The Only Reason I'll Ever Need To Hate Camping

I don't know what's gotten into me lately, but I'm turning into Nature Girl. I think it's because I'm Unemployed Girl and nature is mostly free. Shoes and cocktails are not. So I suggested to the wife the other day that I'd like to go camping, which she jumped on immediately. I love Wife, but she's not the most motivated person that she or I know. Say the word "camping", though, and she immediately texted back that she had just bought a tent and when did I want to go?

We chose (Where's) Waldo Lake for the name and because the guide book touted it as having the Bluest Water In the World or something like that. We packed the good camping food, the dogs and the booze and headed out with the slogan "chips and dips and s'mores and whores."

It was beautiful. The trees were beautiful. The sun setting over the lake was heartbreakingly beautiful. The camping spots were charming and we found one near the water. The dogs finally realized they had been taken somewhere Fun and got excited. I opened the car door to get out and look at something and that's when the nightmare began.

Hoards of mosquitoes were awaiting our arrival. They must have followed the car or our scent through the car because they were right outside the door flying in as soon as it was opened. I closed it immediately so we could plan our next move. We had bug spray. We were confident. First, we'd spray ourselves and then let the dogs out one by one to spray them. Done and done. We walked down to pay for our spot, clouds of mosquitoes following us. The poor dogs were walking in their own little clouds of buzzing. A mosquito flew into my mouth and stuck to the back of my throat. Ew. I coughed so hard I almost threw up.

We hurried back to start our campfire, thinking that would help diminish them. No. It didn't. These were like zombie mosquitoes, they just kept coming. Nothing stopped them. They turned into tiny little flying honey badgers. "We don't give a shit you're wearing a shirt, we'll bite you through it. Bug spray? Honey badger mosquitoes don't care. We don't give a fuck. We'll bite your head through your hair and fly down into your shirt." They were relentless and they fucking hurt when they bit. It was like being stabbed with syringes.

I've heard there is something that you can eat or drink to make the blood less appealing to them. I don't remember what it is right now, but I would have drank my own pee to get them to leave me alone. It was miserable.

By the time we gave up and went to our tent to sleep, they had died down quite a bit. Probably because they were just full from their evening buffet, not because they decided to leave us alone. We were sure that we could enjoy our breakfast next to the beautiful lake and float out to the Bluest Water In the World the next day.

When I woke up in the morning to go to the bathroom, the little fuckers were already out there. Waiting. At 8:00 in the morning! The cloud followed me to the bathroom and back. They flew into the tent so that we had to zip back up as fast as we could and spent the next couple of minutes killing the ones that had made it in.

We lay there trying not to panic. It was starting to get quite warm in the tent. We saw mosquitoes sitting on the screens of the tent, just waiting to get at us. Just. Waiting. Patiently.

We started to imagine we were stuck in an insect horror film. That our bodies would be found days later, completely drained of blood. The coroner would be completely baffled as to why two women and three dogs all died of the same cause.

Breakfast by the lake was obviously not an option. Staying for five more minutes was out of the question. We threw everything into the car as quickly as we could, frantically, shoving the dogs in first. As we were driving back through the campground, we saw a couple of people wearing mosquito net hats. That is not something I should see during my leisure time. Driving away, we were swatting at mosquitoes on the windows, the windshield, our bodies, the dogs, the dashboard. The inside of the car looked like a crime scene with blood smears and carcasses scattered everywhere.

Since my return home I have found bites on my legs, ankle, the arch of my foot, near my eyebrow, along my hairline, in my hair, on my back, stomach, chest, side, basically any skin surface on my body. Motherfuckers!!!

Obviously this does not bode well for future camping trips. As if there will be another one. I'm not good at being Nature Girl.

Shoes and cocktails are just so much easier to enjoy.

Edible Memories

When I was a snotty teenager, I insisted that I would never cook my own food. I hated cooking and swore I would have my own personal chef. I seriously don't even know who that girl was now. Sure, some days I'm totally lazy and eat Cheez-Its for dinner, but most of the time I love to cook. I pore over recipes online for hours and take at least a week to plan holiday meals. I talk about food endlessly with my friends who are as equally obsessed as I am.

It's not just the food or the taste or showing off at a party. I love the memories that go with the food. Certain smells evoke the memories in the strongest and most poignant way, but food memories are my favorites.

When I was really little, I'd hang out in the kitchen with my mom, handing her the items she needed. I sliced off a little taste of butter whenever I pulled it out of the fridge for her. I learned how to make chicken and dumplings watching her. I mean real southern chicken and dumplings, not those pathetic biscuit imposters. This was my grandmother's recipe. And probably her grandmother's. When I grew up, I only needed the ingredient amounts, but no instruction. For years D hated them, which made me sad. I had imagined this would be the one recipe passed down to my daughter and her daughter after that. She finally learned to love them like I do in the last year and my legacy is again alive.

As a kid, my mom made us whatever we wanted for dinner on our birthdays. I don't know why this was such a big deal to me, probably because it was the one day of the year I could reject less appetizing fare like liver and okra and lima beans. I always chose tacos. Every year. My sister always chose spaghetti.

I think visiting my grandparents in Mississippi is where I learned to equate food with love. We had dinner and supper, same-sized meals at different times of the day at a crowded, very full table. My mom said that my grandpa used to say that a meal wasn't complete without bread. He made the best biscuits and, for a while, my mom tried to replicate the recipe when we returned home. She never could and gave up after a few near-disasters. I'm still too afraid to try.

When we ate at seafood restaurants, I would get popcorn shrimp and hush puppies. I loved the name more than the actual food and hush puppies were one of the first comfort foods I attempted to make in college. I'm super snobby about them now. Yes, snobby about fried corn meal. It has to be done just right.

A trip to Disneyland isn't complete without a churro or two or three. I don't eat them anywhere else. D loves to go to the Mexican restaurant in Frontierland, not so much for the food, but for the view of Thunder Mountain at night.

In-N-Out. Oh, In-N-Out. I don't even care to debate this. It is just hands-down my favorite burger place in all the world. There are restaurants all over California and they have branched out to other states (but not Oregon, ahem. I'm looking at YOU, In-N-Out Corporate!). It wasn't always like that though. We used to go rarely, mostly when we went to the beach because we'd pass by one on those occasions. I had In-N-Out the day I bought my first car. It is probably the one thing I crave most often. Oh, In-N-Out. I love you so.

My favorite candy? Abba Zabba. If you've never had this delicious treat, it's like a bar of taffy with peanut butter in the middle. It's best frozen, but it also reminds me of going to the beach. I lost a tooth in one once.

Vacations are always about the food. In Victoria, it's afternoon tea at Butchart Gardens. Little finger sandwiches and scones and tarts and truffles and fancy tea! My summer cruise offered endless amounts of food but nothing on the ship compared to what I found in port. The Mexican resort provided freshly made tortillas and things I could never name, but couldn't get enough of. And fish tacos on a Mexican beach? There's nothing else like it. In Hawaii I had pineapple juice every morning and vowed to never eat mahi mahi anywhere else.

I love crepes and risotto and lobster, sushi and lamb and pretty plates of delicate pasta. But I also love fried chicken and fried catfish, bad, trashy food full of grease and fat and everything else that gives it a bad reputation. My favorite white trash food is Easy Cheese. You know, stuff that comes in a can that isn't really any kind of cheese at all. Easy Cheese and Pringles are the best snack to take for a day at the lake. It's good on celery if you want to pretend to be healthy. Last night I tried it on a hot dog. Omg, you guys. Try it tonight. Seriously.

Food. Memories of food. So many of them. College means popcorn and rice and fresh strawberries from roadside stands. After 52 hours of childbirth, I rewarded myself with french fries, ranch dressing and a chocolate shake. My ex and I went out for sushi the day our divorce was finalized. I taught D how to crack crab legs the day she got her first pair of pointe shoes and we had pizza when she got her braces off.

Food is family, love, birthdays, drunken Friday nights, beginnings, endings, celebrations, compromise, sometimes regret, more often pure joy. I've loved people with food. I've laughed over food. I've been comforted by it and had invaluable conversations during delicious meals. The best thing about all of this? There is just more to come.

World Fucking Domination, Ya'll

So I was talking to my friend A about zombies. I guess I had zombies on the brain. What? It's totally normal to discuss zombies on a leisurely summer day.

Okay, so actually it stemmed from a conversation about dead squirrels and spiders and spiders who eat birds and the number of black widows I've found in my house. But that's just kinda grossly boring.

What isn't boring? Zombie. fucking. spiders. Right? A asked if zombies in general aren't worse. Um, no. We all know what to do with regular zombies that just start out as dumb people. Especially the redneck ones. He then suggested zombie birds, but I said no way. Birds start out cute. Spiders are never cute. They are creepy and sneaky and crafty to begin with. Imagine that with zombie added in. Fucking scary, right? They can hide in your shoes and behind the tv and jump out when you walk by. Even their webs would be fucking creepy. Fucking seriously.

Dude - if I was going to take over the world, I would totally do it with zombie spiders. Watch out, ya'll.

Because He's Like Us

D decided today that she wants another frog. She had one a few years ago for a few months. Phoebe/Jade/Jasmine (her name was progressive) was a cute little green tree frog. I managed to keep her alive while D was gone for a week and then she promptly killed her when she got home. What is it called when you dehydrate a frog? Frogslaughter? Involuntary by a minor? It was sad. I cried and couldn't even look at her.

Anyhoo, we went to the pet stores today to scope out the amphibians. Wandering down the rodent aisle, we came across a "fancy" hamster running on his wheel. He was noticeably retarded. As he was running, he'd lean his head over to the side, but the crossbar would bump into him every rotation. It was like he was trying to decapitate himself. Run, bump, pull back, run, bump, pull back, over and over. Then he got off and we thought he had figured it out, but no. He jumped right back on. Run, bump, pull back, run, bump, pull back. D practically shrieked, "Can we have HIM?!?" Because he obviously is one of us. He would totally fit into our household. I could even put some vodka in his little drippy bottle and then he'd be just like me. Drunk and not learning from his mistakes.

I was seriously considering it until D pointed out his balls. Giant, elephantitis, dragging-on-the-ground balls. I just can't have that in my house. I think he even tried to high-five me through the glass when I saw what he had.

There were no frogs, but we tried to think of a name for the future frog. D thinks that Penis is a good name. "Do you want to see my Penis?" "I have a little Penis." She thinks that she might want two so they can be named Penis and Balls.

You know, there are some things I just never said in front of my mom.

Children of the Corn

I hate my neighbors. Most people know this and anyone who has ever been to my house agrees that they are redneck trash. I know, that's not nice. But you would agree if you saw them smoking on their front porch, or noticed the car that has been sitting in the driveway for months with a flat tire or ever heard them beat their kids.

Speaking of the kids, they are even worse. Last summer their thing was to throw their toys over the fence into my yard. At first I threw them back, but I quickly tired of that game and started throwing them in the trash.

This year their thing is to come over any time we're outside and try to talk to us. I ignore them but they repeatedly chatter, "Hi. Hi. Hello!! What's your name? What are you doing?" They accost anyone who comes to the house.

Last week they started breaking into cars. Or just letting themselves in. The Wife caught her the first time. It was the girl, trying to get into her back seat. What kind of kid just helps herself into a stranger's car? Obviously her parents haven't properly scared her.

A couple of days later, my car was in the garage. Stupid me, I left the garage open for half an hour. I found my car's back door open. How creepy is that? Some little imp is crawling around in my car? While it's in my garage?

Yeah, I'm not trusting them. They're giving me the creeps. Sure, they're three feet tall, but I've seen the movies. That kid in Pet Sematary was like two feet tall, and he was fucking creepy.

Explaining the Concept

I got bored today and turned on something I haven't seen in years, Days of Our Lives. D asked what it was and I told her I used to watch it all the time. In fact, I first started watching it with my mom when I was three. Her eyes grew big, "It's THAT old?" Oh, children have the most delightful way of making one feel older than Egyptian dirt. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

D: Oh, that's Ali from Biggest Loser!
Me: Yeah, she's been on here a long time.
D: Really? She's that old?
Me: Well, she started as a teenager.
D: What's a soap opera?
Me: It's a show that was made when women stayed home so they'd have something to do while their husbands were at work.
D: It's on every day? What if you miss one?
Me: Too bad. There aren't reruns, it's new every day.
D: WHAT is the point of that?? Is there someplace you can BUY old shows?
Me: No.
D: What? What is the point?? I don't get it! That's so dumb!! That is the dumbest thing I ever heard.

Followed by peals of laughter.

Oh fuck, I am old.

Cheesy Tourist "Fun"

Two years ago I went along on a bike ride with Bend Cruiser Ride.
We started at Riverside Market, rode over to Old Mill and ended up at the top of the parking garage. That last part was the only miserable part. I am not a bike rider and not in shape for it. Still, it was a lot of fun and reminded me of a college party.

So last Thursday, The Wife said it's time we go again. The theme for the week was "cheesy tourist" so off we went in search of the appropriate costumery. Wifey ended up with a fanny pack, Mickey Mouse trucker hat and a Betty Boop camo t-shirt that spelled out "Major Hottie." Yes. However, I found The Perfect, Bestest Shirt Ever. One wedge of cheese is taking a picture of another wedge of cheese. The cheese with the camera says, "Saaay people!" Get it? Cheese? Camera? CHEESY TOURISTS!!! Am I only amusing myself here?

We show up at Riverside Market to meet the rest of the riders. We feel ridiculous. Wife wants to immediately bolt and go back home. Stupidly, I convince her that we are going to Do This. We meet Josh, who is hard to look at in neon pink and yellow, but he's a nice guy. A couple of other people introduce themselves to us, we approve of the Hawaiian shirts and black socks with sandals. The argyle socks with sandals are my favorite.

Starting out is fun. We cross the bridge over the river, and ride around over to the west side. Yay, fun. There's music, I'm not the only one dressed like a dork, riding is fun! And then we're going uphill. Up Mt. Washington. This was not part of the deal. I am dead last. I can no longer pedal without feeling like barfing. I am afraid I am going to puke, and fall off my bike into a pool of my own vomit. I get off and walk my bike. Cars drive by and I feel more pathetic by the second. In my faded-denim (so out of style!) shorts and socks with shoes that shouldn't be worn with socks. Walking my bike like a total wimp.

Of course we lost the rest of the group. C came back to get us and adjusted my bike seat. Which wasn't the point by then. I didn't want to die so much as cut my thighs off from the rest of my body. And throw up. We finally made it to the resting point, at the top of yet another hill. Someone commented that we should have warmed up for a ride like that. Really? No shit.

I did have some alcohol before we left but it was obviously metabolized on my hellish ride. I didn't feel it at all. And by that point, it was just too late. I was sober, exhausted and feeling very old. Remember that college party feeling I had the last time? Yeah, not so much anymore. I'm too fucking old for college parties.

I made it back down the hill because it was downhill. I made it almost to the Wife's house before I had to get off and walk again. So. Lame. I did not make it downtown with the rest of the group and I certainly wouldn't have made it to the top of the parking garage. I could barely walk down the front steps without feeling like my legs were going to give out. Fuck me.

Wife and I decided we must go again. We can't be "those really slow girls that never showed up again because they were obviously too wimpy and not cool enough to be here." But looking at the schedule, the next time that I can go is scheduled as lycra/spandex night. Somehow I don't see that happening.

Favorite Weekend of the Year

July 4th weekend is the Best Weekend of the Year. It's summer and it's all about food and drinking and hanging out. I was going to say that this was the most disappointing weekend, but then I reread last year's post. At any rate, here's the low-down for this year.

Friday -
What I did -
It really has to start with Friday night. Daytime is boring. I went to First Friday with the Wife. We meant to go see ESO, but missed them because they actually played at 6:00. Wtf? When does anything happen at 6:00 and when is a band ever on time? Off to Silver Moon we went where a cute boy said he "knew" me because I had spanked him at a birthday party. Only I didn't. Not that I wouldn't have, that just wasn't me. Later I wondered if he thought I was a stripper. Should I be horrified or take it as a compliment? That one is still up for debate.

I ate, I drank a beer, I walked The Pug home. The end.

What I ate -
A slice of pizza, gorgonzola cheesy fries.

What I drank -
Vodka and soda, a beer

Saturday -
What I did -
I spent the day in the sun and it was glorious. I finished a book, read magazines. The Wife came over to bbq and we watched The Bachelorette. It was mellow and cheesy and perfect.

What I ate -
Chicken nugget happy meal, grilled corn and artichokes, roasted garlic bread, artichoke dip.

What I drank -
Gallons of water, two bottles of champagne

Sunday -
What I did -
I got up early to go to the dog show in Redmond. This could have been awesome. I say could have been, because making out with strange dogs is one of my favorite activities. It's like a hobby. It's easy. You don't even have to introduce yourself and dogs just go for it. But show dogs and show dog people are a different breed. Like, literally. I own purebreds (well, at least one of them is) and I'm not good enough for this crowd. I'm like the riff-raff that got in through the hole in the screen. The only dog I made out with was an Afghan Hound. Not my favorite. My favorite was the fawn Frenchie with the cute little round butt.

I went shopping. I can't afford shopping at my current three-figure salary but I can't say no to shoes. Shoes and dogs. Good day so far.

I went to a friend's birthday bbq. I thought it was a birthday, but her birthday isn't until next month. So apparently the band was an early birthday present and an excuse to have a party. Fine. But bluegrass bands should not sing The Clash. That is just wrong. Just don't.

Bbq number two was next. I was pleasantly buzzed by this point. Also? The first thing anyone said when I walked in was, "Hey - I have some pills for you!" It wasn't what I hoped for, but a nice offer. Oh well.

Next we went to Riverside Market so the Wife could play with her boy toy. Some douche-puppet tried talking to me. He made sure to tell me that he had a girlfriend and wasn't hitting on me. He was offended when I shooed him away. Yes. As in, "Shoo fly, don't bother me." Buzz kill.

What I ate -
Gross Sonic breakfast (as much as I could stomach), chocolate goldfish, guacamole, chips, potato salad, chicken salad, hamburger, a bite of a rib, strawberry-rhubarb pie, half of a cookie.

What I drank -
Copious amounts of water, a Coke, vodka and Gatorade, watermelon mojito, a beer.

Monday -
What I did -
Oh, glorious 4th! You are here!
Going to the Pet Parade is one of my favorite things of the year. Watching cute little canines strut their stuff is just Happiness. Actually being in the parade is pure torture. I am not even kidding. Not one little bit. The wife had to be in it because of her job and, by default, that meant I had to be in it. Because I love her or some stupid shit like that. It was completely unorganized and I wanted a drink five minutes after putting Remy on his leash. Why did I not fill my bottle with vodka? Because I'm stupid. Because I thought of hydrating my fucking dog first. I'm a good dog mom or something lame like that. The parade was humiliating. And lasted forever. Remy loved it. It was like a butt parade for him. Yippy skippy.

The wife and I went to lunch because we badly needed a Bloody Mary. Badly. We went to Olive Garden and I know, it's commercial and horrible and whatever. I didn't care. It was quiet paradise after the fucking parade. And they had alcohol. And our waiter, Shane, was the cutest thing ever. He told us he has a duck and a goose and takes them floating. I really need to see this because I can't imagine it. Are they on a leash? Why wouldn't they just swim away? We loved him for this and because he gave us extra bread sticks with our leftovers.

It was time to float but when I got home, Ruby looked so cute sleeping on my bed that I had to lie next to her and then I fell asleep. Because I'm old like that. And because I hadn't slept for two nights. And because I'm just old. By the time we finally did float, it was just a comedy of errors. I forgot my float, it was late in the day and not very warm. Actually, I was freezing. My ass was in water the whole way and was frozen along with my thighs. Why was I in water? Because my fucking float died. The armrest was the only thing holding me afloat. I got out of the water and it was just limp. Limp is not my favorite way for anything to be.

The rest of the evening continued this way.

We went to the wife's ex-boyfriend's house. Mistake. Awkward. Worst of all, they had already eaten. We left after a polite, tortuous hour.

Went to 10 Barrel to meet some friends. Who were already drunk and I was disappointingly sober. Drastically sober. Loved on The Pug and promised to make dinner for my drunk friend. When a guy in a dress suggested a leather belt, I remarked that it was the second time in the weekend that someone had brought up spanking to me. He said, "Oh, sure, if you want to be spanked. But I was talking about choking." Holy fuck, seriously? How do these things even happen to me?

It was after nine and we were hungry and still hadn't figured out where to watch fireworks from. I wanted a french dip so we went to Deschutes. Which no longer has french dips, what?? Luckily, we had our second awesome waiter of the day, Moshe (?). He said the beef brisket just makes him happy so we got that and we were happy too. Especially when my first bite was the most perfect, juicy piece of fat I have ever had. The fireworks started so we asked for to-go cups for our beer. Because that should totally be a thing, right? Awesome Waiter said no, but he would watch our beers while we went outside. So yeah, we watched the fireworks on the street with cars driving by. At least the beers were safe. He even covered them so "we wouldn't be roofied. By him."

What I ate -
Bad pastries, portobello ravioli, salad, breadsticks, alfredo sauce, an olive, beef brisket sandwich, salad number two.

What I drank -
Vodka (before it was ruined by nasty river water), two beers, a glass of water.

In summary, I didn't drink nearly enough and I'm not sure why. But I think I laughed enough to make up for it and I made out with the sun, if not dogs.

Until next year....

Loving My Life

I woke up this morning to sunshine and warm summer weather and the realization that this is my favorite weekend of the year. I said that if I had any money I would totally love my life. The famous (and obviously wise) ML told me to "Love it anyway". So I will.

Here are the things I love about my life. Not in order (so my kid can't take anything personally.)

I have choices. Even when it doesn't seem like it.
I eat ice cream for dinner whenever I want. Or cheese and crackers. Or vodka.
My friends love me and let me be me and don't judge, even when I think they should.
My daughter feels comfortable enough and trusts me enough to tell me things I don't always want to hear.
I live with puppies.
I can order my pizza without meat.
Making mistakes isn't as scary as it used to be.
Booze exists, is delicious, legal and I'm not allergic to it.
I'm a food whore and will therefore never die of anorexia.
I know that knowing what I want isn't wrong.
My kid is really awesome when she's not annoying me.
I can be alone or with a girlfriend or a room full of people and I'm okay with all of it. Most of the time.
My sadness is temporary.
I can keep the covers to myself.
I can let the dogs on the couch or on the bed because it's all mine.
Laughter is usually just a text away.
I'm still surprised. Often.

And now I'm going to go continue loving my life in the sunshine. Cheers!

The Consequences of Safe Sex

Last week when Birth Control was here he drooled on himself, me, my couch, my dogs and basically any other surface he was standing near. He wet through his diaper and got pee on me. His hands were always sticky and I wiped a booger off of his face and changed his poopy diaper. I was starting to think that my dogs are super clean in comparison.

The other day I was sitting outside and noticed Ruby scooting her butt across the grass. I thought it was weird, because dogs usually save this nasty habit for carpet. When she turned around, I saw the reason for the butt-scoot. There was a condom hanging from her butt. Yes. My dog pooped out a condom. Only not completely. She needed help and guess who got that lovely job? Yep, I got to pull a condom out of my dog's butt. Gross.

I would like to think that this would be a lesson in not eating my bathroom garbage, but I know it won't stop her. Both of my dogs think my bathroom garbage is a treasure trove of treats. They're gross.

The damn thing is that I'm pretty sure there were two condoms in there that day. So I'm kinda waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Gross.

How Birth Control Works

I know, he's only been here two hours but BC has totally earned his name. I have thought of at least a dozen reasons how his name fits him.

1. He has to be followed around constantly. You could maybe make out for about five seconds at a time before being interrupted.

2. You spend too much time cleaning up after him to have time to have sex. There are only so many hours in a day.

3. If there is time leftover, you're too exhausted after cleaning up and chasing all day.

4. There is the obvious fact that you don't want two of these things walking around the house wreaking havoc. You think he is cute until you see the weight of his bagel in crumbs all over the table.

5. It's hard to have sex with a tantrum going on in the background. Not exactly mood music.

6. "No" becomes an automatic, unrehearsed response.

7. Having pee on your shirt doesn't work as a pheromone.

8. There's no time to shave your legs or put on makeup.

9. There's no time left over after consoling the dogs and apologizing to them for the tornado you've let into their home that they don't understand.

10. If you turn your back for a second he might stab someone or burn the house down. It's hard to relax under those circumstances.

11. There's enough frustration throughout the day without having to worry about being sexually frustrated. And there's no point in starting something you can't really finish.

12. There's no watching porn to get in the mood because you always have the t.v. on something stupid like Wonderpets or fucking Spongebob on the off-chance that BC will get interested in it and sit down for five precious minutes. There is no bigger cockblocker than fucking Spongebob. (Spell check has a problem with both Spongebob and cockblocker. We have so much in common.)

Adventures In Babysitting

Yeah, so I thought helping my friend out with her daycare emergency was brilliant. She would get an excellent provider (me) and I would get a little cash and some free child labor.

After the first hour this kid had a nickname: Birth Control. He was into everything. And I mean everything. I didn't realize how non-child-proof my house is. I have more breakables than I thought and all well within his reach. D was never like this so maybe I'm just not used to boys. Or I'm just old and amnesic. Really though, she was pretty calm.

In no time at all, BC had colored on my wine fridge, knocked a lamp off a table, expanded the hole in my screen door and picked up a knife. And totally freaked out my dog. Poor Ruby just couldn't make sense of him. She barked and barked and barked until I finally slapped her on the butt, which just completely broke her heart. I'm sure she thought she was defending me from some mutant-sized person and doing a really good job that I just didn't appreciate. Remy, on the other hand, wanted to lick the poor child to death.

We went to pick up D so I could take a shower and when I said "go bye-bye" he started packing up all his toys, including my styrofoam pumpkin that he fell in love with. I finally convinced him we'd be back so he grabbed his blanket, stuffed penguin and toy train. Which is not just a train, but a "railroad" train.

Stupidly, I had promised D we could go shopping to spend her birthday money. He loved hiding under the racks of clothes and laying on the floor. Basically all of the things I never let my own kid do but, you know, what the hell. Hanging a tiny bustier around his neck and donning a floppy hat was super cute. Twirling in circles was cute. Knocking shoes off of the display wall and trying to climb the shelves was not. He enjoyed his raucous freedom and did not want to be held, which was just too bad. So sad. I think I made the point of saying, to nobody in particular, that this was not my child.

BC finished off his cuteness for the day by throwing an hour-long fit because I gave him water and not juice. Because I'm super mean like that.

My arm is sore from lugging him around but yesterday's headache is gone, so am I ready to do it again today? You betcha. Apparently Ruby is his favorite dog. Yeah, he knows how to endear himself to me. Typical male already.

What I Did Last Week

Last week wasn't a totally normal week, even by the standards of my abnormal life.

Sunday D and I got tickets to the rodeo. Rodeos are surprisingly awesome. I usually say no to cowboys but rodeos make me want to say yes. The only bummer was that there was a disappointing number of outfits to make fun of.

D's birthday party was Tuesday. There's not much else to say on that other than this party kicked last year's party's ass.

Thursday I did a video shoot for a friend, something I hadn't done before. I was called "talent", which cracked me up the whole time. By the end, I was feeling a little loopy and if this video had a bloopers reel, most of them would be of me. I also made the mistake of watching the last shot of myself. Cringe-inducing, totally.

Friday was my trip with Gadabout Adventures to see Cirque du Soleil in Portland. I volunteered as hostess to serve the old peeps snacks and entertain them with bingo. Cirque is one of the great loves of my life. It's inspiring and incredible and beautiful. What is it about real beauty that makes me want to be a better person? As for the old people, I was so cute and charming that even the crustiest birds warmed up to me. It was an excellent day.

A friend of mine had a crisis with her daycare last week so I offered to be her daycare. She needed the help and I need the money. Plus new blog material. I also want to teach the kids to pull my weeds and mix my drinks. I am going to be the best daycare provider ever. I just need to keep him away from the redneck retarded inbreds next door.

How the Farmer's Market Is Going to Make Me Fat

Yesterday the wife and I went to the farmer's market. I had a total craving for grilled veggies. Nothing fancy either, I went for corn, asparagus, artichokes and tomatoes. Too early for corn? Too late for asparagus? The artichokes were tiny and there were no tomatoes. Strike out.

Wifey won a gift card to 5 Fusion, so guess where we went? We ordered booze and fried food. Fried shrimp, fried mushrooms, fried crab cakes, fried fritters. And then we went to Powell's and got gelatto and candy.

Thanks, farmer's market. This better not be the pattern for the summer.

A Birthday Party Experiment

Tomorrow D is 15 and tonight she's having her birthday party. Last year was traumatic, unnecessarily so. I tried to mitigate some of the drama this year by shortening the time and the number of girls invited.

I am either a genius or there is a big difference between 14 and 15. I choose to think I'm a super genius. So far, anyway.

This is my experiment - I plan on live-blogging this party. Which won't be live by the time I finally publish it, but it will be as it happens. Except for what I have to get you caught up on so far, an hour and 20 minutes into the evening. And if it makes less sense as it goes on, it might be the craziness of being in a house full of teenage estrogen, but it also might be because I'm hanging out with my friend Vodka.

Here goes.

6:23 p.m. So far - I have overheard, "This sounds like 50's porn." Awesomeness right off the bat.

The girls went outside to lie on the sidewalk. I love this because I despise my neighbors. They are the biggest, fattest, stupidest rednecks ever. I have listened to them beat their kids. It's gross. But I don't feel sorry for the kids because they're fucking annoying. I would beat them if it were legal. It should be. Anyway, the girls lying on the sidewalk has completely fucked with the little neighbor brat. He was riding his bike on the sidewalk and now he's totally frustrated, trying to ride his bike on my grass. That part is irritating, but I'm hoping he'll lose his balance and fall in the road. The girls are ignoring him, of course. That's what they're best at this age. They should be, they practice on ignoring us parents constantly.

While I was typing this, a girl showed up who reminded me of a gazelle. I only say that because I hear that gazelles have long legs. No way. This girl's legs are endless. I have never seen legs this long. At this point I'm glad there is no male presence in my house. My staring was perverse enough.

6:35 p.m. O.M.G. This is the best party ever. The girls just came in to tell me the neighbor brat girl thought that one of them was Hannah Montana and asked for her autograph. I told you they're stupid. The teenager's mistake was not signing a fake autograph and continuing the joke. That would have made my whole year.

A mom dropped her kid off who called me earlier today. I think she was trying to make sure that I would be here, without asking directly; she asked to meet me when she showed up. Good parenting. Even if she did leave her daughter in the care of a lush. At least she can rest assured that her daughter won't be drinking.

7:11. p.m. They're playing hide-and-seek. At 15. I guess I don't have to worry about her growing up too quickly.

8:26 p.m. They are eating dinner and watching Ratatouille. Quietly. I might love 15.

8:28 p.m. OMG. They say thank you. For vegetables!!!

8:36 p.m. The vegan ate pasta. And bread. Score!!

8:53 p.m. No pictures of her opening presents because my camera battery was dead. Of course.

9:55 p.m. She just played guitar and sang with her friend. I might have cried. Maybe. Her friend called out, "Sing it out! Sparkle, baby!"

10:01 p.m. They're decorating their cupcakes. While singing "America the Beautiful". This should be interesting.
10:21 p.m. I'm now hiding in my room but I can hear them singing "Bugle Boy" in the kitchen. Karaoke must be next.

I'm signing off now. It wasn't as funny as I thought it would be but nobody cried so it's a win. I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and be grateful for my bugabooga, her talents and the difference a year makes.

As they sing "Dancing Cheek to Cheek"...

Four Months

Yesterday marked four months of being unemployed. Not exactly the kind of anniversary that I dreamed about as a kid. Or six months ago. It's getting harder. This week, which came with two rejection notices, sucked a little more.

I tried to roll with it for a couple of months. Play it cool. Not panic. But I'm starting to panic. The calls aren't coming and neither is the money. The jobs just aren't here.

Here's the rub - I'm not a superstar at what I do. I'm good, but not a star. So when I apply for jobs out-of-state, there's no incentive for a company to choose me over someone local. I'm sure there are plenty of locals already looking anyway. I'm not fishing in a small pond. The other side is that I'm overqualified for the jobs that will get me by for a while. Of course I'd keep looking in the meantime and not marry a job I don't want long-term. Employers know this. Again, there are plenty of people applying for those jobs, so there's no reason to risk a short-timer like me.

I feel like everything is telling me to move, my time here is over. My family isn't here, the jobs aren't here, the Relationship isn't knocking on my door and the winters are slowly killing me and driving me insane in the process. So, Universe, I get it. I'm open to change, I'll completely and wholeheartedly embrace it. I just need a little help getting from point A to point B.

I can read a map. I just need someone to give me one.

Silver and Gold

Remember that song about friends? "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold"? I don't know why I know this song. It's in the recesses of my mind from elementary school. Somehow, it's true. Even if I'm not particularly crazy about silver or gold. Maybe it could be changed to diamonds and emeralds. Or sapphires. Or whatever is matching my outfit for the day.

Anyway, I had the total silver and gold experience this weekend. M is still a fairly new friend, but I adore her. My favorite emails and relationship advice come from her. She passed on some excellent advice to C last night. We were at a wedding, but I was more interested in the marriage of my friendships than the husband/wife/betrothal thing that was going on.

Last night two of my friends from high school were in town. E I saw briefly in college, K I haven't seen since we graduated. It amazed me how much she remembered about me from way back, over 20 years ago. Both of them sounded the same and looked the same. We've all had a thousand experiences between then and now, but we're still Us. Most importantly, we're still friends.

I spent today with J. We saw a movie that reminded us a little too uncomfortably of ourselves. If I had to be that sad with anyone, I'm glad it was J. It's only been a couple of years, but I can be my worst self with her and she accepts me. I don't want to be my worst self, but sometimes I need to be and she's okay with it. She's also the funniest person I know and makes me laugh more than almost anyone. On days like today, that means a lot.

Silver and gold. Diamonds and pearls. Hell, even cubic zirconia has a place in my box of friends. I love them all and I will keep them all. They only become more valuable as time goes by.

Starstruck

Sunday I was in San Diego and went to a Padres game. Fun, but not overly exciting in itself and not what I really want to talk about. It's really all about the guy sitting two seats in front of me.

When he first sat down I said, "Hey, that guy looks like James Franco." The only thing not convincing me were the several gray hairs sprinkled around his head. I thought for sure that a celebrity would cover their gray hair better than that. I'm obsessed with pulling out any that I find and I'm only seen by a handful of people a day, not routinely chased down by paparazzi.

He got up for a bit and the girl he was with was gorgeous (I don't know who she was and don't really care) so that tipped the scale towards it actually being him. And then he smiled. It was, without a doubt, a James Franco smile. And yes, ladies, he is just as hot in person and has a pretty nice body. I should know because I spent the next hour and a half staring at him. From two seats away. Two seats people!!

Yup. My claim to fame and the highlight of my day. Commence jealousy now.

That's Not a Paper Cut

Are any of you old enough to remember the movie Saturday the 14th? It was like one of the original horror spoofs and I thought it was really, really funny. Of course I was like 11 and I think I saw it in a double feature (who remembers those, huh?) after a truly scary movie.

Anyway, I was only thinking about that because as far as Friday the 13ths go, mine was pretty uneventful. Thursday the 12th, now that's a different story.

My book club's reading of Watchmen turned into a Watchmen movie party, which started with an ice cream bar which then added a sandwich bar. We're just a little food-obsessed. Fiona and I made fresh bread. Of course.

MG has some very sharp knives. I have very dull knives. So I was excited to play with his. For about 45 seconds. I got halfway through slicing the first loaf when the shiny, sharp knife slipped off the end of the loaf onto my finger. MG saw it happen and asked if I was okay. I didn't even feel it and my knives leave paper cuts on me, so I was sure that I was okay. But when I looked at it, it was actually pretty deep and I was really not okay. I asked for a band aid and ran it under water. Under water, it looked like a paper cut. But when I took it out to examine it, I saw how deep it really was. I saw white. As in, I saw my fucking BONE! I had to sit down immediately before I passed out. After laughing hysterically so I wouldn't cry.

MC wanted to give me stitches. She's an English teacher, not a doctor. She then tried to convince me to let her crazy glue it. Silly me, I turned down that generous offer too. I was happy with my wine and band aid.

It was two days before I got up the nerve to look at it again. I could only imagine the worst, that it wouldn't have closed up properly and would be a cavernous mess requiring a trip to the ER that I currently can't afford. I wanted a couple of shots of whiskey first. I peeled back my little band aid painstakingly slowly to find a very nicely closed-up little cut. A little bloody, but closed.

Off I went to the store to get myself some more band aids. Mickey Mouse, thank you. I cleaned up my cut and that's when I discovered that part of my finger is quite numb and noticed the jagged shape of the cut. It was a serrated knife.

I'm hoping that the numbness will go away and I haven't done any permanent damage. In the meantime, I've got D doing all the dishes, which doesn't overjoy her as much as it does me. MC is still a little pouty that I wouldn't let her stick a needle in me, but who needs needles when you've got Mickey Mouse? Yeah, I'm a bad ass like that.

Dancing for Jackson

Last night I went to the Mr. Thunder Pageant with D at her high school. This is not like the Thunder Down Under, which would be very wrong since there were teenage boys involved. It wasn't dirty or sexy, but it was silly, goofy and, at times, touching.

There were 12 senior boys participating in the pageant with the purpose of raising money for Jackson, this year's Sparrow Club beneficiary (more on Jackson later). The evening's entertainment consisted of typical "beauty contest" events - sportswear, talent and formal attire with interview. Only with a twist, because these are teenage boys we are talking about. Sportswear meant putting on the uniform for whatever sport they compete in. For one boy this meant a fluffy, pink polka-dotted robe that revealed a neon pink leopard-print speedo underneath. My retinas pretty much have that image burned into them. It's not pretty.

The talent portion meant anything from a fake display of Guitar Hero skill (played to a YouTube video) to a Justin Bieber impersonation to a father/son duet to a stand-up comedian (who was really funny - just deadpanned it perfectly) to a self-choreographed dance. My favorite was the one-man band. This kid rocked. He played piano, bass guitar, acoustic guitar, drums, trumpet and French horn to a piece he composed himself. It was beautiful.

The teenage girls who emceed the event put together a wake-up video of each of the boys. They woke the contestants up at 5 a.m. and asked them questions like "What kind of mythical creature would you like to be?" and "If you were on a deserted island, which contestant would you eat first?" These were grumpy faces only a mother could love, grunting and hiding under their sheets. My favorite answer to the mythical creature question came from the single gay contestant. "I'd be a fairy because I'm already halfway there."

The funniest answer during the interviews was in response to the question, "What is beauty to you?" This was a boy after my own heart - "It would be really beautiful if everyone in the world stopped wearing crocs." The most touching answer came from the gay student. He claimed that his twin sister is his hero because she has been through it "all" with him. For a teen, this seems flippant. What hardships have these mostly-privileged teens faced in their young lives? But he was very open and candid talking about coming out and how his sister has always accepted and supported him. It was a moment of bravery.

However, the tears came for me in the beginning of the show. Each boy was introduced with a video of pictures from infancy through today and these were accompanied by blurbs about them that their parents wrote. I saw them as silly, goofy, show-off kids. Which they are. But their parents saw them as loving, kind, compassionate, generous people, young men that they are proud of and that they love. Which they also are. So I sat there and tried my best to wipe my eyes discreetly, because I was surrounded by a bunch of other teenagers who might not have been so nice. They can smell fear, you know.

And now the real reason that we were all there. For Jackson. Jackson is a little boy who just turned one. In his tiny little life he has had to endure six surgeries and over 80 days in the hospital. He has a condition I can't pronounce or remember but it prohibits his body from absorbing nutrients. He is on IV nutrition for 16 hours a day, which puts him at constant risk of infection. Jackson was present last night with his parents, his mom carrying his backpack of fluids, tubes connected to his belly. He's adorable. He's a perfect baby who doesn't deserve the restrictions his body has placed on him. His mom said it's easy to forget how sick he is because he is always so happy. But he is sick. He's very sick.

At the end of the evening, shortly before the Mr. Thunder winner was revealed, it was announced that as of last night, $41,000 has been raised to help Jackson and his family with their ongoing medical costs and care. Times are still tough for a lot of people, which makes this amount so significant.

I was talking to a friend about the pageant and fundraising efforts. She's a teacher and this wasn't her first time at the rodeo. She, rightfully, has a certain cynicism towards the whole thing. I get that. Kids do act dumb, some might not have really taken it seriously. But there's no denying that they did a Good Thing. I'm okay with teenagers making fools of themselves if this is the result. I know why their parents are proud of them. I would be too.

I'm sure Jackson's family would be more than willing to accept ongoing donations, but I couldn't find any contact information to give you. I suggest calling Summit High School as someone there is bound to be able to help you if you want to help Jackson.

Wedding Bliss

Thirty years ago I was fascinated by a wedding and a princess. Charles and Diana's nuptials were the most romantic event in my young life. I ate up everything I could about their courtship. I went camping at the beach with my best friend and her family and we convinced her parents to let us watch the TV movie that reenacted their romance while eating s'mores. Miraculously there was a TV in the tent and we swooned and giggled with mouthfuls of marshmallows.

Mostly, though, I was in love with Diana. Charles was the prince, but he was comparatively old, and to be honest, a doofus. She was beautiful; she glowed. I wanted my hair cut like hers. I desperately wanted a copy of that red sweater she wore with the single black sheep. I even loved her nickname, Shy Di, because I was painfully shy at that age. She made shyness exquisitely charming.

My parents couldn't have been less interested in the royal wedding, but thankfully tolerated my infatuation. The only time I was ever allowed to watch television in their bedroom was to view the wedding as it was broadcast live. I was alone, but it was my own Cinderella moment. It was like a dream, a real-life fairy tale. I had never witnessed anything so enchanting - the yards and yards of her gown as she floated down the aisle, the grandeur of the ceremony, the couple waving at the cheering crowds of onlookers from the carriage that whisked them away from the church, that awkward kiss on the palace balcony.

We didn't yet know how devastatingly unhappily this marriage would end. The truths that were revealed were ugly and sad, but they never tarnished my love for Diana. When she died, I cried for a week. I watched her funeral and my heart broke seeing her two young sons following the casket, topped with white flowers and a card simply labeled, "Mummy".

And now her oldest son is getting married. "Wills" is the future king of England with his mother's smile. Will I be watching this wedding? Oh, will I!!!

I have scoured the internet for details of this wedding to Kate ever since their engagement was announced. I watched the engagement interview, carefully noting how they look at each other, how he talks about her respectfully and with love. I want this marriage to last. I don't know why it matters to me, it just does. It's as if Diana's love for her son should live on in his happiness, that her early influence will have taught him how to love someone in a way that she wasn't.

What will really matter in less than two weeks now is the glamorous celebration that will take place at 4 a.m. my time and yes, I will be awake. JW invited me to watch it with her. We contemplated a party and I wanted to send out invitations if only to get the "Hell NO! Are you crazy?" responses. But she thought people might decide to start showing up around 8 a.m. and that just isn't right. Only those awake from the beginning get to enjoy the champagne. I may be drunk by 6, but I will have earned it.

Here's the best part. We will be wearing pajamas after deciding to forgo the fancy hats and dresses. However, I will be wearing my veil and JW has created the most delicious pink taffeta-tiara confection. The menu has been planned to honor the bride and groom - tea sandwiches with cucumbers and smoked salmon, scones, eggs, pastry-wrapped sausages, tea and champagne. It will be the second-best thing to being at the actual wedding.

I'm pretty sure that even though Diana won't be there, she will be watching.
Cheers!

Daddy's Little Girl

My dad and I have always had a complicated relationship. Or maybe I only have a complicated relationship with him. Different animals.

My parents divorced when I was four. I don't remember them ever being happy. As soon as we walked in the door at the end of the day, they were at each other's throats. I would sit quietly on the steps outside the kitchen and wait for my dinner.

The custody battle was long and ugly. I knew how much each parent hated the other. I felt responsible for their feelings and learned how to protect them, answering questions based on who was asking at the time. Secretly, I always wanted to live with my mom but he was given custody first. Most of my return visits were tense to say the least.

After my mom remarried and moved from our home in Texas to California, she continued to fight for me and was finally granted custody. I was six, halfway through first grade.

I saw my dad for the last time when I turned seven. He made the drive to California to pick me up for a summer vacation. I don't even remember where we went. Camping. Somewhere. I didn't know when he took me back home that it was the last time. I was just happy to be sleeping in my own bed again.

Then the phone calls stopped. No more birthday cards, no Christmas gifts. There was never any child support. I'm sure Mom was relieved. Since I don't remember having my own feelings, I can only assume I replicated her relief. Dad became my "sperm-donor" at some point because I had a new dad. Life went on in California.

When I was 24, living in Oregon and married, we found out he was looking for me. He had hired a private detective, some stupid woman who called Mom's house on a regular basis claiming to be a college friend of mine. The last straw was my dad showing up at my grandparent's house unannounced and wanting to show them every picture of me he had, oblivious to the fact that his presence was desperately unwanted.

I finally called him. I wasn't so nervous as angry. Angry that he had taken so long. That he had done it this way. I was also fiercely protective of my family. My grandparents were being dragged into the drama and my mom was beside herself with anger. Livid with hatred.

That was the first call, it ended up not being the last. He asked to see me; I hesitated for months and then acquiesced. Out of curiosity? I'm not sure. That first visit was horribly uncomfortable. He was like a stranger, but a stranger that I knew. Mostly I felt like he didn't know me, he could only think of me as the seven-year-old he saw last.

It's been like that ever since. I've been angry with him for being gone. Or coming back. They're sort of mixed up together. I sent a few hostile letters at first. I didn't know if I even wanted to keep him in my life, let alone how to fit him in. He clearly wanted to be a daddy and I was past that point and had been for a long time. I needed a daddy when it was Christmas, when I got braces, learned to drive, went to prom, graduated from high school and then college. I needed my daddy to give me away at my wedding. My dad was there, but not my daddy.

When my daughter was born I felt obligated to allow him into my life. I wasn't just making decisions for myself anymore. I felt she had a right to know who her grandfather is and form her own decisions about her feelings. Of course I forgot that she takes her cue from me and won't love him on her own. She is the second generation now that won't love someone without the permission to do so.

People have said, "At least he tries." "At least he is here now." Parent/child relationships don't work that way. Seventeen years is a length of time that "at least" doesn't cover. It's not superficial, not a surface feeling. I was a child. As a parent, I would never turn my back on my daughter. Ever. It isn't even physically possible for me. He has his reasons, his excuses, whatever he tells himself so he can sleep at night. But how does the eight-year-old child understand why her father is gone? Did he stop loving her? Was he tired of her? Does he love other kids now? Is he even still alive?

He has now been back for almost as long as he was gone. He won't let me push him away. He's the first person to offer help when I need it. Even I can't ignore that anymore. He's remarried and I adore my stepmom, even though I rejected her at first too. She helps to bridge a lot of the weirdness between us. She's a buffer and I think she knows it and doesn't mind in the least. I finally call them "my parents" and it doesn't feel strained. A year ago I absolutely refused to go visit him; this year I happily accepted his invitation.

What changed? I've lost a lot of my family. There is too much distance between most of us, both physical and emotional. I've lost important relationships that I never wanted to give up. I suppose I'm just taking family where I can get it these days. He genuinely wants to be a part of my life and it just gets harder to try to turn that down. It doesn't show up every day.

At my last book club, I was asked what connects me to my dad. My first answer was "guilt". Because for a long time it was. I didn't want to have regrets later. I didn't want to be the reason I didn't have a dad. Also, selfishly, it let me off the hook so that I could continue blaming him, I could have a scapegoat. I could be self-righteous and absolved when he left again because I did my part.

It might be more than that now. And maybe it's just time. Finally.

Nine Weeks

That is nine weeks as in nine weeks of unemployed boredom. Not 9 1/2 weeks of tantalizing, honey-covered sex. Guess which one I'd rather have?

I realize it's been a while since I've given an update on my thrilling life of No Job, but really, there's no point. Aside from my little jaunt to Vegas, every week is the same. I sleep in, I complain about the weather, think a lot about eating, play online, drive the kid around and wait by the phone. Or email, as it seems to be in the technical world.

This week was only slightly different because this will be my first month being solely dependent on my unemployment "benefits". The severance was used last month to get caught up on bills so now I will feel the full weight of not having a regular paycheck. I woke up in a panic attack the other morning when I realized this. I have trouble breathing if I think about it for very long, so I try not to think about it.

I switched to a more affordable form of my antidepressant. Generic Celexa is not my beloved Lexapro. I feel like I'm on nothing at all. Hence the panic attacks, the crying myself to sleep at night and lacking the energy to clean my house. Forget about working out. Excuses come easily in a depressed state.

Here's the real news. It's time for a change. A big one. I'm in a rut, I'm tired of complaining and waiting for things to happen to me. Time to make things happen for me. I've started applying for jobs out of state, in warmer states. It seems like an impossible task; there is a lot to coordinate with D and her activities and goals and well-being. But I think it's time. My family isn't here, my relationship ended, the job is gone. If the universe is trying to send me a message, I also expect it to cooperate with my efforts.

Austin is at the top of my list. Is it crazy to move somewhere I've never been before? Does it count that I lived in Dallas until I was six? I've been doing my research. It's a top 10 city in the country for dogs and dating. Hopefully the two aren't related. There are numerous ballet schools plus one really great academy. Music, food, art, warmth, Life. There are even celebrity bats, what's not to like? The only negative attribute I ever hear is that it can be hot and humid. Are you kidding me? I'd willingly trade a couple of months of scorching mugginess over nine months of cold, gray, rainy, snowy oppressive skies.

Wish me luck. Or better yet, find me a job and pay for my move. I'll invite you to my housewarming party. Come on, it's a fair trade.

Okay. You're caught up. I did something productive today. Go back to your breakfasts and coffee. I'm going to go back to teaching the dog to play hide and seek.

Church, Naked Midgets and Oysters

For my seventh week of unemployment, I decided to go to Las Vegas. D had spring break, the weather here was shit as usual for Central Oregon spring and my dad sprung for the plane tickets. Yep, Dad lives in Vegas so we also had a free place to stay and a chauffeur.

My dad and step mom don't drink or gamble so I knew this wasn't going to be my regular idea of Vegas fun, but I wasn't prepared for our first evening's activity. When they told us we were going to church, I balked. Church? In Vegas? I hadn't been to church with my dad since I was probably six and I don't remember the last time I've been since I've lived here. Huh. Well, when in Rome, right?

The church wasn't much to look at on the outside and wasn't located in the fancy part of town. The inside, though, had its own tiny charm. Best of all? Real pews! I haven't seen real, wooden pews in years.

The people were the real surprise. They had all heard of me; it was like I was a celebrity. I shook more hands than I could count and everyone was so warm and welcoming and friendly. My dad would start to introduce me and they'd say "yes, of course!" I was taken aback when one very sweet old man named Claude said he's been praying for me and it was nice to put a face with the prayer. Apparently they were all aware of my unemployment situation and I was unknowingly a part of their regular prayer requests. It was oddly comforting.

The sermon was simple, and appropriately fitting for me at the time. The pastor talked about anticipation and expectations and being open to more positivity and joy. It was just what I needed to hear.

As we left, my dad introduced me to more people, including a man named Napoleon and a Mr. Berry, both black men, one of which he goes fishing with. This was what touched me the most, how close he was to each person, no matter what color they were. This is a man who called my step dad the "n-word" when I was a small child just because his hair was curly. But I wasn't seeing the same person now. He was so accepting and open with everyone and told me that these people are his family. And he meant it.

I went to bed that night feeling like I had been exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment. I fell asleep feeling Gratitude.

The next two days were spent on the strip. I hadn't told D much about what it was like so that she'd be surprised. She's so my child. She loved the casinos - the lights, the sounds, the smells (minus the cigarette smoke). We shopped, we ate, we walked miles and miles until I thought my feet would fall off. We took picture after picture of everything, even the lion that peed. As it peed.

I think the part that amused her the most was anything to do with sex. And there is plenty of that in Vegas. She giggled at Hooters, snickered at Planet Hollywood's Peepshow, took a photograph of a sign that said "Even our condiments are sexy". She even began to imitate the countless peddlers on the street handing out their "porn". The real highlight was when one of them asked my dad and step mom, "Hey, you guys into naked midgets?" It was probably cruel to laugh, but I couldn't help it. I finally accepted some of the "porn cards" so that we can add them to a scrapbook.

Our last day we went to Hoover Dam. D was not pleased. She was bored out of her skull and didn't even hide it well. "I don't want to see stupid sights, I want to see a mall." Grampa made up for it by taking her to a mall and buying her shoes. Spoiled much?

At dinner that night I met my stepsister. It's so weird to say that. I didn't even have a step mom for most of my life and now I find out I have a stepsister! And she's cool! And she lives in Hawaii!! I think we are going to be bff's.

Leaving was hard. I knew that I was going to come back to cold and snow. In the car on the way home there was a commercial for laser bowling. D scoffed, saying, "That's what Bend has to offer? Bowling?" Yeah, coming back to reality was a hard landing.

Except that night there was a send-off party for those of us that were laid off with former co-workers. I expected a handful of the usual regulars but there were at least 20 people there. My friends. And my friends had missed me.

The next night some girlfriends and I went out for oysters and champagne. This was certainly not in my budget but it was worth every delicious, decadent bite and every moment of laughter and conversation. For the second time in a week, I was just where I needed to be.

I gained a lot this week. New family, deeper friendships and priceless time with my bugabooga. Hey, if this is what unemployment is like, I'll take it.

Open Letter to the Jerk in the White Car

Dear Fuckpuppet,

Remember me? We met shortly after 6:00 last Friday night? You know, the roundabout by Ray's and Safeway. I was in the car in front of you that you rear-ended. Oh, that's right. We didn't actually meet. Why not? Because you. drove. off. Like an asshole. Seriously. Who rear-ends someone and then just drives away? Dude, I hit a Porsche and stopped to make sure I didn't do any damage. Then again, I don't have shitty karma now. Not like you do.

I would like to thank you. But it's only a tiny little thank you. Because of you, I had the best massage of my life this week. It almost makes up for the headaches and stiff neck and back that I've had all week. Or the calls I've had to make to my insurance company because this really should be coming out of your insurance. If you have any.

Yeah, good luck with that karma thing.

Insincerely,
Good Karma Seeker

Concrete is Really Hard. Who Knew?

My friend ML invited me to her gym this morning. Despite the early time (9:00 is early for the unemployed), I accepted her invitation. I wasn't so gung-ho when the alarm went off, but I told myself I'd be glad I went. Yeah, right. I should know better than to listen to myself.

When I showed up with my bottle of water, ML remarked how smart I am. Umm... okay. She suggested I warm up on the treadmill because once the class starts, they "hit it hard."

Except at first it wasn't. Jog up and down the gym, woo hoo. Then run sideways. Oh, look at me! Look how fast and energetic I am! Oh no, don't look at me falling! Yes, I tripped over my own feet and fell on my knee. On the concrete floor. Audibly. Because I'm clumsy. I get asked how I can walk in four-inch heels. It's easy people, I'm walking. Walking is the key word here, not running in odd foot patterns.

It hurt. I've got a nice bruised scrape. It hurt for the rest of the workout. The rest of the workout hurt. I thought I would either pass out or throw up. Or puke while passed out, that would be super pretty.

I don't think I'll be mobile at all tomorrow. If it's not my knee, it will be my butt. Or my abs. Or maybe my back. I'm not sure what got the most abuse, as it was more of an all-over hurt while it was happening.

ML is crazy. She does this four times a week and is about 20 years older than me. She was my role model before, now she is my freaking hero.

Even if I'm cursing her tomorrow. Her and the concrete. And the inventor of concrete.

Jobless Loser Week 4

Alright, so the week isn't over quite yet, but I'm going to go ahead and call it. I was productive enough to start my weekend now.

I had an interview Monday morning. It was a phone interview so I wore my pajamas. The downside to wearing your pajamas? It feels like you're wearing your pajamas. They lulled me into a false sense of security and when I actually started answering questions, I felt too fuzzy-headed to speak intelligently. I've spent the rest of the week second-guessing every sentence. Damn it.

Wednesday was another interview with a different company. I promised not to blog about them, but I will say that it was my second coffee interview. At first I thought it was kinda weird, having an interview in public with beverages, but I think I've decided I like it. You know some research person came up with the idea and then recommended it to the human resources world. Neutral turf, casual atmosphere, puts people at ease. Come to think of it, it was probably a Starbucks employee and they got paid a gazillion dollars for being so brilliant. I need to come up with an idea like that. If I was a gazillionaire (Really, spell check? Gazillion is a word but gazillionaire isn't?), I wouldn't have to go on any more interviews. At coffee or in my pajamas.

Oh, how about the martini interview? Of course most people would blow that one. Not everyone gets more charming after a martini or two. Most people just turn into idiots. But then that would eliminate the candidates pretty quickly too. Separate the idiots from the talent! I totally need to copyright this idea...

The rest of the week was fairly uneventful. Most of it. I did have this odd little nighttime quirk that freaked me out. You know how in the horror movies the protagonist gets woken up at the same time every night? Or there's a door that opens at the same time every night? Because that's the time that somebody died and the ghost comes back to do all the creepy stuff that happens forever after that? Yeah, my week was like that. Four nights in a row I woke up at 4 a.m. 4:00 on the dot. Seriously, last night I was going through my e-mail and Facebook to see if a relative had died and I missed it. And then I tried to stay up later to see if I could make myself super tired so I'd sleep through it. When I woke up at 3:38 I was ecstatic! Ha! I beat you, creepy-unknown-thing-that-keeps-waking-me-up-for-no-reason-at-all!! Of course now I'm thinking that I still woke up, within half an hour of 4 a.m., so the creepy, unknown thing is probably just fucking with me now. Great.

Yeah. 40, single, unemployed and haunted. I am living the dream.

Week 3

First, I must report there were no meltdowns this week. There were, however, a couple of days of debilitating, mind-numbing depression. The rejections have started flowing in and my ego has taken a beating. I ended the week emotionally exhausted and vowing my forever-friendship with Lexapro. If it could take me to dinner, I would date it.

There were more layoffs at my recent job and my pal JW was laid off yesterday. At least my misery has good company. I'm thinking of starting an Unemployment Club with pajamas as uniforms. We can start drinking before noon and watch movies all day, pooling our limited funds for pizza delivery.

Stupid, wanting-to-take-over-my-life depression aside, the week wasn't all bad.

I planned a trip for my friends' business. They let me plan one with dogs - bonus! It won't be until June, but I am totally looking forward to it since I'll be hosting. Hanging with dogs all day? Always a good idea.

I saw a movie with some girlfriends (plus a token male), read books, ate ice cream, went to happy hour with former co-workers and watched my dog try to have sex. It's like dog porn, but two dogs who are both fixed have no idea what they are doing. They just know they want to do something, right-freaking-now, damn it! Leave it to my dog to provide the comic relief and gross-out moment of the week. All in one. That takes talent.

Tomorrow I've got a date with a little bald man called Oscar. Yep, the Academy Awards are on, my favorite television Event of the year. (Running a close second is the season finale of Dexter.) I don't even care who wins, I'm just going to enjoy the mini-break from Dreary Town and enjoy the glamour.

I did manage to score an interview Monday morning, so cross those fingers, people. I even agreed to do it at 9 a.m., which is unheard of as a wake-up time these days, but since it's a phone interview I can wear my pajamas.

Tuesday is book club, which is truly my fondest activity of the month. I get to eat good food, visit with wonderful people and feel Smart for a while. It will be like a little oasis of acceptance in the desert of rejection I've been stranded in.

I can do without more dog porn though. Seriously, once is enough to last a lifetime.

Unemployment Week 2

The second week has been harder than the first.

First, the Negatives.

The week started with Valentine's Day. Unemployed and unattached. There was no way this could be a good day. I tried to get the day canceled, but it apparently makes too much money as a fake holiday for anyone to listen to me. Poo.

I went to the dentist, which sucked enough. But halfway through, I realized a song was playing that reminded me of my ex-boyfriend. In fact, it was "our" breakup song. The hygienist mistook my tears of sadness for tears of pain. I got a free chapstick.

The only man who touched me that day was my chiropractor. Is it dirty that I tried to enjoy it? Of course it was over too fast.

It snowed. A fuckload. Which started my meltdown mid-week. Crying was involved. So was vodka.

The next day some jackhole hit my car. Backed right into me at a stop sign. Yes, "stop" would be the key word here. Backed right up into me, crunched my license plate and drove off.

Oh yeah, I got rejection emails for three of the jobs that I applied for. Not that I'm counting.

Now for the Positives. Because there were a few.

I learned how much my friends watch out for me. MG, thanks for saving me from a night that sounds like something that would have pushed me over the edge into killing myself. JW brought vodka and listened to me cry. The wife made me watch "On a Boat" to cheer me up.

I had an interview and I think it went well. Also got a follow-up email from another prospective job. Fingers crossed that the one I really want will call next week.

After three weeks, three chiropractic adjustments and a massage, I finally woke up pain-free. Had I known my insurance was going to cover it all, I would have done this a long time ago. I've got nine days left and you can bet I am taking full advantage of it. Scheduling three more massages before it's over...

Yesterday I got a tattoo. It's small and only took about 15 minutes, but I love it. While we were waiting for the appointment, we went to another studio. This guy does fucking rad, beautiful work and he wants to do my peacock tattoo!! I am now accepting donations since the price of this one will be equal to a small car.

Sixteen Candles is on. It's movies and pajamas for the rest of the day.

And here's to hoping that next week brings far more positives than negatives.

Week 1 of Unemployment

Sucks.

Yep, one week ago I was laid off. There was something about financials and making "tough decisions", blah, blah blah. Since I was the only one in my department that was let go, it's hard not to take it personally. And yes, it sucks.

I've been trying to stay positive though. I have found 7 or 8 jobs to apply to, filed for unemployment, spiffed up my resume, everything I'm supposed to do. I've also slept until 11:00, watched a dozen movies on Netflix and eaten banana pudding for breakfast.

It's been a weird week. When I'm lazy I feel guilty about it, but most of the time I can't figure out what to do first and remain immobilized. I went to Ignite Bend Wednesday night and, in the course of telling a friend about the jobs I'd applied for, discovered I was smack dab in the middle of a group of one of the companies I'd applied to. Impromptu networking. Good thing I washed my hair.

What's made the difference and kept me from shutting down in utter panic is the support I've received from my friends. Work friends, new friends, old friends, family. Kind words, hugs, a Super Bowl party, girls' night out, emails with offers of help. My friends are invaluable and the best and I love them to pieces.

We'll see what the next week brings. Hopefully calls for interviews, which brings its own set of nervous problems. More working out is on the agenda, a dentist appointment, lunch with a friend, maybe a trip to the dog park and hours more of Netflix movies.

Most importantly? Trying to breathe.

Another One Bites the Dust Storm of Raid

It happened again. If you don't already know the saga, you can read about it here and here and here.

Yesterday I killed another black widow. In my house. Number 13, 14? I don't know. I've lost count. And I have nothing clever left to say about it.

Except that since they keep reproducing in my house, I think the bitches are getting better dates than I am.

The Small Moments Count the Most

I once had the thought that I really know very little about my mom. I didn’t know her as a child or a young adult. For the first couple of years I wasn’t really conscious of her as a separate being and have very little memory of that time anyway. For many years I only thought of her as Mom and not as a person. If I know so little about my mom as an individual, who I’ve known my whole life, how well do I really know anyone?

As my daughter grows up, I think I know everything about her. Since I’ve known her for her whole life, not just mine. Since I’ve been there since the very beginning. Day one. I know she had not a single birthmark. I know when she broke her collarbone, who her first best friend was. I know her favorite foods, her favorite color, her favorite TV show. I know what she wants to be when she grows up and how sweet she looks when she sleeps. On top of it all, she tells me everything. More than I want to know sometimes.

Once in a while, though, she surprises me. Like last night.

She wants to get a job. She wants to go to ballet camp next year. Yesterday she told me her bright idea of how she is going to earn money. She is going to get gigs around town playing her guitar and singing. Um. She just started playing at the beginning of the school year. She also said this is how she is going to start her career. She’s 14 and starting her “career”. I sort of brushed it off. I didn’t take it seriously, but I’m also not going to tell her she can’t. That it won’t happen. Because who knows? Maybe it will. Maybe she will be the one out of thousands who makes it. I don’t tell her that she can’t or won’t.

She asked to play a couple of songs for me that she’s been working on. That’s when it happened. Her voice was beautiful. The songs she chose were ones I had never heard but very lovely. Fitting. When did this happen? How did I not know? This is my child? My heart swelled. I thought it would burst.

Halfway through the third song, a tear rolled down my cheek. By the time she was done, I needed a box of Kleenex. And in her teenaged-attitude voice she asked, “Are you crying??” I asked her to sing it again and she rolled her eyes a bit and told me not to cry again. I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t. She really hated me clapping and cheering.

She was so beautiful and I could actually envision her playing somewhere. I told her this and then I planned her outfit. Before I could even say it, she said the exact outfit I was thinking of, down to the boots! Ha. I guess I know her pretty well after all.

Surprises are nice sometimes too.

"Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad."

In order to tell you what I am about to, I had to make a double Cosmo. Also it's Monday. And I'm PMSing. And, after all, this blog has "martini" in the title. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't need an excuse, I drink every day anyway. But it really does help if I'm going to have to relive Friday night.

I said that I had a bad date. My guy friends all agreed that he was a tool, but seemed a bit incredulous at how much of a tool he really was. When I relayed more of the details to a girlfriend, she said it sounded like something made up, but she knew I wouldn't do that. People, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

There were several points at which I should have ended the date, but I think I was in shock; I couldn't quite believe what was happening. Besides, I wouldn't have this great story to tell you if I had. What follows are some of the lowlights.

1. Within 30 seconds he insulted me by telling me I'm short. Kind of douchey, but I was nice and chalked it up to nerves.

2. 45 minutes later, he asked if my boobs are real. Seriously. "How about those? Are they real?" I looked at him and said, "Did you really just ask me that? Really?" Total dick move. I still don't know what to say about that.

3. If I talked about a girlfriend, it turned into some kind of sexual innuendo. He actually said "I'm a lesbian." Barf. Gross.

4. He called his kids assholes. I know that dealing with teenagers is difficult. And it's personal. But I don't call my kid a bitch. Even if she's acting like one. Or an asshole. So what kind of parent does that? A bad one.

5. Next, he invited himself to see Empty Space Orchestra with me. I had planned on going with The Wife after drinks, but he decided he also wanted to go. Fine, whatever. Stalker.

6. We went to dinner. He asked what I wanted for an appetizer. I looked at the menu and declared "Tempura!" He looked at me flatly and said, "You know that's fried." "Um, yeah. And?" He did not order the tempura. Apparently there was a fat quota for the evening that I wasn't aware of. And I was too fat, but nobody told me. Asshole.

7. He went on and on about Charlie Sheen. He apparently worships a drug addict. He actually said "Charlie Sheen is living every guy's wet dream." And "I'd snort a briefcase full of coke but I get drug-tested so I can't." He also wishes he could sleep with porn stars. Unbelievable.

8. At this point, The Wife texted to see where I was. I was just about done with The Jerk and told her to meet us at dinner on the way to see ESO. I practically begged her to come meet me. Being a Good Wife, she did. I thought The Jerk was going to jizz in his pants seeing the two of us together. Barf. Gross. Pretty sure he thought he was going to get the two of us. No. No way.

9. Later, like the next day, Wifey told me that he talked about "choking bitches out." I had stopped listening at that point. I also didn't want to encourage him to talk anymore, because he was getting really loud and drawing a lot of attention to himself.

10. We went to Silver Moon. He decided that my hair was really soft and he needed to touch it every five minutes. Ew. Uninvited. He touched my ass, I slapped him. I told him not to be inappropriate. Did I ask you to touch me? No. No I didn't.

11. There was a drunk guy at ESO. What?? Someone got drunk at a concert? In a bar? The Jerk looks at him (I assume, I didn't want to look at either one of them) and says, "Classing up the place, aren't you?" Wtf? Who engages the drunk guy?

12. My favorite local band starts. Wifey and I move to the front. We start dancing. For some reason, The Jerk assumes that my dancing is an invitation to make out with me publicly. Ew. No. I move away. Several times. The very worst part? There is a very cute, very young boy eyeing me. I was cockblocked. Damn it!!!

13. Since he had taken a taxi to meet me, I had to drive him back to his hotel. He tried to entice me with a pull-out bed. Uh, no thanks. Oh, he had a king-size bed? No thank you. His parting words getting out of my car? "You women are all the same. You talk about how much you want dick, but when it comes time to put out you're too scared." What? What the fuck? Did I really hear that? At what point did I express I wanted to have sex with a misogynistic asshole? I must have missed that part of the evening.

The only thing I am thankful for regarding this date is that he took the hint and didn't contact me again. Whew.

The next night The Wife and I went back to The Scene of the Crime and I ordered the tempura and the tempura roll and anything else fried we could find on the menu. It was awesome. And fun. And the exact opposite of the night before.

Yep. Girls rule. Boys drool. I know who has my back.

Bitter, Party of One

Conversation today with a co-worker friend. For real. I make nothing up.

E: well how about this for some suck -- i went out to get in my jeep this morning
and somebody had opened one of those starkist bags of tuna and scattered it all around the inside


Me: bag of tuna?


E: a pouch of tuna, instead of the kind in a can


Me: was the pouch open? like mushy tuna was in your car?


E: yes! the pouch was empty on the floorboard and tuna was splattered everywhere inside my jeep


Me: how did that happen?


E: no idea. some shithead teens in my neighborhood, i guess


Me: yeah, that sucks.
but you're getting married.
so my bad date trumps your tuna car.

Why Girls' Night Rocks

I had a date Friday night, my first real date in ages. It doesn't matter who he was, because I won't be seeing him again. It was a reminder of why I don't date, the definition of a Bad Date. This should sum it all up: his role model is Charlie Sheen and he mentioned him at least four times throughout the evening.

While we were having drinks, a group of six or seven girls came and sat at the table next to us. I soon wished I was at their table instead and truly appreciating the time I spend with my girlfriends.

This is why girls' night is better than 98% of the dates we all go on.

1. Makeup isn't required and a ponytail is considered a hairstyle.
2. Pajamas are perfectly appropriate when having girls' night in.
3. We can skip shaving our legs. And elsewhere.
4. Nobody asks if our boobs are real (and a guy who's good will find out on his own, without asking).
5. Women know the difference between a cock and a dick. We only want one of them.
6. There are no lesbian references.
7. There is no inappropriate, unwanted touching.
8. We can talk about sex all night in dirty detail and it's not considered a come-on.
9. Nobody is appalled if we order fried food. We can eat as much as we want. We can have fried dessert and nobody gives a fuck.
10. If we're a bit too loud it's because we're having a good time, and not showing the world how obnoxious we are.
11. We know that we dance for us, not because we want to make out in public.
12. We laugh our asses off more with each other than any guy could ever get us to do.
13. We can get as drunk as we want and not be taken advantage of.
14. Impressions aren't necessary. Our friends already love us.
15. Girls' night is always the perfect way to spend a weekend and makes us so glad that we are women.

Cheers, ladies!!

How to Create a Crime Scene. Or Avoid One. Whatever.

Fiona and I have made many delicious, tasty noms since she came to live with me. There was the bourbon cake, a dozen loaves of bread, “ocean rolls”, key lime pie, whipped cream, bread bowls, pizza crust and crème brulee. Like all relationships, we were in the honeymoon phase. I even introduced her to my friends. And then, like all relationships, we had our first little tiff. I admit, it was my fault. I got a little overeager, but she let me know quickly, and near-disastrously, to back off.

We were making a red velvet cheesecake. I was smart enough to turn Fiona off when I was adding my liquid ingredients since she wasn’t wearing her pouring shield. I thought I was saving a step by not having one more thing to wash afterward. Shows what I know.

I put in the cream cheese, eggs, sugar, vanilla, buttermilk. The recipe called for two bottles of red food coloring, but several of the reviews said that one was plenty. I poured in one bottle, mixed it up, and decided I really needed the second bottle because I wanted a deep, rich red color. I poured in the second bottle. And then I flicked the mixing speed switch too quickly, thinking I’m such a pro now. But I skipped the first two speeds and it went too fast! Fiona spat out most of that second bottle of red food coloring. All over my kitchen counter. My beige kitchen counter. I reached over and turned her off and took half a second to survey the damage. My kitchen looked like a crime scene. “Blood” all over the counter, “blood” spatters all over Fiona and her mixing bowl. (Oh, if only Dexter were there!) It looked like someone had killed a small animal on my kitchen counter. Violently.

After scrubbing up the mess and wiping Fiona down, we resumed our task. I took it slower the second time. The cheesecake? Obviously not as red as I wanted, but still every bit as delicious.

Last night we made up. We got out one of the new attachments and shredded cheese for a quiche in 30 seconds.

Tonight we have a date to make ocean rolls. I think we’re back on track.

A Special Kind of Hell

I didn't want to do it. I wouldn't have, especially with the hangover causing waves of nausea in my alcohol-lined stomach. But I needed toilet paper. There was no way around it.

I had to go to Walmart.

I felt like shit, so I wanted to blend in. I did take a shower though. I may shop at Walmart, but I'm not a Person of Walmart. I'm not that gross. Dried my hair. Squeezed into a pair of jeans, not an easy task with booze bloat, threw on a t-shirt, sans bra. Remember the "fitting in" part? Slipped on some tennis shoes and was on my way.

The parking lot alone made me want to turn back and hide in the safety of my house. It's like a really sad carnival. Nobody really knows how to drive, most bodies are shuffling or stumbling around. Walmart zombies.

I walked in the door and was hit with the foulest stench. Seriously. Why the fuck would I smell stale beer? Did someone break a six pack or just throw up? I held my breath until I made it through that vomit-inducing odor.

I needed a shopping cart. Too hungover to actually carry anything. But there was a large Mexican family loitering around the carts. Like twelve of them. Fucking people, just move the fuck out of my way! It's Walmart, have they never been there before? Take a cart and move the fuck along.

I got toilet paper first, without another clusterfuck of loiterers. I needed laundry detergent too, just the next aisle over. Turned the corner and there was a really fat woman in some gold, shiny thing taking up half the aisle. I don't know where you even buy "clothes" like that. It hurt my eyes and offended me as a human being.

Decided that some Gatorade might be nice to have. It was on the way to the check-out stand. And this brought up a question. Does Walmart not know who their customers are? The fattest people in America shop there and yet they have the tiniest aisles. It's almost impossible to pass another cart. These aren't the kind of people I want to be that close to. I have boundaries, assholes.

Normally I go to the self-checkout to avoid any interaction with another person. Not this time. A sad little stringy, gray-haired lady asked if I was ready as I tried to pass by. Oh, what the hell. I was really too tired to all the work. She looked like she needed a purpose in life.

Lesson learned? Don't be close to running out of toilet paper and hungover at the same time.

Moments of Gratitude

Yesterday wasn’t a great day. It started out pretty great, I had coffee and an Ocean Roll with a friend I hadn’t seen for a while and it was just really nice to catch up; she’s one of those people that just makes you feel better being around her. I trotted back to the office in a little happy bubble.

A few hours later, that bubble burst when Reality poked its ugly head into my day. And for such a stupid little thing. But it’s the stupid little things that pile up and overwhelm me. They shouldn’t mean anything, in the grand scheme of Life. Really, what meaning does a cable bill have? Or putting gas in the car? But they’re nagging and immediate and demand to be taken care of. With resources I don’t always have readily available. And some days, like yesterday, it just feels like too much for one person to handle. At least one of me. I found myself wiping away tears at my desk, wanting to go home and crawl under the covers and hide, but knowing that wouldn’t happen because there was more Reality waiting at home for me. Dinner to be made, ballet taxi duties, homework checking and laundry.

I stared blearily at my computer screen until I saw an email pop up. It was from one of my favorite people. It wasn’t a long email; it contained no earth-shattering news of joy or offer of rescue. It just made me smile. It gave me a friendly little connection with something good, at just the right time, and helped me get through the rest of the day. It took just a little feather off of my heavy load, but I felt it and it made a difference.

It’s these little moments of gratitude that my friends give me that make such a difference. They don’t seem like anything that should change my life. Except they really do. And in smaller, bigger, ways, they change me.

My book club has no idea what they’ve meant to me. And, had I met them each individually, in another setting, I don’t know that we would have been friends. At first glance, they’re so different from me. Most days I feel like such a dork. I’m goofy and potty-mouthed. They all seemed so much smarter and I was a bit intimidated in the beginning, watching what I said and choosing my words carefully. Attempting to mirror their sentence structure and Smartness.

Then one night, one book unraveled it all. I found myself emotionally vomiting all over the table after our beautiful dinner. All of these feelings I didn’t want to share with people I hardly knew came spilling out, revealing parts of me I thought would make me as ugly in their eyes as I was in mine. Their simple questions about my thoughts provoked answers that burned like shame.

The next day I received a single email from M that healed it all. My comments, my sharing had meant something significant to someone else. Shame melted into acceptance.

The remaining year of books brought more challenges, frustrations, reflection. And through our dinners, - ham, mushroom sauce, caramel cake, jelly and bread bowls – I’ve learned to trust, accept, and know that I can be myself with people that I really respect. They let me because they are my friends. There are times that I even think I become my Best Self with them, because of our shared love of books. And food.

I love that I have such a variety of friends. Each one gives me something different, teaches me something about myself and about the world.

When I first met C, I thought her goody-two-shoes act was just that. Nobody could be that naïve or that good. Someone once said that rainbows and unicorns follow her around. Maybe they do. Because she really, truly is Good. I didn’t think that kind of person existed anymore, but she does. And because she does, I’m a little less jaded.

From A, I learned to really look below the surface, that people have hidden talents and loves that add more dimensions than you see when you first look. MH has shown me what vibrance looks like.

I know who I can depend on for advice at work. I know who to call when the tears just won’t stop for the hundredth time and she’ll listen with patience and not judgment. I know that with this smorgasbord of friends, I’ll never be hungry.

It might be a simple email or a lazy evening of watching movies. These are my quiet moments of gratitude that keep me going from one day to the next, sometimes even from one step to the next. If I start to tear, there is someone there to fix me. Only they’re not just fixing me. Each time they patch me up, they’re weaving something stronger. Someone stronger.

I’m learning to accept myself because they accept me. For that, I will be eternally grateful. There is no greater gift.