Amy, What You Wanna Do?

* Note- This was written for a writing class about a year ago when I was six months pregnant.


A week after serving as my bridesmaid on a sunny June day in City Park, Amy left for Korea to teach English for a year, her first time setting foot outside the 48 contiguous states. Mike and I were to head to Thailand for our honeymoon at about the same time; however, our plans were thwarted by a job offer. I couldn’t turn it down, so we opted for a few days lounging poolside and mountain biking in Sedona, making a mutual promise to take our Asian adventure the following summer before babies came along.


The timing of our Thailand trip a year later coincided with the end of Amy’s teaching contract and the start of her own multi-country, 90-day Asian adventure before she would head back home to Denver. Although it was our honeymoon, we were both close to Amy and jumped at the chance to spend a few days with her on the other side of the world. We made our plans via email and Skype. Come August, Mike and I would meet Amy in Bangkok. We’d travel together by bus to the mountain jungles of Chiang Dao and share a tiny hut at a nature preserve. After that, we would all fly to the Phi Phi islands to enjoy some beach time before going our separate ways, Mike and I to honeymoon in the blue-water islands of Kho Pnanag and Amy to meet up with friends in Laos. After not seeing her in over a year, I was excited to catch up with my good friend in the midst of her first big adventure.

I met Amy when I started a new job in 2006; my daytime home became the cubicle right next to hers. She was several years younger than I but had been at the company awhile. She taught me the software systems, where the bathroom was, and tips on whom to avoid (the lady with the British accent and the man with the nipples that shone through his dress shirts). After a month of sharing a wall and daily jokes, we had lunch together. That turned into occasional, hilarious after-work drinks, and we became fast friends. When my mom died suddenly a couple months later, Amy made the hour-long drive to the funeral in Colorado Springs. I had no idea she was there until she appeared before me at the reception, tear-streaked face, enveloping my tall frame in hers. She spent the next few months listening to me talk and cry. We barely knew each other, but we learned quickly.

We created Wine Wednesdays. Mike was my live-in boyfriend then, and he had a volleyball game every Wednesday night, Amy’s cue to pick up takeout and dress in her finest yoga pants and giant University of South Dakota sweatshirt for her weekly visit. I poured the Pinot Noir and we sat on my back patio smoking cigarettes, discussing our terrible jobs and big life decisions ahead, drinking too much. More than once Amy and I both called in sick on the same Thursday. People knew what we were up to, but who could stop us? We rationalized that we were given sick days for this specific purpose.

Amy grew up on a farm in South Dakota. She graduated from USD and headed to Denver shortly thereafter, her goal to escape the prison where so many of her peers found themselves incarcerated. She told me once that she would be suicidal if she ended up working at a tanning salon in Watertown for the rest of her life like her sister. Because of the way Amy was raised, she possessed a naiveté that I found hilarious and endearing. She was whip-smart with a memory for numbers and processes that rivaled a computer, and she finished her MBA while we were working together, but she would regularly ask questions a three-year old might come up with. She half-shouted everything in a high-decibel, scratchy voice, never realizing people across the room were privy to everything she said. I was never embarrassed by Amy, always protective; I didn’t want anyone else laughing at her. She once returned to our workspace after giving a presentation, complaining that she felt like people were laughing at her while she spoke. I asked what her presentation was about.

“Egg mutual funds,” she said, still perturbed.

“Egg?” I asked, “I haven’t heard of that fund family.”

“Yes you have, we just did that brochure for them.” She scolded my bad memory over our wall, “A-I-G, egg.”

My heart sunk. “Um, Aim? How about from now on, you just call it AIG. Ok?”

She slumped into her chair with flushed cheeks and an “Oh shit.”

********

While we waited for Amy to arrive at our Bangkok hotel following her late flight, I started to worry. She had become another little sister to me, and a year of low-grade worrying about Amy on her own in Korea suddenly manifested itself into full-on freaking out by two in the morning when she still hadn’t arrived. I woke my husband. “You’re making your jetlag worse” Mike muttered without opening his eyes.

“But, hon, her plane was supposed to land at midnight. Getting her luggage and a cab here shouldn’t take that long. And I have no way of calling her. And I’m worried!”

My husband, used to my constant worrying, told me he loved me then rolled over to escape the beam from the bedside lamp I’d illuminated. Minutes later, his snoring resumed and Amy knocked on the door. She apologized for the late hour explaining that she’d opted to share a cab with an Australian guy she met at baggage claim. “I was pretty convinced he was a serial killer for the first part of the ride, but he turned out to be super nice.”

The cabbie had dropped the Aussie off first, causing the delay.

She looked the same except her naturally stick-straight black hair was longer and wavy, the result of an experimental perm she sprung for in Korea. It looked beautiful. “I hate it” she rasped and slung her giant backpack on the twin bed she had already claimed as her own. We hugged and pulled back to look at each other.

“You need to pluck your eyebrows,” Amy said, matter of fact and as if we had been apart for an hour instead of a year.

I laughed. “Thanks, Amy”

Several days later, the three of us sat in the open-air restaurant of Malee’s Nature Lover’s Bungalows in the middle of the jungle drinking Chang beer, the label depicting a foil elephant who dripped constant condensation. The air was thick with insects and sweat, and we fanned ourselves while we talked about the amazing things we had already seen and what else we were going to cram in before heading south. We passed the three cameras between us, scanning through the digital images, comparing different shots we had taken. Amy went to the kitchen to get us another round. I thought this seemed like the right moment to mention something to Mike.

“Five days late,” I told him quietly.

Amy had spidermanned silently up behind me without my knowledge.

“You’re pregnant?!”

I jumped. The other patrons looked our direction, staring, mouths agape. While we were the only English speaking group that we knew of at Malee’s, the word pregnant apparently translated well, especially in a screaming Bette Davis voice.

“Amy, shhhhuussh. Geez!”

She laughed and sat down, accustomed to unwanted attention. We explained that we were ready to start trying for kids after the trip, but that I had run out of birth control in July. Since my doctor told us it would probably take us awhile, considering I was 35 and had questionable ovary service, I decided not to get another prescription just for one month. I continued that it was probably not real, just my body’s response to going off the pill and traveling. There was just no way.

Three days later, the three of us stood in the Bangkok airport Boots drugstore holding a meeting of the minds in the sunscreen aisle. Did we want to spend 1000 baht on the good American stuff for snorkeling and sea kayaking, or would the cheaper Thai sunscreen get us through? We went to pay, Amy in front of Mike and I, her own sunscreen in hand. A stroke of genius met her at the front of the line.

“Do you have pregnancy tests?” she asked, loudly over-annunciating each word, though most everyone in Bangkok spoke English.

The man behind the counter nodded and pointed to the selection behind him. Amy grinned at me.

I hesitated. I did not think I was pregnant. “Fine. If we’re going to do this here, we might as well buy two,” I told the cashier and Amy at the same time.

The man glanced up at Mike who stood before him with two tall brunettes, both requesting pregnancy tests. This is how Americans get a bad name in foreign countries.

We arrived on Phuket, our last stop for the night before catching the morning boat to Phi Phi; we walked to the beach to explore. The sky turned from blue to brown while we splashed in the shallow waves. Within moments, heavy raindrops began their assault, bruising our bare shoulders, plastering our hair to our faces. We found cover in the nearest bar. More Chang beers were enjoyed. Amy and Mike had three each; I sipped one. Just in case. A sloppy, hand-painted sign on the wall stated: Broken English spoken here. Boxes of Kleenex lined the bar, the Thai version of paper napkins. We laughed and carried on; we took photos with the bartender; we meandered across the street to our hotel when the rain stopped and darkness arrived. Inside our room, we all rushed for our chance at the bathroom, a proper toilet in Thailand always worth the wait. When it was my turn, Amy told me to wait and fished a pregnancy test out of her backpack, holding it in the air like a winning lottery ticket.

“Come on! Do it! This is so exciting!” She jumped in place, a child in a curvy five-foot-eleven body.

I laughed at her, nervous. “Ok, fine.” I took the white box from her. “I really don’t think I’m pregnant, Aim”

I took the test into the bathroom and my husband followed. The directions were in Thai, with an English supplement that was in severe need of an editor. I peed on the stick. We waited. Two lines appeared. Everything changed in that second; Mike and I stared at each other, our mouths smiling, our eyes wide in fear.

Amy’s banging on the door broke up the moment.

“Jesus, you guys, you’re killing me! What the hell?!”

I opened the door and told Amy that we were going to have a baby. Amy embraced us, and we stood together like the baby belonged to all three of us.

When we split up with Amy on Phi Phi Don, I watched as she walked toward her hostel down the winding island street, a street that had never seen a car. I smiled at how, just a few minutes before as we packed, she had transferred the tampons from my bag to hers. “You won’t be needing them, and they practically have a street value here, they’re so hard to find”

Always thinking, that one. I already missed her again.



Mike and I returned from Thailand at the end of August, back to our daily grinds and our new reality as future parents. Amy just got back last week, landing first in South Dakota where she could spend a few weeks catching up with her family. I got an email from her yesterday:


Heyo! So I have a huge favor and want you to look at my résumé and use your skills to make me look like a superstar. It is currently a shit-show.

I attached my résumé. What do you think?

If I get a job in Denver I will need to live with you...hahaha. Not kidding.

I will be your own personal nanny.

Amy

I smiled and quickly prattled off a response on my keyboard:



Aim-

I will happily look at your résumé. Please remember that my freelance rates, due to widespread popular demand, are now in upwards of $75 an hour. Hahaha. Not kidding.

One quick question, if I fix your résumé and get you a job in Denver, how will you have time to be my personal nanny?

Just wondering.

Miss you-

CCV

Her response came shortly after, explaining that she had brought that unborn baby into this world via her gift of a pregnancy test, and that should be payment enough for a little sidework. I like to imagine that she was sitting in front of her screen bright-eyed and smiling the way I was.

I will probably never understand depths of what makes Amy tick they way I do with my husband or my best friend. She is a complete character, always surprising me with the things she says and does and the things she is capable of accomplishing. She is my adopted baby sister and the craziest person I have ever met. She is simultaneously sobering and infuriating. She is one of my favorite friends, yet she is impossible to know. It is for all of these reasons I count myself lucky to have been placed there on the first day of that crappy job, a wall away from the loud farm girl, the one who will stand up for you at your wedding and your mom’s funeral, the one who will crack you up with her internal cocktail of country bumpkin and brainiac, the one with the power to bring your baby to life by laying down 300 baht in a Thai airport and bossing you around a little. People like that don’t come into your life every day.

Sweet Home Chicago

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!!

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

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

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.

Fletch Lives

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.

Disturbia, My Kind of Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am the reigning queen of TMI.

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

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

We are so BACK!

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!!!

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!!

Europe Countdown: 2 days

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

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!!! :)