my desk. They were both engaging in a rhythmic moan reminiscent of bad porn. Immediately, I got up to look out the window, but as soon as I pulled back the curtains the moaning stopped. I started freaking out a little thinking that maybe they were watching me through the window and having sex at the same time. Yuck. I knew I was not that much of a turn-on in my thick glasses, dirty ponytail, and men’s pajamas, so I imagined that these were fetish people who get off on the unshowered, homely look. As I was thinking about this, I also realized that the noise was coming from the house next door which has been a vacant remodeling project for the entire year and half we have been living here. Were the construction people getting it on in the empty house? I do not need to know these things.

I went back to working on the computer and was at it for about ten minutes when the moaning started again. Seriously, people! It is 7:30 in the morning. Have you no shame?!?

I quietly opened the front door and crept out on to the porch. The moaning, seemingly coming from the upstairs window of the vacant house, continued right up until I let the storm door slip out of my hand and close with a bang. The sound stopped abruptly, and that is when I saw them. Two birds sitting on the upstairs windowsill of the house next door. Mourning doves. Their feathers were all puffed out, and they looked completely guilty. I was the only witness to their Bambi-style twitterpation, and they were angry that I had the nerve to interrupt them. I’m sure they weren’t doing anything wrong, but still, how can birds sound like that? I thought they were supposed to sound like they were mourning, not doing it! I felt so dirty. I can’t believe people keep those things as pets.

On Tuesday, I took Blue to the dog park in the morning for an hour or so, and when I got back my neighbor from across the street was outside working in her yard so we chatted for awhile in front of her house. After a few minutes, my tired dog fell asleep in the grass, waiting patiently for me to take him inside and feed him. The mailman came walking up the street, but stopped short when he saw Blue. “Is he under control?” he asked, slowly backing away.

I kind of laughed a little and looked down at my lazy dog who had barely lifted his head. “Uh, yeah,” I said with trace amounts of sarcasm, “he seems to be pretty under control”

The mailman gave me a dirty look and walked up our steps to deposit the mail through the slot in the front door, then wandered down the street to the next house. I laughed with my neighbor, “How cliche’, a mailman afraid of dogs.”

Today, whilst sitting at the computer again, I heard the mailman begin his ascent to the front porch. Blue immediately jumped up on the couch by the window and began barking in the most ferocious manner I have ever heard any dog bark. This is the same dog whom I let my niece and nephew climb all over, the same dog who licks babies, and snuggles up to sleep with my cat. He was barking bloody murder. He was dead serious. He was scaring the crap out of me and probably anyone else within a two-mile radius. Then, as the mailman lifted the little trapdoor to the mail slot, Blue sprung from the sofa, and jumped up to rip the mail out of his hand. I was sitting there at the desk staring at this completely aghast, speechless. The storm door closed. After shaking it back and forth in his jaws a few times, Blue dropped my Glamour magazine on the floor, and then he climbed back on the couch and was asleep within seconds. His work for the day was done. I went back to work, but not before writing myself a reminder to leave the mailman a hefty tip this Christmas.

There is a man who lives on the corner of my block who has a Chow Chow named Killer. I know this because when I was running out to my car to get my gym bag, he was walking up the street with his mangy-looking dog, and he said “Come on, Killer” and sped up.

Suddenly, I realized that the entire block smelled like a Snoop Dogg concert.

Sure enough, I looked at Killer’s master one more time only to see him smoking a joint in broad daylight. I’m sure it was for medicinal purposes only.

In addition to the strange goings on at home, I have been learning a lot about the things that happen out in the world while everyone else is at the office. Did you know that Home Depot opens at six AM? I took Mike to the airport early one morning only to drive by and see Home Depot packed. I was floored and decided that it was a perfect opportunity to buy some flowers for the yard. You would have thought I was invading some special club. There were no women in sight, and the place was full of contractors and construction workers (not that there aren’t females in this profession, there just weren’t any this time) making large lumber purchases, or buying six toilets at once. They were all kind of giving me a look that said I wasn’t allowed in there until later, when I wouldn’t be in their way. These guys have Home Depot all to themselves every weekday morning, and they didn’t want some civilian lady messing it all up, telling all the other soccer moms that they can go to Home Depot whenever they want to buy their flowers and gardening tools. Who knew?

I was in and out of my normally-packed grocery store in about four minutes flat on Wednesday at 2:30. There was not a soul in there except for a couple of old ladies at the pharmacy.

Post office? Empty.

Dry Cleaners? No line.

PetsMart? Blue and I had it all to ourselves.

I had no idea what I’d been missing out on working the nine-to-five grind shift all these years. In the wise words of Disney’s critically-acclaimed Aladdin, there is truly a whole new world out there. I can’t wait to pick the next place to go.

I can see Mike reading this right now thinking: You’d better be drumming up some more work here, woman. I’m not your sugar-daddy.

I’m on it, honey. I’m on it. As soon as I get back from the mall.

Sweet Home Chicago

2008-04-22T12:54:00.012-06:00

Q. How long does it take to get from Denver to Chicago?

A. Approximately ten and a half hours.

Here is how it works. Either get in the car and drive there, or have a day like this:

2:00pm Friday. Downtown Denver.
I am driving as fast as I can to my friend Tim’s house. My dog, Blue, is hanging his head out the window, unaware that I am about to dump him with friends for the weekend while I jet to Chi-town to see his mostly-absent, adoptive father. Blue has a look on his face that says he is pretty sure we are headed to the park. I feel horribly guilty and hope that Tim will maybe take him later.

I get to their house having left myself an extra five minutes to hold Tim and his fiancée’s adorable baby. I know better than to do this, because all that happens is that I give the baby back and then immediately start wanting one of my own. Which I cannot afford right now. Biological clocks are funny things. Or maybe not funny at all.

2:30pm Denver International Airport.
I drive to the parking garage with the intent of parking in the economy lot. Cost? Eight dollars a day, a major bargain. As I get close enough, I glimpse the red blinking sign that tells me the economy lot is full, full of other, apparently faster, bargain hunters. Rather than turning around and making the two-mile circle that will bring me back to the farther cheap lots, I park in the covered parking at a cost of eighteen dollars a day. I am not happy with the price, but it is at least convenient to walk to the terminal, and there are plenty of spots.

I select a parking spot smack in the middle of an entirely empty row. I grab my purse, pop the tailgate, lock the doors, and go to the back of my SUV to retrieve my suitcase. I pull it out and set it on the ground, only then realizing that, although I have parked in a completely barren section of the lot, I have still managed to be over the line on one side by quite a bit. I leave my suitcase sitting in the empty spot next to my car with my purse on top of it, and get back into the driver’s seat to renegotiate my horrible parking job. Just as I am pulling out, a security guard comes running up to the side of my car.

“Maam! Maam!” he yells, tapping on the side of my car.

I slam on the brakes and roll down the window. “What?” I ask, kind of freaked out.

“Maam, where are you going? You can’t leave your suitcase here”

I smile. He does not. “I’m just re-parking my car, I did a bad job of it before, but I didn’t want to completely load everything back up” I explain.

He looks at me like he does not buy my story, but walks away. As I walk into the airport to check in, I have the very odd feeling of being watched. I feel every security camera trained on me, and know that they are all staring at me, the girl who tried to leave a suitcase-bomb in the parking garage.

2:45pm
Because I am a tentative flyer, I always leave myself two hours between check-in and flight time so that I can relax and have a beer and talk myself out of having a panic attack. Today is no different, and, as far as I am concerned (although Mike would argue) I am right on time for my 4:49 departure. I check in electronically because I am not checking a bag. My boarding pass prints up and says that my seat assignment will be given at the gate. I’m sure, by now, news of my attempt to leave a bomb in the airport parking garage has traveled throughout the entire security network, and I still feel all eyes on me. I wonder if they are holding off on giving me a seat until I have been sequestered on my way down there to have my bag sniffed by a German Shepherd and my cavities checked by a large, be-gloved woman named Roberta.

2:55pm
I give my driver’s license and boarding pass to the TSA agent at the end of the security line. He looks at my license, pulls out the little FBI magnifying device they use to make sure it isn’t fake, and then proceeds to read every iota of information on the card. I am mentally preparing myself to give answers to all of his potential questions. “Yes, I am really 6’1”, no I do not really weigh 155, and no, I was not trying to leave a bomb in the airport parking garage.” He doesn’t ask any of these questions, though. Instead, the kid smiles, and kind of winks at me and says “ I wouldn’t have thought you were that old.”

I smile and blush and say thank you, and I am all the way to the conveyor belt with one shoe off and in the bin when it hits me. Since when is 31 old? I mean, I’m flattered that I look younger than that, but honestly, is 31 really considered old? That just seems ridiculous to me. Am I OLD? I am not old. Wait, am I?

I am still stewing over what I have now decided was a snide comment when I reach the metal detector. The officer on the other side instructs me to remove my jacket and place it on the conveyor belt before stepping through. I now want to cry. I am wearing my recently-fitting-again sassy jeans with a cute, swingy black blazer over a lace, Banana Republic tank top. This particular tank top is one of the favorite items of clothing I own; it looks beautiful under blazers and v-neck sweaters, but it is not, I repeat NOT, meant to be worn on its own. I grimace at the security officer and begin gingerly removing my blazer. I instantly morph from a classy, well-dressed young woman into a wrinkly 31-year old hag wearing a slutty lace tank top that provides a veritable picture window to my bra and belly button, not to mention the muffin top that is spilling over jeans that, while close, honestly do not quite fit me yet. I hang my head and step through the metal detector. If they weren’t watching me before, they are definitely all over me now.

3:10pm
I find my gate and then go to the nearest bar. I am starving, plus I need a beer or two. Or twelve. I order a sandwich and a Coors Light from the bartender who calls me honey, baby, and sugar all within the first four minutes I am sitting there. Sometimes women can pull this off, but everything that comes out of this woman’s mouth which, coincidentally, she has not shut once, seems rehearsed and fake, and she is really rubbing me the wrong way. I stick my nose into my book while scarfing my sandwich and beer. When I ask for the check, I do not make eye contact.

3:45pm
I get in line at the gate to get my seat assignment just as they make the first announcement. “United Flight 958 to Chicago is oversold. If you would like to volunteer to fly out tomorrow morning, you will receive a free round trip flight to anywhere within the 48 contiguous states.”

I am not volunteering. No way. I am going to Chicago. Tonight. To see my boyfriend whom I never get to see. I am getting on this plane.

4:50pm
I am wrong. I am not getting on this plane. I am still waiting in line as I watch my plane pull away from the gate. I did not volunteer; they volunteered me. They book me on the 9:35 flight to O’Hare and send me to the customer service desk to get my free ticket voucher. I now have five hours to kill in the airport.

5:10pm
I am waiting in another line. This time to get my voucher. As the people in line start chitchatting about the various ways United has found to screw them over, the woman in front of me suddenly starts to cry. I ask her if she is ok, and she starts to cry harder. She is trying to get home to New Orleans for her brother’s funeral. She flew into DIA at 8:30 this morning from San Francisco, and she has been stuck here for eight hours. She needs to get home. She has to get home. I am now crying in the customer service line with this woman, rubbing her arm, and telling her it is going to be all right. If she had been going to Chicago, I would have handed my seat to her right then and there. This is so unfair. She and I both get to the counter at the same time with different attendants. She is fifteen feet down from me and I hear the service rep arguing with her. At this point, the woman lets out a racking sob and walks away. I look for her, but I cannot find her after that. I hope so hard that she got home. Suddenly, me catching up with Mike for a fun-filled weekend of dinner and drinks and baseball seems not so important at all. I am done being negative about this situation.

5:45pm.
I find a perch at the bar of the airport’s “French” restaurant. I order the fruit and cheese plate and another beer, and I settle in for the day. In a move that is very unlike me, I begin chatting with the various people who come and go in the seats around me. I meet a woman who is headed to Nebraska to watch her son play college football. She sits down and immediately says what I have been thinking all along about the bartender. “Holy shit, nice eye shadow.” I laugh and we fall into an easy conversation.

She leaves and is replaced by Bob and Patti, world’s nicest couple, hailing from the great state of Iowa. Patti has been in Denver for a week on business, and Bob, who is retired, tagged along for the ride. We share stories about all of the great Denver sights they saw this week, and I immediately want to adopt them as my second parents. After over an hour of hanging out with them, I am sad when they leave.

7:45pm
I still have an hour and a half until my plane boards. I give up on my tight jeans ensemble and change in the airport bathroom. The mark left by my jeans across my stomach makes it look like I previously worked as a magician’s assistant, being sawed in half each day for a living. I am so over looking hot for my boyfriend. I am now wearing comfy gaucho pants, flip-flops and a cardigan. Suddenly, I look just as old as my driver’s license says. I’m sure they are also probably turning the cameras back on me wondering if I am gradually changing my disguise. I do not care. I walk a slow, lazy, beer-buzzed amble into the gift shop where I watch a teenaged boy shove a Hustler magazine down the front of his pants. I laugh out loud and he turns to look at me, then hurries out of the store. What is this world coming to?

8:35pm
I wander back to my gate where they are currently boarding a flight for Albuquerque. I look at the departures board for my 9:35 flight to Chicago. It says “Aircraft Delayed”. I notice the girl standing next to me has been one step behind me in every line all day. She got bumped from the first flight, too. She asks me if I want to just cut our losses and go to Albuquerque with her, just to go somewhere. I agree and we joke around about the many fun and interesting things to do there. She mentions that at least they have a Trader Joe’s (something Denver is notoriously lacking due to our stringent liquor laws) I laugh feeling like, if given more time, this girl and I would most definitely be good friends.

9:10pm
I wake up from dozing in my chair to find that my plane actually made it, and they are getting ready to board. It turns out the aircraft had been delayed due to a “customer service issue” Who would have thought?

9:45pm
I take my window seat in the very last row of the plane. I have to fold myself up like a paper airplane to fit, but I do not care. The girl who sits next to me speaks loudly into her cell phone right up until the plane is on the runway ready to take off. She is still talking when the flight attendant, who has told her several times to turn it off, plucks her phone out of her hand, says goodbye into it, and clicks it shut. For some reason this makes me smile. Justice is served at least once today.

1:30am Chicago Time. O’HARE AIRPORT.
Yes, that’s right, I made it! I sprint off of the plane and down the people movers. As a kid who spent many summer vacations in my dad's hometown of Chicago, the streaming, colorful neon lights above the walkway at O'Hare always intrigued me. Tonight, I barely notice them. On the other side of the baggage claim door is my sleepy-looking boyfriend waiting for me. I hug him and he smells like home. Tonight, Chicago is most definitely my kind of town. I think back to all of the nice people I have met during my travels today. I laughed, I cried, I drank a little too much, but what a day! What memories! Now get me the hell out of this airport!!

I'm Baaaaa-aaaack

2008-04-16T22:56:00.005-06:00

Ok, so I have been away for over a month. In fact, it has been almost TWO months. What can I say? Life got in the way.

I miss writing here so much, and so tonight I am posting an explanation, and then after this week I promise to be back with more real stories every week, whether you want them or not!

Mike is still in the midst of his horrific travel schedule. He leaves each Monday morning for the airport at the crack of dawn, returning dutifully each Friday evening around nine. I am so proud of what he is accomplishing for his career, but selfishly, I miss him and wish he were here to endure the brunt of my week with me. Things are so much easier when there is a warm body to soak up the stresses of the day. This coming Friday, I will fly to his "second city" in Chicago to see what his life is like there. I suppose, although I hate to admit it, he has become my muse, and it seems impossible to write without him around.

Life is about to get pretty topsy-turvy where my work is concerned as well. I will expand on that more tomorrow, as that is when things become "official".

I am working on a few pieces right now, although lately it seems as if everything I have put on paper (and screen) has been trash. For those who follow, I will post my next real post on Tuesday of next week, and get back to my weekly rhythm from there.

Thanks so much for the recent comments and emails regarding my whereabouts. I am alive and well and ready to get back in the game, I promise. I miss my blog, and my blog-buddies. Life is about to change. Things are about to get hilarious. I wouldn't dream of keeping it a secret.

Girls' Ski Trip- I Could've Danced All Night

2008-03-10T18:17:00.014-06:00

Last time, we made the front page of the paper. There we are, five out of the eight of us, plus some weird guy, emblazoned on the cover of the Summit Daily News. We were captured, frozen in time, dancing to an 80’s band in the town plaza of Breckenridge, our faces still burning pink from the day on the slopes. I was clutching a Coca-cola cup in my hand, a cup that did not contain any Coca-cola, but was instead full of warm beer. Tonya was doing air guitar. Betsy's eyes were lost somewhere behind her huge grin.

The band was called Latex Limousine, and they went all out, dressing in animal print spandex and teased hair-band wigs. We requested song after song, and they complied, so we stayed there dancing and singing until long after the last amp had been loaded into their beat up van. We felt like mini-celebrities, blazing into town, partying like rock stars, (minus the drugs and groupies, of course) and then getting hounded by the paparazzi, or in this case a part-time, freelance photographer/ski bum living the dream in a mountain town and actually getting paid for it. But that was last time.

This time, we are all two years older. We have all, for the most part, settled into relationships, married or moved in with our significant others, and come to terms with the fact that our thirties are here, or at least for the younger ones not far off. We are grownups now. Some of the girls from last year didn’t even make it. Pregnant? of course. Overtime? Yes. Relocation? Yeah, that too. This year is definitely different. We won’t make the paper this year. We’ll be a little more laid back, a little less intoxicated, and a little more comfortable just hanging out in the condo relaxing in front of the fire, sipping glasses of wine, and talking about our futures. We will compare notes about our men back at home and the things that all men do that make all women crazy. We will tell hilarious stories and laugh until our abdomens cry for mercy, and we will cook great meals and take time to really enjoy the company of the other smart, funny women with whom it seems we never get to spend enough time. Then we will get dressed in our comfortable jeans and sensible turtlenecks and we will go do what every intelligent, successful, mature woman comes to Breckenridge, Colorado to do. We will go forth, and we will dance our asses off. Like nobody’s watching.

Friday night, the scene was at the Gold Pan. It was said that there would be a great DJ, although I’m not sure how whoever imparted this knowledge found all of this out. I never know where the scene is anymore.

We ate dinner and had a couple of cocktails at the condo, and then we wandered out to catch the bus downtown. We were riding in ski-town style, now, and it was The Gold Pan or bust. We made loud jokes on the bus, hoping to entertain some of the other riders. One guy smiled. A lady rolled her eyes. The bus driver never looked up from the road.

Upon our arrival, the Gold Pan was indeed quite the scene, and as foretold, the DJ was awesome. We were nine strong in number, (having left two back at the condo, one with a cold and the other dead-tired) and we wandered in like we owned the place. Lena stole a table from some guys. Jen went to buy a round of beers only to have all nine of them purchased for her by a man on a barstool who apparently liked her style. We peeled off our puffy vests and hit the dance floor, and I was dripping sweat before the first song was over.

The boys were on the prowl. We ignored them and kept dancing in our girls-only circle. We had the luxury of being confident enough not to need the male attention, and the good sense in being slightly old enough to really appreciate it. We resorted back to our junior high alter-egos. We smiled back at them, but we didn’t let them break into our club. As Dane Cook said, “tonight, we just want to DANCE”

An hour later, the DJ finally answered my request. I jumped up and down to the beat, smiling, screaming “Josie’s on a vacation far-a-way…!!” My friends laughed at me. Life just doesn’t get any better than this. Great music, a couple of beers, boys who think you’re pretty, and a bunch of hilarious friends on a vacation faraway. Well, eighty miles or so away.

Outside the bar, this guy was chatting up another couple of girls from our group. He wasn’t being a slimeball, just chatting. Nice guy. He was there for his bachelor weekend, even sweetly producing a cell phone shot of his wife-to be.

I stared at him. I used a line. Only it wasn’t a line, it was really true. “I know you from somewhere,” I said.

He had been busy trying to get one of my friends to dance with his brother, but he looked up at me with a knowing smile. “Do you have kids?” he asked, still smiling.

I was already shaking my head violently before he finished the last word of his question, but still, I couldn’t stop staring at him. I KNEW him. This feeling of being sure I know someone happens to me quite a bit. When I get this feeling, it takes over my brain and defies all logic. I am immediately compelled to stare at, harass, and quiz the person I’m sure I know until he or she helps me figure it out or files a restraining order, whichever comes first. Usually, when I see someone and keep insisting that I know him, it turns out to be the person I yelled at for going slow in the left lane, or the guy from the dog park whom I firmly informed of the law regarding how he needed to properly dispose of his Labrador’s droppings. It never seems to be anyone good when I know I know them, but I still can’t let it go. This guy was helping me through it, though.

“Do you have nieces and nephews?”

I nodded. “Yes, one of each, but I don’t know what that would….” I just wasn’t getting it.

He had clearly been through this spiel before, and it was time for his dramatic reveal. “I played Joe on Blue’s Clues!” he said with a flourish.

I laughed and covered my mouth and hopped around a little bit, “I love Blue’s Clues!” I shrieked, involuntarily letting on that I was a freak who did not watch the show with my little niece and nephew, but instead by myself in the throes of Saturday morning hangovers during a solid portion of my twenties. “I have a dog named Blue! I loved that show! This is so awesome!”

At this point, Joe from Blue’s Clues began to realize that I was way too excited about a show with a target market between the ages of two and five. I wanted to ask him about a million things, but he started to look uncomfortable. It was the celebrity sighting of the weekend, and I was ruining it by being just a tad too eager.

I tried to chill out, but I had to tell all my friends. “Psst, guys... that guy Donovan over there? He played Joe on Blue’s Clues!” A couple of the girls had the attitude of “Oh, cool, nice” A few had no idea what Blue’s Clues even was, and the rest of the girls were totally unimpressed. No one had the same reaction I did, and so I sighed and then let it go. Back to the dance floor where people understand me.

We brought the night to a close by screeching the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believin’” in the middle of the dancefloor. We were a chorus of sweaty, Journey-loving, throwbacks, and we didn’t even care. Even Joe from Blue’s Clues got into it, singing loudly while one of my friends finally danced with his brother.

We left the bar with the intent to walk the mile or so back to our condo. We all hated this idea, but it is almost impossible to get a cab in downtown Breckenridge the way you can in the city. The buses had stopped running at this late hour, and our thighs were burning from the hours of modern dance that had just preceded. We had just grudgingly begun our trek when a beat-up 1980’s Chevy Blazer pulled up. It was disguised cleverly as a cab with the simple addition of a yellow TAXI sign stuck to the top. Legs and arms everywhere, we all managed to fit inside with the cheerful driver who did not seem to mind the illegality of the situation one bit He drove us a mile right to the front door of our condo and asked us for twelve dollars in return. Cash came from everywhere. We were so thankful for the miracle Taxi-Blazer that I think he ended up netting around thirty bucks. Definitely his best fare of the night.

We wandered in to the condo together, some us with our arms linked, still singing.

“Hold on to that Fee-ee-lin!”

First photo courtesy of The Summit Daily News. Second photo courtesy of Amazon.com.

Hiatus

2008-03-06T18:22:00.006-07:00

There is so much traveling going on right now that I can't even keep my head straight. Mike got put on a huge project for work. His reward? Traveling to Chicago basically every single Monday through Friday for the next four months. It is great for his career, and he really deserves this huge opportunity, so I am trying not to be a baby about it. I know I have said before how I love my alone time, but come on. This is a tiny bit too much. Plus, the new responsibility comes with a Blackberry, so even when we are together, we are not quite together. I haven't flushed it down the toilet yet, and we are powering through. I am just learning to resort back to my single roots.

I saw Mike on Tuesday of last week when he left for Chicago. I then left for Girls' Ski Trip at 2pm on Friday, ten hours before he returned home. I got home Monday, saw him for the 25 minutes it took me to drive him to the airport and have not laid eyes on him since. He should be landing in about two hours, then we have to leave for Dallas to go to his friend's wedding tomorrow at noon. On top of it, things have been insane for me at work, too, and any time I have had not writing boring work stuff has been spent promising my dog that his life of being spoiled rotten with walks and constant attention will return shortly. The moral of all of this whining is that I promise to be back with more stories early next week. Here are some teasers:

I have about five stories from Girls' Ski Trip, including one where I was an actual rock star in Breckenridge for a fleeting few minutes. I'm serious.

I am up for a new job at work. A crossroads if you will, and there are some really odd elements to it all.

More about how Mike and I have become two ships passing in the night.

And more about my quest to be a tall skinny hottie even if it kills me.

So, have a great weekend. I will be in Dallas, where I heard it is supposed to be SNOWING tomorrow. How unfair is that? I think it actually follows me. In the meantime, check out some great stories from That Girl From Shallotte. I promise you won't be disappointed. She is my favorite columnist/blogger.
See you all back here on Monday.

From WW to WTF

2008-02-26T17:44:00.010-07:00

My blog buddies, KatieO, Crabby McSlacker, and ThickChick have fabulous fitness/weight-loss/health blogs that I read daily and use as inspiration in my quest to lose weight. I soak up their advice and great ideas and funny stories, and even steal recipes and awesome workout playlists, and I use these things to my advantage. But I never pay them back, except for with the occasional witty comment. (if I do say so myself) So, while my blog is not based on fitness and weight-loss, I am going to attempt to return the favor with a health-related post of my own. Except that this post probably won’t be that helpful or inspiring. And I definitely don’t have any advice. And I can’t promise funny either, so don’t go getting your hopes up or anything. Basically, I’m just going to bitch a little bit and hope that you all understand. Then I will direct you to their real fitness blogs for something that is actually helpful and motivating.

For those who read fairly frequently, you know that I gained forty pounds last year. Yeah, four-OH! And this may be a big shocker, but I’m not happy about it at all. At over six feet tall, I have never been petite, and have always considered myself somewhat athletically built. I’ve always had hip and thigh meat, and my calves are a little bit on the manly side, all of this completely contrasting with my tiny, tiny nearly-A chest. The smallest I have ever been is a size ten, and that is when everyone told me I was “too skinny.” I am currently a size 16, but I am very happy with my body, and will even venture out in a bathing suit at a size 14. I’m built to be a larger girl, just not quite this large. One pants size away seems so close, but when you are very tall, it takes a lot of pounds to change your pants-size. That is why I never noticed that anything was amiss on the way up. The way back down is proving to be much more difficult, and I am definitely noticing.

My goal is to remove this forty pounds from my jeans and return it to from whence it came, in this case to the place where they make really good cheeseburgers. And beer. And wine. Since it is not actually possible to just drive around and drop off your unwanted pounds where you got them, at the local greasy spoon, the bar, or the ice cream aisle of the grocery store, I realized it was time to get real.

Five weeks ago, I joined Weight Watchers online. I did not join the in-person version of WW, because I do not like the meetings. I am not knocking them; I realize that for some people, the meetings are the most important part of the program and what makes it work; like AA for alcoholics. However, when I tried WW four years ago, just to lose ten pounds with a friend, I got sort of annoyed at the meetings. Everyone was talking about food. One woman asked “It says a half a cup of carrots is zero points, but what if I want to eat a whole cup of carrots? Is that still zero points?”

I was sitting there thinking (and biting my tongue to keep from saying) “Uh, lady? I’m pretty sure that overdosing on carrots is not the reason any of us are here”

I also didn’t like the weigh-ins at the meetings. Maybe I am weird in the fact that I don’t really like to be cheered on about my personal issues. When I ran a triathlon last year, I looked up as I was on the homestretch of the run to see three friends standing on the sidelines, friends whom I completely did not expect to be there, and I was ecstatic; it made my day and pushed me that much harder. But when a lady I don’t know said “Great job, Cara” (pronouncing my name wrong) and then tried to hug me after I showed a half a pound loss at a weigh-in, I just wasn’t down with that. It felt like such an invasion. I didn’t want to sit there in a group of people talking about my weight, and what I ate, and how much I exercised, which back then was very little. I didn’t want anyone to clap for me when I was down one pound. I didn’t want them to flash me a smile, which may have been genuine, but which I perceived to be a portrayal of fake joy at my trivial weight loss. Even when Mike makes a comment regarding my improvement, I feel the urge to ask him to please hold his compliments until the end, when I will feel as if I am deserving of them. Losing weight is a really private battle for me. Which is why I am babbling about it on my blog where I tend to air all of the other weird, personal shit I go through. The answer is yes, and the question is “Is nothing sacred anymore?”

The online version of Weight Watchers is pretty handy. You can track all of your “points” right on the computer with access to the vast database of food values. You can still have a drink or two if you want, and lightning does not strike you if you eat a Girl Scout Cookie. Plus, my favorite part is that you can log your workouts to earn additional points for more stuff to eat. It’s sort of like online banking. You know how much you have, and as you spend, your balance goes down, but you can also make deposits by going to the gym. I like the system, and I have done pretty well.

I was meticulous for the first three weeks until President’s Day weekend hit, and I found myself splurging for most of it. I didn’t track my points all weekend, in effect kind of taking a little break from the plan. It turned out ok, though. Tuesday morning, when I weighed in, I was down another two pounds for a total of a twelve-pound loss. Nice. Even with a little bad behavior, I still got the reward. Not so this time. This week, I was perfect all week, worked out four times, and even went skiing, which earns you some major points. This morning when I weighed in, I was up a pound. SERIOUSLY???

When I sadly logged in my increase into the system, it said something like this:

“Sometimes a gain is a normal part of the overall weight-loss process”

It was the virtual version of the lady at the meeting offering me a hug and a fake-ish smile, only this time, she was patting me on the back, saying “It’s ok, Car-uh, you’ll get ‘em next week”

I know, I know. I understand health and fitness, and I know that you sometimes have to gain to lose, but I am still a little bit pissed. I am a big eater, and I have been hungry fairly consistently for the past month, but losing five and then ten pounds made me forget about it. I don’t want to let this increase get me down. I do not want to throw in the towel. In fact, I have been really careful all day, but I also can’t help but think whenever I feel a tiny little hunger pang, that my scale went UP this week. UP! And here I am eating a cup of carrots.

KatieO and ThickChick always seem to be so positive with themselves if they happen to show an increase for the week, or if their jeans are a little snug. I am going to try to follow in their footsteps and keep on trucking. But still, the damn thing went UP! ARRRRRGGH!

In my annoyance, I will share with you some lessons I have learned on my weight-loss journey thus far:

Under no circumstances is it a good idea to save up all of your WW points for alcoholic beverages. After two drinks, you will be tipsy and starving, begging someone to drive-you-thru the nearest Wendy’s, whilst rocking back and forth and clutching dollar bills in your sweaty fists.

Being hungry is very similar to being PMS, or quitting smoking. You have the potential to get just a tiny bit snotty over insignificant things. They should make a t-shirt you can wear stating that you are slightly unstable and prone to lashing out due to being on a restrictive diet. This might really help with your co-workers and loved ones.

Weight-loss begins at the edges of your body and then works its way in. Just because your face and ankles are beginning to look super-slender, and your ring is loose, it does not mean that you will automatically fit into last year’s jeans.

When you try on last year’s jeans, and they still do not go over your ample hips, it is not ok to throw a tantrum. People think a pants-less thirty-something woman kicking, screaming and crying on the floor is just plain weird. At least that is what I’ve heard.

No male person will understand what you are going through. Men who try to explain the intricacies of weight-loss to you, including a paragraph on what works for them, should be incarcerated until you reach your goal weight. You do not need that kind of crap right now.

And finally. The number of pounds you need to lose in order to receive an appraising look and a “Hey, cutie!” from a fast-moving, 20-year old snowboarder wearing pants with flames on them is equal to however many I was down on Sunday. Seriously, if you are out there, kid, I would like to thank you for keeping me going on my quest. I am way too old for you, and taken, but damn I needed that!

Back to the weight-loss blogs, and more on this subject when I’m back into those jeans.

Bless You

2008-02-19T16:44:00.006-07:00

I have mentioned before my uncanny ability to embarrass myself in just about every type of public situation (try here, and here, and here). This time, though, it totally wasn’t my fault.

After an uncharacteristically crazy Friday night, we left my car downtown and took a cab home. At the time it was a great idea, but then upon waking the next morning, we vaguely remembered the conversation we’d had with my friend the night before. Mike’s car was in the shop, so she said that she would come get us the next morning and take us back down to get my car. It was already 11:00 when we finally rolled out of bed, and she was on her way to get us. We hurriedly dressed in our Saturday morning best, each donning jeans and a sweatshirt, Mike in a ball cap, and me in a straggly ponytail and the biggest sunglasses I could find. Definitely not our finest hour. My friend picked us up and dropped us off downtown where we began walking the block to the parking garage where we had left my truck so many hours before. As we walked in front of Zaidy’s, a delicious Jewish deli on Market Street, we realized we were both ravenous and decided to go in for a sandwich before we picked up our wheels.

The hostess sat us in a booth right up front, and although I didn’t argue, I would have much preferred a back-corner table where I could hide my unwashed hair and the remnants of Friday night’s mascara. We ordered Diet Coke and coffee and lots of water and sandwiches and fresh-cut French fries.

Mike and I traded sandwich halves, as is our tradition, and ate our late breakfast while joking around about the prior night’s goings on. We waited patiently for the caffeine to take effect. About halfway through our meal, the hostess sat another couple in the booth directly next to ours. I was facing the man; Mike and the woman were back to back.

This couple did not look like they had spent Friday night drinking more than their livers were ever intended to process. In fact, they had probably played backgammon in front of the fire, maybe enjoyed one glass of wine, and then they had turned in early; that was the only explanation for how prim and proper they looked. They were here at Zaidy’s at 11:30 for their second meal of the day, not their first, and they had most definitely showered before leaving their house. The man’s shirt and jeans were both professionally pressed, with straight, crisp creases trailing the lengths of both his arms and legs. The woman was equally cleaned and starched, not a hair out of place in her puffy early-90’s-ish coif. They smelled of Old Spice and Chanel Number 5, and they looked convinced, after taking us in, that they had been seated next to a couple of vagrants. They were politely trying not to stare, but not completely succeeding.

After the couple placed their order, our server moved on to us, deftly picking up our dishes and dropping the check. This is when Mike got greedy. Because of our seating position directly at the front of the restaurant, Mike had a straight-line view into Zaidy’s famous pastry case. He was eyeing the apple strudel, and I agreed that I wouldn’t mind a couple of bites of the huge Snickerdoodle. We flagged down our waitress, and she went off to grab our pastries and adjust and run our check on my debit card. She brought back the card and receipt and a paper bag with the warm sweets inside.

Mike picked up the bag of pastries and stood, walked two steps to my side of the booth, and reached out to help me. I handed him my to-go box containing a half a sandwich, then asked him to hold my credit card and the receipt while I gathered up my purse and jacket. He was standing directly over me with his hands full as the waitress passed behind him. This is why, when he felt that familiar urge, he neither covered his mouth nor turned away. Just as I was standing up with my purse in hand, my boyfriend released world’s largest sneeze directly on to my face. My bangs flapped in the substantial breeze, my face was soaked, and the sunglasses perched on top of my head were covered in droplets of God-knows-what. I looked right up at him, incredulous, touching my face and head. “What the hell was that?” I screeched at him.

As Mike started to defend himself, I looked up to find Mr. Backgammon wiping his face, clearing it of the soda he spat upon seeing my boyfriend attack me with a germy WMD. His wife was completely turned around in her seat, staring at us, trying to figure out what had happened. The man, who had looked to me like the type who might have been completely offended and disgusted by what he had just witnessed, couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain it to her.

I dragged Mike out of the deli and we laughed all the way down the block and into the parking garage, our shrieks echoing off the walls.

One of these days we will learn how to behave in public. However, until we do, I’m really glad that we can spread joy to the people of Denver.

P.S. I hope that guy gets as much mileage out of this story as I plan to.

Valentines Schmalentines

2008-02-13T18:29:00.006-07:00

Last year for Valentine’s Day, we vowed not to spend a bunch of money, instead deciding to get creative with each other’s gifts. Taking the creative part of it a little bit too literally, I had the great idea to paint Mike a picture. I asked my artist/graphic designer friends at work for their advice on what medium I should choose and then went to the craft store to purchase my booty. Working in acrylics on canvas, my goal was to create an inspired abstract of Mike’s beautiful red hair. Like my height, Mike's red hair is his defining physical feature, and because it is such a part of who he is, I wanted to capture it through the magic of art.

In my mind, the painting was going to turn out beautifully. I pictured swirls of copper and bronze emulating his curls and blending perfectly on the page. It would be a work of art that we would treasure for years to come and hang on the wall in our house, proudly displaying my talents for everyone to see. I neglected to think ahead though, and if I had I would have realized that I have absolutely no idea in hell how to paint. It is way, way harder than it looks. I guess I thought that I could Bob-Ross it and come up with a very presentable, although not necessarily completely amazing piece of artwork in approximately thirty minutes. Not even close. What I created was a mess.

In my defense, after mixing several different times, I got the color almost exactly right. And to defend myself again, it did sort of look like his hair. It just didn’t accomplish the effect that I thought it would, which was to actually resemble art. I guess you have to be an actual artist to make that happen.

Mike, on the other hand, did not give me a messy attempt at art as a Valentine’s gift. Instead, he had cleverly asked my friend from work to sneak him into the office the night before Valentines Day. He left a little scavenger hunt in the various crevices of my desk; hiding a bunch of tiny little gifts, each with a sweet note, all tucked in and around my workspace. All day long I was surprised by a new lip gloss, or candy, or scented lotion each time I opened a drawer or moved a file. I had such an amazing day constantly finding these little surprises, and then I had to go home and give him my crappy canvas.

I was almost too embarrassed to even give the painting to Mike, but it was Valentine’s Day, and since I had put my artwork off until the last minute, I had nothing else to give. So I stared at my feet while handing it over. I presented him with my ugly orange painting and a card as a sign of my unending love. I felt like an idiot.

Of course, Mike is too nice of a guy to let me know that I had bombed on the gift. He was so sweet about the picture, staring at it and mentioning how I had captured the undertones just right, and that the size was perfect. Then, he looked up from the picture and our eyes met. We both cracked up. We laughed for several minutes, then I showed him the orange paint that I had gotten on the wall as a result of using my dresser as an easel. It wouldn’t come off. We laughed our asses off over that, too. As per usual, my gift came in the form of unintentional comedy, something I excel at.

As of right now, my famous Valentine’s Day Massacre painting is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall in the basement. We can’t throw it away; I mean, it could be worth some serious cash some day if I get famous, or if that type of “art” ever comes into style. However, as it stands right now, we sure as hell aren’t hanging it up anywhere.

While we both had a good time with those gifts last year, I think we’ve realized that neither of us are really the Valentine’s Day type. I am a total romantic, and so it always seems like cheating to me to take every ounce of spontaneity out of a gift by giving it on a designated day. Mike does pretty well for himself, too, remembering spontaneous flowers on occasion and presenting me with surprise gifts fairly frequently, so I definitely don’t need to force him into it once a year

I got him a wallet this year. A really cool one from my favorite store ever, The New York Public Library Gift Shop (if you haven’t been, go to libraryshop.org right now!). I gave it to him last week so that he wouldn't have to keep carrying his driver's license and credit cards around wrapped in a rubber band. When I handed it to him, I said "Oh yeah, this is kinda for Valentine's Day, too" I’m pretty sure he was totally swept off of his feet by that one.

Yesterday, my old personal trainer from my gym called me. He had helped me rehab my knee last year, and had worked out with Mike a couple of times as well. He wanted us to come in for a free measurement and to let him give us his sales pitch on the new couples training they are doing at 24Hour Fitness. He gave me his open appointments, and I said we could make it Thursday at 8.

“Hey, Cara”, he said, “Thursday is Valentine’s Day, are you sure you guys want to come in that night?”

I thought about it. We didn't have any plans for Thursday, so I said " Oh sure. That's fine"

We are so unromantic.

I always swore that when I settled down with someone, it would be a man who swept me off my feet on a daily basis. Someone who made me swoon with lyrical poetry, a man who would shower me with gifts and compliments and put me on a pedestal. I wasn’t going to settle for anything less. Then I met Mike. He had only a brother growing up, and then went to an engineering college where girls were extremely few and far between. While he has always been sweet, he took on a fairly large romantic learning curve when it came to me. I had to explain a lot about how to romance a girl to him, but I was surprised when my having to explain didn’t really take the thrill out of it for me. I still have to beg him to not throw his boxers on the bathroom floor every single morning, and to please at least pretend to acknowledge that I am speaking when there is a soccer game on. Oh, and there has definitely never been any lyrical poetry that I can recall unless you count when he makes up raps in the shower and shouts them out to me while I am curling my hair. He is not a born romantic, but it never felt like settling. In fact, just picturing him reading actual poetry to me kind of makes me cringe a little. It just wouldn’t work with us.

I think I misjudged the whole romantic thing just a little too much as a younger person. Now, in the thick of life, that stuff just seems so unrealistic and kind of stupid. I am more swept off of my feet when we stand at the top of a mountain, staring down at what we have just accomplished together than I could ever be standing alone on a figurative pedestal. I think we pretty much have it figured out.

So, tomorrow night, Mike and I are going to go on our very unromantic Valentine’s Day date to the gym. We will wear ugly clothes, and we won’t smell nice at the end, but I guarantee that we will have a blast. Then we will come home and probably snuggle up and watch a little soccer before bed. Maybe, if we get around to it, we will finally hang up my ugly painting.

Put Another Dime In The Jukebox, Baby

2008-02-05T20:43:00.000-07:00

There are very few inanimate objects that I really care much about. I’ve had a few things that I’ve really liked a lot, but for the most part, I am not that attached to ‘stuff’.

In college, I bought my first car with my own money, a teal green, hail-damaged Chevy Cavalier for $4500, “The Cav”. I drove it for 8 years, and then donated it to the Salvation Army when it was time to grow up and drive something that was perhaps not, uh, teal. I cried when I gave it away, not because I would miss the car per se, but because of the memories that I had of every event it had taken me to throughout my twenties.

I have a few books that I treasure, but could probably live without.

Initially, after my mom died, I selfishly hoarded everything of hers, afraid to let go. Eventually though, as I healed, I found the few items that meant the most, the spice cabinet she always cooked from, her journals, my great grandmother’s china, and got rid of the excess that I didn’t need.

While things matter in everyday life, I know that I would be OK in a fire or other disaster as long as I had Mike and my dog and my cat. In the end, material things just aren’t that important. Except one thing. One thing that isn’t even mine.

Unlike any other kids we knew, when my sisters and I were young, we had a real live jukebox at my dad’s house. My dad had randomly come into it in his youth and had the wherewithal to hang on to it. My sisters and I were the lucky beneficiaries. Now, this wasn’t one of those pretty jukeboxes that you might see at a diner with the rainbow-colored lights arching over the bright, shiny, spherical window. This was simply a machine to play music. It was big and heavy and awkward and boxy with sharp corners and squeaky parts. While the chrome could take on a nice shine, you would never look at it and say, “Wow, what a beautiful jukebox!” In fact, most people looked at it, sitting stoically in its spot of honor in the family room, and said “What is that?” Still, no one else had one, and that made us feel cool.

If you looked in the window of our jukebox, there were about ten “rows” of about ten slots each. Each slot held a one-by-three inch piece of paper, A-side song written at the top, B-side song on the bottom, artist in the middle. Each little paper coincided with a 45 RPM record hidden deep down in the guts of the machine that you could miraculously bring to the needle by selecting the right combination of buttons. The buttons resembled small, pink piano keys, half with letters and half with numbers. At one point in its long life, the number one key on the jukebox had come off and been replaced with an extra seven key; it was an imperfection that seemed to make it perfect for our family. After you made your selection and pressed the keys, they would hold down for a moment making a sound like a drumroll, then they would pop back up with satisfying bing. The wheel full of records would begin turning noisily until it came to your selection, and then a metal arm would grab the the record and squeakily bring it to its home on the turntable. If you were about six or seven years old, you were the perfect height to peer through the glass and watch all of this occur. It was better than cartoons.

My dad generously gave us each our own row, and we could put whatever songs we wanted on it. We were allowed to pick from his collection of thousands of 45s, or we could go to Sound Warehouse down the street and spend our allowance on the newest songs that the 80's had to offer. He gave each of our rows catchy alliterative names, Amy’s Anthems, Cara’s Classics, etc. so that our taste in music was prominently on display for any friends or guests. Amy’s Anthems usually consisted of songs in the Twisted Sister and Quiet Riot genre, while mine tended to be her more mellow castoffs from the pre-rocker years, The Go-Gos and Rick Springfield. For years, we would hear a song in public and say something like” Oh, I love this song, I want it for my row” and anyone outside of our immediate family would think we were very odd.

You had to be twelve to turn on the jukebox. It was a house rule because the knob was fragile and in a precarious spot, and my little sister and I had managed to knock it off enough times to have the rule instated. It was decided that twelve was the magical age that brought with it the maturity and responsibility required to operate the switch.

Many times I would venture down to my older sister’s bedroom to see if she would come up and turn it on for me so that I could listen to music while I colored. Being careful to avoid eye contact with Gene Simmons and his tongue seeming to protrude from her wall, I would tap quietly on her door. “Uh, Amy? Uh, hi, I was just wondering if you could maybe---”

“GET OUT OF MY ROOM!” she would scream, completely aghast that I had dared to interrupt her in the middle of her very important work writing down song lyrics in a pink notebook.

She would narrow her eyes at me, sigh, and then turn her attention back to her boombox, pressing the rewind button for the eighty-seventh time. I would trudge back upstairs. The fun would have to wait. And man, was it fun. Even Amy would get into it sometimes, and we would all take turns playing songs for each other, singing into brushes and spoons, dancing like there was nary a care in the world.

Because of the jukebox, I learned to love every kind of music. I loved the old stuff from the 40’s and 50’s that my dad would play from his row, and I loved watching the green apple spin around while simultaneously experiencing a tiny bit of the sixties through the Beatles. I rocked out to jazz with my dad, fell in love with Stevie Wonder at a very early age, and thought Frank Sinatra was the best before my friends even knew who he was. While my friends were obsessed with Michael Jackson, I was listening to Motown. On top of the old, I saved up for the new ones too. To this day, I know every 80’s and early 90’s one-hit-wonder, not to mention every word to Islands in the Stream by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers. I actually have Runaway by Slade in my iPod rotation right now; not many people remember that one, but we played it until it broke in half.

Anytime I hear an old song on the radio, Satisfaction, Hey Jude, Sir Duke, New York New York, in my mind I am instantly barefoot in my dad’s family room, singing and dancing and being a kid, watching my dad and sisters do the same. I think that is why people love music. It’s pure nostalgia in five minute increments.

Amy has the jukebox now. My dad gave it to her because she is the oldest and apparently being the oldest allows you to steal your sisters’ memories from right beneath them. (In his defense, he has already given me box upon box of valuable sports memorabilia that I treasure. He would want you to know that he is very fair.) My dad said that he was going to will the jukebox to Amy when he died, but then he and my step-mom decided that they didn’t want to move that frickin thing around anymore, so Amy got it about four years ago. It is in her beautiful finished basement in a place of honor.

Whenever I go over there, we break out the wine and play all of the old one hit wonders on the jukebox. We sit on the floor in front of it for hours at a time, tipsy on wine and memories, singing at the top of our lungs into empty-bottle microphones to Paper Lace and Mungo Jerry and other random groups that no one else has ever heard of. These are old-people songs that make us feel young, songs that got us through bad times and created good times. It seems like we can never get enough of it. But eventually, we get tired, and the music starts to die down, and the wine is gone, and everyone else is asleep. Time to pack it in for the night. Then, Jesse’s Girl comes on and we scream like hyenas and start all over again. I feel like I might love that machine, even in all of its inanimateness. The noises it makes, the feel of its keys beneath my fingertips, the faint smells of WD40 and vinyl, the music that floats out of the tinny speakers. Some things can take you back to a time you never want to forget. That's pure nostalgia.

It Was Miss Cara. With the Banana. In the Stairwell

2008-01-29T18:23:00.000-07:00

I hate bananas, hate the smell of bananas, the sound of someone chewing a banana, and, I’m sure much to the interest of Freudian psychologists everywhere, the sight of a banana. Maybe it is the potassium deficiency speaking here, but I would be happy if I never saw another banana in my life. I feel very strongly about this.

As a child, I lied with a straight face to various teachers, babysitters, and daycare providers, telling them I was allergic, convinced that I was doing a service with my little fib by saving them from the wrath of my vomitous reaction to the offending fruit. Two years ago, on my last day at my former job, my co-workers and “friends” filled the trashcan beneath my desk with banana peels. Blasted by the smell, I stood up prairie dog style and accused every one of my neighboring cubicle dwellers of daring to eat a banana in my general vicinity. It took me several minutes to realize that I had been the victim of a horrible and somewhat unfunny prank.

My hatred for the banana began pretty innocently, and although I cannot remember the specific date, the memory of that day over twenty years ago is as clear in my mind as if I was still sitting there. I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, and as I have written many times before, my little sister was fairly consistent about driving me up a wall.

When the doorbell rang at our house, being the one to answer it was a very high honor. Normally, I could beat my sister to the door as a result of my larger size, faster speed, and generally more well-developed intellect. Courtney would come up behind me panting after having been shoved aside into a door or wall. She would peek around me to see that the caller at the door was simply the mailman with an odd-sized package, or maybe the meter man asking that the dog be let in from the yard so that he could get back there to do his job. My sister would let out a sigh and then make her way back up the stairs still annoyed that she had been defeated once again

On this day when the doorbell rang, I was in the kitchen just pulling a banana out of the large bowl on the counter. The chime rang through the house, and I was off to the races down the hall, the banana tucked beneath my arm like a football. My sister had heard it first, though, and she had been closer. She cut me off at the top of the stairs, scampered down the steps, turned to me with a satisfied, toothy grin, and then opened the door. Her snotty little look made me so angry that I did the only logical thing I could think of; I chucked the banana down the stairs right at her.

I missed. The banana hit the doorjamb to the left of her and then fell to the floor just as she closed the door. My sister, now clutching a Speigel catalog against her chest, stuck her tongue out, climbed the stairs, and pushed past me. I stomped down to pick up the banana that had fallen on the floor. The peel had still been intact when I had thrown it, however, on impact it had split a little on the side, and some bruised fruit was oozing out through the little hole. I went back upstairs and into the kitchen where my mom was standing at the sink. I walked over to the trashcan, depressed the pedal with my foot, and was just about to deposit the banana into its final resting place when my mother turned around and asked me what I was doing.

“This banana is bad,” I said with conviction, the banana still dangling precariously over the open can.

“I just bought those yesterday,” my mom said and then held out her hand, “Let me see it.”

I stood still for a second. This was not going to end well, I already knew. We were poor, single-mom poor, and so wasting food around our house was pretty much a felony. I stared at her outstretched hand and then slowly placed the banana squarely in her palm.

She examined the fruit in the same way she did everything, which was with purpose and an eagle eye. She looked up at me and asked me what happened to the banana, which was, of course, the same moment Courtney came strolling into the room.

“She threw it at me,” Courtney said, and because she was a very experienced tattletale, she managed to look thoroughly victimized.

The story came out. I was sentenced to a punishment. I was to sit at the table until I finished eating the affronting banana, and while this was going on, I was also supposed to think about the crime on humanity that I had committed. My mom removed the banana from its peel and put it in a cereal bowl. It was now quite messy, so for good measure she also provided me with a spoon. She left the room, presumably to hunker down with her new Speigel catalog, and I sat staring at the banana. There was no way I was going to eat it. I even said it out loud to the empty dining room, “There is no way I am eating this”

I have always been a fidgeter, usually playing with my hair, or chewing a pen lid; this day, however, I fidgeted endlessly with the spoon in the bowl of banana. I mushed it and stirred it around until it became a brown soupy mess. I spooned it up, lifted it high, and then tipped the spoon, letting the banana nastiness drip back into the bowl. Now there was definitely no way in hell I was going to eat it.

My mom came back about fifteen minutes after she had left me. I was sitting at the table, head on hand, staring into space. The sticky mass of liquid banana sat below my chin, still in the bowl. Now my mom was pissed.

“Dammit, Cara,” she said, her voice beginning to take on a bit of an edge. “I am giving you ten more minutes to eat it.”

I chose this moment to make one of the first really big mistakes that I would make with my smartass mouth (obviously, this trend continues throughout my life)

“Or what?” I asked, staring her directly in the eyes.

She was no longer pissed. She was now livid. I was defying her to her face, and I was being a brat about it.

“You have ten minutes to eat everything in that bowl, or I will come back in here and …and…I will come back in here and pour it over your head,” my mom stopped there.

She looked almost scared at what had come out of her mouth, but I was relieved. The odds of a mother pouring something disgusting over her own daughter’s head as a punishment seemed small, and to me, considering the crime, sounded cruel and unusual. While my mom was always creative with her punishments, she was also fair and never cruel. I didn’t buy it, and she saw this in my eyes. Now she was stuck. She couldn’t back down.

I screwed around with the banana for the next ten minutes, and my mom watched me the entire time. At one point she told me how serious she was, and at another, she pleaded with me to just eat the stupid thing. When the egg timer dinged, we both jumped a little bit. She looked at me like she wasn’t exactly sure what to do, and I looked back at her, still defiant. She took the bowl from my hands gingerly and said the words “last chance” under her breath. She saw that I still didn’t believe her, and so she dumped it. Right over my head. The slimy ooze trailed out of my hair down the back of my neck, and into my face, mixing with the tears that had started flowing freely. Wailing like a baby, I looked up at my mom, shocked and thinking “How could you do such a thing?” My mom was crying, too. She was still mad at me, but she was also sad that she had been forced to embarrass me. Pride was a big thing in our family, and taking that away hurt her as much as it did me. She wiped the tears off of her own cheeks, and said simply, “Go get in the shower” and sat down at the table

I did get in the shower, and the banana barely budged from my hair. I got most of it out of my ears and off of my face, but I spent the next few weeks pulling little pieces of dried banana out of my hair. My hair, consequently, smelled of little pieces of dried banana. It was a sickeningly overripe smell, sometimes slightly musty and rotten. It was the sweet smell of respect for my elders.

While I learned to hate bananas that day, I also learned a valuable lesson. I obviously still defied my mother throughout my childhood and adolescence, but I learned to be subtle, almost respectful about it if that's possible. I never rubbed it in her face like that again. In turn, she never rubbed anything in my face (or hair) again, either.

Fletch Lives

2008-01-23T12:35:00.000-07:00

I have a cat. While I realize that this is not some big, amazing life accomplishment, most people are still surprised to hear it simply because I babble on about what a genius my dog is all the time. Yes, it’s probably true that I choose favorites, and am still more of a dog-person, but I do have a cat, and I even had him first, and he leads a very luxurious life full of food and lounging, just like any other happy cat. His name is Fletch, and he is actually pretty cute. He is also possessed by Satan.

When I moved into my very first apartment, the first one where I lived alone with no annoying roommates, my little sister gave me a housewarming gift disguised as a tiny kitten with black and white fur, a bright pink nose, and bright yellow eyes. At the time, there were no dogs allowed in my building, and I wanted to adopt something, and Fletch was a very affectionate and well-behaved cat. This was a time in my life when I wasn’t as well-behaved, living my roaring twenties to the fullest, but Fletch never judged. We lived very well together.

The first sign that something was amiss was when I was sent to LA for a week-long sales conference. I had Fletch for about a year when I got laid off from a writing job after the stock market crashed. I ended up selling insurance for a year, (also known as my least favorite job ever) and my company sent me to an intensive sales training seminar where I would be forced to schmooze with a bunch of sales-y jerks whom I loathed. My best friend volunteered to stop by my apartment every couple of days while I was gone to check on Fletch and get my mail and all of the things that good friends do while another good friend is out of town. The thing about my best friend is that she is allergic to cats. So while she spoke to Fletch on her visits, the actual physical contact was pretty much nil. I figured he would be OK, after all, cats are very independent and self-sufficient.

I returned from California with a headful of useless knowledge, a severe aversion to men in expensive suits, and the desire to sink into my couch with my sweet little cat and watch cheesy 80’s movies until I felt my personality regain consciousness. Little did I know the Stephen King tale that lurked behind my apartment door.

I walked in and dropped my suitcase by the door. “Hi, Fletchy!!” I cooed in the high-pitched voice that I reserve only for animals and select babies.

The cat meowed at the top of his little lungs as he ran towards me, then he rubbed furiously against my leg. I walked over to the sofa so that I could pick him up and snuggle him. He chose this moment to attack me. I’m not talking about a little bite or scratch; this cat attached himself to my bare arm with teeth and claws digging in. He kicked with his back legs into my soft flesh and let out a low guttural growl. In my shock and self-defense I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him off of my bloody arm. I tossed him to the ground where he landed gently on his feet, still staring me down. “What the hell is wrong with you, kitty?” I pleaded, wondering what sort of weird shit my best friend did to animals for kicks and if she was really the best friend I thought I knew.

I started to stand up from the couch when Fletch attacked again. He really seemed serious about killing me, and I was actually kind of scared. I was being attacked by a ten pound domesticated animal in my own apartment, in the middle of downtown Denver. The closest thing in my neighborhood to wild animals were a couple of questionable squirrels; so this just wasn’t making sense. I tossed him to the floor again and then got up and sprinted into my bedroom and shut the door. I was confused. When you are being attacked by your own cat, do you call 911, or the Humane Society? Or do you just have to find a shotgun and take care of things yourself, Old Yeller style?

I changed clothes, remembering to put on a huge sweatshirt to cover as much of my skin as possible, then I opened the door a crack and peeked out. No sign of Fletch. I rounded the corner, and there he was, curled in a little ball on the couch licking one paw, surely ridding his furry weapon of crime scene evidence. I approached him slowly, and he started to purr. I sat down on the opposite end of the couch, never taking my eyes from his. He stretched in that way that cats can stretch that makes them look like the most graceful creatures on earth. He walked over to me and I gritted my teeth, keeping my arms in front of my face so that the scarring would be minimal. I braced myself against an inevitable attack, but there wasn’t one. Instead, he climbed slowly into my lap, curled up, and went to sleep.

I have never really traveled that much for work, and so anytime that I have left Fletch since that fateful sales conference, it has only been for a day or two, and now there is the dog or Mike around to keep him company. The Pet Semetary incident of 7 years ago was, in fact, almost forgotten when Mike and I went to Europe for two weeks in October. For our trip, the dog went to my dad and step-mom's house where he is spoiled rotten and taken on approximately forty-three walks a day (my dad is convinced that dogs have no actual bladder and, therefore, need to be outside at all times in case they start leaking involuntarily) Fletch, however, did not luck out with a trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Instead he stayed at our house. I enlisted two friends from work to each stop by every other day so that the cat would have a visitor every day. I told these friends that he would need extra love because he would be lonely. They accepted these duties without really understanding what might happen, and we left for Europe.

Two weeks later, back at the office, there had apparently been some gossip about me while I was gone. Basically, everyone seemed to believe a horrible rumor that I was housing a rabid cat who had attacked both of my friends and that they were scared to go back to my house. I pretended that I didn’t understand what anyone was talking about, then I slipped my cat-watching friends some Italian leather goods to keep them quiet.

My cat is a huge pain in the ass, and his tendency to attack is one of many little personality “quirks”, but he is normally a nice-ish cat, and I probably stretched the truth a little when I said he was possessed by Satan. He isn’t possessed, he just requires that certain rules are followed:

Do not, under any circumstances leave him alone for more than a day or two.

If you absolutely have to leave him alone, provide his caretakers with a couple of those leather arms that they use for training police dogs. Also, (see exhibit A) hide any furniture that you would like to still be intact when you return.

Oh, and whatever you do, don’t ever feed him after midnight.

Good Morning, James. Or May I Call You Gym?

2008-01-15T17:58:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure whose genius idea it was to start lifting weights in the mornings before work. Oh wait, yes I am sure; it was Mike’s idea. I was an innocent, yet agreeable bystander. I want to lose weight, so I have been working out and eating right for the most part, but finding time to lift weights has been almost impossible. I can run on the treadmill or ellipse on the elliptical in the tiny gym at my office after work. It’s free, and I can still be home by six. Plus, very frequently, I am the only one in there, which allows me to sing aloud with my iPod while running and pondering why the other 800 occupants of my building don’t take advantage of the gift-horse that is free cardio. However, if I want to lift, I have to go to my real gym. The gym that I pay 45 dollars a month to use, which, if you do the calculations during my bad months, can bring the grand total per workout to right around $15.

I know that lifting weights is the quickest way to lose weight and increase energy and make my backside smaller, but (whine!) I hate it!! I hate being on the weight floor with all of these machines that I cannot seem to remember how to use, and the five hundred floor-to-ceiling mirrors that allow me to see my sizeable ass at every angle. Sometimes I drag myself away from my own personal butt-obsession-trauma only to look up and make eye contact with someone who is actually LOOKING at me! This is not OK with me. I don’t want anyone to look at me while I struggle through my workout. On the treadmill, I can plug in my iPod, zone out, and just go, staring straight ahead into my thoughts. If people want to look at me then, more power to them. No one will come up to me and ask if they can rotate in while I am on the cardio machines like they do while I’m using the freemotion rower. I’ve let people work in before, watching helplessly as they casually switch my 30 pound pin to their 900 pound pin with a smirk or a smile. On the treadmill, no one realizes how fast or slow I am going. No one is paying attention to the incline level I have set for myself on the elliptical, or the fact that I go a little faster to Bowling for Soup than I do for Kanye West . In the cardio room, I am on my own, and that is the way I like it. But, I know that I have to pump the iron if I want to get back down to my fighting weight.

I made the mistake of complaining to Mike about how I never have time to lift. Our gym is packed to the gills between 5 and 7:30 on weeknights, and if we go at 8 or 8:30, we come home late, get into bed, and then just lie awake all night, our muscles tingling, the endorphins still coursing through our veins. We were down to only one option, and I cringed as I watched it come into his mind. “Let’s start going three mornings a week before work,” he said, overflowing with child-like innocence.

I laughed openly at him.

Don’t think I’m mean; it was only funny because it was not the first time that he and I decided to implement morning workouts into our busy lives. In the past two years, we have probably decided five different times that we were going to commit to going to the gym, running with the dog, or even just stretching in the mornings before work.

In our carefully thought-out plan, we would get up at five ready to greet the day, then we would workout with big smiles on our faces, evidence of our love for each other practically oozing from every pore. We would kiss goodbye on the gym floor, hit the showers by 6:30, and be at our desks ready to productively face the day by 7:30. Not only would our bodies look better, but we would feel better and be more successful! Working out in the morning would solve all of our problems! We would become a power couple with toned triceps and monster paychecks! This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to us!

(end dream sequence)

What we always realize after we agree on these idealistic plans is that, when given the choice between an energizing, healthy, pump-you-up morning workout and sleep, sleep wins every single time. We would workout in the morning once or twice, and then, we would begin to take turns groggily talking each other out of getting up until it was eventually completely phased out of our routine. I agreed to Mike’s plan once again, but I told him I was really serious this time.

I do love lifting weights with him. While I am totally lost in the weight room, Mike knows every machine like the back of his hand. How it works, what it works, and how much each of us should lift on it. I think in fifth grade, when they pulled the girls aside to tell them about getting their periods and making babies, that the boys must have been taken to they gym for a crash course on how to use the Nautilus machines. This would also explain why so few of them understand women.

So anyway, it was decided that Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays we would get up at 5:15 to be on the weight room floor by 5:45. Here is an excerpt from my workout journal explaining how things are going thus far:

Day One of Hell- It’s Tuesday. We both wake up to the grating iPhone alarm. You may already know how I feel about the iPhone, but hate takes on a whole new meaning at 5:15AM. We stare at each other for a full twenty seconds before silently throwing the covers back and getting out of bed. Neither of us says a word to the other, although I do sigh violently and dole out a crusty when he accidentally bumps my arm while reaching for his toothbrush. We dress in our workout clothes and sling our respective “getting ready for work” bags over our shoulders. Mike’s bag is about one tenth the size of mine, and for some reason, this makes me mad at him. The dog jumps around at our feet thinking that if we are up this early and packing this much gear, we must be taking him camping in the mountains. He is going to have to learn to live with disappointment. Mike’s water bottle slides out of the side pocket of his bag and clatters to the hardwood floor. He gets red in the face and starts to grumble under his breath. I, the pot, tell him, the kettle, that if he cannot be cheerful, then I am not going to be able to go through with this each morning. He glares at me, and we storm out the front door to our respective cars, leaving the dog staring sadly after us through the window, convinced we are going someplace fun without him. His sad little look through the glass makes me even grumpier. I drive to the gym. I roll down the window to let a little cool winter air hit my face, and I crank Journey on the radio to put me in a good mood. It works, and apparently Mike has employed some of the same tactics, because he is smiling now as we pull up next to each other in the gym parking lot.

We work out together, enjoy each other’s company, and then kiss each other goodbye on the gym floor before heading off to the locker rooms. I get ready in record time, am at my desk early, and feel energized all day long until I fall into bed exhausted around 8:45. All in all, it turned out pretty well.

Day Two- It’s Thursday. The iPhone starts its annoyingly cheerful guitar music at 5:15. Mike, who’s volleyball game went past 11 the night before, turns it off and rolls over to go back to sleep. I protest for about three seconds, and then I do the same thing. We do not make it to the gym today. Even though it isn’t totally his fault, I make Mike feel a little guilty about when we do finally wake up a couple of hours later.

Day Three- It’s Friday. After having spent an hour the night before ironing my work clothes, packing my enormous bag, and carefully laying my gym clothes out so that I can fall right into them in the morning, the alarm goes off and we both hit the ground running. We arrive at the gym a few minutes early, and ready to go. As we are walking in, I realize that the shirt I had ironed into starched perfection the night before is still hanging on the bedroom door handle at home. I grabbed my bag, but had forgotten my shirt. Pretty sure that I am going to be unable to make my ripped Denver Broncos t-shirt look work-acceptable with my skirt and pantyhose, no matter how much I accessorize, I sigh. I cut my workout 15 minutes short so that I can go home and get ready.

After working out then going home to shower, I am blow-drying my hair in my bathroom, when I hear it. Someone is breaking into the house. The dog runs to the door, while I curse myself for leaving it unlocked. “Who’s there?” I shout, sounding as tough as I can, brandishing my blow-dryer like a handgun.
“It’s me, hon.” Mike rounds the corner, half smile across his face. “I forgot my boxers”

We may very well be too unorganized to actually succeed at this.

Day Four- This morning. The iPhone battery died during the night. At least that is Mike’s story. Needless to say, we did not go to the gym this morning. I am getting very used to living out of my big duffle bag, though, so that is one skill acquired.
Mike called me at work and said we should go tomorrow morning instead of waiting until Thursday.
I hung up on him. Well, not really, but I pretended to.

I really want to do this. I want to see my triceps and my abdominal muscles again. I miss them. I want to look cute in summer dresses this year. I want to be strong and healthy and slender. Mike does, too. I mean, minus the part about summer dresses. I am going to do this if it the last promise I ever keep to myself. Day Five begins at 5:15 tomorrow morning. I’d better get to bed.

Blockage

2008-01-14T19:54:00.000-07:00

Ugggh. I am so blocked this week. I think it is my job as a copywriter that sometimes keeps me from being able to be a blog-writer. After spending the past week writing such interesting sentences as: "Withdrawals taken before age 59 1/2 may be subject to a 10% federal tax penalty, " I just don't have it in me today. Sorry. *blushing* I will be back tomorrow. Or Wednesday. I'm sure Mike will do something ridiculous any minute now, and I will be inspired. Off to check out your much-more-interesting blogs. Don't leave me.

Back on Two Planks

2008-01-07T20:08:00.001-07:00

In August, I was positive that I was going to buy a season ski pass for this year, and I began saving my pennies. Then in September, as winter got closer and the memory of last year’s knee injury began to refresh, I decided that maybe I would just get a discounted four-pack of lift tickets. So I used some of those saved pennies to buy a pair of black Mary Jane pumps instead. Then, Mike looked sad when he heard that I wouldn’t be joining in all of the fun, so I said I would get two four packs so I could ski with him eight times. It was a compromise. Then, in October when the first snowstorm hit, I changed my mind and thought, maybe I would pass on skiing altogether this year and just work out at the gym every time Mike went skiing. I would spend this year getting back into great shape and then test out my knee next season; plus, I could surely get some of those trendy riding boots with the money I would be “saving”. Then November hit, and the purchase deadline for four-packs and season passes loomed. I felt an urge. I drove down to Colorado Ski and Golf to wait in line dutifully to purchase one four pack; I had made my final decision that I would ski four times for the season to make sure I still could and then get back into it seriously next year when I wasn’t so scared.

As I got closer to the front of the ski pass line I started berating myself for being such a baby. I had one bad fall out of many fun ski days, and here I was about to waste most of the weekends of ski season inside at 24Hour Fitness instead of outside in the fresh air with my friends. I thought of the gorgeous, twinkly days. I thought of the hilarious, two-hour car rides up and down I-70, the ones when someone inevitably has too pee on the side of the highway and someone else inevitably gets a snapshot of it. I thought of how, this year, I might improve my skiing to a point where I would impress the pants off of Mike instead of always having to ask him for pointers. I thought of the après ski beers and the laughs at the lodge and the President’s Day weekend trips where we all rent a house and ski and party until we are so worn out that we all end up just sitting around staring silently at the fireplace with stupid smiles on our faces. I even thought of my cute helmet, ivory with pink and blue flowers on it, and the perfect way it contrasts with my chocolate brown ski jacket. I was thinking about all of these things instead of the task at hand, and in my sudden onset of ski-season fever, I slapped down my credit card and purchased a full 5-mountain season pass for $449.00, just like the one Mike and all of my friends already had in their hot little hands. I know, it is ridiculous, but this expensive investment is just part of living in Colorado. At least it is now.

I grew up in Colorado after my dad’s company relocated us here from Illinois in the late 70’s. I was two when we moved here and honestly, minus a couple of wanderlust years in college, I have never wanted to live anywhere else. The weather, with its dazzling sun and sparkly blue sky is amazing, the activities are too many to count, and the people here are some of the nicest I have ever encountered. I am a Colorado girl through and through, and I have the muttly dog, the beat up SUV, and every brand of hiking boot, camping gear, and 80 SPF sunscreen to prove it. However, I somehow managed not to become a skier until I hit my late twenties.

My dad is from the Midwest where it is flat, and my mom was from Ireland where it is an island. Neither of them had skied growing up, and so it was never that important that my sisters and I learn. Then, when I was about 10, I discovered swimming, and it was my sport. I swam on summer leagues and my school team during the winter, and I never really felt that compelled to give up a day at the pool in order to be out in the cold doing something that looked insanely dangerous.

I tried skiing once in junior high. A cute 8th grade boy organizing a trip to the slopes was my rationale behind trying a sport like skiing in the middle of my unwieldy years. This was a time in my life when my feet had already grown to accommodate what would be a 6-foot-1-inch frame long before said frame actually got there. I spent half of that day sprawled in the snow freezing my awkward little ass off and vowed that I would never waste my time, not to mention three weeks allowance, on skiing again. I stuck with swimming where I was graceful and quick like a fish. You can’t fall when you’re swimming; even if you’re a major klutz like me.

Four years ago, I met a group of girls who had just moved out here from Chicago. We all got to be pretty decent friends, and they were all getting a Learn-to-Ski Pass so that they could, in fact, learn to ski. They tried to talk me into it, and I declined, relaying the story of the ski trip from my youth and the damage it had inflicted on my fragile 13-year-old psyche. They weren’t buying it. Of all the people they had the opportunity to make friends with in Colorado, they had chosen the one who knew nothing about skiing, and they weren’t about to let their bad luck affect their good time. Within a couple of days they had me talked into it; I was going to ski if it killed me, which it totally could. So I pretended to be new to the state just like my girlfriends, and we all purchased our Learn-to-Ski packages. I took two lessons, and I was hooked. I became a skier; I became a slope-bunny; I became very angry with myself for wasting so many years not doing something that is so much fun.

The next year I met Mike. Mike has been on skis every winter since he was three years old. He looks as comfortable on skis as he does just walking around the house, and he moves with more speed and grace than I feel like I could ever muster, even when I’m in the pool. Skiing is like breathing to him, and deciding whether or not to get a season pass has never even crossed his mind. He moved here to go to college and to ski, and he never left.

Up until my fall last year, he was patiently teaching me tricks and tips to make me a better skier, and gradually, I was getting more and more comfortable. We were having such a great time together and he was such a great teacher. That last day I skied last year was the first time I really felt like a real skier, like I had truly earned my right to call myself a Coloradoan. Then, that afternoon, I fell. That was January, and I sat out the rest of the season. I was already in a bad funk that year, and skiing was one thing that made me feel free and happy, like I was a real person again, not some depressed sadsack who would never get over losing her mom. My funk came back quickly and I spent the next two months in serious pain, wearing a huge knee brace, and feeling really sorry for myself.

Yesterday I hit the slopes again for the first time since that day last January. The first lift ride up, I felt sick. I was nervous, and it suddenly seemed like the worst idea ever. It became apparent that, while my knee was better, I had yet to grow my balls back. Why should I risk falling and injuring myself again? Why should I risk not being able to go to the gym, or take my dog for a run, or play sports? Why would I want to rack up another $400 in insurance co-pays? The lift reached the top of the hill, and I carefully slid to the flat area at the top of the slope. I bent to buckle my boots still thinking this was the about the dumbest thing I could be doing. Then I saw three little kids whoosh by me laughing and shrieking, their little cheeks bright pink, their eyes smiling behind the orange plastic of their goggles. They were not thinking about torn-up knees or medical bills. They were having a blast.

I skied the first hill tentatively and spent the day on the easy slopes. I was being careful, but I was having the time of my life. Even as one of the slowest skiers on the hill that day, I still felt free and happy. As I made my vigilant turns down the hill in the direction of Mike waiting patiently below me, I laughed and shrieked. My cheeks felt hot and pink, and my eyes felt as if they were smiling behind my goggles. I ski again. I ski towards the sun on my cheeks and the crystals of snow hitting my nose. I ski towards the love of my life and an ice cold Coors Light at the bottom of the hill. I ski towards a smaller backside and thinner thighs. I ski, and there is nothing else like it in the world. I can’t wait to get up there again next weekend.

How I Got My Brain Damage

2008-01-02T18:43:00.000-07:00

In honor of my blog’s new name and look, I thought I would share another story from my sister-filled childhood.

There are some childhood behaviors in which I am pretty sure almost every set of siblings engage. Growing up in a family of all girls, there wasn’t as much of the beating each other to a pulp that my boyfriend and his brother are so familiar with. However, we definitely found cruel ways to torture each other. My older sister jumped out and scared me constantly, even making me wet myself once or twice. I paid her back by stealing from her like it was my job, her clothes, her makeup, and even her money, slyly siphoning a couple dollars in change from a huge jar in her bedroom on an almost daily basis throughout my entire junior high career. She figured it all out, of course, and screamed at me, and threatened me, and even shook me around a little bit, but it never really came to blows. Most sisters don’t really beat the shit out of each other like the boys do, at least my sisters and I never really felt compelled to move beyond the minor smacking and hair-pulling. In retrospect, however, the things we did could have easily caused much more damage than the occasional sibling throwdown.

My mom was a nurse on the maternity ward at the biggest hospital in my hometown. She worked the nightshift and spent most of my adolescence completely sleep-deprived. So, while we were pretty good kids, well-behaved in almost every way, we also knew that there were certain things my mom was completely unaware of. Because we were raised by a single working mother, there were certain expectations of us, and we probably spent more time alone than most kids our age. By the time I was ten, I was completely comfortable cooking, cleaning, walking the dog, etc. My little sister is two years younger, and we basically ran the household together whenever we had to. My mom didn’t really have much of a choice, so we did it. Dr. Spock may balk, but honestly, I think it was good for us in a lot of ways. It made us very independent and very confident in ourselves. I promise, I’m not scarred at all.

Following childbirth, many women are prone to passing out. This was the reason that all of the nurses on the ward where my mom worked had these fabulous inventions called ammonia capsules taped to their nametags or to the shoulders of their uniforms. If you’re unfamiliar, basically, an ammonia capsule is today’s version of smelling salts. It is a white paper capsule wrapped in tightly woven gauze and is about the size of the lid to a Bic pen. All a nurse has to do if a patient loses consciousness is bend it with her fingers until it makes a little snapping noise. It turns pink and gets kind of cold, and the shocking smell it emits, especially when placed right beneath the nose, is enough to send anyone running the other direction, even someone who was recently unconscious.

The ammonia capsules were pure evil. And they were everywhere. Laundry was one of my chores, and when I spied several sets of my mom’s pink scrubs in the hamper, I knew I’d hit the jackpot. I would carefully peel back the tape, remove the ammonia capsule from the soft flowery material of my mom’s scrub top, and then I would tuck it into my hiding place. I had an old coffee mug discreetly hidden behind the huge box of Tide with Bleach, and that is where I kept my booty (and of course when ammonia and bleach are mixed it creates something horrible like toxic nerve gas, so this was really smart on my part) I would wait a couple of weeks until I accumulated eight or ten of them, sometimes coming across some extras lying innocently on my mom’s nightstand, and then I would spend a few quiet evenings in my bedroom plotting my attack, or "doing homework" as I called it.

The best was to wait until my sister was sleeping and then snap one quickly, waving it silently beneath her tiny, freckled nostrils. She would awake with a scream, swinging her arms; I learned quickly to duck at the same time I snapped the capsule. Then I would wait until she fell back to sleep, and I would attack again. Sadly, I think my poor sister spent many of her formative years trying not to fall asleep. While all of the other kids were sleeping ten hours a night through their all-important growth spurts, poor little third-grade Courtney was drinking coffee and reading Stephen King in an effort to keep her eyes open. That may explain why I am over six feet while she stands five inches below.

The sleeping trick was fun, but it was also kind of obvious, plus she was getting really crabby, and I felt like she may be on the edge of telling on me. I had to find a new schtick. I’m proud to say that I tried and succeeded at several variations of the ammonia capsule game.

I was known for my prowess in jumping out from the dark bathroom into the hallway with a freshly snapped capsule as she was walking by. A quick hand to the face, and it was over.

Once, I held a little capsule in my hands and cupped them together. I told her I had caught a butterfly and she absolutely must see it. She bought it, and she actually gagged. I couldn’t have been happier.

Courtney was a smart kid, though, and eventually she caught on to me and found my Cup’o’ Capsules. She got pretty good with the ammonia capsule games herself and we spent two solid years torturing each other with these little medical marvels.

Eventually my mom found out. It was funny, because by the time she caught on, the thrill of the game had totally worn off, and neither of us had touched an ammonia capsule for almost a year. I think she must have found my stale stash collecting dust in the laundry room. She sat us down and proceeded with a very somber lecture about how the ammonia capsules were not toys and were very dangerous, and multiple exposures could cause permanent damage to a person’s nasal passage and even to her brain. She told us she was disappointed in us, and needed to be able to count on us to take care of each other. We apologized to her and promised that we wouldn’t play with the dreaded ammonia capsules ever again. And we kept to our word. Mostly. There was still the occasional ammonia attack as we grew up. I think it’s because nothing we’d encountered before or since could bring such a look of shock and horror and disgust to someone’s face. When you hold the ammonia capsule in your hand, you hold a lot of power.

After my mom’s lecture, and throughout my life I have been plagued with occasional scary thoughts about the damage my sister and I inflicted on each other’s brain function. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the reason I can’t do math and she can’t spell to save her life is very closely related to overexposure to ammonia during childhood. I’d be willing to bet it’s right up there with lead paint, and my college algebra professor would probably second that. Before the ammonia torture, I’m pretty sure we were both MENSA-bound, and now we must settle for this mediocrity that we’re left with, struggling desperately to function in mainstream society.

I’m sure that if Social Services knew what we were up to, my mom could have gotten in a lot of trouble. I mean, her children were chasing each other through the house armed with abrasive chemicals; I think they tend to frown on that. I definitely do not know any other brothers and sisters who did anything that ridiculous as kids, and I'm positive my sister would freak if she caught her two little ones into something like that. But you know what? It is one of my favorite, most hilarious memories of growing up with my sister, and we still laugh about it all the time.

We are so deranged. It must be all of that ammonia.

The Resolutionist

2007-12-31T15:08:00.001-07:00

I have been AWOL for over two weeks now. Holiday craziness and an urgent wisdom-teeth-removal adventure followed by a three-day Percoset-induced state of stupidity have kept me from my blog. (Count yourselves lucky that I did not attempt to write any stories under the influence of painkillers...those things make me so loopy.) However, I am back on the very last day of the year to discuss a subject about which I’m sure many other bloggers are certainly typing their little hearts out at this very moment. That’s right. New Year’s Resolutions.

I think the reason that I feel comfortable spilling my guts on this subject is because, last year, I actually kept a resolution. I vowed on January 1, 2007 that I would, at some point during the year, quit smoking, and I did it. I stuck to it for the first time ever, and honestly, can’t even imagine how I ever engaged in that nasty habit to start with. I feel really good about that. So, one down. On a different note, I was also supposed to lose 40 pounds last year. I was desperate to get back to my svelte age-23 weight, but alas, since realized that I am no longer 23; I am 31. While I did lose a quite a few pounds this past year, I also gained a couple here and there, resulting in a net weight loss of approximately 3 pounds for the year. Uh, yeah. Not so impressive. But wait!! I competed in my first-ever triathlon in August, finishing nowhere even remotely close to first, but actually finishing, and doing so without a trip to the Emergency Room to boot. One small step for me towards my goal.

This year, I am taking a different outlook. My past resolutions have always been about improvements in my health and in my looks. I am still resolving to lose weight this year, because it’s tradition; I resolve to lose weight every year. However, this year, I am resolving to improve my inside more than my outside. I need a new attitude and a new way to engage in and react to the world around me. I need to calm the hell down, not get so stressed, and really take time to enjoy my play and excel in my work. I resolve to think before I speak and to avoid getting angry unless it is absolutely warranted. I resolve to take the proverbial time to smell the roses. I resolve to, as Henry James would put it, be kind. Included within each of these resolutions is the resolve to exercise regularly and to write more because those are things that make me feel happy and fulfilled and useful. That’s it. Basically, I am resolving to give myself a psychological lobotomy. No big deal, right? We shall see.

There will be more stories to come this week, much more typical of my usual blogging than today’s post, but I figured I better put something up here before I lose momentum.

Some housekeeping items:

Happy 70th Birthday to my Dad today. He is an amazing man and my sisters and I are very, very lucky to have him as our dad.

…and many more, Dad!!

Also, sadly, this looks like the end of an era, if an era was indeed a period of time equivalent to approximately four months. After doing some brief internet research, it turns out that my very-not-so-creative blog name is taken. Oh, and copyrighted. Nice. I initially just threw a name on there and started my blog because a friend told me that all writers should have a blog, and so I suddenly felt very left out. I, being very similar to my father as far as technology is concerned, was unfamiliar with blogging until that point and did not realize that it was actually a really big thing. Now that I am addicted and love my blog and my fellow bloggers, I have come to realize that this is a real thing where real people and real writers express themselves as individuals and as a community and it is not cool to, as some of my favorite co-workers would say, bite someone’s steez. In other (real) words, I must change the name of my blog in order to avoid stealing from someone and breaking a law. Capisce? So, ok, I now have no name for my blog..... This blog shall heretofore remain nameless until I can think of something which will accurately capture what I do here. What do I do here? Well, I ask myself that all the time. This is the best explanation: I am a writer who is trying to get over the untimely loss of her mother whilst still attempting to crack people up with silly everyday stories. What do you call that? Oh crap. I feel a brainstorming session coming on.

Anyway, more to follow, and a Happy 2008 to everyone I love, and everyone out there in blog-world. I have a feeling it is going to be a great year!!

Now, I am finally going to go catch up on all of my fave blogs, this time with a slightly clearer head.

Solitary Woman

2007-12-12T17:56:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhhhhh, the single life.

Well, not really, but Mike is on a business trip this week, so I am pretending for a few days. Whoa, don’t go getting any ideas there; I’m not going to go out on dates or to a bar to pick up a suitable temporary boyfriend-replacement or anything. In fact, I’m not sure that I even remember how to do that. I am, however, going to revel in my aloneness.

Monday night I watched television for two straight hours. I held the remote loosely in my hand knowing that no one would stroll into the room and sneakily snatch it from my grip under the guise of a fake hug. I did not flip channels 9.4 million times during commercials; I watched every single one of them because I work in marketing, and I like commercials, and I want to watch them, dammit. I engrossed myself in the episodes of The Girls Next Door that I had Tivoed, and even cried when one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends talked about her brother being overseas in Iraq. No one laughed at me, no one commented that one of the girls is hotter than another, no one mentioned the fact that I, an intelligent, feminist career-woman, was shedding actual tears over a show about the Playboy Mansion.

I didn’t cook dinner, but instead ate leftovers out of a big bowl with a big spoon and shared with the dog. I picked through the new candy I bought to put out for Christmas. Some of the flavors were really good; some were not so good. I tasted all of the different kinds and spat the not-so-good ones into a napkin.

I closed the blinds and sang show tunes at the top of my lungs in the living room, incorporating my own choreography. Normally when I start singing, Mike immediately turns the stereo on, as if my breaking out into song is simply a desperate cry to hear music, instead of an expression of my feelings. It’s not as if I’m a horrible singer; I’m positive I would advance to the Hollywood portion of American Idol*, especially if Simon Cowell had seen Monday night's performance. However, Mike doesn’t seem to appreciate the rare talent that exists right there under the same roof. My dog likes my singing and even follows me around when I really get going; his favorite song is Gershwin’s Someone to Watch Over Me. Mike is missing out.

It started to get a little late, so I decided to try on outfits for a while. Then I went on MySpace and looked at the profiles of everyone I went to high school with while I sipped one of Mike’s good, dark beers stolen from the back of the fridge. I wore my rattiest sweatshirt and my comfy pants that Mike has deemed the “unsexiest” item of clothing I own. I blared Joni Mitchell and Brandi Carlile and Alanis Morisette on iTunes, and dedicated the songs to “all of my listeners out there enjoying a little 'me-time' tonight.”

I had a full-on conversation with my dog about how pretty the tree looked with all of the decorations, and how much snow he thought we were going to get overnight, and what he wanted for Christmas. Then I let him get into the bed with me. We had been up way past our bedtimes.

I woke up the next morning all stretched out, a proverbial X across our bed, hoarding pillows and blankets. I was so comfortable and well rested. And, ok, maybe just a tiny bit lonely.

Last night, I ate Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for dinner. The kind with the day-glo orange powdered cheese. Mike is a foodie, capable of creating amazing gourmet meals, and so am I, but I also appreciate my childhood comfort foods. Mike does not. I think his parents must have started feeding him caviar and Duck Confit while he was still in the high-chair because he has never understood how I can eat “that stuff.” I, on the other hand, love the simplicity of a kiddie-meal. Give me some chicken fingers or reconstituted cheese-sauce a couple of times a year, and I am happy as a clam. A fried clam.

I watched two chick flicks in a row last night. I painted my toenails, plucked my eyebrows, and polished some of my jewelry. I drank another one of those dark beers.

Tonight, I am planning to read for four straight hours without someone asking me if I have seen his volleyball shorts anywhere. But first, I have to shovel the snow. I also have to lug the huge recycling bin down the front steps and out into the street and take the trash out through the dark garage into the dark alley. This morning, I had to scrape the ice off of my own car, something Mike always sweetly does without being asked.

Wait a second, now I am sort of starting to miss him.

See? I do miss Mike when he’s gone, but then I remember that he will be home in a couple of days, so I go back to basking in the joy of unaccompaniament. Until I have to go down into the dark, scary basement and turn off a light that I don’t even remember turning on. That’s just spooky.

I lived alone for five years before I met Mike. Before that, I was raised by a single mother in a house full of girls. My sisters and I learned to do it all, the boy-chores and the girl-chores, and the spooky stuff, at very early ages. I have fixed my own plumbing, changed oil and several tires, taken tons of garbage out, lifted furniture, and removed many difficult lids in my lifetime. I am very capable of these things, and I loved every single minute of my single days, but there are certain things that a girl, even a strong-woman type of a girl, can get used to a man taking care of. I can still do it all myself, but I kind of just don’t want to anymore. Mike does such a good job at those things (with some minimal nagging), and on top of it, I really just like hanging around him. Who knew that would ever happen to me?

I never used to picture myself settling down. I always just assumed that I would be a little bit of a loner for my whole life, spending time with my great friends, but then going home by myself. Eventually, when I became a famous and wealthy author, I would adopt a child or two and spend my time on charity missions like Angelina Jolie pre-Brad-Pitt. My parents were divorced when I was so young that the single parent lifestyle always made so much sense to me, and was even sort of appealing. Now, though, my outlook has shifted a little bit. I am starting to understand what my girlfriends were pining for all of those years.

I think it took me finding a guy like Mike, my polar opposite who will always have a million things going on, a social butterfly with a crazy calendar. I contrast him with my desire to be alone with myself on a weekly basis, on the couch with a book, singing show tunes with gusto, or running solo, iPod-filled miles on the treadmill. He with his twelve team sports to play, his million friends calling on the phone, and his uncanny ability to get the dog riled up right before bed. I, a little more guarded about whom I spend my time with, a little more content to pass up a crazy night on the town, and a little more annoyed with a happy dog dropping a wet, slimy tennis ball next to my sleeping face at three in the morning. Mike is so anal about certain things, and way too lax about others, and I am his exact contradiction, not properly abiding by the rules of his inanely organized cabinets and drawers, but then going crazy over a pile of boxers on the floor in the bathroom. Oh yeah, we also crack each other up to the point that our cheeks hurt.

In lieu of all of my solitary intentions, I got a crush a few years back that I haven’t been able to make myself get over. I got sucked in. I got stripped of my strong-single-girl crown. I got sold, but I have no buyer’s remorse. I found the guy I was supposed to find, and he found me, and we get each other. It’s a Gershwin song come true, right here in Denver, Colorado, and it is just all so friggin sappy that I don’t even know what to do with myself.

Actually, the ball and chain isn’t back for a couple more days; I’m sure I can figure something out.

*I know that I am too old to try out for American Idol. No one needs to remind me.

Thank You, Henry James

2007-12-06T13:55:00.000-07:00

As the Kubler- Ross model, and every psychology text book since would suggest, there is most definitely an Angry stage in the grieving process. After losing my mom last year, I felt like I was being pretty healthy about my grieving. I was sad all the time, but I was trying not to let it consume me, trying to go on with my life, trying to continue to be the person she raised me to be. Really, I wasn’t doing a bad job as far as I could tell. However, about six or eight months into it, the Angry Phase set in. Because my personality is very ‘all-or-nothing’, I think my brain gave a big screw-you to the other phases and just stuck with Angry. For months. It definitely caused strain in my relationship with Mike. Talking with my sisters about our feelings didn’t always help either because they could sometimes be pretty Angry, too. We were sticking together, but occasionally, we were just making each other more Angry. At work, during a review, I actually had my Creative Director tell me that she was a little worried that I was Angry about some things. That was a shock. I have always prided myself on being a great employee, and spent a lot of the early days after my mom’s accident throwing myself into my work, desperate for the distraction. I had no idea that the people who normally really liked me were suddenly viewing me as somewhat hostile.

For those few months, I fell into a damaging pattern of taking everything personally, and reacting to situations in ways that would never have occurred to me before. Yelling and freaking out when I got cut off in traffic, ranting and raving to whomever would listen about work issues that were really not a huge deal, subconsciously doing things to get a rise out of people who loved me so that they would get angry, too. Not good. While I was being angry, I was also withdrawing from all of my friends, meanwhile keeping myself very busy by gaining 40 pounds. (Can you say ‘Emotional Eater’?) Then, when my clothes wouldn’t fit, and when I would look fat in pictures, guess what? That’s right. I would get really effing Angry. Something had to give.

I’m not sure what exactly it was, maybe just a normal part of the healing process, but about a month ago, the Angry just started to go away. Halloween night, after I embarrassed myself in front of the mayor, I was reading Real Simple Magazine. One page in every issue of their magazine is always a beautiful nature photograph with a deep quote next to it that is intended to make you reflect on life. Sometimes I think the quotes are a little cheesy, but this one stopped me in my tracks. It was a photo of a tiny, fluffy baby bird sitting in the palm of a man’s large hand. The quote was:

Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.
-Henry James

It really struck a chord with me. The old Cara would have cut it out and posted it on the fridge, dutifully using these words to live by as a small inspiration each day. Angry Cara, who was sitting there reading that magazine, was inclined to roll her eyes and flip the page, idly continuing the search for holiday shopping tips and Thanksgiving cooking ideas. But, something in the quote made the old Cara start to wake up a little. I stared at the page. I read it over and over and over again. I unexpectedly felt tears on my cheeks. I cut it out and posted it on the fridge.

It occurred to me that I had not been being very kind to anyone in a long time. Sure, I was always nice to servers at restaurants, and the checker at the grocery store. I bought Girl Scout cookies when the kids came to the door, and I always waved and said hi to my neighbors. My heart wasn’t in it, though. I used to be a really nice person, and I meant it; it came from somewhere inside of me, and it was definitely put there by my mother. There is a very real difference between being kind and just being polite; I was still going through the motions of being a good person because we are all supposed to, but inside, I really wasn’t giving a crap. On top of it, I was abusing my relationship with my boyfriend, ignoring friends’ phone calls and invitations, and apparently being sort of a bitch at the office. The only living thing I’d really connected with in months was my dog. For some reason I felt like he was the only one who could possibly understand me, an animal with no real ability to truly understand. How irrational is that?

I tried to explain to Mike a few months back that I was waking up every single morning with an uncontrollable urge to throw baseballs as hard as I could through big glass-paned windows. I craved the release and the noise and the force of it all; I would actually spend time picturing it and trying to capture in my mind what it would really feel like. What I have since learned is that the feeling, that fist in my gut, and my heart and my brain that wouldn’t unclench, it has a name, and that name is rage. I have always been such a comedic, even-keeled person that I didn’t even know what the feeling was. I thought I had just developed some weird baseball/window fetish, but there was actual rage inside of me. Mike tried to understand, and he always did a good job of helping me to feel better, but I am sure he was questioning my sanity. I was questioning my sanity, too.

The morning after I read the Henry James quote, I woke up with a different feeling. I woke up thinking: Yes, I am still sad, and I will probably always be a little sad, but today, I am not angry. I will be angry again in the future, but it will not control me, and today, the most important thing is to be kind.

*******

Today, I was walking out to get into my car and make the commute to the office. As I strolled to the driver’s side door of my little SUV, I noticed black plastic and bolts, and broken glass scattered all over the street. I looked at my car and realized that, as it was parked on the street overnight, someone had driven by and clipped my mirror, completely torn it off, a total side-mirror-ectomy. I let out a groan, and picked up the pieces and went inside to get Mike who was still shaving. He came out and took a look at it, assessed the damage in his ever-so-analytical engineer way, and said “Well, I’ll price them today and fix it over the weekend.”

I sighed and even stomped my boot once, “Arrrrggh. This sucks!”

Then I kissed Mike and said goodbye and got behind the wheel. As I was getting ready to pull out into the street, my eyes instinctively went to where the mirror would have been, had it not just been reduced to a tangle of wires and broken plastic protruding from the side of my car. I laughed at it. It looked so ridiculous, and here I was still trying to use it to check behind me. It occurred to me that I was not really Angry about this unfortunate little event; I was just annoyed. Annoyed I can deal with. Annoyed feels healthy and normal. Annoyed does not feel like baseballs crashing through glass.

I do not know why certain things happen in life. I try to believe that things happen for specific reasons, but sometimes it seems that an event will take place and there is absolutely no semblance of a reason attached. It will always be one of those things that humans will never be able to understand. I do not know the reason for my mom dying when she was so young and when I still needed her so much, but I definitely know why some idiot knocked the mirror off of my car. It was simply to show me that the old Cara is back. That is worth way more than the $69.99 for part number 22095 at AutoZone.

Sweet November

2007-12-04T15:26:00.000-07:00

I didn’t want to jinx it by writing about it before, but now that November is over, I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate myself and my fabulous boyfriend on our first-ever dry month. That’s right, for thirty straight days, all of November, neither of us consumed even a sip of alcohol. It isn't as if we have ever been really hardcore drinkers, but we are quite social, and while in Europe, we ended up imbibing on Italian wine or Irish beer and whiskey almost everyday for 14 straight days. Then, upon our return, we were going out and catching up with the friends we’d missed while being gone for two weeks and drinking even more. A couple of beers here, a couple of glasses of wine with dinner there, a couple of crazy Friday nights here and there.

I was starting to wonder if my good time was actually dependent on drinking. Plus, let’s face it, I am definitely not in my twenties anymore, and the extra calories from the alcohol alone, not to mention the foods I decide to eat when my inhibitions are slightly lowered, are enough to turn me off of it while I am in the midst of trying to lose a substantial amount of weight. I also just wanted to see, or even to make sure, that I could do it. We did do it; here’s how it went down.

Week One was easy enough because there wasn’t too much going on. I did notice that I had a couple of actual cravings for a drink. I’m not sure if the cravings were physical or psychological, but either way, it made me feel kind of bad about myself. Things at work were a little stressful, and I would come home in a bad mood. Normally, I would think nothing of having a big glass of wine as I transitioned from being Angry-Work-Cara to becoming Nice-At-Home-Cara, but since I couldn’t have it, I became slightly obsessed (this is also the reason I am world’s worst dieter.) Maybe I was actually transitioning into Boozehound-Cara without realizing it. This was not the way I wanted to live my life. On the positive side, it was easy to make any cravings disappear by doing something physical. I would take my dog for a run, and then come home and drink tea and Crystal Light, and that seemed to do the trick. This was also the first week since I quit smoking that I didn’t even think about a cigarette. Was it just me, or was I actually becoming a healthy person?

The second Saturday of the month was a friend’s birthday party. We met the group for “drinks and dinner” at a local bar that is known for having the best burgers in Denver. Mike and I showed up to hang out for a couple of hours, had a small burger and a couple of Diet Cokes each and, surprisingly, a really good time. After dinner, the group was headed to a club, but we declined. We were home warm in our bed by 10 o’clock. The next morning, without having to force myself, I got up early and went for a run with my dog.

We went to a hockey game that Sunday night with a group from Mike’s work. This is where it gets interesting because Mike actually works for one of the biggest breweries in the country, and so free or extremely cheap beer is basically a staple in our lives, not to mention the source of the bread-winning income. (I’m not sure why, but writers do not get paid as much as analytical math-geniuses…it just isn’t fair.) Anyway, for his work event we had the luxury suite and the beer was free, a reward for Mike’s team performing well on a big project. Luckily, the water and soda were free, too. I had three bottles of water, a Diet Pepsi (surprisingly, there is no Diet Coke at the Pepsi Center) and, in between the twelve trips to the bathroom, I also managed to eat my weight (also known as a very large amount) in items selected from the junk food spread laid out before us. I ate a bratwurst, and then I ate nachos, and then I munched stolen handfuls from a huge basket of caramel corn until I felt like I was going to projectile vomit. I never felt like I was missing out by not drinking with everyone else, but then again, I made up for it by morphing into a huge hog in front of Mike’s co-workers. So much for the calorie deficit.

During the week, we had it down to a science. We made dinner together every night, never really thought too much about drinking, and went along our merry way. At least we wouldn’t have thought much about it if I hadn’t kept babbling about how well we were doing, and how sometimes I wanted a glass of wine, and how, wow, didn’t a beer sound good. Mike finally asked me why I insisted on continually talking about it, and honestly, I wasn’t really sure; I just felt like discussing it all the time. Mike on the other hand was planning to just power through it without talking about it, kind of an “out-of-mind, out-of-mind” mentality. For him, the first rule of the dry month was: don’t talk about the dry month. This is one of the main differences between Mike and I, I mean besides the fact that we have completely opposite personalities and ways of thinking. I needed to talk about it; I needed to bond with him over our shared goal. I was using it as a conversation cornerstone, while he was just going on with his life. I was driving him absolutely crazy. If he’d been allowed, I would have driven him to drink.

Week Three started with me weighing in at eight pounds less than I did on the first of the month. Eight!!! It also started with our Warren Miller extravaganza night (read about it in Ladies Room-ology 101). Everyone at our table was enjoying the five-liter jugs of wine they serve at Buca di Beppo. That’s right, they bring you wine in huge gallon-plus bottles which, unless you lift weights fairly frequently, are just about impossible to pour into your glass. I think that night was the hardest for Mike because his two best friends from college were there. This is also the night that I learned that people who are slightly intoxicated are much more hilarious and not nearly as annoying when I am slightly intoxicated, too. This was a valuable lesson, because it also made me wonder if I become slightly annoying and not very funny when I have had a few drinks. In my mind, a couple of cocktails makes the opposite happen, I become the life of the party and people begin falling in love with me left and right. By not drinking, I learned that, in my mind, I am wrong.

I’m sure you are beginning to see the pattern here. We went to all the usual events that we would normally go to for all of November, and we ordered drinks like Diet Coke and club soda, even getting wild once and having a round of Arnold Palmers. We were good, and it paid off. I lost weight, never thought about smoking, and actually felt like being active, instead of the usual where I am active, but I bitch about it the entire time. Plus, I never once felt like crap when I woke up in the morning. What an epiphany. My drinking habits are officially changed for life.

“Ummm, hello, Cara? This is adulthood calling, and I have arrived.”

The night of November 30th, Mike and I went to meet our friends at Happy Hour League. (umm, yes, we are sort of on a drinking team, but it isn’t as bad as it sounds) We drank water the whole time and caught up with everyone right up until we started to not completely like them anymore. Then we went home. The next day would bring the Santa Pub Crawl, a charity event that we attend every year. I would have drinks that night, but I would drink them armed with my new knowledge:

I do not need to drink to have a good time;
I am a grownup who does not have to give into peer pressure;
I am in charge of everything I put into my body; and
Anything that makes me lose eight pounds in three weeks is not only something I will try again, but it very well may become my new religion. Cheers.

The Ugly Duckling and His Fearless Leader

2007-12-03T15:15:00.001-07:00

When I met my dog, Blue, at a rescue four years ago, he was about the ugliest little excuse for a puppy I had ever seen. I had no idea what breeds were mixed up inside of him, and he had a runny nose and two different colored eyes. One of his ears flopped over while one stood at attention, his tail looked like a droopy, grey feather duster dragging on the ground behind him, and his coat was at least six different colors at once. When I saw him, he was sleeping in the middle of a large pile of puppies. As I crouched down to get a better look at all of the slumbering miniature dogs, he opened one eye, it was brown, and then he opened his other eye, this one the palest blue, and he stared right at me through the bars of the pen. Slowly he stretched, trod clumsily over his sleeping brothers and sisters, and waddled over to me with his crazy tail in a slow wag, sweeping dirt back and forth on the floor of the enclosure. He was cute because he was a baby, but that was about the only thing he had going for him. He licked my fingers, and I scratched his homely little head then kept walking around to find the puppy who would become my faithful companion.
As I wandered around, taking in the other much more regal and beautiful puppies, it occurred to me that the unsightly little dog I saw first would probably get the snub from everyone who walked by him. Who would want to bring home a puppy that looked like a Star Wars character? What would happen to him if no one adopted him? I cursed my conscience as I made my way back to his pen. As soon as he saw me, he determinedly crawled over the other puppies again, stepping on ears and tails as he made his way, and came right back up to me, not breaking eye contact for a second. He nudged his nose under my hand, forcing me to pet him and stealthily closing the sale. I waved the rescue volunteer over and said, “I’ll take this guy”
The volunteer eyed me, but she did not ask me if I was sure. I think she had been in the business long enough to know a sucker when she saw one and to know that this puppy’s chances at a good life just improved greatly. She picked him up and handed him to me, and we bonded. This was going to be my best friend for the next ten to twelve years, I had better get used to looking at him.

In what is a rare, small dose of good karma in my life, Blue turned out to be a beautiful dog. His other ear straightened up, his tail started to take on a curl that made it look like a fancy plume in a pirate’s hat, and his two different colored eyes, which were just plain strange on a puppy, are actually quite striking on a large dog. We cannot go for a walk without someone commenting on how gorgeous he is. Upon hearing this, Blue will turn around and look at me with a very slight hint of “ I told you so” in his eyes. We owe each other for many things.
In addition to being a looker, Blue is also a really good dog. I worked hard to train him when he was a puppy, and that, along with the fact that he caught on really quickly, paid off. I used elements of the Monks of New Skete training method, which involves never using any negative physical contact, becoming your dog's 'pack leader', and never punishing your dog for something which you do not catch him directly in the act of doing. It was all about positive reinforcement. Blue has not had an accident in the house since he was ten weeks old, and he quit chewing anything that didn’t belong to him by 6 months. He sits, lies down, and stays on command. He comes when he is called (unless there is a squirrel involved) and he walks right next to me when he is off the leash (this was Mike’s training, not mine…credit where it’s due and all). Blue climbs mountains with us, camps like a pro, plays well with other dogs for the most part, and is well-behaved at my dad’s house on holidays. He has his quirks, but overall, he is a great dog, and I love him as if he were my own baby.

Blue and I lived a very peaceful existence for two full years, and then along came the second love-of-my-life.
Mike has always been great with Blue. They play together like little kids, and because of the way they roughhouse and wrestle around, Mike has become Blue’s alpha-male. So, awesome for me, my boyfriend loves my dog, and not-so-awesome for me, I no longer have my (sellout) dog’s undivided attention and respect. The little ugly baby I rescued, now turns to Mike for guidance and play. When I get home from work, Blue wags his tail and licks my hand, and then wanders off to find the cat. When Mike comes home, my dog can barely contain his excitement. Blue hears his car pull up, runs for the door, wags his entire backside, and pants like he just might not make it. I am the food-provider and the cuddler; Mike is Blue’s dad, pack leader, and best friend. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

Because of Mike’s paternal role in Blue’s life, and now that we are all living together, it is only logical that he should have some part in the raising of the dog. Taking his alpha-male status at face value, and even keeping the chest-beating to a minimum, Mike has decided to work on some of Blue’s little quirks, the ones that, over the years, I have just accepted.

One of Blue’s said quirks is his innate ability to sense that there is food within his reach on the counter, and that there is no one around to stop him from stealing it. He has stolen a number of things from the counter while I have been gone. He once pulled an entire pan of lasagna down and ate all of it, approximately three pounds of Italian goodness, leaving the empty pan on the sofa looking as if it had just come out of the dishwasher. Other than a slightly distended belly, and skipping his dinner that night, the feast didn’t even faze my dog.
While somewhat irritating, I think that this is pretty normal dog behavior, and since I am aware of the problem, I have tried to modify my own behavior. I try to never leave anything within his reach, and, in turn, he has nothing to steal, plus my kitchen is much cleaner. But of course, whenever the human element is present, there is always room for error.
Friday night we were in a hurry. We had a busy weekend ahead of us, and we still needed to put up the Christmas tree. I was going to make chili on Saturday, so I pulled some frozen hamburger out of the freezer to defrost. I normally would have put it on top of the refrigerator, but I was doing too many things at once and forgot. So there it was, a pound and a half of frozen hamburger just sitting there for the taking. Insult to injury, Mike, who was also in a hurry because I was ordering him to be in a hurry, left a package of tortillas on the counter. We were already a couple of miles down the road to meet our friends when it hit me. “I left the hamburger on the counter. Crap.”
“Do you really think he’ll steal frozen hamburger? I mean since it’s frozen, he might not even be interested in it, right?,” Mike asked, not even remembering that he had left the tortillas out, too.
“Maybe not,” I rationalized right along with him “it should be ok.”

I knew that this was a complete farce and that Blue would indeed steal the hamburger, but we were already late, and I so I talked myself out of going back.
Two hours later, when we got home, Blue had, of course handily disposed of the hamburger and the tortillas, the empty packages strewn across the floor of the guest bedroom, evidence of the crime that had taken place. Time of hamburger death, between the hours of 7 and 9 pm. The guestroom is where Blue always takes his stolen treasures. I think that, because we don’t go in there that often, he thinks that the trash leftover from his little foray into thievery will go unnoticed.
I pictured Blue sprawled out on the floor in the guest room making little burritos with the tortillas and frozen meat, a dog- friendly version of the Food Network. He would say to his audience of Collies and Schnauzers, "Now you can defrost yours at home, but I prefer it frozen, fresh off the counter." I smiled at my mental movie, while Mike looked frustrated. “Aren’t you even going to yell at him?” he asked, incredulous.
I explained for the twelfth time that the training method I’d chosen to use with Blue instructed using angry words with your dog only if you catch him in the actual act of whatever horrible deed he may decide to commit. Dogs don’t have the cognitive ability to remember that the crime they committed an hour ago is the cause of the punishment they are receiving now; it wasn’t fair to punish him when we didn’t catch him misbehaving.
Mike was not really satisfied with this explanation because he knows, like I do, that Blue is fully aware when he has done something wrong. When we came home, he wagged his tail tentatively, but didn’t move from his perch on the back of the couch (another quirk). When I walked into the kitchen and saw the missing meat, I went straight to the guestroom to look for evidence. Blue took this opportunity to run right past me and out through his dog door. He hung out in the yard for a few minutes until he was sure that our lack of cognitive ability would prevent us from remembering that he was the prime suspect, and then he put just his head and front legs inside through the door and stood like that for a minute or two to make sure the coast was clear. Although I couldn’t see it, I’m sure his tail was wagging to and fro outside the house. He was toying with us.

The next day, as we were driving down the highway to a friend’s birthday party, Mike put his foot down; he does not like to be toyed with. “We really need to do something about Blue stealing food from the counter”, he said with authority.
I asked him what exactly he was proposing. I love my dog, but I am definitely open for good training possibilities, especially since Blue is usually pretty receptive. Besides, Mike is all “Dog Whisperer” now that he is Blue’s chosen one; maybe he had a plan. Mike began to wax intellectual about the finer points of dog rearing when a picture suddenly came into my head. Remember that Public Service Announcement from the 80’s about marijuana? I think everyone knows it. The dad in the commercial catches his son smoking pot and is yelling at him, “Where did you learn how to do this??!! WHERE???” And the kid is kind of cowering away from him, and then he gets brave for a second and says “I learned it by watching you, Dad. I learned it by watching YOU!!”
It was all very dramatic.

It occurred to me that Mike was just like this hypocritical, pot-smoking dad, except for that he doesn’t smoke pot, and he has a dog instead of a stoned teenager, and he is also thankfully minus that 70’s-porn-style mustache. But basically, the concept was the same. Mike had the audacity to be upset about Blue stealing food from the counter, when it is an activity that he himself engages in on a daily basis. I pictured Mike coming home from work while I’m making dinner and stealing from whatever pan or bowl I am using while I swat violently at his hand. He does this every single night. When we are on our way out the door to go to dinner, he will suddenly decide that he is too hungry to wait and he will go get a snack, even while I am yelling at him that we are on our way to an actual restaurant where they will give him some food (this is how the tortillas ended up on the counter in the first place.) If we make cookies, Mike has his fingers in the raw dough constantly even though I beg him to stop. When the recipe says it yields three dozen, I know that, at my house, it yields two. I have hidden things I don’t want him to eat in the very back of the freezer or pantry many times. He finds all of these items within mere minutes, a human dog, sniffing out frozen hamburger. Sadly, the Monks of New Skete training method does not work on him. I catch Mike in the act of stealing all the time, and I try the loud handclap and firm command that they recommend, but it just doesn’t work, even with his highly developed reasoning and language cognition skills.
So I have decided not to pursue any corrective actions where Blue’s counter clearing behavior is involved. I am going to put Mike in charge of that part of raising our dog. If my genius plan works, and if reverse psychology is still effective, they should both be cured any day now. Now where did I put those cookies?

Disturbia, My Kind of Town

2007-11-29T11:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-11-28T15:52:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-11-14T22:48:00.003-07:00

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

2007-11-14T09:01:00.001-07:00

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.

Closet Monster

2007-10-22T13:30:00.000-06:00

As kids, my older sister and I had this game that we liked to play. Truthfully, she was the one who liked to play it, not me. And, if you want to get technical, it wasn’t really a game, but more like a sport where I was the prey, and my older sister, with huge 80’s bangs in symbolic headdress, was the hunter. She would hide in any feasible spot. Behind doors. Under the bed. In the pantry. In the shower stall. Behind the toychest. Any precarious place available, my sister picked it for hiding, and then waited. And she was so patient. She would be completely silent, not even daring to breathe for what must have seemed like hours at a time. Focused, like a crouching tiger in my dark closet, just waiting for the opportunity amidst the dense jungle of frilly dresses and OshKosh overalls. And then it would come. I would meander adorably into my bedroom, carrying my Malibu Barbie by the hair, maybe a box of crayons tucked under my chubby arm if it had been a particularly busy day, and I would sit my little self down on my Strawberry Shortcake comforter and start to play. I must have looked so cute from my sister’s vantage point, my pink cheeks glowing from playing outside in the fall chill, the evening sun pouring through the window causing my blonde pigtails to shine like spun gold, my innocent third grade multiplication homework lying next to me on the bed. It must have killed her to do what came next.
“RAAAAAHHHH!” She would jump out of my closet, a snarling, teenaged Yeti in a black, sleeveless Quiet Riot t-shirt, screeching at the top of her lungs while clearing the six feet of carpet between the closet and the bed in one leap. She was right in my little face, eyes glowing, teeth bared in a maniacal smile, hair standing on end. She reeked of Hubba Bubba, Aqua Net, and Camel Wides, and she scared the shit out of me.
Had this been an isolated incident, I probably wouldn’t be writing about it right now, however, thinking back, there was probably a solid 5 year period where my sister hunted and scared me in this manner at least two or three times a day. Every. Single. Day. I still have nightmares about it; I still can’t stand horror movies or haunted houses, and I still freak out to the point of tears and convulsions when someone jokingly hides from me in the dark.
In what may be a complete miracle in the science of genetics, my sister and I are now very close. I swear this is because I never told on her no matter how much she tortured me, while our youngest sister would go running to mom or dad (still does) at the slightest hint that something was amiss. I’m 30, and my older sister is 36, and just as we still occasionally wrestle over the remote control, or call each other names, she still finds it profoundly amusing to hide around some dark corner and jump out and scare the crap out me. I still scream and hate it, but at the same time, it makes me nostalgic for the days when being frightened by my sister was my biggest problem, when my main worry was whether or not she would catch me borrowing her pink Guess? sweatshirt, and when I always felt completely safe because someone else was in charge of taking care of me, even when my parents weren’t around.
My sister has become one of my favorite people in the world for about a million reasons. The same humor that compelled her, at age 14, to torture me into submission, is what makes her so hilarious today. The Quiet Riot t-shirt is gone, the Hubba-Bubba has been replaced with Altoids, and the enormous bangs have shrunken to a semi-acceptable height, although somehow the AquaNet has maintained a prominent spot on her bathroom counter (she’s into quantity, not quality) So, while my sister continues her devious ways, in lieu of adulthood, I’m going to go to with the flow, remember the good times, and realize what it means to have someone in my family who actually gets me. So she can jump out and scream in my face anytime; just as in childhood, there will always be a part of me, deep down, that thinks that any attention from her is good attention. The only difference is that now, in the heat of the moment, I’ve been known to drop my cocktail.

We are so BACK!

2007-10-22T12:01:00.000-06:00

Well, we made it back safely from Europe to find the Rockies heading to the World Series (!!!) and the Broncos sheepish from the most embarrassing loss in their history. I’m glad I was spared that one, peacefully watching, although not completely understanding, the Rugby World Cup in an Irish pub instead. But seriously, this was the most amazing two weeks of my life and I cannot begin to cover it right now, so a download of my trip journal will follow in a few days.
In the two-and-a-half years we have been together, including the last ten months of living together, that is the most consecutive time Mike and I have spent together in one shot, and I am happy to say that we didn’t kill each other. That means something, right? London was a blast, and Italy was one of the most gorgeous places I have ever been. I kept telling Mike that I felt like I didn’t deserve to be there. It was as if it were out of a movie, or a storybook, or a dream. I cried as we were landing in Ireland, wishing that my mom were there to show me her homeland. She always said that we would go to Ireland together one day, but we never made it. So, it was bittersweet, but following that brief sojourn into my slowly dwindling grief, I was able to really enjoy that part of the trip. Just because my mom is gone doesn’t make it stop being my culture, right? I tipped up a pint for her, and then we went exploring. It was amazing! I am now officially a world-traveler.

Europe Countdown: 1 more day!!!

2007-10-02T12:47:00.000-06:00

So we leave tomorrow morning for the big European vacation. First stop London, then Italy, then Ireland, then back to London and then home. Woohoo! I am quite excited, although I have had to refrain from asking anymore dumb questions about traveling, at least to anyone except the Google. While the extent of my lifetime of travel has thus far included such exotic locales as Disneyworld and Kansas City, I figured I had enough common sense to be able to figure things out overseas. But then I asked one dumb question too many, this time about how to get money. Mike explained in the same tone of voice that a 5th grader would use to say "no duh!" that my money, much like here in these United States, would be coming from the ATM machine. So, I did the only thing I could think of and stuck out my tongue and stormed into the other room. As I have asked in my previous Europe trip countdowns, how the hell am I supposed to know these things?
I am way more street smart than Mike, but when it comes to foriegn travel, he has done it all and I have done it not at all. I was just trying to cover my bases. As long as I can shop a little at H&M, Top Shop, Marks and Spensers, etc, and eat a curry on Brick Road, and see Agatha Christie's Mousetrap, then I will be having a good time. I just wanted to make sure that I would have the money required to do all of these things. Oh, and the wine. I will need the wine in Italy. I will need lots of the wine in Italy, and then, after we get back, I think I am going to cut out the booze until Christmas. It seems like the logical thing to do. I basically want to spend the next two months getting my 5k down to a respectable number. The next one we will do is the Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving. Hopefully, by then my knee will feel well enough to rock it. But first, I am going to drink my weight in Italian wine and swing my blonde hair around at the locals. I hear they love that. When in Rome!!

iPhone-itis

2007-10-01T14:35:00.000-06:00

Sorry, Steve Jobs, but I hate your effing iPhone. No offense.

My boyfriend, Mike, says it is because I am jealous that he has one and I don't, but after some real soul searching, I realized that just isn’t the case. I am pretty sure I know what the “i” in iPhone stands for, and that is 'ignore'. It stands for ignore your girlfriend, ignore your job, ignore everything else that is going on around you while you gingerly caress the new love of your life. However, although annoying, it turns out that still isn’t the main issue.

I thought the iPhone was cool… at first… for a few minutes, and then I went back to living my life. I have discovered that Mike, however, has taken on a new "i" dentity. He is bursting with the pride of being an early-adopter, the possessor of a fabulous man-gadget. But most importantly, what I have discovered is that he is now the proud owner of a brand-new, shiny second penis, courtesy of your folks over at Apple. What follows is my theory and the accompanying research.

Mike and I have been together for two-and-a-half years, and over that time we have become pretty familiar with each other’s anatomy. After watching him care for his penis for two years, and then watching him with his iPhone, I have realized that the two are, for all intents and purposes, one and the same. When I explained to Mike that he acts like the iPhone is basically an extension of his penis, he even looked a little guilty and sheepish before he rolled his eyes, and so I knew that I hit the nail on the head. He treats both items the exact same way. He is actually sometimes even a little bit nicer to the iPhone, not because he loves it more, but because it the newer of his two penises. He is so careful with it, and never goes anywhere without it, and he even checks it every couple of hours or so through his jeans to make sure it is still there, just like his original penis. And, just like his original penis, his iPhone also tells him the answers to all of life’s questions. It tells him what to do and where to go, and he can even use one to service the other, accessing pocket-sized porn at the touch of a button.

Many guys might enjoy having two penises, so just as a community service, I am here to tell you that, for $399, you can buy one. An extra penis of your very own. Just don’t expect your girlfriend to swoon.

And it isn’t just my boyfriend who acts this way about his iPhone. When we were watching the Broncos game last week at Hooters (what?) I asked where one of the players went to college. Before he even put his hot wing down, Mike whipped out his proverbial second penis and began touching the front of it, slowly at first, and then with more fervor. And, just as if it were a real penis, people began staring at it. They were whispering to their friends and wives…they were saying “look at that, that guy has one of those second penises…and he is caressing it right here in front of us at Hooters. I need to get me one of those. Only $399 for a second penis.”

And it even started a chain reaction. In typical men’s-locker-room fashion, the other men who were lucky enough to have them began pulling out their second penises so that they could be part of the show. Why should my boyfriend get all of the attention when they had two penises too?
Completely embarrassed, I made Mike put it back in his pants.

So, Steve Jobs, I am sorry to say that I will not be purchasing one of your iPhones. While I truly appreciate the opportunities that having even one penis would provide me, (making more than 75 cents on the dollar, for starters) I will stick with my little flip phone and allow my boyfriend to be the big strong man, the owner of all of the penises in our relationship. At least until it comes out in pink.

Monday

2007-10-01T13:06:00.001-06:00

If the phone rings again, I’m going to throw it out my office window. I press my nose against the glass and picture my multi-line phone tumbling down onto the icy downtown Denver streets, crushed instantly by the environmentally irresponsible drivers of Hummvees and Cadillac Escalades. The mental picture makes me happy temporarily, and I slump back down in my chair. The chair, as always, squeaks loudly under my weight, and I remember for the fourteenth day in a row that I meant to bring in the WD-40 from my toolbox. I am completely unorganized. What am I doing here? Where am I going with my life? These are the two questions that I ask every morning, and then ponder for about an hour before I decide to begin any actual work. I rest my forehead on the edge of my desk staring past my lap to the cheap carpet below. My shoe is starting to split from the sole near my left big toe. As I start to raise my head I notice a small stain of unknown origins on my pants, this near my left knee. I scratch at it with a bitten nail and think that possibly, not counting my entire left leg, I look fairly put together, for a Monday.My boss comes strolling into my office seeming to have been here for hours. He has that 'settled-in' look. Stale coffee breath. An already loosened tie. I glance sideways at the clock (9:45) and half-wonder if he is there to discuss the fact that I have been in the building for all of twenty minutes, a twenty minutes that has been spent in the following productive manner: listening to the phone ring five times in a row without answering, pressing my nose against my dirty window, and resting my head on the desk, contemplating my direction in life.He stares at me in a strange way, and my mind starts to race, searching for excuses for being late. 'Deciding to floss for the first time in a week' doesn't seem to sound important enough, although it is the truth. Of course, the flossing led to other neglected hygiene rituals, and before I knew it, I was arriving at the office well after nine, albeit with very clean teeth, a perfectly bleached mustache, and impeccably plucked eyebrows.He, my boss, 'the man', sets a file on my desk, and then, with genuine concern, asks, "What's wrong?"I am confused, and he sees this so he expands on his extremely general question, one with several possible answers.
"With your forehead, I mean?"I touch my head and feel the line made by the edge of my desk. I assume that, just for good measure, it is also bright red. I don't say anything, and he smiles to himself and then leaves. He didn't even notice my eyebrows.

A college entrance essay...on a tangent.

2007-10-01T12:10:00.001-06:00

I need to shorten this from 8 pages to 1 or 2...*sigh*

When my mother told me several years back about the day with the hermit crabs, it was the first time I viewed her as a person with a life that was distinctly separate from mine. As we become adults, we all realize at some point or another that our parents’ lives have not always been about us, their children. However, my mom was a single mom who raised my sister and I on her own, so I was always convinced that, in a way, we were her reason for living.
My parents divorced when I was five and my sister was three. My mom was just starting college at the time, and she was 28 years old. My older sister, my half-sister, was to live with my father, and so, my younger sister, my mom and I became a team, in it toghether. My sister and I learned quickly how to help run the household. My mom went to nursing school full time, worked full time, and was a full-time mom; I have no idea when she slept. As I got older, I became aware, albeit somewhat subconsciously, that most everything my mom did was to make sure that my sister and I were ok, and that we became good adults. That is why, when she told me over coffee about the day with the hermit crabs, I suddenly saw her in a completely new light.

The day with the hermit crabs began quite innocently. I was eight, and my six-year old sister was a source of constant turmoil in my life. She was always in my business, trying to hang out with me and my severely cool third grade friends, and, from my perspective, spent almost all of her time being a big, huge baby. It was a Saturday, and I was in the middle of writing a very important report for school, the subject of which was my pet hermit crabs. I would be bringing the little guys into school with me on Monday, and so I told my sister that she could help me by filling the sink with water and letting them swim around while I cleaned out their cage and got it ready for the big debut. She was more than happy to oblige, ecstatic anytime I went out of my way to include her.

I took the small plastic terrarium out on the porch to dump it out and hose it down while my sister gingerly placed the three crabs into the makeshift basket she had created with her t-shirt and carried them into the kitchen. She put the stopper in the sink, and began filling it with water. My mother, in the meantime, was sitting in the next room on the couch staring into space; she had been like that for almost an hour and had told us she was studying. Within five minutes, I heard my little sister shrieking with delight. “Wow, Cara!” she called to me “they are getting really frisky today! They’re coming all the way out of their shells. All the way!!”

This didn’t seem quite right to me because in my vast experience as a hermit crab owner over the prior two years, I had never seen one of them come all the way out of its shell. They were called hermit crabs for the very reason that they carried their little homes on their backs, never to vacate, and so I knew that something must be off. I set down the plastic box, haphazardly sprinkling blue and pink rocks on the ground, and went inside where I found my little sister perched on the kitchen stepstool with her pigtails askew. The stepstool was a purchase made by my mother to allow us to reach high enough to put dishes away, a dreaded chore, however, this day my sister was using it to maintain a bird’s eye view of the goings on in the sink. She was peering down into the water, her face alight with excitement and wonder; she beckoned me over with both hands, not moving her eyes from the sight below.

I ran over, and sure enough, there were my pet hermit crabs in all of their naked glory, shells left behind; soft, curled underbellies exposed. My sister and I chattered loudly back and forth standing shoulder to shoulder on the stool, enraptured by the Discovery Channel-worthy vision in front of us. We called our mom. “Mom! Come here, you’ve got to see this”

Nothing.

No answer.

“Mom! Come check this out. The crabs are going crazy”

Nothing.

No answer.

“MOM!! The crabs are ALL THE WAY out of their shells”

“Huh?” My mom walked into the kitchen, not looking quite like herself. “Are you guys ok? What’s going on with the hermit crabs?”

“They came all the way out of their shells!!” my sister said, and then pointed to the sink, basking in the I-told-you-so-ness of the moment.

My mom strode over to us in a half-run and looked into the sink. Her eyes got as big as ours were for a second, and then her adult logic and wisdom kicked in and she placed her hand in the water, quickly drawing it back, and then plunging it in again, scooping up our frisky pets and laying them on a dishtowel on the counter.

“You guys, this water is boiling hot! You’re cooking the crabs!”

I was instantly angry with my sister and began yelling at her, telling her how stupid she was. My mother was examining the crabs, while my sister started to cry. Seeing her tears, I started to cry, too, sure that my precious little pets were going to die. Then my mom started to cry, and she grabbed us both in a bear hug off of the stepstool, our feet dangling. We all stood there in the kitchen crying for several minutes. My sister and I exchanged glances through my mom’s arms, wondering if she was angry or sad, or maybe just a little bit crazy and if it was all because of us and the crab mess we had created. My sister patted my mother’s elbow as if patting a good dog on the head and murmured, “It’s ok, Mommy, it’s ok”

After we all calmed down, and following a brief family discussion of hermit crab etiquette, my mom helped us clean out the rest of the terrarium. We put our little friends back in their home and hoped they would make it. Miraculously, they did, one of them living for an additional four years, which I assume is unprecedented in the hermit crab world. I finished writing my report in perfect cursive, sitting next to my mom at the kitchen table while she wrote a paper of her own, clacking away on an electric typewriter, a huge cup of coffee in front of her, and her “study-music”, the flute stylings of Jean-Pierre Rampal floating softly out of the second-hand stereo. I gave my big hermit crab presentation that Monday, bringing down the house if I recall correctly. My mother turned in her paper, too.
Life went on, and I barely ever thought about the day with the hermit crabs again, until, at the age of 23, I decided to drop out of college and take a job opportunity I had been given with a financial company in Denver. I was disenchanted with school and figured this was my ticket out of Colorado Springs, my big chance to start being a real adult. My mother, upon hearing of this decision, invited me for coffee to discuss my impending life changes. I went, dreading the lecture that was sure to ensue.

My mom and I talked and laughed the way we always did and then she got serious. “Do you remember the day with the hermit crabs?” she asked, looking straight into my eyes, which, for both of us, was the same as looking into a mirror.
“Which one?” I asked nonchalantly, recalling with a smile several incidents involving the now infamous crabs. The time we lost one in the house for several days, only to find it clamped on to the cat’s tail. The multiple times my sister and I would place the crabs in each other’s beds in order to invoke a scream. PETA would probably frown on all of these hermit crab misadventures, but we were children tasked with the duty of helping to raise ourselves, and those crabs, along with the cat and the dog were a vital part of our upbringing and the teaching of responsibility.

“The day Courtney tried to boil the crabs in the sink,” my mom said, waking me from my childhood daydreams.

I laughed. “Of course I remember.”

I laughed some more, but my mom looked slightly somber.
“That was the day I was going to give up”
She told me the story of the day with the hermit crabs from her point of view. She had a paper to write, a big paper on the subject of something very intricate in the genre of biochemistry. It was due Monday, and she hadn’t even started. She was so, so tired. She couldn’t take it anymore; it was just too much. The little kids, the horribly difficult classes, the full-time job working nights in the X-ray lab. She was just going to quit. Maybe she could become a waitress, or get a permanent position in the lab, but there was just no way she could go on like this, exhausted and drained.
But then we snapped her out of it. Screaming about the hermit crabs in all of our childish drama, my sister and I brought my mom back down from her emotional ledge. It was her job to come in and rescue us from our six- and eight-year-old mistakes, and she did it. She saved the day, and saved the crabs, and saved my little sister from what would have surely been a lifetime racked with the guilt that comes with being a crab-murderess. My mom took care of it, and suddenly, for reasons she still did not understand, she could imagine going on, which she did. The next year, my mother graduated with honors from a top nursing school and went on to have a career that anyone would be proud of. At her nursing school it was tradition that each graduate walk down the aisle with a significant other, or a parent who helped them through. My mother walked down the aisle in her nursing cap, eyes gleaming, flanked by two little girls. We assumed that it was all for us.

My mother paused in her story of the day with the hermit crabs to sip her coffee, eyeing me over the rim of her cup to see if any of this was registering. Then she told me that, while most of what she did in her life was for my sister and I, when she did this one thing, persevering and finishing school, it was all for her. It belonged to her and no one else. She wanted me to have that, too.
I teared up at my mother’s story, and then did the only thing that I could think of, completely ignored her advice, dropped out of college, and started a career like I had already decided to do. In all of her infinite wisdom, she had also raised both of us to be steadfast in our decisions. So I left Colorado Springs and moved to Denver to become a career woman. I have been quite successful, too, but there has always that one thing missing, and this is where you find me now, eight years later, with no children or other excuses to stop me.

I am already getting paid to do something that I love which is to write. I am successful in my work as a financial copywriter, and while I, like many nine-to-five writers, harbor pipe dreams of escaping to the mountains one day to write the great American novel, I find my work fulfilling. It may seem odd to completely change my life when it is all in order and I am happy, but there is something missing. I crave that feeling that my mother described having on her graduation day. I want it more than anything right now, more even than that elusive great American novel.

My mother died in car accident last September. She was only 53. While I know she wasn’t perfect, she was seemingly almost always right. In this case there is no exception. It seems that it took the jolt in my life of losing her to put the wheels in motion, to wake me up to what I’ve been missing. The wheels are finally moving, and I am finally awake. I want to finish my degree. While her memory may be a driving force in my return to school, the degree that I earn will not be for her. It will be bittersweet to achieve my dream of graduating without my mother cheering me on, but this time it will be for me. I won’t quit until I am finished, even if I have to scare a few hermit crabs to get there.

From April, 2007

2007-10-01T09:47:00.000-06:00

I have gained 45 pounds in less than a year.
I cried in a meeting in front of the senior vice president of marketing, and on the treadmill in a crowded 24Hour Fitness, and at the bookstore, and in the produce section of Whole Foods, the one on 1st and University Boulevard.
My little sister is filing for divorce from her husband.
I screamed in my boyfriend’s face this morning because he drank the last Diet Coke.
My older sister, as always, pretends nothing has happened, does not scream, does not file for divorce, does not cry in public while clutching a carton of strawberries.
This is my mother’s fault.

My mother drove off the side of a country road eight months ago. She rolled down an embankment, was thrown from the vehicle which then landed on top of her, and she died. She died. I still don’t know if she did it on purpose or not; my sisters do not know either. She was at a point in her life where that may have been her plan. But it could have been an accident, too. It wasn’t the first time someone missed that turn in her little farm town, the town where people refuse to wear their fucking seatbelts. Not even close to the first time. Lots of people had skidded down that embankment after taking the turn too quickly. Plus, how could someone deliberately leave behind three successful, funny adult daughters, two adorable, tiny grandchildren, a dog, a fiancée, and a world full of people who thought she was hilarious and beautiful?
Those are the things that make me think it wasn’t on purpose.
On purpose. That is what my sisters and I call it, “it” being the possibility of suicide. We call it on purpose when we talk about it, which we very rarely do.
I like to imagine that on that night, my mom was really thinking it was time to get things together, and she was just on her way home. The state patrol officer ruled it an accident, said she tried to correct the turn and, if she hadn’t told me just three months before, “Sometimes I just think I should drive off a bridge,” then I would be inclined to believe him. In fact, I am still inclined to believe him, but sometimes I just can’t make myself actually do it.
All I can picture and think and wonder about is what that last moment must have been like for her. It consumes me, and it fills my head at the most inopportune times. At work, during sex, while playing with my niece and nephew, while having a glass of wine with my best friend. I’ll just start to get comfortable in my own shoes again, and then it smacks me in the face, ruins my good time, ends my selfish bout of happiness. It is eating me alive. What was she thinking as it happened? Did she scream? Did she think of me, how much she and I look alike, how people would always ask us if we were twins? Did she think of the things she hadn’t taught my sister about raising her kids yet? Maybe her thoughts were of her big Irish Wolfhound, the way looking into his huge brown eyes made you think of looking into the wise eyes of a retired college professor. Maybe she didn’t have time to think of anything.
It must have hurt so much. What does it feel like when an SUV lands on your chest? The pain must have been excruciating.
Worse than childbirth, worse than her bad knee, worse than the pain of having three daughters who had thrown their hands up at her, unsure of how to continue helping her fix her life. That is what we had done, thrown our hands up for the most part, even when she had selflessly spent a solid portion of the past thirty-five years making sure that our lives were A-OK. That we were fed, and clothed, and polite, and smart, and that we tried really hard at everything.

She must have been so scared; it had to have been torture. And then maybe it was over. Maybe, on impact, she was gone. Or maybe it wasn’t as quick as they said. Maybe she suffered.
At the funeral, a woman approached me. She was tall. I remember that because I am tall, and she stood even with me. She was from the same little town, a nurse just like my mom, and she said that my mother hadn’t suffered, probably never felt a thing. She was trying to help me feel better, and I just smiled at her with my mother’s smile and looked her in the eyes with my mother’s eyes and hugged her, and then I let her walk away. I don’t even remember her name, can no longer picture her face. My sister probably remembers them, her name and face; she is good with things like that. This nameless, faceless woman, as it turns out, was the one who had been on her hands and knees in a ditch administering CPR right after the accident happened. She crawled down the steep, rocky edge of a curvy country road and pushed on my mother’s heart, willing it to beat; she tried to save my mother’s life. She, not me, was the last one to touch my mother while she was still my mother. While she was still beautiful and hilarious and smart.
I, on the other hand, was at a movie. Trust the Man, it was called, and if I remember correctly, it was quite good, although I am no film critic. The ringer on my cell phone was turned off. Obviously. They make you do that in theaters; they put up signs, have banners running across the screen like ads. And it makes me laugh that they still say phones and pagers, as in “Please silence all cell phones and pagers.” Who has a pager anymore? I had a crush on a boy in junior high who had a pager. In fact, I think that was the main draw, the intrigue and mystery that a boy with a pager possessed. I made the rookie mistake of telling my mom about him back then, and she, clearly misunderstanding my adolescent plight, said, “Why in the world would a thirteen-year-old boy ever need to be paged?”
She was always saying things like that.
Anyway, as the strict rule-abider that my mother raised me to be, I had my ringer on ‘Silent’ as soon as I set foot in the theater. I don’t mess with that rule, and I am the first to dole out dirty looks to those who have not complied.
I sat there in the air-conditioned theater, eating buttered popcorn and snuggling up to my boyfriend. It was the Sunday before Labor Day. The end of the summer. The leaves would start to change soon, and I didn’t know it then, but the coming winter would be the worst that Denver had seen in twenty years, something to do with global change and Al Gore. But it was still summer, and I was at a movie with the man I’ll probably marry. I sat there for two hours, happy and selfish with greasy fingers and a big Diet Coke, blissfully unaware of what was going on 150 miles south of us in Gardner, CO, population 500. I was sitting in a Denver theater, and my mind was in New York with Julianne Moore and David Duchovny. I might as well have been a million miles away.
When the movie was over, I had eight missed calls. Eight. I don’t get eight calls in a week unless you count the Rocky Mountain News subscription sales department. But in two hours, there they were, eight of them.
We walked out into the warm night toward my boyfriend’s car, a silver Saab. I have told him before that I feel strongly that Saabs are for women and gay men, but he still loves his, and so that is where we sat, in his Saab outside the Esquire Theater. And that is where I was the last time I felt like me, like a daughter, like a person, like the woman I was raised to be. That is where I was the last time I felt like I had an anchor in this world, when I was still someone’s spitting image.
The Esquire Theater is a Denver landmark, and as I listened to my messages, I stared at the tall, slender letters spelling out E-S-Q-U-I-R-E, white on purple, glowing and bold. My curiosity at blinking red light signifying so many messages gradually merged into a dull realization. The recordings, the chaos on the other end of the line, my mom’s fiancée wailing my name like a scared child; all of this, the complete cacophony of it all, subsided into an ache, like a cramp, or like that feeling when you’ve swallowed too large a bite of a sandwich and it becomes lodged, not choking you, but not moving. I couldn’t tell you now where the physical hurt was in my body, but it was there, aching and pounding. It is still there now, in my chest, in my head, in my shoulders, in the sockets behind my eyes that are my mother’s eyes. It is part of the new me, and I do not foresee it ever subsiding.

According to the messages, there had been an accident, or as I may have mentioned, it was maybe not accidental.
I still didn’t fully have a grasp on my new reality. I watched a typical Denver woman, gorgeous and athletic, walking her dog through the thickening twilight down 6th Avenue, past the silver Saab. Her Golden Retriever made eye contact with me, and I instinctively longed for the softness and innocence of my own dog as I called my mom’s best friend.
Her voice quivered, shook with the weight of what she had to tell me. I said her name aloud, and she cried openly and apologized over and over as if I was hell-bent on punishing the messenger, as if I thought it was her fault. She told me about the accident, and then she told me that my mom was gone. Gone. Dead. Passed Away. In a Better Place. I didn’t cry. I didn’t get it. I just shook a little. I listened as she told me to call the state patrol, even efficiently producing my own pen and paper to take the number down. I said I would call her back and I calmly told my boyfriend to take me to my apartment.
What followed over the next few weeks was hectic and insane, although I remember being quiet and calm and business-like. I wrote an obituary. I called the Irish Wolfhound Rescue to tell them to expect memorial donations. I used the words “in lieu of flowers” as if they were a part of my everyday vocabulary. I hired a funeral director. I was a businesswoman making business decisions under deadline. It was similar to being at work, except for the part where it was emotionally debilitating.
The funeral director was a woman in her 70’s who was not all there, her hair a tangle of faux auburn curls with an inch of white at the roots, her polyester, elastic-waist pants twisted slightly off-center so that they looked uncomfortable, like a small child wandering around in twisted pajamas. Normally, the pants would have tipped me off that I had not made the best choice as far as funeral directors go, but I was catatonic. She could have been wearing a sombrero and I would have let her arrange my mother’s funeral. This stranger sat there with my sisters and me as we discussed how the funeral should go, talked about what should be said, had the most personal conversation of our entire lives. She made inappropriate comments and made us all very aware that this was the point-of-sale for her, that she could not possibly give a rat’s ass about the woman my mother was. To her credit, her manual dexterity was spot-on and she handled the credit card transaction with astute competence. My little sister sat holding her petite, one-year old daughter in her lap and fumed in the general direction of this woman, a woman my mother would have detested. My mom would have hated her own funeral, too. It wasn’t classy or beautiful; it was drab, and unorganized as if it had been thrown together in a couple of days by group of women who, although normally very Martha Stewartesque when planning events, were in complete shock. Strangely, I remember feeling quiet and calm and business-like.
A week after the funeral and cremation, that same woman handed me my mother’s engagement ring in a plastic bag labeled “Bio-Hazard.” It was the only piece of jewelry my mom had been wearing when she died, and this woman apparently found it hazardous. I put it on my finger, knowing it would fit me perfectly and planned to wear it until I could get it back to my mother’s fiancée.
The funeral director, lacking couth and in a general state of senility, had neglected to clean my mother’s ring. After washing my hands, I looked down to see diluted blood on my hand, trickling from beneath the diamond solitaire towards my wrist. My mother’s blood was on my hands. In what is probably a very inappropriate feeling to have about human blood, I wanted to save it, soak it in, ingest it. Instead, I just sat on the couch and stared at it. For an hour. And then I snapped out of it and did the grown-up thing --- because daughters who no longer have mothers need to act grown up--- I took off the ring, cleaned it, washed my hands, put the ring back on my finger, and then went back out to the living room. I will never be the same again after that. Never.
Now eight months have passed. It is Spring, and I am no longer quiet and calm and business-like. I have become angry and tearful and child-like. With all of the maturity that I can muster at age thirty, I still just want my mom. I want her all the time. I need to talk to her about some stuff. I want her to keep her eye on me. I want her to give me advice. I want more than anything to hear her crazy laugh, or watch her tie those loose knots in her hair with one hand, or to taste her potato salad, or to hear her sing off-key. I want her to know that, if given another chance, I would do anything for her, anything to help her, to save her, to keep her close to me. I want her to see my dog, and how well-behaved he is even after she accused me of spoiling him. I want her to know my boyfriend better, to know that I will probably have children one day with his red curly hair, and I want her to know how she and I would laugh about their little red curls, because that is just the type of thing we would have laughed about before.
I want to look her in the face again and feel as if I am looking into a mirror, a mirror that knows everything about me, at least everything about me up until the first Sunday of last September. A lot has changed since then, and it would be nice to talk to my mom about that, too.
Although I have never really believed in silver linings, preferring instead to take the cynical, sarcastic route, I can say that I have learned a whole hell of a lot in the past eight months. About myself, and about the importance of sisters, and about the hardships that people face in life and the toll it takes on intimate relationships. I learned that using work as an excuse not to deal with things only succeeds temporarily, and I learned that I am tougher than I knew, and I learned that some of my friends are better friends than I thought. However, what has been the most eye-opening is what I have learned about the relationship between a mother and her daughter. It is disheartening, I suppose, that I have acquired all of this knowledge, now having nowhere to apply it.
I was raised by a strong, single mother. And she raised me to be fiercely independent just like her, so much so that I spent a large portion of my life thinking that I did not need her. But I did, and I do right now.
I feel a little more ok, and a little more in control, and a little more me every single day. I am still angry and sad, and there is still an emptiness that I am unable to put into words. However, I will continue to be my mother’s strong daughter, and so will each of my sisters, and right now, that is all I can give to her to replace what I was unable to give eight months ago. I hope she understands.

Europe Countdown: 2 days

2007-10-01T09:29:00.000-06:00

Crap. In all of the hurry with preparation for the trip this weekend, I forgot that I actually had to work on Monday and Tuesday. CRAP! I am so not in the mood to write about financial performance and investing. I am ready to get on a plane.
I had one scary thought last night, and that is that I will actually be flying over the ocean. Over the entire body of water that is the Atlantic Ocean. I am not really the best flier that I know. I get a little scared, a little motion sick, and the fact that I am six-foot-one doesn't really help matters much. Besides, I have seen Castaway. I know what can happen when you crash into the ocean, never to be seen again.
Usually I spend a typical flight squirming and trying to find a position for my legs that doesn't involve severe rug burn from the chair in front of me. So far it has just been trips within the continental United States, but this is going to be eight hours of hell. While I appreciate my stature, I sometimes wouldn't mind being a more cute and feminine 5'3" or so; I would fit so much more nicely that way. On an airplane I feel like such a freak. I can feel people staring at me as I make my way down the aisle with my head cocked to the side slightly to avoid dragging it along the ceiling. The other people just stare and pray silently that I will not be occupying the seat next to them where I will most definitely steal all of their space. Maybe I will drug myself for the flight. A little Tylenol PM maybe? Or I have that vicodin left over from my knee injury....hmmm, not a bad idea. Either way, Mike better give me the aisle seat Wednesday morning. That is all I have to say.

Europe countdown: 3 days

2007-09-30T08:42:00.000-06:00

Everyone made fun of my money belt. Rick Steves said specifically on his website that one must have a money belt whilst one is traveling in Europe. So I went to REI and bought a very inconspicuous one and showed it to my boyfriend, Mike, and some friends from work, all of whom proceeded to laugh at me and explain very condescendingly that only the dorky touristy types carry these money belts, and that I was about to tool around Europe looking like a hugely annoying American tourist. Since they are all so well-traveled, and obviously wiser in the ways of the world than I, I am apparently supposed to bow down and thank them for this sage, albeit sort of snotty, advice. But seriously, how the hell am I supposed to know?? I was raised by a single mom and so there were no real vacations growing up. Hell, there were barely groceries. So screw them. I will wear whatever the hell I want on my first trip to Europe ever. Plus, now that I am in my 30's, I suddenly am not as worried about looking like a dork as I once was. So, like I said, screw them.
Ok, honestly, I am going to REI in a few minutes to return the money belt. However, Rick Steves was apparently right about the no white running shoes rule in Europe. So I will not be returning my sassy little mary-jane European walking shoes, even if Mike did say that they look slightly lesbionic. Whatever; I think they are adorable even while making my size 11s look closer to a Michal Jordanesque 14. I am going to Europe, bitches, so quit looking at my feet...and my money.... and LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!!! :)