So Many Birds, Just One Stone

Up and Running

2008-10-14T12:57:00.000-07:00

Oh my god. It's here. And fully working. And by "it" I obviously mean my website. I still have little things to tweak, like adding my twitter and changing the dotted border around the thumbnails...but it's done. And live.

I will no longer be posting on this here blogger site...please check out my new and improved website here! (www.colleenkatana.com)

Is it weird that I'm physically NERVOUS to be launching this new site?? Because I am. Sweaty and nervous.

Kismet

2008-10-09T15:03:00.000-07:00

The music was pounding and so was my head. The alcohol flowing through my veins helped me ignore the pain throbbing against my temple. Setting the glass of red wine back onto the stained tablecloth, I headed toward the dance floor, pulling on the bra part of my strapless bridesmaid gown.

I passed a group of people I had met the night before at the rehearsal dinner and could hear them talking. One girl named Yaz wore a hideously loud dress with large hot pink and yellow Hawaiian flowers plastered around the entirety of it. It was almost as obnoxious as she was. She had dark olive skin and black hair down to her curvy waist. And I’m being quite generous by using the word “curvy.” Many other words come to mind, but I’ll keep this politically correct.

She threw her head back flipping her long hair into my face. I spat it out. It tasted like hairspray.

“This was a nice wedding. Exactly how I’d want mine to be but, you know, without all that religious stuff.” Her nose was high in the air.

Missy nodded uncomfortably, trying to smile. She straightened out her crisp, white wedding gown and said meekly, “Well, uh…I’m religious. So, it’s not exactly silly to me.”

“Well compared to the Muslim religion it is. I just don’t get all of your traditions.
I mean, today really sucked for me, ya know?” she continued, “I just had to wait around while Mattie here took pictures and did all those groomsman things.” She grabbed the lanky groomsman around the waist and pulled him into her. “And I just know he missed me, too.”

Yeah, I thought, like a fratboy misses syphilis.

Hearing Bon Jovi being blared, I ran over to rescue Missy. “C’mon!” I yelled, “It’s our song!” I grabbed her hand and started pulling her to the dance floor, away from Yaz’s passive aggressive insults.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head as my hips swayed to the music. “Oh my God,” she could barely hear me over the music, “Can you believe her?”

Missy nodded. “I know. It’s like this at every event. She just hates not being the center of attention.”

“Well, so do I. But I think I can take a backseat when it’s someone’s WEDDING day!” I spoke sarcastically and mockingly threw my short hair over my right shoulder in a “diva” like manner.

Just then Yaz entered the dance floor, dragging her boyfriend behind her with her left hand. With the right, she carried a glass of red wine. She walked unsteadily in platform based 4-inch heels. I could tell she was the type who wore heels a lot to impress people, but didn’t actually know how to walk in them. You know the type I’m talking about…they walk toe-to-heel while wearing them instead of heel-to-toe. As she got to the center, she turned to face her boyfriend and lost her balance falling ass first to the floor. With her legs above her head, her dress slipped up around her unmentionables and not only did I get a clear glimpse of her ass crack, but also of her thigh cellulite. It felt like everything was happening in slow motion when she looked up just as the red wine from her drink came splashing down into her face.

Missy ran over out of obligation and I followed closely behind. So to get a good photograph of the moment. She cursed as she stood. “Fuck!” she spat angrily, “Fuck this fucking dance floor to Hell!” She pushed her boyfriend aside and stormed off leaving the rest of us standing there stunned. And me, standing there smiling.

Missy turned to me, eyes wide. “Uh, what do I do now?”

I shrugged. “Dance?”

“Don’t I have to go say something to her?”

“Yeah, I guess that would be the polite thing to do,” I nodded. Missy turned to walk away. “Hey Missy…” I said before she got to far away.

She turned back around to face me. “Yeah?”

“Do Muslims believe in Kismet?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because I think Yaz just met my good friend, Karma. And yes—Karma can be a bitch.”

One of those days...

2008-09-29T07:17:00.000-07:00

My alarm didn't go off, a mouse ran across the living room, Luna threw up twice and I ran out of hair gel. It must be Monday.

A Puppy In Need

2008-09-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

My dear friend David is asking...no, scratch that...pleading for people's help. He needs a new home for his 8-year old beautiful dog, Jasmine. This poor dog has a tragic past and so deserves a wonderful, loving home.

Two years ago, David was moving to the city where Jasmine would not have been happy. Being used to farms and space, it would have been a tough transition for her. Reluctantly, he handed her over to his best friend to care for while he was away. Tragically, David's best friend was killed in a car accident at the hands of a drunk driver last year. Since this tragic occurrence, Jasmine has been in and out of the animal hospital and foster homes. She contracted ring worm (which has now been cured) and though she still has patches of fur missing, her face is still as beautiful and sweet as the day I met her.

However, Jasmine, like most dogs, is not perfect. As a result of an abusive foster home, she no longer gets along with other dogs and very young children. Older kids are fine, so long as they are gentle and don't tug her tail and ears and pick at her scars from ringworm. (Yes, the hellion three-year old did this and the parents did nothing to stop her)

But let me also tell you the wonderful things about this dog. I remember Jasmine from college. She is adorable and gentle. Some kind of yellow lab mix (on the smaller side...maybe 45-50lbs). She loves people and is such a calm, sweet dog. She's very low maintenance, especially in the right lifestyle. If I could take her, I would do so in a heartbeat.

So, please, I beg...I plead...does anyone want to give this dog the home, love and life she deserves? Please ask around...ask friends and family. I don't want to see Jasmine live the remainder of her life in a shelter.

Busy as a Beaver

2008-09-24T12:17:00.000-07:00

What is that expression about anyway? "Busy as a beaver." Are beavers busy?? Do they have deadlines and doctor's appointments and lunch dates and an unhealthy obsession to watch every week's Grey's Anatomy?

Anyway, things here in KatanaLand have been super busy. I just returned from my best friend's wedding out in Portland and let me tell you...it was a great time. Expensive as hell to get there but so much fun! I love her family so much...they remind me of my own.

So, now I'm back and there will be no more traveling for quite some time. In fact, I managed to get myself a part time job as an editorial assistant for Kensington Books. This job (even though I am only into my second day there) is all that I had hoped it would be. I love publishing even more than I thought I would. Even though it's only been a couple of days, there is no doubt in my mind that this is the correct career path. I sat in on a meeting with all the editors today and it's amazing to me what their thought processes are. Nothing like what I had read or imagined. The reasons for turning down some books are so asinine I can hardly believe it. And at one point they were excited that one author didn't have agent...umm, I thought that was HUGELY taboo. But apparently only for the BAD authors is this taboo.

The hardest part about getting back into a (somewhat consistent) work routine...is this whole getting up early thing. Seriously, who would have thought it would be so difficult to get dressed each morning. It's quite a difference from my normal sweatpants and Old Navy shirt, but I suppose it's time to start being an adult again. I've begun choosing my clothes the night before after a disastrous first day of wearing two different socks. I don't think anyone actually noticed the sock debacle, but even so...it's not something I'm willing to risk again. Tomorrow I will be wearing my satin geometric dress. I think it will help me to stand out at the office--and not only because it's something my crazy Aunt Donna would wear to a wake.

Book Recommendation: The Dangerous Days of Daniel X

2008-09-18T10:43:00.000-07:00

The Dangerous Days of Daniel X

Something I hate to admit to my adult friends is that I loved the Harry Potter books. Every last one of them. Yes, I am a 25 year old nerd…I have accepted it, so I suggest that you, dear readers, accept it too.

So, when I received James Patterson’s latest book,
The Dangerous Days of Daniel X to review, I was pretty excited…despite the fact that it’s meant to be a YA Fantasy book. Patterson, being a father himself, wrote the book to inspire young boys to read more. A noble effort on his part, I believe.

The Dangerous Days of Daniel X is about “a boy who has always used his hidden superpowers to survive, but he carries with him a deadly secret and the fate of the world rests on whether he succeeds at his mission”. Now, if you’re anything like me, this quote won’t do a whole lot for you. Essentially, it’s about a boy with serious superpowers who is on a quest to avenge the death of his parents…and save the world while he’s at it.

This book (available here on amazon.com) was a very quick read for me and the number one praise I have for Patterson are the short chapters. In a world of ADD kids, these short chapters make reading easy and enjoyable again. Especially for pre-teen boys, who we all know aren’t typically big readers. It’s definitely the kind of book your son (or daughter) will enjoy but won’t make you cringe while reading it with them.

At times, it was a little cheesy with some dialogue that was hard for me to swallow. Yes, I know I’m an adult and that’s why the use of the word “butt” instead of “ass” feels forced to me. However, I probably wouldn’t feel the same way about the language back when I was 10 years old…nor would I feel it was too tame if I had a 10-year old reading said tame language. Also, some of the supernatural lingo took a while for me to pick up and understand…but again, I blame the fact that I’m an old fart.

These two very small criticisms aside, I still feel strongly that this book was very clever and at times I found it so suspenseful that I didn’t even want to put it down at some chapter breaks! The plot is sharp and the ending was actually unexpected…something I find can be rare in YA books.

Brilliant Costume Ideas

2008-09-12T14:26:00.000-07:00

The Boyfriend!: We could dress up as our dogs for Halloween.

Me: Like I'll be Luna and you'll be Red?

The Boyfriend!: Exactly. I'll spend the whole night begging for food and licking my ass.

Me: And I'll constantly follow you, jumping up and biting your neck.

The Boyfriend!: You'll also have to start barking at random things. And chasing non-existent mice.

Me: And I'll attack other people....who are dressed as dogs.

Oirland!

2008-09-08T16:53:00.000-07:00

Things I’ll Miss About Ireland:
1) The way the Irish say words like “Pub” (Poob) and “Pint” (Point) and “Ireland” (Oirland) and “You” (Yeh). So very charming.
2) The beautiful scenery of rolling mountains and rocky coastlines. It was a photographer’s dream. (Photos will be posted soon).
3) Sheep!! Or more accurately Black faced horny rams (that’s their official name). They were everywhere! Chillin in the roads and just hanging out, chewing on some grass. I wanted to take one home…and I did…in the form of a scarf.
4) The town, Carlingford. Greatest little village EVER. Every single citizen of this town was friendly and welcoming. It’s also home to King John’s Castle (You know, King John…from Robin Hood). Apparently, he loved this town as much as we did. Possibly more since he had a castle built there for him to come and visit frequently. But ya know what? If I had tons of money to blow, I would totally build a castle in Carlingford. And I’d call it Commoner Colleen’s Castle. And in a few hundred years, tourists would be snapping pictures of my old castle, marveling at how beautiful it was.
5) The radio station that we could never figure out. We titled it “Random FM.” It played everything from Mozart to an Irish cover of “I Will Survive” to some other Irish song we had never heard before with lyrics like this:
Kick me and lick me and spit on me corpse
Punch me and hunch me over in a hearse…
Well, those aren’t the exact lyrics, but it’s pretty close and absolutely hysterical. The song was stuck in our heads all week.
6) Irish coffee. And NOT the kind with whiskey in it. For some reason, Ireland has the best brewed coffee I’ve ever had. And I’m not talking about espresso or cappuccino or anything. Just a regular cup o’ joe. Every morning it was the part of breakfast I looked forward to the most….and now it’s gone. Since I’ve been home, I’ve attempted to recreate the frothy tan foam that collected on the top of my coffee, but it’s proven impossible. Perhaps with a French Press?
7) The Flake candy bar. Made by Cadbury (Yes, the makers of the eggs)…why the fuck don’t they market these in the US? And why does the chocolate over there taste so much better than Hershey’s? Oh that’s right, because Hershey’s SUCKS.
8) Pear Cider. So delectable. It was my lifesaver since there’s not a whole lot else to do but travel from pub to pub, and I don’t like beer all that much.
9) Rainbows. Yes, the weather was shit for most of our trip, but a couple of times when the rain ceased and the clouds parted, the most glorious rainbows would appear. Unfortunately, there were no pots of gold that I could find. Damn those tricky leprechauns.
10) (Most) Irish men. (Most) are very attractive in burly ways.

Things I Will NOT Miss About Ireland:
1. Lasagne. Last time I checked, Ireland is not known for its Italian cuisine…so why do so many cafés, restaurants and pubs serve it? And no—the lasagne I had did not taste good.
2. The price of, well, EVERYTHING. The Euro to US Dollar ratio is not good people. Want to know what else is not good? The fact that dinner at a pub will easily run you 16-25 Euro. EURO! That essentially means you’re not getting a burger and fries for less than 20 US Dollars. Oh, the insanity.
3. Tiny, curvy roads where people drive like nutcases at 120kpm.
4. Speaking of kilometers….the metric system. I know it makes perfect sense…but I had serious troubles converting metric into something I understood. Damn your totally sensible and easy to learn units of measurement proving how stupid Americans are for creating a system that is WAY more complicated than it needs to be.
5. Potatoes. I actually love potatoes—but not for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. Seriously? You’re offering me sweet potato pie after I had the lamb stew casserole topped with mashed potatoes and a side of French fries? Has Ireland never heard of these wonderfully crunchy and delectable things called vegetables?
6. The morbid death of the apostrophe in Ireland. Did St. Patrick chase those out too along with the snakes? (McCarthys, Whelans, Wards, Flannerys…) It seems as though the apostrophe has disappeared from all facets of Irish life.
7. The town of Nenagh where we stopped for lunch briefly. It has all the attractions of a funeral parlor and most certainly less life than one. If there is a bleaker or grimier town in all of Ireland…please let its existence be known to me.
8. The “tour” of the Titanic shipyards in Belfast. Belfast: I love you dearly. You were by far one of my favorite places to visit…but, you’ve had almost a hundred years and the shipyards look like one big island of junk. Turn this site into something worth seeing, PLEASE!
9. The Northern Irish accent. I could not understand a LICK of what they were saying.
10. (Most) Irish women. Let me just thank my mother profusely for not marrying another Irish man (Hi, Mom! Love you!). My genes would have been fucked.

Compromise

2008-08-22T16:11:00.000-07:00

Me: Can I pack a few things in your bag?

The Boyfriend!: Depends what...

Me: Mostly things we're sharing. A towel, bar of soap, shampoo...

The Boyfriend!: Sure.

Me: ...make up, curling iron and tampons.

The Boyfriend!: Um, no. I draw the line at tampons.

Me: What? Why?

The Boyfriend!: What will the men at the security checkpoint think!?

Me: Clearly, they'll think you're a homosexual.(sarcasm)

The Boyfriend!: They WILL think I'm gay, won't they?

Me: (sigh) No...they will think you're traveling with a woman. Which you are. So you should probably get used to traveling with tampons.

The Boyfriend!: Fine. But then you're finding space in your own bag for make up and hair stuff.

Me: Deal.

Are Your Balls Bigger Than Your Brain?

2008-08-21T14:44:00.000-07:00

Dear large (read: fat) man on the subway,

Why when you're sitting do you have to have your legs spread so wide that your fat ass takes up two seats? Is it so hard to keep your knees together? I notice, this doesn't happen with larger women. Women tend to cross their legs, their ankles, their arms, and hold their purses and bags in their laps...basically bending over backwards to make room for others regardless of what size they are. But you--you fat mother fucker--all you would have to do is close your legs just half as wide as you currently have them spread and that would be enough so that the old woman standing, stretching to hold onto the bar above your lazy head could sit down.

So why don't you? Would that be too taxing for you after a long day of watching the security camera at the Astor Place KMart while eating a McDonald's southern fried chicken sandwich? And please don't feed me this excuse that it's because you have two family jewels that can't be squashed. Men use their balls for SO MANY excuses and I am sick to hell of it. And let's face it, fatass...your balls are probably not even that big. No man's testicles need THAT much room that you are currently giving yours at rush hour on the A train. Now, I'm not saying you have to squeeze your scrotum between your massive thighs until they turn blue. I'm not even asking you to cross your legs...I know you're much too homophobic for that. Just adjust SLIGHTLY so the poor, old woman can sit down.

But no. You won't do that, will you? So, it's left up to me to offer the old woman my seat, three seats away from you, because you're too inconsiderate to move a few inches to the right. I grab my CVS bag full of crap needed for my trip this weekend, my Citarella bag of fresh cheese, my laptop, my purse, my B&H bags of film and stand so that the woman can hobble over and sit. I walk over to you and clear my throat. You don't even look up. I say "Excuse me," and still nothing. I say it again louder...nothing. I refuse to give up. I WILL be sitting down and you WILL be moving over. Give up, already. RELENT. So, I turn, lower my bags to the floor and force my bony ass into the seat, pushing your fleshy thighs out of my way.

I don't care that you smell like a combination of meat, cheese and sweat. I don't care that my shoulders, hips and thighs are pressed against yours. You will learn your lesson. You will learn that next time having a sweet old lady sitting next to you is the better alternative than me, the uber bitch, forcing her way into your personal space. And for the record: when I had to sneeze, though yes I covered my mouth, I still purposefully turned my head in your direction.

Please next time be more conscious of those around you...particularly the elderly and pregnant women.

Thank you,
Colleen

On Being a Target

2008-08-20T05:52:00.000-07:00

I live in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. For those who don't know the New York areas well, Bed-Stuy is a primarily black neighborhood that was declared an impact zone in 2005 for having the most number of homicides in New York.

When Sean and I moved here, we didn't think twice about the fact that it was a mostly black neighborhood. It meant nothing to us...we really didn't even notice it until a few months after we moved in. We liked our neighbors--Miss Thelma, the (very) old woman next door who will get mad if we don't sweep our steps often enough. And Joan, the crazy woman a couple doors down who feeds the 30 stray cats in the neighborhood. Even the teenage and pre-teen kids on our block are always very friendly and respectful. We had a game going where the boys would ask me how old I was every night when I came home from work...I would tell them I was 35 with a coy smile. They knew I was lying and would burst out in laughter, yelling:

"No you're not, Miss Colleen!! Tell us! How old are you??"

The bottom line is, Sean and I love our block. However, every day I turn the corner onto Malcolm X Blvd to walk the six blocks to the subway, it's a very different story. The sweet street I live on is suddenly a ghetto with people hanging outside of store fronts drinking beer out of paper bags (nothing new to see when living in New York), but in this neighborhood, the people are much louder and much more confrontational.

It began with nothing too horrible. People calling me "gorgeous" and "hey baby, do you have a boyfriend." I always had my iPod in my ears and could pretend that I either didn't hear them, or sometimes I would just nod and wave in return. Then, the younger kids (high school probably) started following me, walking closely behind me for a block or so. They called me "Katie," I guess what they assumed was a typical "white girl" name. At one point I stopped, turned around and simply asked..."Oh, are you talking to me? Katie's not my name...you must have the wrong person." So then, they started calling me Marcia Brady (which I actually find kind of funny).

The thing I've noticed is that if it's a group of guys, nothing too bad happens. Maybe some of them trying to get my attention, but that's it. If there are girls in the group, or god forbid, a group of only girls, then it's usually much worse.

So, things grew increasingly worse. The innocent "Marcia Brady" calling advanced to kids pulling my hair and then running away as I'm walking. People purposefully bumping into me and pushing me into the street. Usually when I'm with Sean, nothing too bad happens, but one time, kids behind us started following and yelling: "Is that your boyfriend, white girl? Do you fuck him? Do you like it from behind?" That was the first time Sean really saw first hand what I go through on a daily basis....because hearing something like that definitely did not shock me. I was used to it...but he was appalled.

Then the other night, we were coming home. It was about 9:00. We passed a group of girls sitting on their front stoop. We heard one girl say, rather quietly, "white bitch." We ignored it, as we tend to do. Within two minutes, one of the girls was riding a bike (on the sidewalk...a huge pet peeve of mine) and blatantly ran me over with the bike. As in, she was riding straight...there was plenty of room on the sidewalk and as she came up on us, she turned the handlebars and ran directly into me--not Sean--me. I was ok...a few bruises, two broken toenails. But this is pretty much the last straw for me.

I try so hard not to generalize. I never considered myself to be racist, but I fear that having lived here for a year, I am becoming that which I hate. If I'm in this neighborhood and I see a group of black girls as I'm approaching (I specify their race because in the rare case when there is a white girl or guy in the group, nothing ever happens to me), I now cross the street. I avoid them. If I'm walking past a man dressed in baggy pants and a hoodie pulled up around his face (he can be any race), I will hug my purse tighter to my body. And I hate that I do this...but I need to protect myself first and foremost. These are actions and habits which have been conditioned in me BECAUSE of how I have been treated. I moved here with no judgments about the inhabitants of the neighborhood...and I am leaving hating almost every single person I pass.

Here in this neighborhood, it would be very hard to dispute that there is a definite correlation between race, education and poverty and the actions of the people on this street. I am a target because I am white...and I don't deserve that.

Going to get me some Lucky Charms!

2008-08-15T11:34:00.000-07:00

In about a week, Sean and I are jet-setting to Ireland! I am extremely excited about this trip...not only because I have been waiting in anticipation since the day Sean mentioned it as a part of my Christmas and Valentine's Day gifts, but because this is the first time I have ever stepped foot off of American soil.

That's right, I have never been outside of the country. Seems odd, no? Travel is SO important for young people in this country. The cultures you are exposed to and the experiences to be had contribute greatly to creating a culturally sensitive society…something very important and rarely valued in America today. Fewer and fewer young adults are traveling abroad these days due to high gas prices, inflated plane tickets, the value of the Euro, and low entry-level salaries. Regardless, as a result of the reasons listed above, I have never managed to leave the country.

When I mentioned this to the boyfriend! he seemed confused.

Him: But, didn't you go to the Bahamas once?

Me: Yeah...but that doesn't count as an international trip. I was working the whole time and hardly left the boat. Plus, it didn't require a passport.

Him: Neither did Mexico or Canada until just recently, but that would count as an international trip.

Me: Yes, but I haven't even been to Mexico or Canada either...(these points all seem valid in my mind)

Him: But the Bahamas is British territory. Therefore, you technically have left the country.

Me: Ok, maybe TECHNICALLY, but we all know that technicalities don't count.

Him: What? Why don't technicalities count?! They should count the most!

Me: They just don't!! I wasn't exposed to any new cultures! There's no stamp in my passport! It wasn't even a vacation! I could have been in Key West and it would have felt exactly the same!

Him: Fine. I agree that maybe the experience wasn't necessarily an "international" one, but you have technically left the United States.

Me: Fine. (under my breath) But not really...

Him: YES, REALLY!

So what, dear internet, do you think? Is Ireland my first true trip outside of the United States, or does the Bahamas Cruise count as a worldly and international experience?

Adelynn Turned One!

2008-08-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Adelynn,

Happy Birthday, beautiful girl! You’re a whole year old. Just think…only 20 more to go before you can buy vodka ALL BY YOURSELF. Goals are important; remember that.

I just returned from my trip to NC for your birthday party. It was a total blast. There was family and presents and fried chicken and CAKE! Oh, the cake! It was your first taste of sugar and let me tell you, BOY, are you a Katana. You took to that cake like a duck takes to water; diving right in!

I unfortunately have only seen you four times in the first year of your life. I met you for the first time at your baptism when you were about six weeks old. Basically, you were a lump who cried and ate and slept and pooped. Don’t worry, though…you were an adorable little lump. I stayed awake three nights in a row to feed you every 2-3 hours so to give my sister a much needed break. They were easily three of the most horrible nights of my life. But whenever I picked you up from that crib and cradled you while you sucked the bottle’s nipple, I forgot about my exhaustion and became captivated by your little sucking lips and heavy eyelids.

The next time I saw you was at Christmas, at five months old. You were already such a curious little thing. Any time someone walked into the room you HAD to see who was there and fussed until we turned you so that you could see. You liked to watch people and you loved when I blew raspberries on your tummy.

In April when you were about nine months old, your mommy and daddy brought you to visit New York. And me. You were still very curious and such an active baby. You loved playing with all the toys at FAO Schwartz and we bought you three new toys from the store. The first was a little blue elephant. We all thought it was adorable how much you seemed to love this elephant. We couldn’t tear it out of your hands the whole time we were in the store. Any time we tried to show you something else, you gave it a look like, “Yeah, yeah, ok. I see the stuffed dog. Very nice.” But the blue elephant seemed to be IT. Regardless, we bought you a jack in the box Curious George toy and a teddy bear with an FAO Schwartz t-shirt. You showed little to no interest in the teddy bear, but we wanted you to have something with the toy store’s logo. As soon as we got to the hotel and cut the tags off, you no longer had an interest in the elephant. Apparently without the flavor of cardboard and ink, it was a dull toy. The teddy bear, however, has since turned into your absolute favorite toy. His name is Eddie. That’s right, Eddie the Teddy.

Eddie the Teddy is INVALUABLE in your house. You may not know this yet, but you are quite the high maintenance baby. And Eddie is your parents’ savior. He calms your tears and puts you to sleep and when you’re acting fussy, if we hand you Eddie, 9 out of 10 times, you will calm down. This most recent trip for your birthday was quite the eye opener. I love the little person you are becoming. When I first arrived, you went right to my mom—your Oma. Only, you don’t call her Oma; you say “YaYa” because when she says “Yeah, yeah” in conversations it sounds like “Ya, ya…” And she apparently says this a lot. And you love your YaYa. You smile and laugh for her and it takes a good 20 minutes before you’ll leave YaYa’s arms and go to anyone else. It’s as though YOU NEED YOUR YAYA TIME. You finally came to me for the first time since I had last seen you. You gave me a little smile, but then coyly dropped your head into Eddie’s neck. Then, peeking out from behind your teddy, you smiled and laughed.

Your smile, Adelynn, may just be the cutest thing I have ever seen. It’s crooked with teeth sticking out in several directions and your nose scrunches up to your eyebrows. I also love how much you enjoy looking at pictures of yourself. You’ll point to the photos and smile, and look back at all of us saying “Behbeh!” (That’s toddler language for “baby”)

You are learning words and sign language now too. When we are feeding you, we ask you to say and sign “more please” to which you say “Moh, moh” and press your fingertips together. However, if after you’ve asked politely, we don’t give you what you want, you scream. What a temper you have! If you’re not getting your way, we all better just plug our ears because OH MY GOD, THE SCREAMING. I think blood trickled out of my ears once because I wouldn’t allow you to snap my glasses in half. Oh, the injustice. I’m obviously a horrible aunt and totally don’t love you. So, you screamed. And—I’m sorry, did I mention the screaming?

You also love to read books. You can sit with several surrounding you and flip through the pages happily. And since you can’t read yet, of course, the books are usually upside down and the only words you can get out are DOG and DUCK and BABA and DUHDUHDUH! even though the book has no mention of dogs or ducks or duh’s.

This whole weekend, I tried to get you to say my name. I’d sit in your face as you were trying to watch Baby Einstein and I’d say, “Who am I? I’m Aunt Colleen!” over and over and over again until you—yes, you guessed it, screamed. But eventually, you started to get it. And once as we were playing with barnyard magnets, I asked you, “Adelynn, who am I?” And you answered: “Ayn CaCa.” Now…this is pretty close. But I’m really not a fan of being Aunt Poo Poo…so we’re all trying to change this into Aunt CoCo. Because if anyone knows me at all…Aunt Chocolate is WAY more appropriate than Aunt Poo Poo!

The last night I stayed with you this weekend, I woke up at around 2am and snuck into your bedroom to watch you sleep. I watched your chest rise and fall with each breath and loved to hear your life in the air. Adelynn, if there is a God…you are certainly proof that he or she exists.

I love you, baby girl.

Love,
Aunt Coco.

::sigh:: Oh, fine. Aunt Caca.

Halloween In July

2008-07-30T16:59:00.000-07:00

Merry is having a contest about supernatural/paranormal/slasher/ghost stories. Pretty much, tell a scary story. Well, Merry, mine is a true story, or at least those who were involved believe it’s true…but not one that I necessarily remember. I was just a baby. But it has been recounted to me numerous times by both my mother and siblings.
_________________________________________________

Sharon Katana tore open yet another brown box labeled “Kitchen Junk.” It was written in messy cursive with a sharpie by her husband. It had been a busy week. In the past ten days she had moved her family and all their belongings to a new city, given birth to her third child, and her husband had started a new job.

This new job was a demanding one. They kept him busy night after night with meetings and welcome parties. And what was worse, they expected her to be at his side for these events. They apparently didn’t care about the fact that she had a newborn hanging off her nipple and barely had the energy to sip her coffee, pack lunch for her seven-year old son, and chase her four-year old daughter all day, let alone attend party after party. “It will calm down soon,” Bob had said as he kissed their newborn’s forehead and rubbed his wife’s shoulders. “I promise.” And with that, he turned to leave for another black tie benefit, thrown by his new office.

Bridget ran after him, her chubby thighs brushing against each other. “Daddy!” She shrieked, her arms extended toward her father. Tears gleamed in her eyes and her bottom lip jutted out, quivering. “Don’t go tonight, daddy! Stay home and read to me!”

Bob bent down and lifted the tiny child into his arms. “Tomorrow night, princess. I promise.” He kissed her cheek with two quick pecks and placed her back to the floor. “Take care of the ladies, while I’m out, Bo!” He called upstairs to his oldest son and Bridget ran up the stairs to join her brother.

“Bye sweetheart,” he kissed his wife on the lips and was quickly out the door.

Later that evening, Sharon rocked her baby, Colleen, while humming her best rendition of Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of my Life”. She saw her tiny daughter’s eyelids flutter within a dream and she slowly stood up to put the baby in her crib and check on the other two. She hadn’t seen them since dinner and the house had been unusually quiet. With Colleen cradled against her breast, she turned off the lights and quietly made her way up the stairs.

She could hear whispering coming from the nursery. They know they’re not supposed to be in the baby’s room, Sharon thought, preparing herself to lecture her offspring. She followed the whispers into Colleen’s room and sure enough there were her kids, standing over a broken bassinette. “Bo! Bridget! What did you do?!” She tried to whispered as threateningly as she could without waking the sleeping baby.

“Nothing! We swear!” They each shrieked. “We heard someone singing in here,” Bo continued, “We thought it was you and followed the singing into Colleen’s room. The cradle was already broken!”

“We swear!” Bridget repeated.

Sharon sighed and placed Colleen in her crib. Luckily she had mustered up the strength to put that together earlier today. “Ok, help me clean this up and then let’s all go watch a movie together.” She knew a cry for attention when she saw one and with the guilt of their father’s busy schedule and the demands of having a new baby, she decided to let their actions go unpunished. Just this once.

“Mommy, you should have heard this voice,” Bridget whispered, her eyes wide. “It sounded loud…much louder than you sing.”

“And it didn’t sound like no grown up either,” Bo interrupted.

“Didn’t sound like a grown up, Bo. Not “No grown up.” Sharon scolded. She would not have her kids sounding illiterate.

She looked up to the shelf high above Colleen’s crib where her collection of teddy bears was starting. She had three for her baby, so far. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. All three bears had their heads ripped off. The bodies of the teddy bears were sitting as normal and next to each bear was its decapitated head. She looked at her children, oblivious to the bears. No guilt read across their faces. Besides, the shelf was too high for either of them to reach. She looked at their dog, Bear, laying next to the crib. She found it odd that her dog, usually so lazy, seemed to be in full alert mode. His muscles were tensed despite the fact he was laying and his ears stood straight up from his head staring at the closed window.

A chill ran down her spine despite July’s heat.

* * *

Later that night, all the kids were finally asleep. Plenty of tears and nightmares about some young child singing kept everyone awake. But finally, she lulled everyone into a deep sleep. She tiptoed out of Bridget’s bedroom and crept downstairs. When she reached the bottom step, she froze. Every single light in every room was on. Even rooms that she hadn’t been all day had lights on. Table lamps, floor lamps, the chandelier over their dining room table…all were shining brightly.

“Bob?” She called out praying that she would hear her husband’s voice. No one answered. She knew that 10pm was way too early for him to be home. She’d be lucky if she saw him home before 1am tonight. Slowly, she made her way first to the dining and antique rooms to turn off all those lights. Then, in the kitchen, she shut off the overhead lights…even the oven light was on. Moving into the television room, she switched off those as well, leaving the hallway light on, so to be able to see her way back upstairs. As she turned to head back to bed, she noticed the lights in the laundry room were on and a low, humming buzz was coming from one of the bulbs. Sighing, she walked in and as she put her hand on the switch, she heard a noise. Singing—coming from the garage. A voice just like her children had described. A young girl, singing the Stevie Wonder song she had lulled her daughter to sleep with hours earlier. Only this little girl’s voice was loud. Abrasive even. She sang Stevie Wonder like a gospel hymn out of a Baptist’s church songbook. Sharon flipped the lights off in the laundry room and through the cracks of the door leading to the garage, she could see those lights were on too.

“H-hello?” Sharon’s voice cracked. The singing stopped and the lights in the garage went out.

Within moments she heard the voice right behind her. She could feel the breath on her ear as the voice whispered: Mama?

None of her children called her Mama, ever. It was always Mommy. Tears welled up in her eyes and she ran out of the laundry room, through the living room into the hallway reaching the bottom of the stairs.

Woof Woof Woof! Upstairs, Bear began barking and growling. Sharon ran, taking two steps at a time. When she reached Colleen’s room, her dog was standing on his hind legs barking into the crib. “Bear!” Sharon yelled, no longer caring about waking her sleeping children. She grabbed the dog by the collar and pushed him out of her way. Her baby was lying face down in the crib. She lifted the child who immediately began crying, her face bright red. She looked into the crib and could see indentations where her baby’s face was. As if the back of her head was being pushed into the mattress, suffocating her. A breeze danced around Sharon’s body and she noticed the window was open—not her doing. She held her crying baby and patted Bear’s head. “Good boy, Bear.”

She heard keys in their front door and crept to the top of the stairs. “Bob?”

He peered at her over the banister. “Hi honey,” He called up. “Sweetheart, you left all the lights on down here! Even the garage light!”

* * *

Over the next few months, peculiar things continued to happen. Sharon and her children would hear singing, always in the same voice, repeating whatever song Sharon had sung earlier. Windows would be opened and slammed shut in the middle of the night. Sharon stopped buying Teddy Bears for her kids because they would be mutilated during the nights. Lights were turned on and would flicker at odd moments. And every so often, she would hear Mama being whispered in her ear. Even Bob, who never believed in any sort of ghost or supernatural stories admitted that something odd was happening in their house and with their “electrical system.”

Colleen caught pneumonia from the open windows and while her older children were frightened, no one was so much as Sharon. She feared the nights Bob worked late.

One November night, Bob was working late again. Bridget and Colleen were both asleep and Bear was patrolling between the two rooms. Bo was playing in his bedroom when he called for his mom. “Mom, can you get me a glass of milk?”

“Bo, you’re old enough to get your own milk. I’ll go with you to the kitchen, though.”

“No, that’s ok. I don’t want to disturb Martha again, Mom.”

Sharon’s body stiffened. “Martha?”

“Yeah,” He said, not tearing his eyes away from his Nintendo game, ”She’s our ghost.”
“And you’ve—run into her?”

“Not exactly. I went downstairs once in the middle of the night to look for my birthday presents and all the lights were on. I thought it was weird and then that night I had a dream where Martha talked to me.” He spoke nonchalantly, as if she was a houseguest sleeping on their couch he didn’t want to disturb.

She breathed a sigh of relief that his run in with her wasn’t anything more. “I’ll get your milk, buddy.”

At the bottom of the stairs, she could see all lights were on again and Bridget’s coat was on the floor. She hung it on her daughters small coat rack (one that Bridget could reach, herself) and turned to get the glass of milk. Behind her, she heard the coat fall to the floor. She turned and hung it up again. As soon as she stepped away, it fell to the floor with a rustle. Sharon had had a long day, this was the last thing she needed right now. She stomped over to the coat picked it up and shook it in the air before hanging it roughly back on the coat rack. “So help me if you knock this coat off one more time…” Before she could finish her sentence, the coat dropped to her feet, halting the words within her mouth. The hall lights flickered around her.
She swallowed and goosebumps rose on her arms. “Martha?” Sharon whispered.

Mama?

The breath traveled across her ear and tickled her neck.

Sharon closed her eyes. “No. I’m not your mama, Martha. I’m sorry.”

Mama…

The voice sounded further away. Sharon followed it into the kitchen. “You can be a part of our family. You are welcome in this house, but no more scaring us. No leaving the lights on.”

Mama…

Again, further away. Sharon followed the voice into the family room. “No more opening windows and tearing apart toys.”

Mama…

Further away, still.

Sharon looked out the back window into the yard. It was a clear, calm night. The tire swing circled, gently rocking. In the center of the yard was a foggy patch, which looked slightly blue in hue.

All the lights downstairs shut off.

Later that night as Sharon climbed into bed, she whispered: “Goodnight, Martha.”

Silence.

* * *

Small things happened from time to time. Every now and then, the family would hear something in the garage. Or a light would be left on, but it wasn’t very frequent. Bear relaxed and felt less need to patrol the bedrooms. Colleen’s pneumonia got better and Teddy Bears stopped being ripped apart.

For five years, the Katana’s co-existed with this…spirit? Ghost? Dream? Call it what you like.

Every night as Sharon tucked in her three kids, she would also whisper goodnight to Martha, mentally tucking in the disturbed spirit. Every now and then she would hear “Mama” whispered in her ear, but it was rare.

As Colleen grew, she was the only child who ever called Sharon Mama instead of Mommy and still does to this day.

When Colleen was five years old, a body (skeleton) was found in the woods at the end of their neighborhood. An article was released stating that the victim, Martha Jones, was a girl who used to live in the neighborhood. She was ten years old and had been beaten to death by her stepfather. The article also featured a picture of the girl holding her favorite Teddy Bear and stated that she had finally been buried with her favorite toy, her stuffed teddy bear, named “Bear Bear.”

Two days prior to the article, Bridget was nine, Bo was twelve and Sharon—well, Sharon would never reveal her age—everyone stated how calm and peaceful the house felt. They knew Martha was gone before they knew why.

Ways to Charm Me:

2008-07-25T15:35:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about ways to annoy me. I decided to write a not so negative slant in similar form entitled--

Ways to Charm Me:

Deny that you're stoned when you're, like, really really stoned.

Try to defend your wearing socks with sandals. You're cute when you're nerdy.

Understand that the food on your plate will always taste better than the food on my plate.

Nominate Clive Owen for an Academy award. Next step: convince him to do porn.

Trip while walking along down 5th Ave and then immediately look around to see if anyone noticed. THAT’S RIGHT! I NOTICED!

Tell your mother that you learned the word “Fuck” from your Aunt Colleen. Oops.

Imitate the Tom Cruise Risky Business scene, dancing around in your dress shirt and undies while I’m on the phone with my very conservative, very strict, republican father.

Tell me that an octopus has eight testicles instead of tentacles because you’re six and you don’t know any better.

Don’t make fun of me when you catch me almost crying during reruns of Grey’s Anatomy episodes.

Join me in singing 80s power ballads. In the middle of Times Square.

Let me hit the snooze button 12 times in the course of one hour.

Tell me the sloppy brown colored pasta sauce I spent an hour cooking still tastes good even if it looks like puke. You’re such a good liar.

Pretend not to notice when I burn my tongue on my coffee causing some to dribble down my chin.

The Boyfriend! Reads my blog...

2008-07-11T14:24:00.001-07:00

The above statement should be a given, right? But he doesn't usually read, which is totally fine by me. Cause let's face it...he provides a lot of the ammo for that which I write about.

After reading my post about turning 25 and the quarter life crisis I am staring eye to eye with, his only response was: Please don't ever mention your mother's vagina to me again. EVER.

And I was all: What? My MOTHER'S VAGINA? Why don't you want me to mention my MOTHER'S VAGINA? What made you think of my MOTHER'S VAGINA? MOTHER'SVAGINAMOTHER'SVAGINAMOTHER'SVAGINA!!!

And he said: Say it one more time. Seriously, I dare you.

So that night just as he was about to fall asleep, I leaned over and whispered: My mother's vagina...
After which he promptly got up, filled a glass of water and dumped it all over me getting the entire bed soaking wet. It was still totally worth it.

My Personal Prime

2008-07-07T10:37:00.000-07:00

First of all, thank you all SO MUCH for the birthday wishes. And as an FYI, along with the eye cream I've been needing, I also discovered a chin hair which I quickly tweezed. I also read online that once a woman turns 25, every year 4 pounds of muscle will transform into fat. For this reason, I am upping the intensity of my daily workouts.

But, I digress. Last week, I met my best friend Eliza and her daughter, Maddie (whom I've talked about many times) for lunch. I had taken a long shower that day, dried my hair, and put on makeup and a dress. I meet the two of them at Liza's office where Maddie was sitting at a little table having a snack. She stopped chewing a gummy bear and with her mouth full of a masticated gel-like teddy bear said: "Aunt Colleen, you look so beautiful!"

I felt very proud of myself. A compliment of that magnitude from Maddie is rather rare and was a definitely better than what I was going for. And what I was going for was just a small step up from my usual look which bears a striking resemblance to the beat up, rusty Chevy sitting on cinder blocks in the front yard next to overgrown bushes and weeds.

I would have been just as happy if she had responded to the site of me by saying: "Aunt Colleen, you don't look like walking death today!"

45 minutes later, we arrived at a little restaurant called Bread which has the most delicious tomato soup I have ever ingested. We all ordered the soup with different sandwiches and when the waitress brought the bowls creamy orange soup with imported grated cheese over top, freshly baked bread in the center and organic basil draping the cheese, Maddie could hardly contain her excitement. Her eyes grew wide and twinkled, the orange color reflecting off the brown in them. She grabbed the spoon and still staring at the bowl of soup, yelled, "IT IS SO BEAUTIFUL!"

The tomato soup qualified for a completely capitalized, italicized beautiful.

I should probably be more upset about the fact that I am not as attractive as a bowl of pureed tomatoes. But I just checked my schedule and realized I won't have time to dwell on this what with my busy week of scratching my butt and growing toenails.

Another Year Under My Belt

2008-07-02T07:54:00.000-07:00

I am 25 today. Yes, today is my birthday.

Usually people become reflective around New Year's Eve; I, however, always find my birthday to be a little depressing. I'm always stunned by how fast the years seemed to have passed. I miss the days when birthdays were like Christmas. When I would wake up anticipating my favorite breakfast being made by my parents and themed parties with loads of presents and cake and SUGAR! But sometime after college, all that went away. Birthdays became just another day. Just another day that I still had to go into the office. Just another day that nobody really knew was the day I came head first out of my mother's vagina. And in the uncomfortable event that the topic did come up, it was followed by a half-hearted "Happy birthday. Now, back to these spreadsheets..."

I use eye cream now every day. Not for preventative reasons but because I NEED IT. Oh my God, do you see how monumental that is? And I prefer spending an evening at home playing Scrabble on my computer than an epic night of parties and drinking. And I no longer fit into my favorite pair of Seven Jeans despite the fact that I go to the gym 4 times a week. (I'm not sure I can blame this on the fact that I'm 25, but I'm sure as hell gonna try). And the worst part of everything is...Mean old Ms. Kruger from the second grade? The meanest teacher at Centerville Elementary School? SHE WAS 25!!!!!!!! I am the same age as mean old Ms. Kruger. Pretty soon I'll be married with babies and those babies will be having birthdays and before I know it, my children will be all: "Mom, seriously? Those shoes with that dress? That's soooo 2008."

Dreaming of Fireflies

2008-06-27T12:08:00.000-07:00

Tonight I will be babysitting my darling niece, Maddie. Since we're meeting in the city, I'm trying to decide what we should do. Normally, I would take her to my favorite knitting store. She loves playing with the yarn...but the store closes at 8 and we're meeting at 8:30. Then I thought maybe we'd just go home and I could cook for her; make my famous chocolate mousse with steamed milk....buuuut she's allergic to milk. So, then I thought of the perfect plan. One that was so amazing that I knew she'd be excited...ANY 6 year old would be!

Me: (over the phone) Maddie, I have a big plan for us tonight!

Maddie: What? What??!

Me: Well, I thought you and I could go see Wall-E! It's opening night in the theatres!

Maddie: Oh. (total lack of enthusiasm)

Me: What? What's wrong?

Maddie: Well, I really wanted to catch fireflies with you.

Me: (Numbed by how simple and sweet this statement is) I would LOVE that, Mad. We'll see Wall-E another time!

Maddie: Don't worry Aunt Colleen...you can buy me Wall-E for my birfday! I'd rather own it anyway.

Me: Uh, Maddie, I already got you a present. Besides, the movie just came out...it's not going to be on sale for a while.

Maddie: (Pauses to think) Hm, well then you can take me to see it on my birthday! Tonight, there are fireflies that need to be catched!

Ways to Annoy Me

2008-06-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

Ways to Annoy Me:

1. Ask me to smell your finger or any other appendage. No explanation needed. (I hope)

2. Degrade the Sacred Oreo by eating it in one big bite. Please, pay the Oreo proper respects and first twist the two ends of chocolate cookie gently apart. Then continue to lick the virginal white cream until it is completely gone. Teeth may be used ever so cautiously to get the last scrapes of cream. Then, and ONLY then, may you eat each side of the cookie separately. Insubordination will not be tolerated.

3. Obliterate the pile of dirt and dog hair I just finished sweeping because you heard a dog bark outside and you MUSTGETTOTHEWINDOWRIGHTTHISSECOND! I am sweeping up YOUR goddamn fur. BOW BEFORE ME.

4. Uncover for the first time and proceed to investigate (Read: “lick”) your unmentionables while I am attempting to give you a bath. Also, playing tug of war with the wash cloth I am trying to wash your belly with. Let go…RELENT!

5. Make the comment: “Childbirth can’t be that painful. Try getting kicked in the nuts. Women just have a lower tolerance for pain.” How about I kick you in the nuts several times over the course of each hour for over 24 hours? After then, we can talk about pain.

6. Eat black licorice then try to give me a kiss. I’d rather kiss my dog after he had an Olympic afternoon of licking his ass.

7. Give me a guilt trip at the grocery store when I want to buy a bag of Vienna Fingers and then eat the entire bag of cookies YOURSELF.

8. Lick up the mouthwash I spilled all over the bathroom floor, then continue to throw it all up making the whole apartment smell like bacteria-killing fluoride minty fresh doggie puke.

9. Press your cold, wet nose against my leg then entire time I am putting on my makeup with a face that says, “Can we go out now? Can we go out now? Can we go out now?”
PS – STOP LICKING YOUR ASS.

10. Pronounce Target like “Ter-Git.” Have you no soul?

11. Get all the questions right on Cash Cab even though you’re not paying attention AND drunk. I realize that Cab Calloway was the obvious answer, but YOU’RE DRUNK. Nothing should be obvious.

12. Sit on top of me, panting, signifying that you want me to walk you thus preventing me from being actually being able to get up and take you on that walk.

13. Tell me we can watch one of MY movies tonight, only to spend the entire movie NOT watching, but playing Risk on your stupid computer.

14. Demonstrate the absorbency of a tampon by plugging up a leak in the side of a boat. That REALLY makes me want to buy your product and stick it in my vagina.

15. Give my dogs a toy that makes a lot of noise. May you contract an organ eating disease and have your guts devoured by rats. LOUD rats!

Could Use a Little Help

2008-06-16T20:06:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone...I am in dire need of some business advice. Especially from the professionals out there!

As most of you know, I'm freelancing a lot right now for a few different magazines. One particularly has very odd rules which have been accumulating since the day I signed my contract. I want to know how people think I should handle this:

-They require me to come into the office once a week for eight hours....and not get paid for those hours. (I was ok with this thinking it would be a temporary thing...like, until they got used to me and knew I was doing my job and doing it well. Well, it's not temporary in their minds. They want me to continue coming in for the rest of my life and then sign my first born over to the company.)

-So, while I'm at the office, not getting paid for hours I'm working, (not only writing but doing other random odd jobs that a freelancer shouldn't be doing for a company. In my mind at least) they dictate that I'm not allowed to eat or drink at my laptop which I bring into the office with me every week. I would understand if it was their equipment...but this is my computer. Not to mention, writing is creative process. I NEED MY COFFEE TO BE CREATIVE. In all honesty, I could be around the corner writing and getting MORE work done with a venti caramel frap.

-Also, while at the office, working hours which I am not being paid for, the editor has mandated that everyone MUST take lunch between the hours of 12:30 and 1:30. If you don't leave the office during this time, then you DON'T LEAVE AT ALL. IE - If you don't eat lunch at 12:30, you go hungry. Now...I am turning 25 in a couple of weeks. I really don't need someone telling me when to eat. I am a professional and I should be allowed to eat when hungry. If I have a doctor's appointment, I should be able to go to that without being chastised by a boss who doesn't pay me for the hours I work within the office. Outside of working in the food industry and retail, I never thought it wouldn't matter WHEN I ate my lunch within an office environment. Plus...do I need to remind everyone, yet again, that I'm not being paid for these hours? How in the world can you justify telling people when they can leave when you're not paying them?

-And lastly, the editor sent notice to the writers that there were too many grammatical errors in this issue. And that in the next round of articles, we will be docked $25 per mistake. PER. MISTAKE. I only get paid $100 per article. So, you're telling me that if I make 4 mistakes, you will pay me nothing? And, I'm sorry, I was under the impression that it was an editor's job to, oh I don't know...EDIT!

Now, I know I sound like a whiny child here, and if I had a ton of really stupid grammatical errors within my articles, then I would understand an editor coming to me and saying, "Look, Colleen, you really need to check over your articles before sending them in." It's just the way we're all being treated that irks me so much. But all this being said, I revise and edit my articles A LOT. Not to mention none of the editors at the three other magazines I write for have ever had a problem with me or my grammar.

So, all this being said...please enlighten me. Perhaps this IS how the industry works and I am just inexperienced? How should I handle this? Should I terminate my contract? I am seriously stressed out about it...any insight would be SO appreciated.

I'm One of "Those" People

2008-06-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

I attended a party/Q&A last night for the tv show, How I Met Your Mother. It was a great time. Met a really nice man named Nick who works in casting and I also met Neil Patrick Harris whom I am now madly in love with. If only he wasn't gay, I could have his babies. Neil, if you ever need a surrogate or an egg donor...CALL ME. We would make beautiful Aryan babies.

I also met Josh something-or-other who plays Ted on the show. He was very nice and attractive but also extremely tired. I felt bad for all of them. And Allison Hannigan was absolutely lovely and very gracious.

Anyway, that was my evening and it was awesome!

A Pinch of Worry with a Dash of Anxiety

2008-05-27T12:11:00.000-07:00

I have always been a worrier. Not quite as much as my sister, but still—I constantly stress myself out about things that I have no control over whatsoever. In the third grade, I used to get so sick with anxiety about the timed spelling tests I took once a week, that the worrying would start the week before, usually the day after I finished the previous test. By the time I put my pencil to the paper and my teacher started her stopwatch, I thought I would be so violently ill that I could barely remember how to spell my name, never mind “motorcycle.” I remember thinking that my future was dependent on whether or not I would ace these tests, and that if I missed one spelling, a series of events would unfold: One, my parents would no longer love me. Two, they would kick me out of the house. Three, I would die homeless.

Example A:

Colleen has a headache. A bad headache.

It must be a tumor.

Colleen is also unemployed and can no longer afford a decent health insurance plan.

Colleen dies homeless and poor from the cost of brain tumor treatments (whatever those are)

This is what I like to call The Cyclone, and I have spent my life taming this storm. I start by checking that everything around me is standard and working and then I start imagining the most tiny thing that could go wrong. It's always something very tiny and insignificant, but by the time I have finished analyzing it in my head it has turned into the Worst Case Scenario: small A leads to small B leads to very awful C jumps straight to homeless and dead. (See Example A)

The boyfriend! got me thinking about why I do this, and at first I thought it might be hereditary. My father and sister are stereotypical A-type personalities. Everything needs a plan. Every plan needs a schedule. And every section of the schedule requires a specific and carefully thought out time slot and escape route. As a kid, I knew our evacuation plan thoroughly. I knew where to meet if a disaster ever hit Lancaster, PA. I knew where the ladder was kept (under my parent’s bed) and what to do in the case we were all trapped in a fire.

But if this incessant worrying IS hereditary, then how do I explain my mother and brother? Because they are the exact opposite. Very “go with the flow” which I can be…but there’s always that voice in the back of my head (which sounds curiously much like my father’s voice) telling me to create a back up plan JUST IN CASE.

So, maybe a little bit of the reason I worry so much is because I am my father's daughter, but I realized that the root of it is a singular feeling that has followed me through my life. This is the feeling of guilt. I have always had a wonderful life in so many ways. I have a fantastic family, I’ve never known what true hunger or danger is and never for a second did I think I'd have to sleep without my blankie. And the thought that other people in the world do not have a warm place to sleep, food on their plates and a DVR to record every episode of The Bachelorette invokes a feeling of guilt. I need to worry about something… anything. I owe it to those who have a harder life. The feeling that because I am very lucky, I need to suffer crippling angst to even the playing field out a little bit.

And of course, the exact opposite rings true as well. I owe it to those who are not as lucky as I am to appreciate the crap out of my life. But it's also this overwhelming feeling that if I am not a stressed out wreck, everything will be taken away from me. And then I realized…that the way in which I worry about things is so mesmerizing that it causes me to walk directly into that which I fear.

Example B:
Colleen's Third Grade Spelling Tests -
I would make myself sick with worry to the point where I wouldn’t even be able to concentrate and on more than one occasion, I failed these tests.

So, I’ve decided that I should start worrying about developing really big breasts or about how to spend the six figure salary I'll be making whenever I get a new job.

For about an hour, I felt totally renewed and I kept smiling when I thought about how much better my life will be without The Cyclone. About how I can channel all the energy that I used to spend worrying into more productive things, like charity work or writing or art or chugging Irish Car Bombs while dancing naked in the house. And I was still feeling this jolt of exhilaration that evening when I walked the dogs to the yard to let them perform their nightly duties, still reeling from the possibilities of what a stress-free life would be like. And as I let the dogs go trampling down the stairs, I noticed our downstairs neighbors left their front doors open.

Do you see where this is going?

Sure enough, within seconds, both dogs were out the front door. All because I was daydreaming about not worrying and I didn’t anticipate this. Had I been in my normal state of mind, I would have been forcing them to walk behind me. I would have gone downstairs PRIOR to opening the dog gate. I wasn’t being responsible. Luckily, for everyone involved, the gate leading to the sidwalk was closed, so both dogs were just mulling around on the front stoop. But it could have been so, so, so much worse.

Bottom line, I’m pretty convinced that this only happened because my head was in Lala Land dreaming of a perfect stress-free existence. Which, this just doesn’t exist (for me). I will never be the person who can split up from a group in a public place and NOT have a set time and place to meet back up. I will never be the person who can walk into a room and not notice where the emergency exits are. And I will always, always be the woman who carries extra tampons with me because YOU JUST NEVER KNOW.

Paging Dr. Shepherd

2008-05-19T10:56:00.000-07:00

I know that it is horribly main stream…but I am in love with Patrick Dempsey. Not so much Patrick Dempsey the man, but more Derrick Shepherd, the character he plays on Grey’s Anatomy. The character he becomes on that show is charming, and kind, charismatic, intelligent, a life-saver, benevolent, tender, passionate, and never without perfectly tousled hair and a slightly disheveled demeanor.

Now, I know this man doesn’t really exist. I realize that he is the product of Shondra Rhymes’ imagination and Patrick Dempsey’s “talent” (I put it in quotes because I KNOW you will all pounce on the fact that I think he has talent), but who cares? He is my fantasy to have and dammit, I’m going to make it count!

However, when I’m sitting there on my couch, gazing lovingly at the television while McDreamy saves his most recent patient from the latest organ-eating Venezuelan parasite that has somehow infected all of Seattle, it’s all I can do to not daydream that I am the patient on the hospital bed being poked and proddod…and I tell you what, nothing kills the fantasy more than when my Dempsey-hating boyfriend adds commentary every five seconds, bursting my fantasy bubble.

Him: This show is so terrible. Look at that! A doctor would not pull a nurse into the on-call room while the chief of surgery stands ten feet away!

I’m sucked back to a somewhat reality and all of a sudden Sean is standing in the doorway of my hospital fantasy. I grudgingly wrap myself back up into the hospital gown and blow a kiss to Dr. Shepherd who returns it with a wink and says in a raspy voice, “I’ll give you two a minute.”

Him: Colleen!
Me: Huh?
Him: How can you watch this shit? I love you less now.
Me: Well, no one’s making you sit here and watch. We have two tv’s, you know.

He pauses, not going anywhere. I start to nestle myself back into my fantasy, when…

Him: This guy sucks!
Me: (I sigh) He sure does. (And nibbles…I say in my thoughts)
Him: Look at him! I bet that stubble is makeup… painted on.
Me: Even better…smoother against my skin.
Him: No, seriously, how can you like this guy?
Me: Why does this bother you so much?

And that’s when I knew exactly how to answer. It would most certainly NOT get him to shut up, but I was DVR-ing Grey’s anyway. I could rewatch later. And the reaction that was about to come was going to be priceless….

Me: Seriously? You want to know?

Sean nodded.

Me: He just reminds me so much of you, baby. (I leaned over and rubbed my knuckle against his stubble)
Him: WHAT?!?! How can you even say that!?

I shrugged.

Him: Take it back! We are nothing alike! (He jumped up from the couch, flailing his arms about) This guy is totally vanilla!
Me: Mm, I like vanilla…it’s classic. Though, I also like chocolate (My mind slipped to Taye Diggs, yum).
Him: This is absurd! He doesn’t even stand for anything! I’m like Henry Rollins, and Hugh Jackman, Chris Meloni and Mike Ness all rolled into one!
Me: Who?
Him: Mike Ness!
Me: ….
Him: Social Distortion?
Me: Mm, not ringing any bells.
Him: Why are we even together?

(Another long pause)

Me: Because you remind me of Patrick Dempsey.

The rest of my show was watched in glorious silence, me sporting a smirk, him with a scowl.

My victory was short-lived, though. He managed to get his revenge when he told me that Sarah Silverman was in his top three. Sarah. Silverman. The horse-faced comedian who is whiny and annoying and has GOD AWFULLY large nostrils. Seriously? And these already massive nostrils flare to the size of grapefruits when she laughs at her own jokes…and who ISN'T annoyed by someone who laughs at their own jokes??

Ok, I get it to some extent why a man is attracted to her. She does have a certain something, and she’s intelligent, clever, and (sometimes) funny. But to make her one of your TOP THREE? C’mon…

He has become obsessed with the idea of me having a crush on someone like him. And yet, let’s examine the celebrity crushes he has...are they short, petite, flat-chested girls with rounded features who are categorized not so much "sexy" or "attractive" as “cute”? NO! In fact, they are the absolute opposite…and as much as I would rather slowly char my own flesh over a campfire and eat it between graham crackers and marshmallows than say this next statement…I will admit that both Sarah Silverman and Sheryl Crow bear a striking resemblance to his ex girlfriend!

It almost makes me want to come home and confess a newfound love for Clay Aiken. But even I won’t stoop that low…

My New Job

2008-05-16T10:01:00.000-07:00

http://washingtondc.craigslist.org/doc/vol/677350090.html

Partner Needed to Travel Back in Time. NOT A JOKE. (Alexandria, VA)
Reply to: comm-677350090@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-05-12, 9:43AM EDT

I am looking for a partner to travel back in time with me. This is NOT A JOKE. I have done this before. Your gender is not important, but you must have your own weapons. Contact me immediately.
______________________________________

Thanks to Moonrat, I saw this CraigsList ad, attempting to enlist people for time travel. Because I’m self-loathing and irrationally mean sometimes, I responded to it.

My letter in response:

Dear Time Traveler,

I am considering joining you on this quest. I am a currently unemployed 24 year old female, 5’1, 110 lbs. I have no weapons to bring, but my last name is Katana and if we were to make a detour to 1991, I could grab the Katana swords my family had hanging over our fireplace (unfortunately in 1992, my brother and I broke these swords when we were pretending to duel…and apparently we did not do such a good job with the pretending part). And really…what is more intimidating to those in the past than a Katana with a Katana? We’ll be unstoppable. But in the case that this is not good enough for you, or if you consider me with a sword as intimidating as an ant with a toothpick, let me assure you that I do know how to fire a rifle, thanks to my boyfriend’s father, New England’s hillbilly woods, and about half a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. Will there be vodka on this trip? It helps my aim.

I was also wondering what era we were traveling to? Are we talking prehistoric times here or will I perhaps find myself in the center of a Gettysburg battlefield? This would greatly affect my choice of whether or not I participate. If I had my choice, I would like to travel back to the 50s or 40s…the clothes were pretty back then and it would be awesome to bring back some true vintage hats and dresses!

And my last question for you…I just finished reading The Time Traveler’s Wife. In this book, the protagonist always ends up naked after every time travel experience. This will be a deal breaker for me. While I do consider myself pretty fit, I am still extremely modest and in no way would ever be caught naked in public.

Please clear up these things for me and I look forward to hearing more about this trip.

Thanks,
Colleen

The First Time I Was Dumped (Part Two)

2008-05-15T10:42:00.000-07:00

It was another gray, overcast day. The snow that melted last night was replaced by a fresh new dusting. Another school day cancelled. I celebrated by microwaving tomato soup with extra cheese and watching Matlock. Yes, Matlock. I embrace the fact that I have a tendency to act like an 80-year-old woman.

I slurped the creamy soup and watched as this charming, old man solved murder after murder. In the middle of my third episode of the day, the doorbell rang, throwing our two dogs into a chorus of barking. The leather of my dad’s recliner buckled beneath my hands as I pushed myself up, using the armrests as leverage. Feet dragging sluggishly behind the rest of my body, I slowly made my way to the front door.

I peeked out the window, expecting the UPS man or someone unimportant, and standing there, in a state of perfection, was Mario. I immediately woke up, my eyes wide with fear. I backed away from the door slowly. On one hand, I wanted to answer and see what he was visiting for, but on the other hand, I was still in my Winnie the Pooh pajamas with no makeup and my hair in a messy ponytail.

My back hit the bathroom doorknob and I hopped in, remembering that my mom kept a stash of makeup in our downstairs bathroom for emergencies just like this (Ok, maybe not for emergencies just like this…but in the case that she had unexpected company). The doorbell rang again sending the dogs into yet another fit.

Shit! I furiously applied foundation to my blotchy skin. “Uhhh, I’ll be…I’ll be there in a minute!!!!” Oh God….don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave….

I swept blush over my cheeks, dabbed some gloss on my lips and rushed from the bathroom to the front door.

“I’m coming!!!!!!!!” The dogs chased behind me excitedly like I had salami in my pajama pockets. I swung the door open, my chest rising and falling rapidly. My cheeks were naturally flushed from the excitement and when I quickly stole a glance in the mirror I cursed myself for putting on blush. My entire face was a salmon shade of pink.

“Oh, hey Mario, what’s up?” I shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly and did my best not to sound out of breath.

“Hey Col-Leen. Where were you? Running a marathon?”

“Oh. Haha, um, no. I was…outside with the dogs.”

“But your dogs were in here.” His eyes narrowed at me. “I heard them barking.”

“Right. That’s what I meant. I was in here with the dogs.”

“Then what took so long to answer?”

“I was, uh, in the bathroom.”

“You were in the bathroom? With the dogs?”

“Yeah.” There was a long pause and we stared at each other, saying nothing for what seemed like hours. His face twisted, the wrinkles on his forehead revealing how confused he was. “They, uh, follow me in there sometimes. You know, dogs follow their noses, and, um….” Oh God. Shut the hell up, Colleen. Just change the subject. Anything is better than this. “Um, so, what are you doing here?”

He smiled. He knew I turned into a babbling idiot around him and he enjoyed it. Jerk. He spoke through a suppressed laugh and tried to make it sound like he was clearing his throat. “Well, no one’s heard from you all week. I thought maybe you wanted to grab lunch or something.”

“I already ate.” I cringed. Idiot. When Mario invites you to lunch, you accept. You eat two lunches. You eat 10 lunches if necessary. “But, I could go for some ice cream.”

“It’s freezing out, though.”

“Oh. Right.” I thought for a minute. “But at least it won’t melt on us.”

He laughed. “Well, can I come in while we make a decision? It really is cold out here.”

I stepped aside and let him in. Even Mario’s walk was unique. It was confident, but not overly cocky. He swaggered in through our front doorway, but not so much that he looked like a James Dean wannabe. His heather gray, cable knit turtleneck and his black pants made him look like he should have been performing spoken word at the local coffee shop. All he needed was a beret to complete the outfit. His hair, now dyed black, contrasted with his pale skin.

Immediately upon entering, my dogs were all over him, sniffing his crotch and jumping up in excitement. We walked into the kitchen and continued chatting, sitting across the counter from each other. The conversation hit a lull and I saw curiosity flicker in Mario’s eyes. He played with a penny that was on our white countertop with his index finger. Sliding it in circles, he looked down, then back at me. “Have you been crying, Colleen?”

My throat tightened. He didn’t say my name in the silly way he usually did. What did he already know? What rumors are already flying around about me even with school not being in session? Or did I just not use enough concealer when I was throwing makeup on my face before? My eyes drifted away from his and over his shoulder to our kitchen window. I stared for what felt like an eternity at the fat, cotton snowflakes dropping from the sky. “It’s snowing again.”

“Yeah?” Mario turned to look out the window. “Wow, it really is snowing, isn’t it?”

“Let’s go play in it.” My eyes lit up and I stared at him like an eager puppy waiting for food to drop on the floor.

“But there’s only two inches on the ground.”

“And that’s two inches more than North Carolina usually has! C’mon!” Before he could protest again, I grabbed his hand and dragged him out through my back door. We ran around throwing snowballs at each other and attempting to build snowmen and forts. There was not enough snow to build either and the result was several blobs of snow throughout my backyard. Every now and then, he’d stop and stare at me smiling for just a moment more than what I would consider normal.

Eventually, we both fell on our backs into the powdery snow. Our heads were next to each other’s and our bodies fanned out creating the letter V. We were out of breath and laughing. I turned my head to the left to look at him. His cheeks and lips were red, as though he had just finished eating a cherry popsicle. His breathing slowed down and began returning to normal. My own heart rate calmed as well.

I was smiling. I was smiling my first genuine smile in about a week. The cold air stung my lungs as I inhaled and my smile faded. “Ian and I broke up.” The words came out for a reason unknown to me.

Mario continued to look up at the sky. “I know.”

“Actually, I’m lying. Ian dumped me.”

“I know that, too.”

I didn't ask how he knew; I didn't have to. The lump in my throat decided to make another guest appearance. I closed my eyes and my eyelashes became moist with tears. My contacts were cold against my eyelids and one fat tear rolled down the side of my face, past my temple and landed in the snow, burning one perfect, tiny hole all the way to the grass. When I opened my eyes, Mario was on his side, propped up on an elbow watching me.

I watched him watch me.

He leaned in and softly pressed his lips to mine. My top lip nestled into the nook between his top and bottom and he gently rested a hand on my waist. I could barely feel it through my thick winter coat, but I knew it was there. I’m not sure if he intended it to be a “friends” kiss, but it quickly went from being G-rated to PG-13. My lips parted into his and the kiss grew firmer. As it ended, I tried to pull away, but he didn’t let me. Pulling me closer into him, he kissed my forehead. I buried my face in his chest, silent tears falling from my eyes again. His arms tightened around me and after a couple minutes my whimpers started to subside.

With my face still against his body, I relived our moment, Mario’s and mine. That was a good kiss. I mean, it was a really good kiss. Way better than any kiss Ian ever gave me, and definitely not the kind that should make someone cry. I sniffled and in the pit of my stomach, felt one sole butterfly flitting around, bouncing off my stomach lining. Giggles bubbled up from somewhere deep inside of me. At first, it was a soft laugh. Mario’s body grew tense around mine, unsure of what was happening. My laughter grew louder and louder until I had to pull away from his grasp because I couldn’t breathe. Pulling my knees to my chest, I gulped in the cold winter air and continued laughing in a way that someone watching standup comedy would. Confused, Mario started laughing too, because—let’s face it, what else could he do?

* * *

Some kisses are good. Some are great. Some are bad. Others are so terrible that you would do better to suck on a cold, wet noodle for a couple minutes. This kiss was defining; it taught me that there would be many more to come, and that with every heartbreak, there is a new experience to be had. That was the only kiss that Mario and I ever had in ten years of knowing each other.

The Randomness that is Me

2008-05-07T06:33:00.000-07:00

I have been tagged by Merry of Mom and More.

The rules:

a. Link to the person who tagged you.
b. Post the rules on your blog.
c. Write six random things about yourself.
d. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
e. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment at their blog.
f. Let your tagger know when your entry is up.

Ok...I'm not really tagging anyone here because pretty much everyone I know on blogspot has been tagged already. I'd really rather not highlight what a loser I am by not even having six people to tag....so, if you haven't already done this, consider yourself TAGGED.

Six Things About Me:

I get bored blow-drying my hair. I have A LOT of hair and it takes a very long time to dry. It’s not thick hair, there’s just a lot of it. And it’s naturally wavy…and by wavy, I mean it’s a freaking rat’s nest when I wake up in the mornings. I have contemplated shaving my head, but I know for a fact that my skull is very bumpy. I would not be an attractive bald woman, like Natalie Portman.

I have a serious obsession with home décor shopping – particularly quirky antiques and bohemian styled decorations. I can’t see an antique store without feeling a tug at the pit of my stomach. MUST. STOP. BUY. ANTIQUES. It’s a sickness, really. I also can’t pass by Anthropologie without stopping…because, have you BEEN to that store? It’s amazingly bohemian and though extremely overpriced, worth every inflated penny.

I am recently unemployed. Recently meaning “as of last Wednesday.” So far, it’s been great. Everyone should try to get ‘laid off’….not to be confused with ‘fired.’ Fired implies you did something wrong…my company simply downsized and could no longer afford me. This way, I can collect unemployment and write my next book.

I love the name Norah. I know most of you will probably cringe at this old fashioned name, but I think it’s wonderfully classic. My daughter will be named Norah. If you don’t like it…that’s fine. But you still have to buy me a baby shower gift. (Other names I love: Autumn, Claire, Amelia, BOYS: Noah, Ashlin)

I have a very eccentric family. My father is a brilliant and goofy (and also brilliantly goofy) man who received his MBA from the University of Michigan after having served as a Lieutenant in Korea during the Vietnam War. My mother is a nurse who never believed in the idea of marriage and felt that it sealed a woman’s fate as a second class citizen (the idea being that a piece of paper ultimately defines your relationship…not the idea of being with one person forever) and only married my father because she loved him dearly and knew it was what he needed and wanted. My brother is a kooky dispatcher for the Greensboro Police Department…he went to Catholic high school where he sold Playboys out of his locker, stole Hershey Kisses off of Sister Mary Francine’s desk, and single handedly caught and testified in court our priest who was embezzling money from the school. My sister was the overachiever. There was never a time I remember her NOT having a 4.0 and I recall on more than one occasion, her coming home in tears, panicking over the fact that she had not gotten a perfect score on a test. She loosened up after she met her (now) husband, and got her first enema. (kidding, kidding…she’d kill me if she ever read that)

My favorite shirt in the whole wide world is a long sleeved peasant shirt that has embroidered flowers and coffee cups above the right breast. Then, in embroidered lettering, it reads “I Really Need a Fucking Coffee.” It’s brilliant and sums up exactly how I feel every morning. I wore it to work on Tuesday…at any other job, this may have been the reason I had been let go. However, since my ex boss got high at our last Christmas party, I somehow doubt this.

Maple Candy and Pinot Grigio

2008-05-02T19:06:00.000-07:00

I am photographing a friend's wedding in Vermont this weekend. Where most people would groan at the thought of doing such a favor, I love it. It keeps my mind off of things in my own life, gives me a sense of purpose for being around (IE - makes me feel important), offers a great gift for the bride and groom,and as cheesy as it may sound...I feel connected to their day...like, I know they'll look back on their photos and at some moment they'll think of me. Selfish? Yeah....but I don't care. Afterall, that's what being selfish is all about. Not. Caring.

So, the boyfriend! and I packed up our gear - me, equipped with a duffle bag of clothes, a hanging garment bag, laptop, camera case, tripod, purse and tote bag full of books and knitting. The boyfried! had one backpack. For the entire weekend.

The Boyfriend!: Really? 7 bags for one weekend?
Me: I really don't see the problem here. Three of these are work related. And this is a quasi work related trip.
The Boyfriend!: Ok, but that still leaves 4 bags. 4! Do you really need this? (He holds up the tote bag full of fun stuff to do)
Me: That's my fun bag. I need that to keep me occupied on the trip.
The Boyfriend!: But it's going to be a busy weekend.
Me: We're bringing the bag of fun! Trust me, I'll need it.

He rolled his eyes and reluctantly tossed it into the truck. It rained the entire drive, but we finally arrived in Chester, Vermont this evening around 5:00. We pulled into the charming Fullerton Inn - a cozy and classy lodge which features understated theme rooms. Ours is the Rose Room, I believe. This essentially means the entire room is pink with a pink bedspread, floral paintings on the wall and rose covered tapestries and shower curtain. In the lobby is a warm den with comfy couches and a table equipped with a giant checker board so you can pretend to be smart and cultured. Oh wait...that's chess. Well, the checkers are there for the children, I guess. Sean and I decided to stop into the bar before heading up to our room. Two men, whom I can only assume were guests at the Inn as well, were arguing over what to watch on television. After a minute or so of watching this display, with no bartender around to fix me my double "whatever he's having" drink, we decided to drink later and unpack first. Upon entering the room, I discovered why the argument was so detrimental. The rooms at the Inn have no television. NO TELEVISIONS.

I was so looking forward to a weekend of relaxation without the stress of dogs to walk and feed and medicate and strangle. And even when I'm reading...I always need back up noise. This room did not even have an alarm clock radio. Just the heinous BEEP BEEP BEEP alarm clock.

Me: What are we going to do!?
The Boyfriend!: Well, I suppose we could do something other than watch tv. Like read.
Me: What are the chances they have wifi here?
The Boyfriend!: The giant checker board downstairs is missing two pieces. What do you think?

Well, all I can say is...thank God for my BAG OF FUN!!!!!!!! Tonight would have been a total bust minus my knitting and books and laptop! Take that Boyfriend!

You Know You're Famous When You Get Hate Mail...

2008-04-29T12:51:00.000-07:00

For those who didn't see Anonymous' comment, posted yesterday April 28, 2008 at 4:17pm, let me post it again:

"you know, i was gonna just send an email to say that you must be the result of incest..but that really is tangential isn't it. my goodness, this is really immature, no?

all in all, women like you seriously have no business having dogs at this juncture. i'm sure you love your dog, but dogs need more than love. they need happy, mature parents."

Well, Anonymous, I was going to respond to this last night, but the boyfriend! convinced me to instead take a moment, go grab a beer and play him in a game of pool. And I agreed that this was a good idea. Besides, if we can't find a cue to play with, we could always grab the one stuck up your ass. There may even be two in there if we're lucky.

And the more I thought about your comment, the more asinine it sounded to me. And the more asinine it sounded to me, the less I wanted to dignify it with a response.

Or maybe it's just my inability to respond because I'm so high from all that cocaine I just snorted off of Red's snout.

Like Nails on a Hardwood Floor Chalkboard

2008-04-28T14:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Red woke up at 6:00 just to let us know that he was in a bad mood and had no one to share it with. We had been out late the night before, absurdly partaking in activities involving beer and wine, which would require much more than your typical eight hours of sleep to recover from and therefore were unprepared for the assault of a cold wet nose snarfing in my face. Yes, snarfing. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about? It’s the act of putting your nose in someone’s face and exhaling through your nostrils. If you’re successful, snot and watery discharge will spray all over your victim’s face. The assailant is typically that of the canine family.

So anyway, Red woke up. And when I yelled at him to go back to sleep, this apparently translated from English to Dog-ese as, “Pace around from the bedroom to the living room impatiently.” Red has very long toenails. And we have hardwood floors with no carpeting. The combination is less than desirable. So now, I kept hearing Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. Pause. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. Over and over again until I felt the dire need to stick a pencil straight up my nose and give myself a lobotomy.

He's being dropped off at the Humane Society tomorrow. (kidding, kidding)

PS – I have been tagged to do a 6 Random Things About Me type of post by Merry. It is coming soon! Don’t be too excited, people.

Heinous.

2008-04-23T14:32:00.000-07:00

**Warning...the links below have gruesome/graphic images of a starving dog.

From what I can tell by researching different articles on the so-called "artist" Guillermo Vargas Habacuc, most claims and petitions against him are valid.

Habacuc allegedly hired children to catch a feral dog. It is said that he tied the dog to a short leash at a gallery for several days, with no food and water until it died. There are pictures to support this evidence. Many people visited and watched this dog die.

The Central American Biennial, a prestigious exhibition, somehow concluded that this heinous act as art, and Habacuc has been invited to repeat his "exhibit" at the Biennial of 2008 in Honduras.

Habacuc has claimed that what he "was attempting to prove was that those who saw the suffering of the dog just walked on by and that if it had been left on the street to die, no-one would have even known of its existence," according to EuroWeekly.

It was also reported that the dog did not die, but escaped, and that it had been fed by Habacuc and was only tied up during the gallery opening times. There is obviously no way to confirm this statement.

What is apparent to me is the fact that this display was an act of cruelty. Whether it's considered "artful" or not is besides the point...it is first and foremost cruel and intended to generate pain and suffering on an innocent animal.

Furthermore, Vargas' claim that if this animal "had been left on the street to die, no-one would have even known of its existence" is completely untrue. Not everyone is so heartless and savage as yourself, Guillermo. At the very least, when the creature was abandoned, he was given a chance. A chance to scrounge for food and drink from a dirty puddle. The chance to stretch his legs and exercise. The chance that someone with a heart would have taken him in to become a member of their family.

He cannot repeat this act. His participation in the 2008 Biennial must be stopped. Please visit this site or this site to sign the petition against this.

It's That Time of Year Again

2008-04-22T13:40:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again. The time of year when you are expected to put on overalls, grab your hoe (and I'm not talking about the woman standing on the corner in fishnets, fellas), stick your hands deep in the dirt and plant a tree.

Yes, it is Earth Day! And while I don't have plans to go plant any trees today (a tree would literally take up my entire backyard), I am going to start my herb and vegetable garden! So far, I have basil, cilantro, and tomatoes. I am also going to plant some lavender because the scent is so intoxicating that the boyfriend! will most likely find me laying beside the lavender plant caressing its leaves gently once it blooms. But that's besides the point. Any other suggestions on vegetables to plant?

I remember once as a kid asking my mom about the environment. For the sake of tying the story into today's post, I'll claim that this occurred on Earth Day, 1988.

Me: Mama...why do they cawl it Mothew Eawth? (That's "Mother Earth" for those who can't depict my speech impediment in writing)

Mama: (In the grocery store, examining the label of something) Mm, because the Earth protects and nourishes us just like a mommy does her children.

Me: (Thinks this over for a minute) But doesn't it huwt her when we walk all over Eawth?

Mama: Mmm. Yes, I suppose so. (not really listening, she tosses a box of saltines into the cart behind where I'm sitting)

Me: (sniff) But, I don't want to huwt Mothew Eawth. What if I tiptoe awound?

Mama: Uh-huh, honey. That's a great idea. (She throws some rice cakes on top of the saltines)

Me: Mama...(sniff)I love Eawth!!! I don't want to huwt her!!!!! (Tears are now streaming down my face)

Mama: (Finally looking up from the grocery list, startled) What? Why are you crying? (She leans over, scooping me into her arms. I sob against her neck, tears staining her silk blouse. She picks me up out of the grocery cart and takes a few steps away)

Me: No!! Tipy-toes! Walk on your tippy-toes!! (I cry harder)

Mama: I didn't understand your question, tootsie! Walking around actually feels like good to Mother Earth. Like...a...massage.

Me: What's a muss-ahge?

Mama: I meant...a hug. Walking around feels like a hug to Mother Earth!

Me: Really? (sniff)

Mama: (nods)

Me: Ok!! (I hop down out of my mother's arms and as she continues her grocery shopping, I stomp around behind her, giving the Earth the biggest hug I can. Later, in line to pay, I stand behind my mom still smashing my feet into the floor as hard as I possibly can.)

Old Cranky Woman: (To my mother) What is she doing?

Me: I'm giving Mothew Eawth the biggest hug I can! (I exclaim proudly, beaming with pride)

Old Cranky Woman: (still looking at my mother) She's what?

Mama: Just as she said. She's hugging Mother Earth. (And with that, my mom starts stomping her feet next to me. Cranky Old Woman decides to switch lines.)

For years after this, I always imagined Earth snuggling up against my feet with every step. And on my way to work today, I thought back to that day in the grocery store. Though the New York cement wasn't nearly as gentle on my feet as running barefoot in the grass, I still walked a little heavier with each step. It had simply been too long since I'd given Mother Earth a good hug--er, I mean, stomp.

A Hip Hop Comic Con Shout Out

2008-04-21T11:56:00.000-07:00

This is a shout out to Hip Hop Chris from NYCC. (Did I pull that off, Chris? 'Shout out"? At least I know it sounded better than Sean did saying "Word.")

I was a good little girlfriend this weekend. I attended the New York Comic Con on Friday and Saturday and escorted the boyfriend! to a party thrown for DC's employees. Ok, ok...he didn't exactly have to twist my arm to attend a function at the Empire State Building with free dinner and an open bar. But the con itself is rather intimidating for a girl who's never seen Star Wars or any other movie or show based on long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away (or some shit like that).

I wore a navy blue, V-neck dress with ruffles at the bottom and a peacock blue sash that tied loosely around my waist. My hair was pulled back and had wavy tendrils cascading in front of my face. I took one last look in the mirror before grabbing my new, amazing Pan AM purse (The single greatest investment of my life...until I buy something else new, of course). This looks right, I thought to myself, just like the girlfriend of a comic illustrator.

I was greeted at the Javitz Center by a storm trooper standing in the middle of the intersection. He gave an exaggerated look up and down at my outfit, then, resting his hands on his white shell covered hips shook his head at me.

"What?" I started at him, not able to see his eyes. "I belong here!"

His head tilted to the side, mockingly.

"See? Here's my guest pass." I tugged on the cheap, plastic tag in the outer pocket of my purse.

Leaning in closer, he examined the validity of my pass.

"You think I'm over dressed?" I said quieter.

He pointed to his nose with one hand, and with the other, at me.

Just then a tall woman holding a whip, with purple streaked, jet black hair passed by. She wore what can only be described as a fishnet body stocking with nothing but a bra and panties underneath.

"Well, this will have to do" I said, "I left my catwoman costume at the brothel last night."

But storm trooper was no longer interested with girl in the blue dress. His eyes were glued on the dominatrix goth girl. I moved along, passing a dozen other women in fishnets and leather, several Leia's in the gold bikini, a few Poison Ivy's...and many many more characters that I couldn't even begin guessing who they were supposed to be.

While walking around the con with the boyfriend! on one of his breaks, he asked me who I would dress as if I HAD to come in costume. I gave him a look of disgust. Rolling his eyes, he added, "Just indulge me. I know you would never dress up for this...but if you absolutely had to...who would you be?"

I thought for a moment. "Tomb raider. Cause I could just wear cargo shorts and a cut off wife beater."

"Good answer," He nodded.

"And I'd style my hair in a french braid."

"Right."

"And do my make up so that my lips would look bigger," I added.

"Um, ok..."

"And I'd have to have a gun holster. You can't be Lara Croft without a gun holster."

"Oh no," He said rolling his eyes. "I lost you to the comic nerds..."

"Hm...maybe I would even wear a wig...just to get the hair coloring right..." I was talking more to myself now.

"I want my girlfriend back."

Aside from feeling slightly out of place, it was a lot of fun. Found a few interesting graphic novels I am looking forward to reading and I loved watching the boyfriend! be adored by fans! He was like a quasi celebrity and it was hysterical to watch. The guys who live in the apartment below us even stopped by and had a geek out moment when Sean was signing some books. At one point, Sean even said the words, "Guys, guys...I'm just like you." I snorted my coffee upon hearing this.

For those who haven't seen his work...I attached a couple examples above. Or check out his site at www.seangordonmurphy.com

The First Time I Was Dumped (Part One)

2008-04-18T07:55:00.000-07:00

Occurred: February, 2000

My pink comforter was lumpy beneath my body. Although it was soft cotton, I may as well have been lying on rocks. Dried tears stained my flushed cheeks and although it was 2pm on a Monday, all I wanted to do was curl up and fall asleep.

Snow covered the ground outside. And by “covered” I mean I could have taken a feather duster and cleared the roads myself in a matter of two hours. It was one of those rare North Carolina winters where the skies opened up and allowed frozen flakes of bliss to come drifting slowly to the ground and actually stick to the roads. Every night for two weeks we got just enough snow to close the schools. Yes, my school closed as a result of one inch of snow for two weeks straight that February. It may be naïve, but I believe it was God’s way of letting me deal with my first breakup in the sanctuary of my own home as opposed to in a crowded hallway of people pointing and whispering. Never again since then has High Point, NC gotten two straight weeks of consistent snowfall.

This particular Monday was Day One of the snowfall. Three nights prior to that day, my first boyfriend dumped me. He dumped me through a friend. Over the phone. And then as a consolation, told her that, “He would still take me to prom if I wanted.” My response to that? “Fuck you, Ian.” Ok, that wasn’t really my response back then, but it would be now. His comment resulted in three days of inconsolable tears, and it just kept getting worse.

Ian and I became best friends the summer before my sophomore year of high school. He’d walk with me to class, even if it wasn’t his usual route. Now and then I’d find little notes left in my locker, just saying Hi! with a smiley face. That’s when I knew. That’s when I knew he really liked me.

I was finally getting used to the new town my parents had moved us to. Having finally found my niche of friends, Ian being one of a few, I relaxed into a groove. I was acting in community theatre, singing in school choir, performing in my school’s drama program, dancing in a workshop with a woman who at the time was my mentor, volunteering at church, and participating in random intramural sports.

Ian was tall and lanky with long arms and a deep voice for a guy who was only 16 years old. He was also an actor. We met freshman year in the spring musical. He came barreling toward me like a saint bernard running toward kibbel.

“You’re the new girl, right?”

I nodded but didn’t respond. My arms tightened around my books as I pressed them into my flat chest.

“Cool. You’ve been the talk of the school! We don’t get too many new students here.”

I cleared my throat, preparing to say something…anything. Come on Colleen…think. I glanced down and on his wrist I saw a friendship bracelet that was fraying at the edges. It was blue and green and looked handmade. Bumps and extra string hung out where it shouldn’t. “I like your bracelet,” I said quietly.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” he smiled. “My little sister made it for me. Green’s my favorite color, so, she chose to make it in blue and green…you know,” he said nodding.

I nodded along with him while my mind searched again for something to say… “Green,” I paused, “Like…a frog.” My God. Could I be a bigger idiot?

He laughed. “Yeah, like a frog. What’s your name?”

“Colleen,” I gulped air down my throat, trying to remind myself to keep
breathing, “with two ‘e’s.” Why I felt the need to add that last part, I’ll never know. I groaned to myself.

He smiled revealing big teeth. “Cool. I’ll see you around, Colleen—with two e’s.”

I watched him walk away, all tall and dreamy. He had dark hair, light brown eyes, and a long face with chubby cheeks; the kind of cheeks that people tell you for years will thin out, but never do. I have the same cheeks.

He and I started “going out” in April of our sophomore year. I loved him in that “You’re my first boyfriend, puppy-dog, doe-eyed” kind of way. He had invited me to see a movie; some god-awful film about a talking parrot. And then, at the end of the night, before his parents picked us up at the mall, he kissed me. His lips consumed my face, covering down past my chin and instead of being wrapped up in the magic of my first kiss, I remember wondering if it was supposed to feel so slobbery. Was I doing it wrong? Was there supposed to be more saliva involved on my part? I started imagining a chocolate cake so to make myself salivate more. When we pulled away from each other, I had a wet spot of drool on the front of my shirt and dripping down my neck. Sexy, I know.

But now, it was over. We were over. And so abruptly, too. He had been acting weird just before it happened. Not giving me rides home from school, and barely giving me a peck on the cheek when saying goodnight. I even noticed once as we were walking to class, that he had let go of my hand when the cheerleaders walked by us. They bounced down the halls so high and mighty, their blonde ponytails swinging back and forth with each annoyingly cheery step. I should have seen this coming. I started to cry harder.

My dad walked into my bedroom, knocking very lightly on the door. He had our portable phone in one hand and a post-it note in the other. I didn’t move; my body did not even flinch from the position I was in. He didn’t say a word, but sat down on the foot of my bed. Sighing, I swung my feet around and sat up next to him. My mom was out of town that weekend, and my sister was away at college. I was surrounded by testosterone in a moment where I desperately needed some estrogen. My brother would have been as much help as a gorilla in this situation, so my dad was the only one really present in our house to talk to. He had no idea why I had been crying for three days straight, but I could tell by the wrinkles on his forehead that he was very concerned about the well being of his youngest daughter.

“I just spoke to your mom,” he gestured with the phone, “she is in a seminar right now, but she said you could call her at the hotel anytime you needed to.” He passed me the phone and the post-it with her number scribbled in clean cursive. My dad always had the best handwriting out of all of us. I gently took the phone and paper from him and let them fall into my lap with a soft thud. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting back and forth from looking at me to looking at my white wall in front of him. “You know, you could always talk to me, too.”

It was too much for me to take. My jaw had been clenched, swallowing the knot sitting in my throat. In one loud burp, the sobs escaped and I dropped my forehead onto my dad’s shoulder. My entire body convulsed. Shoulders shaking and trembling, I cried into my dad’s arm. He jumped, completely startled by my outburst, which only made me cry harder. Seconds later, he leaned back into the hug, the bed creaking beneath him. Through the tears, I managed to spurt out some shrill words. “Ian (breath)…..broke (sob)…..up (gulp)……with (sniffle)…….me!” I gasped for breath between each.

I wish I had seen my dad’s face when I revealed why I had been crying for days. To see that combination of relief (that it wasn’t anything more serious), but then sheer terror (at the fact that he was the only one around to console me) would have been priceless.

His hand started patting my back in a foreign way. It felt as though a stranger was tapping my shoulder, asking for directions. His statement to me, words that I can only assume were meant to soothe: “I know that can hurt.”

Thank you, dad.

You have given me many pearls of wisdom over the years. This oyster, however, was empty.

Of course it hurts, dad. Ian and I had been dating almost a year at the time he dumped me. The reason he broke up with me was because he had been seeing someone else. Was it our senior class president? No. Was it a rival school’s popular girl? Nope. Was it our head cheerleader? Wrong again. It was our cheerleading coach. Let me say that again so you clearly understand….

MY 16 YEAR OLD, HIGH SCHOOL BOYFRIEND WAS NOW DATING MY SCHOOL’S CHEERLEADING COACH. She was 31. She was also the choreographer of many musicals I had been in and my dance instructor for the workshop I attended yearly. Yes, she was my aforementioned mentor. They met because of me.

When Ian turned 18 and graduated high school, he and his cheerleading coach (known for many years to my friends and me as Coach Cunt) moved to Florida and got married.

And I spent several years wishing and praying over rosary beads that their marriage would end in a bitter divorce.

In Case You Didn't Read My Twitter the Other Day...

2008-04-16T08:48:00.001-07:00

I saw Scott Speedman (Ben from Felicity)yesterday at the Energy Kitchen. It took every ounce of my energy to not go up, throw my arms around his neck and stick my tongue in his ear. Instead, I pulled my cell phone out, pretended to be texting and snapped a photo. I think he was onto me. (not to be confused with "into me")

We also ordered the exact same thing: BBQ Quesadillas with mashed sweet potatoes and carrots.

We are obviously soul mates.

Oh, Hillary

2008-04-16T08:33:00.000-07:00

I realize this next statement is going to make me very unpopular, but…

I hate Hillary Clinton.

I know it is not the trendy opinion, especially among women, but I just cannot stand her. I don’t trust her, I don’t like her, and I would never, ever vote for her to be my next president. Which sucks, because I so badly want to see a woman as president—just not her.

And whenever I discuss this with Clinton supporters, the argument I always hear is, “To be a woman making it in a man’s world, you have to be a bitch.” I could not disagree more. What is this telling our children? That you have to be mean, conniving, corrupt and ill-tempered to make a career and name for yourself? That you have to be a bitch to make it to the top? This is a horrible example for today’s youth. I consider myself successful and on the incline and I certainly do not think I am a bitch! I go out of my way to do the right thing—the good thing—the nice thing.

In a world full of “role-models” like Paris Hilton and Anna Nicole Smith, Hillary Clinton is an obvious step up. But there are other women in this world doing amazing things—but who are also genuinely good people. These are the women I someday want my daughters to look up to. Ambassador Carol Moseley Brown, for one. An amazing and dynamic woman with a heart of gold!

What do you think? Do you think that Senator Clinton's actions and attitude is justified because that's what is necessary to make it in today’s world?

Resignation

2008-04-14T13:45:00.001-07:00

I wish I could tender my resignation as an adult. While the thought of living through puberty and my first breakup again is enough to have me wincing in pain at the thought… it doesn’t change the fact that I would love to accept the responsibilities of my five-year-old self again.

- I want to go to McDonald's and consider it an elite restaurant equivalent to a five-star bistro
- I want to sail my Barbies across a fresh mud puddle and have Ken save them from the approaching tidal wave
- I want to stash tokens from arcades in my pockets, thinking that they will someday pay for my college tuition because THEYMUSTBEPUREGOLD!
-I want to climb a big tree and watch the ants follow me up its trunk.
- I want to run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer day, only to drink it all before having any customers
- I want to make decisions based on “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo”
- I want to go fishing and care more about saving the bait than catching the big bass in the lake.
- I want to live at an age where War was a card game
- I want to think that the answer to all of life’s problems lies within my parents arms
- I want to return to a time when the most challenging thing was memorizing my multiplication tables.
- I want to think that a quarter is worth more than a dollar bill because it is shiny and pretty and weighs more.
- I want to be excited by Disney movies again
- I want to believe that a kiss can make the boo-boo disappear

So......here. Take my checkbook, my car keys, my pepper spray, my credit cards, my Roth IRA, my stocks, my collections, my insurance premiums, my job, my apartment and the rent, my bills, my e-mail address, cell phone, laptop, and digital voice recorder. I am officially resigning from adulthood. And if you want to talk me out of this—if you want to sit me down and talk to me reasonably and maturely, you'll have to catch me first
cause........

TAG! You're it!

Website Insanity

2008-04-14T10:52:00.000-07:00

I am taking the next step and creating a personal website (which will become my own blog). I am so very excited about it and at the prospect of potentially some day in many years to come making money off of my site (though I know it is years away). Does anyone have any suggestions of personal websites and blog sites I could look at for design ideas?

Thanks!

Officially Part of the Family

2008-04-09T11:24:00.000-07:00

I was lucky enough to spend the entire weekend (or most of it) with my parents, sister, brother-in-law, and beautiful baby niece, Adelynn. The boyfriend! joined us for most of the weekend as well…we were one large and very loud family!

At one point, we were all hanging out in the hotel room. I still had my high-heeled boots strapped on in order to spare everyone from the stench that is my feet.

My brother-in-law was reclining on the sofa and noticed this, confused. “C’mon,” he said, “They can’t be that bad!” Oh Adam. You have so much left to learn about this family.

So, I bent down, unzipped my boots, peeled away my sweaty socks and he dropped over dead. I, then, had to yell to my sister in the other room that I had killed her husband and her baby’s daddy and the NYPD were on their way to book me now for assault with a deadly swamp foot.

Adam eventually regained consciousness and for the rest of the weekend, I was forced to keep my feet sealed in saran wrap.

Not So Frequently Asked Questions:

2008-04-01T14:11:00.000-07:00

Should I send you unsolicited advice?
No.

How do you pronounce Katana?
Kuh-Tay-Nuh.

But I always thought it was pronounced Kah-Tah-Nah, like the sword. Can I still say it like that?
Sure, why not. I pronounce the “g” in champagne and bologna and cologne, even though I know better. Consider it even.

Do you prefer that I address you as Colleen or Ms. Katana?
I prefer you that you address me as Astounding Being of Radiance and Grandeur.

What breed of dog are Luna and Red?
They are a little bit of everything. Luna is a Labrador, Whippet, Terrier, and probably some Pit Bull. Red is a little harder to figure out. Sean thinks he’s Pit and Lab. And since he’s really Red’s owner, I can’t argue...BUT, I think he’s Labrador, Great Dane, and Boxer. They are both one of a kind, and no, you can't have them. Ok, maybe Luna…but you have to ask really nicely.

What kind of camera do you use?
A Nikon D70. But I’m hoping to get a new one soon.

“I’m surprised you haven’t been reported to the humane society with how you treat and talk about your dog. You were going to put her down for no good reason! What if I put you down!? And, just so you know, Beanie babies are very dangerous for dogs to chew on. She could suffocate and choke on the beads. Don’t let her eat them! You’re absurd. Grow up.”

Ok, but when you call the Humane Society, please make sure you tell them the whole story. Not only do I force feed her beanie babies, but first I set her in the middle of a flea and tick-infested floor, chain her to an anvil and surround her with broken glass, razor blades and knives from my kitchen. Then I force her to watch other dogs outside who get to run and play and fetch. Then, just before leaving the room and locking the door, I stick a bottle full of tequila down her throat to muffle the barking.

Yeah, you're totally the chubbiest 5'7, 90lb woman I'VE ever seen.

2008-03-27T07:56:00.000-07:00

Here's a conversation I was a part of the other day at rehearsal:

90lb, 5'7 Blonde woman:
Ugh, Gawd...I feel totally bloated today. I had like seven M&M's! Can you believe that? Seven! I really need to learn self-control.

Me:
(Remains silent. Hides my Snickers bar behind my back)

90.5lb, 5'6 woman:
Yeah, I know what you mean. Just be sure to eat a salad with no dressing tonight for dinner.

90lb, 5'7 Blonde woman:
But I don't like tomatoes, cucumbers or carrots.

90.5lb, 5'6 woman:
So, get your salad without all that.

(They both nod in agreeance)

Me:
So, you're just going to have lettuce for dinner?

90lb, 5'7 Blonde woman:
Yeah. (She shrugs, obviously seeing nothing weird about this)

Me:
Why don't you add some avocado to that? Or tofu. Tofu's healthy.

90lb, 5'7 Blonde woman:
Um, ew. Carbs.

Me:
Tofu's protein. Not carbs. And avocado is nature's miracle food. It's really good for you.

90lb, 5'7 Blonde woman:
Whatever. It's fatty.

Me:
(presses lips together, fighting the urge to make her look like the dumbass she is)
Ok. Enjoy your lettuce.

Updates

2008-03-25T10:11:00.000-07:00

I'm having trouble keeping this blog up to date with my new job writing for Animal Fair. I apologize and I will try very hard to post something soon! In the meantime, let's discuss this video of my true love, Milo Ventimiglia. I fell in love with him when he played Jess on Gilmore Girls (Stop laughing. No seriously...stop laughing at me, it's a good show!!), then I followed him to the Bedford Diaries and stalked him mercilessly hoping to run into him at a bar while he was in NY (came relatively close once, but he had left the bar half an hour before I got there!!! DAMNIT!) And then lastly watched him religiously on Heroes (the first season...I haven't been following the 2nd very closely). But now with this video...I'm seriously worried that he is not the man I thought he was.

How could you do this to me, Milo? To our future children? I hate to do this, but I'm not so sure you and I are meant for each other anymore. I'm afraid we've grown apart throughout the years. But I wish you the best.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QuE-shcNqA

Luna

2008-03-22T07:25:00.000-07:00

Luna may just be the luckiest dog ever. I received a call yesterday from a veterinarian in the city who wants to help Luna get better. Pro-bono. She must be Luna's guardian angel.

The Ups and Downs

2008-03-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

The roller coaster peaked, and took a hard fall. My dog, Luna, has to be put to sleep on Saturday for reasons that I am not yet ready to discuss. She is a quirky pet who has her issues, but was still a good dog in many ways.

As I'm sure you can imagine, I'm a wreck right now and I can't imagine my tears ceasing any time soon. Please think of me and Luna at 2:00pm on Saturday and say a prayer that she falls into her eternal sleep peacefully and that I have the strength to make it through the weekend without falling apart.

Go Ahead...Guess!

2008-03-18T14:47:00.000-07:00

Guess who just got a freelance job writing for the amazing Wendy Diamond and her magazine, Animal Fair? That's right--ME! And I am so excited that I am this close ::pinching fingers together:: to peeing all over my desk chair right now!

The Most Comfortable Toilet Ever

2008-03-13T08:55:00.001-07:00

So, I don't know if anyone saw this article already...but this woman sat on her boyfriend's toilet for two years. TWO YEARS with her ass on that hard plastic seat! Her skin had apparently grown over the seat!!!!

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/23595533/#storyContinued

Now, this raises a few questions in my mind:
1)Why??(IE - what was wrong with this woman psychologicallY?)
2)Was this a case of abuse? Did her boyfriend force her to stay in the bathroom...but even in that case, if he's locking you in the bathroom, that doesn't mean you can't stand up from the toilet now and then.
3)Why??!
4)If this is not a case of abuse, why did it take the boyfriend 2 years to call the authorities, reporting his girlfriend was "acting funny." After 24 hours, I would have called someone!
5)Why!?!?!
6)Where the hell did her boyfriend go to the bathroom during those two years?
and lastly...

7)WHY!?!?!?!

Things Said To Me By Previous Bosses

2008-03-12T13:50:00.000-07:00

**None of the quotes below are from my current job. My boss here has always been wonderful and polite, almost family-like in a lot of ways! These are all from previous jobs!

(While working at a restaurant)
Boss: (not knowing I was behind him, talking to the new bartender) You should check out Colleen. As a waitress, she sucks. But she's easy on the eyes.
New Guy: Oh yeah? Which one is she? What does she look like?
Boss: Picture a really pretty face. Now put that face on a two by four. That's Colleen.

(while working in retail)
Boss: (while doing inventory with me) Hm, these are torn. They're a small...do you want them?
Me: Uh, aren't we supposed to send them back to the manufacturer or something?
Boss: Nah, people shoplift all the time here. We'll write it off as that.

(Same retail job, same boss)
Boss: You see that guy? Keep an eye on him. I think he may be shoplifting.
Me: Why? What's he doing?
Boss: He's black.

(While working at the same restaurant...a different boss)
Female Boss: I told my husband you and I were going for drinks after work.
Me: Uh...but I'm not 21.
Female Boss: So? We're not actually going.
Me: Oh.
Female Boss: (Leaves in an unidentified car with a man who is not her husband.)

(In an office job)
Boss: Don't wear that lipstick. It looks like you should be out at a rave.

The lipstick was red. And not a "whore" red. Just a deep, crimson. I wore the same lipstick the entire week just to piss her off.

(At Disney World)
Boss: (trying to explain to the group what working at Disney is like) Some days, it's like Boom, Boom, Boom. Other days....just Boom.

Missy, Lynne and I: Huh?

(While working for a small publication)
Boss: Be sure to buy that ad space for us today. Use the company card.
Me: Ok.
(the next day)
Boss: What is this $600 charge to our credit card!!!!!
Me: The ad space we bought yesterday.
Boss: What ad space!?
Me: Er--the one you told me to buy yesterday.
Boss: I did?
Me: Yeah...
Boss: Oh.

(male boss at the restaurant...again)
Boss: Are you bulimic?
Me: Uh, no.
Boss: Really?
Me: Yep, pretty sure.
Boss: But you never steal any food on your shifts!
Me: Well, that's cause I'm anorexic. Not bulimic. There's a difference. (I was totally kidding)
Boss: ....
::Blink. Blink, blink.::

(Different Male boss at the restaurant)
Boss: Are your boobs real?
Me: (silence...does this dumbass really think I'd pay for boobs this small?) No, but I told my doctor before the sex change operation that I wanted the boobs to match the rest of my body.
Boss: Wait...you mean, you're a dude?

Over the Hill

2008-03-11T11:14:00.000-07:00

The other night was my good friend, Frank's, 26th birthday. 26. And that's when I realized that I will be 25 in July. 25. 25 freaking years old! I remember meeting people who were 25 years old when I was in high school and thinking, "Wow. 25...you're like an adult." Then, I remember meeting the assistant producer when I first started as an intern at my company...and she was 25. And I remember thinking, "Whoa. 25. You're old." And now I am that old girl. That so-called "adult."

This whole getting old thing sucks. I'm used to being the youngest in every group. I was the youngest of three kids. I was always the youngest in school. I've always been the youngest out of all my friends. And this is slowly starting to change. I think I need to find newer, older friends. Anyone in their 30s feel like hanging out?

There are a couple new interns in my office, two are in college and one graduated last year. We all went for happy hour drinks a couple of weeks ago. I honestly wasn't feeling it. I would have much preferred to run home, slip into pj's and watch the Rachel Ray Show, which I had DVR'd earlier, with a cup of hot tea. But I decided not to be a fuddy-duddy and managed to oil up my walker and head to the Village Tavern with all these youngin's. Over a Magners (the greatest cider EVER) the college kids and I were chatting about where everyone was from. As it turned out, one of the girls was from a town in Connecticut where a guy I used to date lived. After telling her this, I mentioned his name to which she responded:
"You mean Devland Avocado?" (obviously, this is not his real name...I am protecting his privacy)

I felt immediately cool, and hip and with it and pushed the thought that my back was aching out of my mind. "Yes!" I replied, "You know him?"

She smiled and started laughing sadistically. "Yeah! Mr. Avocado was my history teacher, senior year in high school!"

I died a little inside that day, hearing her call a man I dated, "Mr. Avocado."

I chugged what was left of my Magners, wiped the foam from my lips and immediately left the bar.

I was starting to feel better the next night as I babysat Maddie, my best friend's five year old daughter. We were skipping and playing and exploring the city. And all was right with my world again.

"You know what I told my teacher yesterday?" Maddie looked up at me with big, brown eyes.

"No, what's that Maddie?"

"I told her I was hanging out with my bestest friend in the world tonight."

"Really?" I smiled and ran my fingers through her silky hair,"You're one of my bestest friends too, Maddie." Then I added, "And my favorite five year old."

And just then, I started to think...I'm not 25 yet. I still have four glorious months of my 24th year on this planet. Four wonderful months before I roll over that hill. And I should explore it like a five year old, excited and thrilled with every moment and every opportunity.

Maddie stood on the subway chair beside me and threw her arms around my neck. "I'm turning six in July!" She stated as if reading my thoughts.

"I know!" I said, "My birthday's in July too! Know how old I'll be?" Maddie shook her head. "25!" I said smiling in an exaggerated way.

Maddie's eyes grew wide and her face dropped, mouth gaping open. "Whoa. That's. Old." And she paused between each word for effect. You know, to give herself some time to twist the knife.

I sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

A List of Lists

2008-03-10T08:40:00.001-07:00

A List of Lists

1. Things I would like to do to Angelina Jolie:
a) CENSORED
b) CENSORED
c) CENSORED

2. Things I would like to do to Brad Pitt:
a) CENSORED
b) CENSORED
c) CENSORED

2. Things I shouldn't say to my parents:
a) Can I borrow some money?
b) Vote Obama.
c) Jesus Fucking Christ!

3. Things I shouldn't eat for the risk of ruining perfectly good pants:
a) Broccoli
b) Canned chili
c) That curried chicken with a side of curried rice. With curry. And did I mention the curry?

4. People I'd Like to toss off a bridge:
a) Ryan Seacrest
b) Anne Coulter
c) Ted Nugent

5. Reasons to adore The Boyfriend!
a) The smell of his cologne
b) He gives the greatest hugs
c) The fact that he puts up with my crazy dog

6. Drinks I will order at Frank’s birthday party this evening:
a) Pinot Noir
b) Dirty vodka martini. Extra olives.
c) Whatever she's having. But make mine a double.

7. Nicknames I'm tossing about:
a) CoKat
b) Panic at the Colleen
c) Ice C.

8. Nicknames to combine The Boyfriend’s! name and mine (like Brangelina, Bennifer, etc):
a) Cosea
b) Kamurphy
c) Sealleen

9. People I would blame if I ever got arrested:
a) The entire SCAD administration
b) Republicans
c) OJ Simpson

10. Things I'd love to eat right now but won't because I have to lose 10 pounds:
a) Waffles. With fruit. And whipped cream.
b) A Moe’s chicken burrito with a side of macaroni salad.
c) That whole bag of Peanut M&M's sitting on my producer's desk.

Mom

2008-03-06T12:10:00.000-08:00

My mother has heard through the grapevine that her dear, darling daughter has a weblog. And has requested the URL. Actually, what she asked for was the "thingy." It took me a few seconds to figure out what "thingy" she was requesting.

"You want my social security number mom?"
"No, the thingy so I can get to your stuff."
"A map of the tri-state area?"
"No, the computer's thingy!"
"I don't think that the computer has a penis, mom."
"You're so crude! I mean the thingy you type in to get to your webpage."
"Ohhhh, THAT thingy!"

In fact, my mother is so computer illiterate, that she couldn't figure out that the "send" button is what sends the emails through cyberspace (I love you mom).

So anyway, it is because of my mommy's dedication to her daughter and interest in all that I write that I will be going through and censoring my previous blogs. Not that there's anything that she really can't or shouldn't see...but just out of respect for her and to maintain some privacy in my life. Because, apparently living 562.04 miles from home does not offer enough of said privacy.

And mom...I'm sorry for the bad language you will inevitably be reading. You raised your daughter better and while I do have an extensive vocabulary, sometimes there is just no substitute for "Fuck."

LunaChat

2008-03-04T13:49:00.000-08:00

“Morning mom! Can you hear me? Here, I’ll lick your face for a bit to make sure you know I’m talking to YOU.

So, I know it’s an hour before you usually wake up, but I thought I heard a click. And I then I thought perhaps that quiet click noise was the sound of your alarm going off. And I would hate for you to be late because your alarm clock was malfunctioning. Mom? Mom! MOM!!! Well, now that you’re up, can we go out? It’s not because I have to go to the bathroom, because I don’t yet, and when you let me out I’m just going to sit there like a moron. Because I’m retarded. Or at least, I like you to think I am because it means I don’t get in as much trouble when I eat your saltines and pee all over the floor.”
___________________________________________________________________________________

“I see that strange electronic thingy in your lap which you constantly tap your fingers against. And I totally know that means you’re working…but I’m bored. And I need you to amuse me. No, NO, I do not want that bone! BARK! It has no flavor left and it just sits there. BARK! BARK! That bone doesn’t throw itself mama! Ok, that’s good…you hold one end and I’ll tug on the other. Oops, sorry! Your thumb got in the way of my teeth. You should really be more careful, mama.

Well, you give up rather easy. I’m very strong, I know, but a little more effort on your part would be appreciated. I’ve been patient all morning, so if you don’t acknowledge me soon, I’m going to start pacing back and forth in front of you and barking loudly. And then I will intermittently lay my pathetic head in your lap, resting my chin on that button that makes you scream and yell words whose meanings I don’t understand, but the tone…the tone, I get. And again, you can’t get mad because I’m just your retarded little Katrina rescue. And then you’ll have to get up and play with me.

Mom? BARK! Why aren’t you getting up? BARK!!

You apparently don’t love me.

You’ve never loved me.”
___________________________________________________________________________________

“I know that when your friends come over, I’m not supposed to jump on them. But how else am I supposed to show my excitement? A tail wag just simply is not enough to show you how happy I am to have visitors. And I know that there’s that one guy specifically who I’m supposed to leave alone. But that guy obviously doesn’t like me and I think he should. And I know everyone else visiting loves me, but that one guy, that guy is the one who needs my attention most.

And I know that when he’s sitting across the room, eyeing me warily, that he’s really just inwardly hoping I’ll run over to him and springboard off the ottoman into his lap, licking his face with my gassy, sphincter-licking breath. I mean, he must enjoy that. Even if he doesn’t like me, he’s got to like it when I put both my paws on his shirt, leaving my signature print of dirt and mud. I think that if you just let me persist, that he will indeed like me by the time he leaves tonight. Especially after I sneeze in his coffee.

Mom? Mom? Why are you hanging your head like that?”
___________________________________________________________________________________

“But, mama…you don’t understand. Stop yelling for a second. That hole NEEDED to be dug. There was something moving in there and I needed to protect you from it! Well, don’t waste your time looking now…it’s not there anymore. But I’ll let you know the second it comes back.

What are you doing? Why are you filling in my hole? That took me the whole morning! Oh well, I’ll just start over tomorrow.”
___________________________________________________________________________________

“You’re talking into that thing again! BARK! That small, weird looking thing that you hold up to your ear! BARK! And your voice gets very loud when you talk to that thing and I just don’t understand! BARK BARK! Who are you talking to? And why so loud, mom? Seriously, I know we’re from the south and all, but that accent rarely surfaces this strongly. Usually only when you talk into that THING AGAINST YOUR EAR and when you drink from the bottle with the cork in it.”
___________________________________________________________________________________

"I know YOU don’t love me, but YOUR mom loves me. And when I go sit by her side and perk my ears up and wag my tail with my cute little wrinkled face in her lap, she always gives me snacks. Like that time she cooked a whole pork chop JUST FOR ME! And we all ate dinner together off of the most expensive china you own. And by “china” I mean your Pier 1 plates, of course. And then, there was that time that she shared an entire can of Pringles with me, one by one, even though you told her not to. And I went into your living room, tummy rumbling and threw up every last piece of Pringle and Kibble and leftover hotdog from dinner all over your new white couch. And you had to wake up several times in the night to take me for a walk while I pooped liquid."
___________________________________________________________________________________

“What is this thing you’re doing with your hands? You’re rubbing them against me! That must mean it’s playtime! And I’m going to fling my body around and knock you in the face with my hard, hard head because I’m SOEXCITEDTHATYOUWANTTOPLAYWITHME! And this tail of mine—yeah, I know that it kind of feels like I’m slashing you with a whip, but I really can’t control it. I swear. I even hit myself in the face sometimes, and I agree…it hurts.

What? Why are you pulling me toward you? Are we wrestling now? Ohh, I like wrestling!

Ohhh, I get it. You’re in that weird mood that you humans feel sometimes where you just need to hold me. And your face—it’s leaking again. Here, mom, let me lick that for you. Mm, you taste like cookies. Did you eat cookies today without me? It's ok, I guess...but next time, you’d better share them!

Aw, I love you too, mama.”

Life with a Dog. Much Different than Life with a Latte.

2008-03-03T07:41:00.000-08:00

A couple factoids about me: I was raised, first in Pennsylvania and then moved to the south just prior to puberty. I grew up in an Irish Catholic family, which essentially means that life was filled with rosary beads, guilt, and fatal amounts of whiskey.

There was also never a day that we didn’t have at least one dog as a member of our family. Dogs and animals, as a general, are a part of my soul. A reason for living. Our first dog I remember was Bear. Bear was an enormous white boxer who we rescued just hours before he was supposed to be put to sleep. We named him Bear because he looked like a polar bear. (Hey—blame my siblings! I was only 10 days old when he arrived!) He was a lazy son of a bitch—only rose from napping when food was present. Bear was my buddy and very protective of me as a baby. He would allow me to reach my pudgy little hands and grab the softened Kibble from inside his mouth. And before my mother could rush over to stop me…I would swallow it (Yes, I was the child who ate ants on the playground).

We found our next dog when I was four. She was named Cupcake because Bear could have eaten her in two bites like a cupcake. (Again—we were young, cut us some slack) We decided to adopt her because my sister, Bridget, desperately wanted a cat, but my brother and mom were highly allergic. My parents compromised and we found a small dog, who was like a cat in so many ways. She was the leader of the pack. The bitch of the house. Any time we would pet her, she’d roll her eyes up at us saying, “How dare thee get thy hand oils on my precious coat!” Then, snapping her head away, “Go! Get me a rawhide!”

When I was ten, we bought another boxer. A beautiful fawn boy, who was tiny enough to curl into our laps. This lasted a whopping three weeks before his weight began to crush my ten year-old chicken legs. There were now three dogs in the Katana household. This time around, none of us could agree on what to name him. Arguments broke out and fists started swinging. I can’t remember who wanted what, but we ended up “compromising” and naming him everything: Sir Reginald Octavious Smithe of Lancaster County. (I hope to God in Heaven that I am not the one who was voting for Smithe!) We called him Reggie for short. He was the most playful of all three dogs, constantly wiggling around you, curling his body into a U shape so that you would scratch his rear.

A couple years after Reggie entered the family, we moved to North Carolina and lost Bear. The move must have been too much for him. While no dog can ever replace one you’ve had, a new, energetic life can sure lift your spirits. That’s when we rescued MacDuff (Duffy) from the local shelter. He was a lab-pit mix. Very wiry. Very energetic. Very dominant. Cupcake was not pleased with this new Mister and they constantly fought for the throne. Eventually, they learned to live together. And by “learned” I mean Duff relinquished dominance.

We lost Reggie much too soon. He was only five years old when he died of a heart murmur that our veterinarian had missed. Soon after Reggie passed, Duffy attacked my mom. As in, full out attacked, would not stop biting, drawing blood, and went for her throat. She needed stitches—I can’t recall how many. I think I have blocked the details of this memory from my mind. It turned out that Duffy had a brain tumor that triggered severe aggression. He needed to be put to sleep. Losing both Duff and Reggie so unexpectedly and abruptly damaged all of us. So, why? Why do we do it? Why do we continue to let such amazing and dynamic animals into our hearts and grow attached to them, if in a few years, our hearts will be shattered into a billion pieces? It’s a question I still don’t have an answer for. But perhaps it is because my life is more full when in their presence. Maybe it’s because they provide a love so unconditional that my human brain can’t comprehend it. Or maybe it’s because I like having someone to blame my gas on.

Our hearts eventually mended from the loss of Reggie and Duff, but the scars still remain. That’s when we found Mojo. A brindle boxer whose spirit was unbreakable. And soon after this, we rescued a mutt that needed us. A white…something. His breed is still somewhat of a mystery. Perhaps a pit/bulldog/boxer mix? We named him Weejes, after my sister since she was the one who found him (We call Bridget ‘Beejes,’ and somehow that transformed into Weejes over the years). As the runt of the litter, he suffered from slight retardation due to a lack of oxygen when he was born. He was a tough dog to train. We would teach him a command only to have him forget what he had learned within seconds. He was afraid of everything. The steps to our backyard, the hair dryer, the vacuum, the mop…basically anything that made noise or moved or looked strange MUSTBESOMESORTOFDEMON!!! Weejes passed away earlier this year, as well. Another great dog, lost too soon to cancer.

Cupcake passed at the very old age of 16 while I was away at college. She lived a full and long life and will forever be remembered as the queen of the Katana household.

For my 21st birthday, my parents bought me my first dog, Gracie, while I was still in school. She is a brindle boxer (are you seeing a pattern yet?). Unfortunately, I could not give Gracie the attention she deserved with my class schedule, extracurriculars, job, internship, etc . We had no set routine—walks were sporadic, she had no yard or outlet for exercise and in a couple of months, it became very apparent that she would be a much happier pooch with my parents. Besides, my parents were now in a house with no dogs since Bo had taken Mojo and Weejes with him when he moved out. When I brought Gracie back, our home sparked with life once again and I knew I had made the best and selfless choice.

Two and a half years ago, I finally found my dog. In actuality, I believe that she chose me, not the other way around. When I saw her black face peacefully sleeping, I knew I was ready…mature enough to handle taking care of another life.

Yes, I found Ms. Luna. The Katrina Survivor. The Katana Reviver.
(A rhyme that bad should never go to waste!)

2008-02-28T09:11:00.000-08:00

2008-02-26T13:18:00.001-08:00

And because Blogspot wouldn't let me post more than a few pics....I had to write another post, so that you can relish in the cuteness with me. DO IT! RELISH!!!!!!!!

Pacifier Clips

2008-02-26T13:07:00.000-08:00

For those who don't know, my sister had a baby in August. The most beautiful, blue-eyed, dark-haired, albeit slightly Asian looking baby EVER!

My parents went to visit not too long ago, and above are a few pictures of the constantly smiling, bundle of joy. Seriously...I've never seen a baby so happy! Of course, the only other baby I've really been around is My best friend's daughter, Maddie, who was colicky for the first five months of her life.

When I first heard that my sister had gone into labor with Ms. Adelynn Mitchell...it meant one thing in the mind of this young New York woman. It meant it’s time to shop for welcome home gifts! Did it matter that I already spent hundreds of dollars on gifts at the baby shower? And when my sister first announced she was pregnant? And basically any time I passed an adorable boutique in the West Village? And that I knitted her a blanket and a hat and a scarf regardless of the fact that Bridget’s due date was August 7th? NO, of course not! This is my niece! And she deserves all that I can afford to give her!

I suited up in my most comfortable pair of heels and headed to the darling little store I had passed a few times, but never had the chance to go into. Live It Up! is located on Ave B and 13th St in the East Village. With a small door hidden behind a big flea market, it was easy to miss. Luckily, they have painted their name on the window in big pink letters. Upon walking in, I was greeted with hot coffee and cookies in celebration of their one-year anniversary. The young married couple was sweet and hip, looking like they definitely belonged right there in the East Village. Everything in the store was unique (and not all baby stuff…household appliances, towels, etc too), brightly colored, and classy with an air of funk to it. There were terry cloth robes for the baby with hoods like animals. And a bumblebee onesie that I couldn’t resist buying…it was going to be perfect for Halloween! But the thing that stood out most were the pacifier clips. I didn’t realize when I bought them, but they turned out to be the best gift my sister received. These pacifier clips were made of soft material, similar to the terry cloth robes, and had adorable designs, like ladybugs and flowers. All of the other pacifier clips my sister bought were hard or rubbery and Adelynn had a tendency to bonk herself in the face with them. But these Live It Up pacifier clips were, not only soft against her neck and chin, but brightly colored and stimulating for the baby as well as cute with any outfit!

Bridget called me within days of using the clip, begging me to buy more and send them to her. Then, her sister-in-law, also pregnant, asked for some. Then her sister-in-laws best friend wanted some. I found myself making a detour to this store every week to fill yet another order.

I guess I’ll just have to go find something else equally amazing so that I can spend my time in a different store for a change…

What's Worse Than a Bad Day?

2008-02-22T14:44:00.000-08:00

A day that starts out bad, with lots of tears. And then something great happens and you're smiling so wide it looks like a hanger is caught in your mouth. And then something AWFUL happens and ruins the high you were on. And then something good happens, but not as good as the first good thing....and then that 2nd good thing falls through before it had the chance to blossom.

It's like an emotional roller coaster. Seriously...if it's gonna be a bad day, fine. I can take it. A good day? Even better. But this back and forth shit kills me. I never had a chance to fully enjoy the good things because the bad overpowered them.

I got a small glimpse into how my life would be if I were bipolar. Let me tell you folks, it was not pretty. If I ever learn that I am truly manic-depressive...do not hesitate to give me the prozac.

The Secret of Tea

2008-02-22T09:56:00.000-08:00

As everyone here knows, I am obsessed with coffee. But once the headaches started and after realizing how jittery I was without my usual morning joe, I knew I needed to make a change. So I tried switching to Tea a couple months ago. At first, I was hesitant. How in the world could Tea replace my wonderful, loving companion, Coffee? Tea was like the rebound guy you go on a date with after having your heart broken by the man you loved. And Coffee did break my heart. I was a devoted lover, but he was bad for me. Abusive. Addictive. So, I tinkered around with Earl Grey and a few other mass produced teas that come in boxes. It just wasn't the same. I cringed with each sip. Then, one morning, I stumbled upon Alice's Tea Cup on the upper east side. Across the street was a coffee shop. I somehow managed to ignore the sweet smell of Columbian brew across the street and entered the lovely glass doors to Alice's Tea Cup. I was seated at a dark wood, mahogany table and offered a scone menu to start. Beautiful paintings from Alice in Wonderland were painted all over the walls in a classy, understated way. I ordered a pumpkin scone and a 'white chocolate' tea from the menu. I hesitantly lifted the dainty, porcelain teacup to my lips. It was heaven as the liquid cascaded down my throat. For the first time in my life, I enjoyed a cup of tea. It was light and sweet with a creamy base that tasted like actual bits of white chocolate had been infused in the tea.

I asked the server what the secret was? How is it that my tea I make at home is so bitter and overbrewed tasting, when this is, well, perfection? He asked what type of tea I drink. I shrugged, not really sure which brand I bought from the grocery store this week. He said the key was the fresh tea leaves. Buying bags of loose tea as opposed to prepackaged pods makes the difference. He told me to buy a tea strainer and a sample bag of tea from their gift shop. I did. And my tea I make at home is just as delicious as the tea at Alice's Tea Cup. Not only this--but I realized it's the whole package that goes with drinking tea. It's refined. It's beautiful. It's traditional. It's classic. And while I still definitely enjoy a cup of coffee now and then, Tea and I finally found a way to make it work. It goes to show, that a relationship doesn't have to be bad for you to be enjoyable!

"Seeking Literary Agent"

2008-02-20T12:27:00.001-08:00

This is an ad I found on CraigsList today:

"Seeking Literary Agent!
I am a first time novelist with a unique opportunity
seeking an agent. The manuscript is solid literary fiction
and has commercial potential. Contact me for more details
and information on the book."

Um, are you effing kidding me? Here's an idea Ms/r. First Time Novelist. Do some research! If you spent the time to write the book--spend the time to get it sold! Don't just sit on your ass waiting for an agent to come to you, cause guess what, dipshit? This industry doesn't work that way! Actually, wait--I take that back. In the small case that you did actually write something quality, I think you SHOULD just wait for the agent to contact you. (One less query letter that's competition for me!) You go ahead and eat those Doritos on your dusty old recliner while watching Regis and Kelly. Be sure to shoot me an email about who they interviewed today while I'm working hard earning a living here at my desk. Maybe you should get up sometime around noon and make some lunch...or better yet, order in. By dinner time, I'm sure your inbox will be FLOODED with potential agents begging to hear of this "solid" literary fiction you have waiting for them. Awesome plan. Good luck, dude.

Can you tell I'm cranky today?

An Oldie...but a Goodie

2008-02-19T09:27:00.000-08:00

So I know I suck at posting lately. I apologize. Things have been a tad crazy. But here's the beginning to a story which was a hit on the previous blog I used to write for. Enjoy!!!!

______________________________

She was short, but lean. Thin, muscular legs peaked out from beneath her denim mini skirt and small delicate feet rested in little ballet flats. Black cotton leggings wrapped around her calves and thighs to keep them warm on this brisk December day. In only a gray sweater, black scarf, and black hat that tilted over her left eye, she shivered in the 35 degree weather. She pushed the thought that she should have grabbed her peacoat before exiting her small studio apartment out of her head. It was too late now. She felt her cheeks tingle and turn numb, and knew that they were a turning natural shade of rosy; a flushed pink, the same shade of salmon that was painted on her fingernails, that stretched from cheekbone to cheekbone, across the bridge of her nose.  She hardly ever wore makeup, but when she did, it was subtle eyeliner to emphasize the one body part she was confident in—--her eyes. Today they were dark blue. The same blue you would see while visiting the ocean; a sapphire-like blue. But their color changed daily with what she was wearing. Some days they would be greenish, and other days they would look as gray as the overcast sky. On the days like today, when her eyes sparkled like sapphires, she would walk with a little bounce in her step; poise and buoyancy oozing out of these treasures that she valued more than any gemstone. And while she would never recognize or admit it, she turned heads. She turned more heads than any of the 5'10, make up caked women that surrounded her in this city. They were a sea of painted faces; floating rouge and crimson lips.

He was tall and handsome with angular features that exuded masculinity. Sandy brown hair curled playfully around his ears and as he walked, loose change jingled in the pocket of his leather jacket. He couldn't hear the rattling over his blaring iPod. He walked in long, quick strides and as he did, his jeans rubbed against each other in a swishing type of movement. The blinking red hand instructed him and the other pedestrians to cease walking and instead of speeding up to beat traffic crossing the street as he usually does, he stopped and waited his turn.

From across the street, he saw the girl in the denim skirt. Her shoulders were tense around her ears, and every couple of seconds he could see her body tremble in the cold. Her blondish hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail underneath her hat and a couple of wavy tendrils had managed to escape from the elastic band, coiling around her jaw. She looked at the ground, fisted hands pushed deeply into the cargo pockets of her skirt. For a moment, her eyes rose and met his. Raising his eyebrows, he softly smirked at her, expecting a smile in return; for he never smiles without some form of reciprocation. Her eyes darted to left; towering over her was a leggy brunette looking as if she had just stepped out of a Prada advertisement, sporting a long white coat and a wide, toothy grin that had been, no doubt, recently bleached. Surely he was smiling at Prada Girl…

Prada girl smiled back at the man in the leather jacket. Surely he was smiling at her. The only other female within eyesight was the homely girl next to her who hadn't even bothered to wear heels today. She seductively ran her tongue across her top lip and smiled again, waiting for his next move.

The man in the leather jacket watched the girl in the denim skirt looking at the woman in the white coat. His brow furrowed and his smile faded into a perplexed look. Mouth hanging open, his top teeth rested latently on his bottom lip. The girl returned her gaze to the ground and shifted awkwardly.

The woman in the white coat rolled her hips and changed her weight from one foot to the other so that her pelvis was slightly aimed at the man in the leather jacket. As she did, the girl next to her began walking, for the light had changed to its universal walk signal. Before her foot even reached the ground, the woman in the white coat's long ankle tripped her, spilling items from her bag onto the grimy sidewalk.

The man in the leather jacket's light blue eyes sparkled at the chance to be chivalrous and he quickly rushed to help her pick up the items.

The woman in the white coat saw the man hastening toward her and smiled wider, one eyebrow arched malevolently.

The girl in the denim skirt crouched, picked up each item one by one, and tried to stuff them back into her purse while the city bustled past her. People's coats and legs brushed her right shoulder while she hurriedly tried to clean up her mess.

As the man in the leather jacket approached, the woman in the white coat parted her glossy lips, transforming her smile into an alluring pout. The tacky polish created a surreal shine that only lasted another five minutes before fading, and she had to reapply. She found it odd that his gaze was focused lower; he must have been staring at her breasts. They are, after all, rather magnificent.

Without making eye contact with the woman in the white coat, the man in the leather jacket bent down and knelt in front of the girl in the denim skirt. He flashed a more direct smile; one that couldn't have been mistaken as being for anyone but her. His teeth were perfectly straight, like a strand of pearls and she was afraid to smile for fear of revealing her own slightly crooked, coffee-stained teeth. She silently cursed her parents for never getting her braces.

He lowered one knee to the filthy ground. "Here. Let me help," He reached out a hand to grab one of the objects on the sidewalk. As he lifted it, they both realized that the object he was handing her was a tampon. Her salmon blush turned into a deeper crimson, comparable to the woman in the white coat's lipgloss.

"Thanks." The words tripped off of her naked lips and she clumsily stuffed the tampon deep into her purse.

The woman in the white coat bent down carefully, so to not dirty her designer clothes. "I am so sorry," her voice had a tin-like quality and she spoke through her nose, "I can be so clumsy, sometimes." She touched perfectly manicured fingers to her sternum in a shameful attempt to draw his eyes to her perky breasts. She tilted her head to the side and her dark brown hair fell in the girl in the denim skirt's face. She grimaced and spit out the hairsprayed tendrils that were still dangling like a curtain in front of her. The woman in the white coat tossed a tube of chapstick carelessly behind her with her right hand and offered the man her left. "I'm Shayla. I saw you across the street." She winked a brown eye, clumps of mascara flaking off in the process.

Indifferently he took her hand and helped Shayla stand. "Luke." Once she was back on her feet, he used her hand to guide her out of the way. Then, he extended that same hand to the girl in the denim skirt. "I'm Luke," he said once more.

With wide eyes, she stared into his just a moment too long. Swallowing, the lump in her throat grew wider and she clenched her jaw in an attempt to make it go away. The one lone ring she was wearing slid on her slender finger to the knuckle as she reached out her hand and placed it in his. "I'm Annie." She stumbled to her feet, their eyes locked on one another.

Shayla stood with her arms dangling at her side, her Coach bag loosely hanging by her ankle. The gaping hole her mouth created could have fit an entire colony of ants. She quickly snapped it shut creating one soft "click" sound when her top row of teeth hit the bottom row. Her eyelids narrowed creating small lines that if she had been conscious of would have been botoxed immediately. Although she didn't necessarily like Luke, she still had to have him. With fire in her chocolate brown eyes, she made a surreptitious vow that this handsome man had not seen the last of her.

Luke reached into the breast pocket of his leather jacket and when he pulled it back out there was a small business card pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He smiled that wide toothy grin of his again and handed the card to Annie. "Be sure to put this to good use."  

It was Annie's jaw to drop this time. He was giving her his number. Her, not Prada girl. She secretly wondered what his true objective was. Maybe he had a younger, uglier brother he was trying to set up. She clutched the card in both hands like a treasure she had found, the way a small child would have clutched a piece of candy or a teddy bear, and looked down to read it.

Luke Lawson 
Lawson-Dekker Group 
New York, NY Architect Engineering Firm 
(212) 347-9877 

She wet her lips with her tongue. Not seductively as Shayla had done, but more like a nervous tick. "Alright, Mr. Lawson. I will give you a call." She spoke professionally, since his intentions were still unclear to her. She couldn't shake the thought that he was giving her this card to offer her an internship, or something.  

Luke couldn't suppress a small chuckle when she used his last name. "Please," he inhaled and then spoke through the air he let out, "call me Luke."  

Both Luke and Annie heard a rustling, and when they looked back over at Shayla, she was swifly walking away from them with an unusual urgency in her step. Annie, who had glanced to her left milliseconds before Luke did, caught Shayla looking over her shoulder at them. Annie saw something in her face—--no, in her eyes; something she had seen many times before in women like Shayla: jealousy. Jealousy and vengeance. The only difference was that these glances had never before been directed toward her. It was like a lightening bolt surging from Shayla's retinas, and Annie felt the repercussions. A chill down her spine as if someone had run a fingernail across each vertebrae.  

What Luke and Annie didn't realize amidst staring into each other's eyes was that as he pulled his hand out of his pocket, fingers grazing the inner lining of his coat, he accidentally pulled out a second business card that floated slowly to the ground like a feather, landing directly in front of Shayla's patent leather pumps.  The malevolent arch of Shayla's eyebrow crept back onto her face and she gingerly slid her shoe over top of the business card that had fallen. Glancing first at the couple talking, she pulled out her lip gloss and "accidentally" dropped it to the ground. It landed with a soft tap that made her freeze for a split second, nervously. Neither Luke nor Annie noticed, just as she had hoped. Once bent over, she slid her shoe back to the left and picked up both her tube of overpriced lip gloss and Luke's business card, and slipped them both into her purse with one graceful movement. With a chip on her shoulder and a sneer on her face, she pivoted and walked quickly in the opposite direction, heels clicking against the sidewalk. Stealing one last glimpse of the happy couple over her right shoulder, her lips curled into a smile that could have frightened even our most horrific fairy tale villains.

Blogger Award

2008-02-06T10:02:00.000-08:00

I won an award! Thanks to Jersey Girl who recently awarded me the honor! For those who haven't checked out her site, she is a hip mom with quirky, cute (albeit a little edgy) stories. Thank you for spreading the love my way, Jersey!

Now it's my turn....this is a difficult decision to make, for I read several really great blogs. Ello, WordVixen, Deepish Thoughts...but one stands out to me. Merry of Mom and More I think that everyone here has read her stuff before, but in the case that someone is stopping in for the first time, let me assure you, she is great! She's got such a great voice in whatever genre she writes in. I've only read snippets of her YA stuff, but I was in awe of her skills and dedication. Her blogs tend to focus on her process and different instances in her every day life, but it's done so cleverly and almost always leaves me smiling and laughing! She is an inspiring blog to read because she discusses her progress and (not to speak for everyone) but she always motivates me to write and revise more. She is inspiring and great at critiquing...finding that fine line between constructive criticism and too complimentary. Not to mention, I admire any woman who is a full time mom and still finds the time to do what she is most passionate about! I only hope that someday, when I am a mommy or even just a wifey, I have mastered the juggling of my time half as well as Merry!

Get Set Go

2008-02-01T13:57:00.001-08:00

Has anyone ever heard the song, I HATE EVERYONE by Get Set Go? Well, it pretty much sums up how I feel today. Here are the lyrics:

Some stupid chick in the checkout line
Was paying for beer with nickels and dimes
And some old man who clipped coupons
Had argued whenever they wouldn't take one
All I wanted to was buy some cigarettes
But I couldn't take it anymore so I left

I hate everyone (4x)

All the people on the street, I hate you all
And the people that I meet, I hate you all
And the people that I know, I hate you all
And the people that I don't, I hate you all
Oh, I hate you all

Some fucking asshole just cut me off
And gave me the finger when I fucking honked
Then he proceeded to put on the brakes
He slammed on the brakes, but I made a mistake
When I climbed out of my van he was waiting
But he was six three and two hundred pounds of Satan

I hate everyone (4x)

All the people on the street, I hate you all
And the people that I meet, I hate you all
And the people that I know, I hate you all
And the people that I don't, I hate you all
Oh, I hate you all

I bet you think I'm kidding
But I promise you its true
I hate most everybody
But most of all I hate
Oh, I hate you

All the people on the street, I hate you all
And the people that I meet, I hate you all
And the people that I know, I hate you all
And the people that I don't, I hate you all
And the people in the east, I hate you all
And the people I hate least, I hate you all
And the people in the west, I hate you all
And the people I like best, I hate you all
Oh, I hate you all

Dating Tips from Yours Truly....for MEN!

2008-01-31T09:08:00.000-08:00

HOW TO GET A GIRLFRIEND

I am about to let you all in on a little secret. Throughout my life, I have been good at three things…The board game Clue, making the best mac and cheese you will ever taste, and helping my guy friends find women. Yes, I am an awesome wingman…uh, I mean, wingwoman.

I am about to divulge my secrets I’ve learned both from experience and passed down to me by my mother, who was quite the sausage magnet in her day. She inherited this trait from her mother, who got it from her mother and so on and so forth.

I would like to start with the age-old question… "Why do all the best looking guys tend to like bitches?" This is a question I used to ask myself until a couple years ago. I was walking around Union Square and outside of an NYU building I saw this amazingly attractive man. Attached to his face was the cliché boobylicious slut; you know the type: bleached blonde hair, over-inflated breasts, fake tan, and enormous sunglasses. I watched as he slapped her on the ass and she walked off to shop at Deisel. I was so disgusted by the display that I approached him on the subject. He was, of course, as superficial as I had expected. An enormous ex-fraternity jock who was in actuality way past his prime with wrinkles forming around his eyes and jaw. My intention was not to date him; I simply wanted to know what he saw in a woman like her. He proceeded to lean into me, his gassy breath smelling like beer, and told me that he would be happy to take me to dinner and explain in more detail. I laughed in his face and walked off. A few minutes later, this average looking guy walked up to me in a determined manner. He said, "Hey, I saw you talking to Dave. He and I go way back,” he paused and rolled his eyes, “What do girls see in guys like him?" I immediately replied. "I am trying to figure out the opposite: why great guys are always are going after sluts." He started to laugh and then said… "I think the real question is why are all the great women going for assholes?” He then asked me out.

We decided to go see a movie. When I walked up to the front of the movie theater, he had morphed out of his sweatshirt and tennis shoes into this amazing black ensemble with fitted pants (but not too fitted), a button down shirt, and a black belt with a simple matte silver buckle. I’m not talking some hand-me-down outfit from his older brother…he looked incredible. And I was the unassuming bitch who didn't see it.

So the first step to getting a girlfriend…Close your eyes and listen to your brain. Beauty is deceiving. From afar, the jock looked hot, but up close, he was tired and leather-like. Whereas the second man was incredibly attractive and I hadn’t noticed because I gravitated toward what society’s standard of “hot” is. If you feel a connection, go for it. Listen to your heart, brain, loins…pretty much everything except your eyes.

It’s as easy as ‘hi.’ I am told a lot of the time that I am a kiss ass. This is because when I see something good in someone, I say it. It is my personal theory that you should ask out as many girls as you can. If you see a girl walk by whom you are attracted to, say hello. See how she reacts and if she is open and receptive, keep the conversation going with statements and questions that she can’t just answer “yes” and “no” to. The worst thing that could happen… she spits on you and tells you she would rather drink a glass of her own bile than go on a date. If she says this, then she is a heartless bitch who doesn’t deserve you. On the other hand, she could say yes. All because you had the balls to say what most men find to be the scariest word in the English vocabulary: Hi.

Go beyond the bar. A bar may just be the worst place to meet a woman. Girls at bars are skeptical of every man who talks to them. Even the sweetest woman will turn into a raging biyotch if she suspects your intentions are to only get in her pants. Furthermore, she will most likely have a posse of friends surrounding her whose defenses are all up. Get passed this idea and strike up a conversation with a woman at the gym. Or at your local coffee shop. Or at an indie movie house. Most likely she will be more willing to engage in conversation, and you’ll already know that you have something in common.

Date for fun. If it isn't fun, get the hell out of the relationship. You're dating; this isn't life or death, so why make it out to be anything more than what it is. They say that children playing house begin to learn what real life relationships are, and how they work. I agree. Children learn by play. If it works so well why did we, adults, stop playing? So go out and play house. Have fun and learn about the opposite sex.

Shoot from the hip. On a first date do something outlandish and daring. Randomness is an easy way to break habit, and women usually love to be surprised. Take her to play paint ball…it will remind her of a scene from 10 Things I Hate About You. Do you golf? Bring her to the driving range and give her some pointers. Is she new to the city? Go on a walking tour or bring her to a few of your favorite spots. Be memorable. Even if this particular relationship doesn’t work out, you want to be remembered as the guy who set the standards for all other dates.

Think outside of the bouquet. What do you think to bring on a date? Flowers? Chocolates? Jewelry? These are all nice—women love to receive gifts (though let me state the obvious here…stay away from jewelry during the early dates. WAY too intense). Does she have a dog? Bring her dog a toy or treat. Did she just finish writing her thesis? Bring her a celebratory cupcake. Does she love to read? Bring a copy of your favorite book for her to borrow. If you two have an inside joke, use it to inspire a small gift. Flowers are classic, so if you go this route, make sure that you find out her favorite kind prior to the date. Do so candidly and she’ll be quite impressed. And make sure if you buy a bouquet of flowers for your date to buy a single flower for each of the girls that she lives with. This makes the statement that you care about the people around her. Dogging her roommates is the easiest way to ruin a relationship. However, this must be executed with caution. Roommates will see right though a con artist.

Never buy flowers to say I'm sorry. Why do men buy women flowers as a general? Here is my theory: In caveman days, hunters would go out looking for food. They would spend all day searching with a group of men for mammoths and saber-tooth tigers, while back at the cave the women would look after the cave babies and launder the loincloths. On the bad days, when the cavemen could find no food, they knew they couldn’t return to their homes empty-handed, so they’d pick wildflowers and bring them back to show their wives. The cavemen would tell them that they were so distracted by the beauty of the flowers that after seeing them, they immediately thought of their wives and could no longer concentrate on hunting. The wives, very grateful that their husbands compared their beauty to the beauty of the flowers, would sigh, consumed with love.

Now, of course all this caveman stuff is bullshit. But my point is still valid: don't exploit the power of the flower by using it to say I’m sorry. Flowers are a symbol of beauty whereas chocolates are a symbol of "sorry I fucked up.” It says, “Look, I am sorry I messed up. Here, get fat, and I’ll prove how much I love you by sexing up your bloated ass anyway tonight.” But seriously, if you do make a mistake, be sure to include a sincere apology with those chocolates. She will probably be crying… so bring Kleenex to show that you anticipate her needs. Look into her red, swollen eyes and tell her how sorry you are, followed immediately by "tell me what I can do to fix this.” Now it is up to her. She will tell you what you can do… and then do it. I know what your thinking ,"what if she says, ‘go cut off your wank, you pathetic, lying bastard!’?" Have no fear…this won't happen. She wants your penis intact just as much as you do. And for those of you who really messed up… If she does tell you to cut off your dick, then you are way past the apologetic phase…. Learn from you mistakes and get the hell out of there before she turns Lorena Bobbit on you.

Words can be stronger than Actions. Sometimes. You don’t always have to climb Mount Everest for a girl to make us feel special. Girls like to be complimented. We like it when you tell us we are beautiful. We like it when you respect our brain. We want to feel cherished and it is your job to make us feel so. A pick up line is simply an honest statement that some pig exploited and destroyed. If a girl is attracted to you, she will consider your “line” to be charming. If she’s not into you—regardless of what you say—she can and probably will make it known that you were just using a line. So go ahead and use them. It’s a risk, but at the end of the day, even if we’re not into the guy who hit on us, we’re happy he did so because it is a compliment.

Your girlfriend will look like her mother in twenty years. Assuming you make it to this point in the relationship, be sure to talk to her parents as if you were talking to her. Chances are, she’s already told them a lot about you, so act like yourself. They’ll see through any show you put on. First, you are a young man. Her dad was one once, and her mom dated them at one point in time. They know what you two are up to.

Don’t trash talk them. Even if they could have been the best friends of Mr. and Mrs. Hitler, they are the reason you are getting to go out with this girl. They made her, and for that one reason they deserve your respect.

So there, those are my pearls of wisdom. Take these gems and go get yourself girlfriend. But before you go seeking out strangers, I’d like to add this sidebar: don’t overlook what’s right under your nose. Sometimes the greatest of girls are the ones you talk to everyday. If you didn't enjoy their company you wouldn't spend all the time you do hanging out with them. There is the possibility of losing the friendship…but there is always that chance when your heart is involved. That’s the beauty of love; the fact that you can tell that person, “I know my heart could get shattered into a million pieces, but you’re worth the risk.” And believe me—it is worth the risk.

My Honkin' Big Nose

2008-01-25T08:50:00.000-08:00

Is it true that your nose never stops growing? If this is true, it really, really disturbs me. My nose is already my biggest feature (though I wish I could say my breasts were) and I've noticed that it looks a lot bigger in pictures now even compared to just a couple years ago. So, in ten years, it'll take up my entire face!! Like a giant...uh...face eating monster. Yeah. I mean, just look at the picture below in my previous post...look at how bulbous it is! It was NOT that big two years ago.

Here, I'll do a compare/contrast. I tried to pic photos with similar angles...

Photo #1: Age - 17, Senior Prom. My nose has always been on the bigger side, but it is still a bit dainty here. It is in proportion to the rest of my face...
Photo #2: Age - 22, My friend Michelle's wedding. It's definitely longer with a bigger bulb on the end, but still relatively normal. It doesn't look TOO out of place...yet.
Photo #3: Age - 24, Christmas 2007 Ok, it is DEFINITELY bigger here. Not too out of proportion but it's getting there. And if this statement regarding the always growing nose is true, than can you imagine what I'll look like when I'm 50?? I'm going to look like......like........

MY FATHER!!!!!!!

I <3 Knitting

2008-01-24T14:36:00.000-08:00

I realized I hadn't posted one of my knitting projects for a while. So, here is a hat and scarf combo that I made as a gift. Yes, that is me with my (then) newly dyed brown hair at my rather messy desk and a coffee behind me. Is it odd that I'm probably one of the few natural blondes to dye my hair darker? Hm. Curious.

2008-01-24T07:26:00.001-08:00

Oh.My.God.

2008-01-22T13:53:00.000-08:00

First Brad Renfro. Now Heath Ledger.

I can't believe it...and I thought I was depressed when I heard about Brad Renfro...

::sigh::

Just say no, Kids. Just. Say. No.

Our Fists Were Raised

2008-01-17T14:18:00.000-08:00

OUR FISTS WERE RAISED
_________________________________________________
Occurred: May 16, 2002
A few days later, it was time to head back to school. Sean and I survived the weekend with his parents. Well, of course he survived…he’s lived with these people for 22 years. I, on the other hand, managed to leave in one piece, with my clothes in tact for the rest of the weekend. We packed the car, fully equipped with our freshly washed laundry, and said our goodbyes.

His mom wrapped her arms tightly around me. “Bye Colleen! Take care of the boy, here. And remember what I told you…he tends to get cranky. It’s not you, it’s him!”

“I will definitely remember that, Mrs. Murphy.” I smiled. I liked his mom. She reminded me a lot of myself, maybe a tad more bubbly.

“Thanks so much again for everything, Mr. Murphy. I had a great time.” I smiled weakly, fearful that it appeared more like a grimace.

He smiled back, his eyes set on the stone pathway leading to their front door. “You’re very welcome. Come back any time.” His gaze shifted to my eyes, flashed a smile, then he quickly leaned in to give me one last sideways hug. Mr. Murphy was a very animated man, his eyes more expressive than any I’d ever seen. And even in this embarrassed state, they seemed to retain that special sparkle that I had seen in Sean many times before.

“I’d love to come back,” I said truly meaning it, “hopefully sooner than later.”

* * *

We’d been driving for a couple hours, still about 11 hours away from Georgia.

“I’m bored.” I looked at Sean who was reading a map while driving. We were obviously lost.

“What do you mean you’re bored? What about that bag you packed? The bag of ‘fun things to do’?” His sarcastic tone annoyed me. Every road trip I’d ever taken, I was always equipped with my ‘fun bag’ which was filled with books, crossword puzzles, and other various things to keep my mind off of peeing and sleeping.

“I already went through it all.”

“What do you mean you went through it all!?” His voice was very loud. “You slept the entire way up here and we’ve only been on the road for a couple of hours!”

I paused and the absence of music made the car echo silence. I don’t handle silence very well. “I’m bored,” I said again, slipping the map away from him. I’ve always had trouble reading maps. All those lines and highway numbers confused me.
“Are we lost?”

“No! Just give me back the map.”

“You shouldn’t read a map while driving. It’s dangerous.”

“Well, if you took your turn driving, I could read the map in peace.”

“Fine. After this toll, pull over and I’ll drive.”

His expression shifted to something I couldn’t read. “Give me the map, Colleen.” His tone was serious, and I knew that now was not the time to play keep away. I reluctantly handed him the map. “Shit,” he mumbled through clenched teeth.

“So we are lost.” I nodded.

“Just shut-up. Please.” His eyelids were heavy.

I opened my mouth to throw an insult his way, but snapped it shut. It really wasn’t the time to argue.

“Shit,” he said again. “Do you have any cash on you?”

“How much do you need?”

“I don’t know, but hurry.” He pointed ahead where we were rapidly approaching twelve archways. Government owned mouths ready to devour us and our money. Cars and vans were whizzing by us, flying past the green eyes telling us to go. Horns honked. Tires screeched. The wind wailed and I still had yet to find any cash.

“Oh! Here’s a dime!”

“I think we’ll need more than a dime, Colleen!”

“Ok, here’s a dollar!” I handed him a crumpled bill. “And a quarter!” It was wedged beneath my compact.

He accelerated as we found more money. “Oh, a nickel! Oh, my lipgloss!”

“That’s not going to help us.”

“No, but I’ve been looking for it all weekend.”

“Colleen!”

“Don’t worry, $2.27 is more than enough. Right?” Sean gave me an uncertain glance and over his shoulder on the side of the road, was a glorious sign that read, Toll: $1.50.

“HOORAY!” We both shrieked together.

“That’s right, tollbooth!” I yelled to the giant archway, “Eat my ass crack!”

“Sweet, an open lane,” he swerved to the right nearly standing my car onto two wheels.

“Watch it! No stunts in my car, mister!”

He rolled his eyes, but laughed regardless. We were triumphant, riding our silver horse toward the sun in a totally open lane. How often does that happen?

Sean sped up, ready to throw the money into the basket without so much as braking. He had a determined look on his face. His eyebrows were furrowed past the bridge of his nose and his head was lowered to the steering wheel. I glanced through the sunroof at the sign above the archway of our open lane.

E-Z-PASS ONLY.

“Haha, yeah fuck-tards! Take that!” Sean looked out the window at the drivers waiting patiently for their turns in the other lanes.

“Uh, honey…”

He ignored me. “Ohh, poow wittle things stuck in twaffic. All because you’re too chicken shit to take a chance on another lane. That’s what you all get!”

“Sean!”

“What?” He rolled his window down with his right hand, holding the last of my cash in his left, while steering with his knees. Suddenly, I had to pee.

“E-Z-PASS!”

“Huh?” His head swiveled to look at me as he tossed the money out the window to where the basket should have been.

“NO!”

The change bounced off of the side of the booth making a surprisingly loud noise and my one dollar bill drifted off into the wind. I heard my change rolling away beneath the car. I opened the door to retrieve it.

“What are you doing!?”

“Getting my change,” I screamed as if he should already know. The empty lane was now filling up with cars behind us, pissed and honking. The yellow and white striped arm was lowering like a guillotine in front of our car.

“Shut the door!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m driving off whether it’s opened or closed!”

As I pulled my foot back into the car, Sean hit the gas, jolting the car and pinning me against the back of my seat. The door slammed shut beside me.

The arm continued lowering as the nose of the car slipped beneath it. Then the windshield. Then the roof. Then the trunk. Then we heard a bang as the arm karate chopped the bumper. At least it was a clean amputation.

We sat in silence, both pissed. I checked behind us, waiting to see flashing lights. Or hear sirens. Somewhere ahead, there was a cop waiting to pull over the reckless kids who flew through the E-Z-PASS lane. I checked behind us, again.

“Stop looking! No one is following us!” Sean barked.

“I don’t see what you have to be mad about. It’s my car that just had its bumper knocked off. It’s my car that’s going to be ticketed. If you had just slowed down a little, we would have had time to switch lanes. But, no…you had to go all Days of Thunder on me.”

He didn’t say anything, but stared ahead at the road.

“Are we going to get a ticket?” I looked at him, my eyes welling up with tears.

“Not if we don’t get pulled over.”

“Are you sure?”

He glanced at me without moving his head. The creases in his face deepened and he attempted to crack a reassuring smile. He’s a terrible liar.

“Yes,” he looked back at the road, “maybe.” As I said, he’s a terrible liar.

“Maybe?? What do you mean, ‘maybe’? Is my dad going to find out we used my car this weekend?”

“Not possible. The worst case is that they might have taken a photo of us.”

“Ok, and then what happens?”

”Well, if there is a ticket, they mail it out with the photo.”

I scowled. “And where does that photo go, Sean?”

* * *

It was a warm, sunny North Carolina morning. The dew glistened on the freshly cut grass. Bob Katana had just put on his
favorite moccasins, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and settled into his recliner with the morning paper and yesterday’s mail. The house sure is quiet, he thought, now that all those noisy kids are gone. He smiled, thinking about what great kids they all were. He looked down at the first envelope. Hm, Pennsylvania Department of Transportation. What could that be? He took the first sip of his coffee, smooth and glorious, while calmly opening the envelope. Pulling out a state certified letter, he noticed two pieces of paper flutter into his lap. The first, a $165 citation. And the second, a grainy photograph with his sweet Doodlebug next to that hooligan, Sean. It looks like he’s driving her car, he thought, becoming concerned. It appeared as though she was yelling at Sean. His arm was high in the air, with what appeared to be a blurry dollar bill flying out the window. Confusion contorted his face as Colleen’s was frozen in a state of anger. Why is one of her feet out the door? His eyes narrowed as the realization hit. He took another sip of coffee. It was bitter and cold. Snatching the citation, he marched into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and dialed his soon-to-be least favorite daughter.

30 Things About Colleen

2008-01-15T14:31:00.000-08:00

1. Once as a kid, she captured two fireflies and killed them so to spread their "lighted" butts over her fingernails so that they would glow. Immediately she began crying and ran to her mother where she cried for the remainder of the night.
2. She still can't look at a firefly without feeling guilty.
3. Her left foot is a size 6.5 and her right foot is a size 6. She usually either has to cram her left foot into a shoe, or buy inserts for her right.
4. She has the same birthday as Lindsay Lohan.
5. She hates the fact that she knows that #4 is a fact.
6. If she could own any other pet in the world (other than her doggies) she would want two sugargliders because THEYARETHECUTESTTHINGSEVER!
7. She is completely clumsy and falls down on average, twice a day.
8. She is extremely dyslexic
9. She loves to sing.
10. She loves to sing songs from the 80s.
11. She loves buying cooking equipment, including new food and spices, even though she is a TERRIBLE cook
12. Autumn is her favorite season
13. One of her favorite things in the whole wide world is taking a bubble bath with a glass of wine and a good book.
14. She knows how cliche the above is, and she is not at all ashamed
15. She loves trashy romance novels. THERE, SHE SAID IT!
16. She hates being cold, but somehow always is, regardless of what season it is.
17. She is fascinated by serial killers, but whenever she reads their biographies and stories becomes so terrified that she can't sleep.
18. She despises laundry. And dishes. But loves to sweep and mop.
19. She thinks Patrick Dempsey just may be the hottest man ever
20. She loves the smell of melted butter
21. Her favorite place to be is in bed, under her covers with Luna sleeping beside her.
22. She loves shopping at antique stores
23. She loves snow, but as mentioned before, hates the cold.
24. Stingrays used to be her favorite sea creature. Until one killed Steve Irwin. Now she's afraid of them
25. She fell in love with stingrays at Orlando's Discovery Cove where she fed them with her friend who worked there. They suck raw fish out of your hand and are suprisingly affectionate and love to be pet.
26. She likes to take macro pictures of things
27. Her favorite outfit as a girl was a white lace dress with a pink ribbon that tied around the waist. Her mom made it.
28. She just doesn't get all the fuss over Star Wars, Star Trek, and Xmen.
29. She loves coffee. She takes it with her oxygen.
30. She is secretly in love with Gene Kelly.

Torture

2008-01-14T13:34:00.000-08:00

I arrived at my office today, not excited to be here, but also not in a bad mood. I sat down at my desk with a bitter cup of coffee (the coffee here is pretty terrible) loaded with so much cream and sugar, most people assume I'm drinking milk, and opened my email. One of the first things on my long list of unopened emails is a note from the boyfriend! titled 'Miss You'. Curious, I clicked to see what he had to say. And there, staring at me, was a picture of Luna (my dog who he watches some days while I'm at work) and Red (his dog), cuter than any time I'd ever seen them before! The boyfriend! added the caption at the bottom...and if I had to take a guess, I would say this was exactly what they were thinking.

**For those who can't read the small print at the bottom, it says: Come home and read us a story, mom. AWWWWWWWWWWW!

Peeping Tom

2008-01-14T08:40:00.000-08:00

PEEPING TOM
_______________________________________________
Occurred: May 12, 2002

I stood watching the pot of coffee brew. It 5pm on Thursday and my color theory final was due in one hour. We still had weeks left in school, but my professor, a quirky older woman with fiery red hair, insisted that we would all thank her later. As soon as we turned our projects in, classes were optional work periods, which essentially meant that class was over for the year. Sean and I decided to use this to our advantage and drive through the night Thursday, visit his parents over the weekend and drive back Monday night for classes on Tuesday. His parents lived in New Hampshire and I had yet to meet them.

I rushed to Montgomery Hall, walking quickly to Professor Loretta’s office. I saw three of my classmates behind me. At least I won’t be the last getting it in. I peeked into her room, and Loretta sat at her desk with purple cat eye reading glasses resting on her nose. One of those beaded chains was attached to the earpieces and it was positioned tightly across the back of her neck.

“Hi Loretta,” I put my project into the folder, marked with Thursday’s 6:00pm class.

“Oh, hello, Colleen!” She spoke in a lovely accent. It sounded Austrian.

“I hope I’m not too late,” I said knowing I wasn’t.

“Well, technically the semester’s not over for another four weeks.”

“True.” I paused, not knowing what else to say. “Well, have a good weekend. My boyfriend’s waiting for me in my car.” I cracked my knuckles, another nervous tick I have. My parents didn’t like me using my car for long trips, but Sean was convinced that his car wouldn’t make it to NH and back. It made more sense to take mine, but I was still a little nervous, even though he promised my parents would never find out.

“Oh, a date night?”

I cleared my throat. “Actually we’re going to visit his parents in New England. Neither of us have classes tomorrow or Monday, so…we figured, why not.”

“Wow,” with an index finger she pushed her glasses higher onto her nose, “that’s important. First meeting?”

I nodded.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little. But mostly I’m just exhausted from having worked on your project all night.” I tapped the folder that now held two weeks of my hard work.

Raising her eyebrows, a high-pitched ‘huh’ escaped her lips. “Well, good luck. I’ll see you next week, dear.”

“Bye, Loretta.” I backed out of her office and headed toward my silver Toyota Corolla which waited for me in the parking lot.

* * *

I fell asleep almost immediately in the passenger seat. I awoke to the sun rising Friday morning, my cheek pressed against the window, sticky with sweat and drool. “Mmmm.”

“Morning,” Sean looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Mmmm.” I said again.

“I’m surprised you managed to sleep through all those wheelies and doughnuts I was doing blindfolded with your car.”

“Mmmhhhmmm.”

“I also gave a ride to some strippers. They sat on my lap. They didn’t disturb you did they?”

“No,” I said. I don’t have much of a sense of humor in the mornings. “What’d you say about doughnuts?”

“There’s one truth in life, Colleen—Girls are only good for two things on road trips: sleeping and peeing.”

I swiped my hand across my eyes and chin, wiping away residual drool. “Haha. I was gonna ask if you needed me to drive for a bit, but I guess I’ll just pee on the seats.” I scrunched my nose into my “potty” face.

“Go ahead,” Sean smirked, “they’re your seats. I was thinking about peeing myself. Besides, we’re only 10 minutes away.”

“What!?” I sat upright, looking around at road signs to verify that he wasn’t screwing with me.

“Yep. I called my parents already, so they know we’re almost here.”

“Oh my God!” I scrambled to get make up out of my purse. “I need to be a little presentable! Why didn’t you wake me?” I scowled at Sean and decided I was going to blame my grogginess on him.

“I did try to wake you. Twice. Once at a gas station and once when I was bored. Both times you snorted then kicked me away.” My face grew hot as he added, “You drool, by the way. In your sleep. Did you know that?”

I looked down at my knees. “Only when I’m really tired.”

He turned the car left into a long dirt driveway. Trees surrounded us as we drove up to their lake house cottage. It was beautiful. Picturesque. But like nothing I had ever experienced before. I’m a suburban girl. The girl who grew up riding her bike in the streets and sidewalks, not on trails in the woods. I’m used to mini-marts and neighborhoods, not houses in the middle of desolate wooded areas. Regardless, it was beautiful.

Just as I finished powdering my nose, a woman with wiry, reddish brown hair came running out of the front door. Her hair was long, past her shoulders and curly. She had a soft-looking robe wrapped around her and I immediately knew that Sean received his eyes from her. Everything else looked like his dad’s, but those eyes of his, they had Debbie Murphy written all over them.

She ran up to us, hugging me first before going over to greet her son. His dad was only a few steps behind
and introduced himself to me as Tom before giving me a sideways hug. You know the hug I’m talking about. The kind where you put one arm around the person’s shoulders and stick your hip between your bodies so that neither of you can get too close. It’s a bit awkward, but inappropriate touching upon the first meeting is worse. I much preferred the sideways hug.

“Come in! Come in!” Debbie’s voice was high pitched and excited and she continued talking to us the entire way into their house. It was exactly how I had imagined a lake cottage to look. Dark greens and blues, plaids, a sign on the front door with a moose smiling, welcoming me inside. It was very Country Crock and wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if she had had a Sara Lee cake in the fridge along with a pitcher of strawberry lemonade.

“Are you kids tired? That’s a long drive, you must be tired.”

We both nodded. And Sean wrapped his arm around my waist. “Actually, we could probably each use a shower, if that’s ok.”

“Sure, but not at the same time,” His dad said with a crooked smile and winked at Sean.

“Absolutely!” His mom said with the same enthusiasm as when we arrived. “There’s only one bathroom in the entire house, though, so Sean, you should be a gentleman and let your lady go first.” He nodded and they both showed me the way.

The bathroom was long like a train car and had two entrances. One connected to the kitchen and the other, to the master bedroom. I set my bags down on top of the toilet and pulled out my different toiletries. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, loofah, toothbrush…yep, I think that’s it, I thought. Turning the water on, I gave it a chance to warm up while I brushed my teeth. I ran the bristles over my teeth, allowing the toothbrush to wipe the film away and I opened the medicine cabinet. I knew this was in bad taste, but curiosity always got the best of me in these situations. You can tell a lot about a person by their medicine chest. What medication they’re on—whether they have trouble sleeping or if they have allergies. You see what products they use. Are they specific brand people or do they buy coupon items in the Sunday paper? The Murphy’s were definitely coupon from the Sunday paper people. I noted the anti-frizz products and remembered how curly Sean’s hair becomes when it grows out. Must be another trait inherited from his mother. Condensation from the running hot water surrounded my face, fogging the mirrors in front of me. I like these mirrors, I thought while peeling off the sweat-dried clothes from my body. I liked any mirrors that were full length. I never had one, but I liked the idea of being able to see my entire outfit in one glance. I slid the shower curtains to the left, the metal hooks scraping across the shower bar loudly. I stepped inside, the steaming water pounding like hot rain against my back.

“Shit,” I muttered to myself. My face wash was still in my bag sitting on the toilet. I stepped out of the bathtub, water dripping down my legs. I was bent over my bag, searching deep inside like Mary Poppins in her carpetbag, for the small tube.
“Ah, found it,” I said to no one. Standing upright, looked at the door to the master bedroom. I should lock that, entered my mind just as the knob turned and Tom, Sean’s father, walked in.

We were frozen, staring at each other. He—fully clothed in plaid, like a scared lumberjack, and me—ass naked, wondering how long it will take Sean to find his next girlfriend.

His cheeks flushed, and he stumbled, searching for words. They came out incoherently, “Uh, bu…you…uh…” and yet his eyes stayed firmly in place. On my breasts.

I realized he was in too much shock to close the door, so I whipped my body around. Apparently, I thought my boobs were not impressive enough. So, I decided to show him my crack. However, when I turned around, I saw the same shocked expression still staring at me in the mirror.

I screamed. It was the only other thing I could think of to do to snap him out of his trance. My shrill voice startled him and he shut the door quickly. I imagined that face of his, with his chin hanging down past his sternum, still in tact on the other side of the door.

“Um, Colleen?”

“Yes?” My voice was meek. A little raspy from the scream.

“There’s a lock on this door.”

“Ok.” I said quietly. As if I didn’t know that already. Well, believe me, I learned my lesson.

“Also, be sure not to use up all of the hot water.”

“Yes, Mr. Murphy.” I sighed, closed my eyes and stepped back into the shower. I had four more days to spend with this family. Well, at least I had worked out the day before.

**This post has been exaggerated a tiny bit for emphasis. For instance, Tom was not staring at my breasts. He was looking at my face the entire time. But the majority of it is true.

Thank you

2008-01-10T09:17:00.000-08:00

Thank you random woman on the subway who wouldn't stop coughing. Thank you for not covering your mouth yesterday or turning your head to the side. Thank you for breathing deeply so that I could almost SEE the germs leaving your mouth and entering my nose. Thank you for following me when I tried to move into the train more so to get away from you. Thank you for wiping your nose with your hand and then placing that hand on the metal bar that tons of other people, including myself, had to also hold on to.

Thank you for giving me your cold. May you choke on your own mucus enough to scare you but not to kill you! (because if you did die from your own mucus I would feel really bad!)

2008-01-09T11:59:00.001-08:00

Horoscopes

2008-01-07T08:39:00.000-08:00

So, because I'm tired today and I thought this was cute, I decided to follow in Merry's footsteps from Mom and More and play the horoscope game.

The rules are simple. Below is a list of each of the twelve months. Copy paste your birth month into the beginning of the entry and then tell your readers which of the descriptions are accurate – the blogger can simply highlight the affirmative or give an overall explanation. I will more than likely give long explanations.

Me, I'm a July baby...so here we go:

JULY:

FUN TO BE WITH.
Pshhh, likes this EVEN needs to be answered. Of course I'm fun to be with. I can do 5 shots of tequila then chug half a bottle of wine before passing out. 'Nuff said.

SECRETIVE.
Surprisingly, yes. Not about major things, I guess...but in the way of, I love surprises. Sometimes, there's just no reason for certain people to know certain things. It's none of their business. And yet, I write about my most personal experiences online. Hmmm. Curious.

DIFFICULT TO FATHOM AND TO BE UNDERSTOOD.
I think this sentence is difficult to fathom and to be understood.

QUIET UNLESS EXCITED OR TENSED.
Hm, I wouldn't describe me as quiet necessarily. I tend to be a little more shy or reserved if I'm in large groups or with people I don't know well. Other than that, I'm pretty outspoken. ESPECIALLY when excited. However, if I'm tense, I think I'm also quiet. There's a reason why I'm tense or stressed and so I'm probably focusing on whatever that is.

TAKES PRIDE IN ONESELF.
I am a very proud person. And I have a lot to be proud of regarding all aspects and all people in my life. I'm proud of my brother, my sister, my mom, my dad, the Boyfriend!...I'm even proud of my dog. And myself. I've come a long and worked my way up from an intern to a producer in just two years. However, I think I am level-headed and I try very hard not to allow my pride to dictate my actions. That's simply arrogance.

HAS REPUTATION.
Huh?!?! What have you heard???

EASILY CONSOLED.
Oh god, no. If something upsets me, I tend to stay upset for a while. I mean, people can hold me and make me laugh, but I am terrible at holding grudges and I am very vengeful!

HONEST.
Yes. I'm an awful liar. I always tug on my earlobe when I'm lying.

CONCERNED ABOUT PEOPLE'S FEELINGS.
Too much. I worry way too much about other people. To the point where I sometimes put other people's needs before my own.

TACTFUL.
Usually. There's the occasional angry slip-up.

FRIENDLY.
Yes. Unless you look creepy/scary. Then I stare at the sidewalk and clutch my purse closer to my ribs as I pass you.

APPROACHABLE.
The Boyfriend! and I had a conversation about this last night actually. We were talking about how I hardly ever get hit on at bars. I seriously have NO IDEA why I'm considered unapproachable sometimes. I'm usually very animated and talkative at bars. I strike up conversations with everyone, girls and guys, but for some reason I am always the girl who goes home sans any phone numbers. Not that it matters NOW, but it's annoying since Sean gets hit on even with me standing there holding his hand!

EMOTIONAL TEMPERMENTAL AND UNPREDICTABLE.
Er--no, um, of course not. Ok, fine, FINE! I'm emotional. I admit it. And yes to tempermental. Unpredictable....mmm, I think I'm pretty predictable actually, so I'll say no to that one.

MOODY AND EASILY HURT.
Moody, depends on the time of month. Easily hurt, yes. But I try not to show it too often. Then all my anger and tears come out because of something stupid.

WITTY AND SPARKLY.
Hm, this is hard to answer without tooting any of my own horns. I'll try to manuever around them carefully. I think I can be witty. Especially with writing. Sometimes in conversation not so much though. I'm much more clever when I can thoroughly think something through and use spell check and thesaurus before publishing. And Sparkly....ohhhh, I LIKE sparkly things so I would love to think of myself as being SPARKLY. Yes, I think I shine like sequins!

NOT REVENGEFUL.
False. I am so all about revenge. Turn the other cheek? Sure...I'll let you get all the slaps you want in. But the second you're finished, watch out.

FORGIVING BUT NEVER FORGETS.
Indeed. I forgive. I forgive pretty easily actually. If you apologize after wronging me and you seem sincere, I'll accept your apology. However, I will never put my guard down again with you. All trust is lost.

DISLIKES NONSENSICAL AND UNNECESSARY THINGS.
Er, not so sure about this one. Dislikes nonsensical things? Um, I dunno...I get a laugh about nonsensical things. And I tend to buy a LOT of items that are unnecessary.

GUIDES OTHERS PHYSICALLY AND MENTALLY.
Physically? No. Sean guides ME physically. I would not be going to the gym AT ALL if it wasn't for him. Mentally, maybe. I tend to be a shoulder to cry on a lot, but it always seems to be mutual.

SENSITIVE AND FORMS IMPRESSIONS CAREFULLY.
I am very sensitive. And I try not to judge anyone too quickly.

CARING AND LOVING.
Extremely.

TREATS OTHERS EQUALLY.
Absolutely. Except for my servants.

STRONG SENSE OF SYMPATHY.
God yes. I feel sympathy and empathy for fictional characters too.

WARY AND SHARP.
I think so. I am usually very wary of people and situations if I sense something is off. If it seems suspicious, usually it's for a reason. And I like to think that my gut instinct is usually right on. And yes, my fingernails are very sharp. Watch out! I could stab you!

JUDGES PEOPLE THROUGH OBSERVATIONS.
Uh, I guess so. Doesn't everyone? I mean, you observe people's actions, reactions, decisions, and personalities and based on that you make a judgment or decision. It can be good or bad. But I think one way or another, you form an opinion about those around you. And those opinions change daily. For instance, I met a new intern today at my office. He's quiet and tends to look at people while somehow keeping his chin against his neck. Through this observation, I am assuming he is a little shy and nervous.

HARDWORKING.
Absolutely.

NO DIFFICULTIES IN STUDYING.
False. I have a short attention span so studying has always been a struggle for me.

ALWAYS BROODS ABOUT THE PAST AND THE OLD FRIENDS.
Um, I wouldn't say I BROOD about old friends and the past. But I definitely love to reminisce about the good ole days.

LIKES TO BE QUIET.
To BE quiet? Eh, not really. I like things around me to be quiet though. I've never been into loud, noise clubs or anything. I much prefer a lounge where I can sit and talk with friends.

HOMELY PERSON.
Homely?? WHO YOU CALLING HOMELY??

WAITS FOR FRIENDS.
Um, sure. I'll wait for my friends. Especially if they're running late and call me. I may play a prank though and drive off, leaving them in the parking lot confused. No wait, that's my boyfriend who does that.

NEVER LOOKS FOR FRIENDS.
Only if I am expecting one to show up. Then I keep an eye out. Otherwise, no. But no, I do not SEEK OUT new friends. I am always open to meeting new people though.

NOT AGGRESSIVE UNLESS PROVOKED.
True. I will definitely stand up for myself and for my friends if the situation calls for it, but overall I am a huge coward. Confrontation scares the bejeezus out of me.

PRONE TO HAVING STOMACH AND DIETING PROBLEMS.
No. I don't think so. Although I can be a little gassy after certain meals. Does that count?

LOVES TO BE LOVED.
No. I hate being loved. Everytime my boyfriend utters the words "I love you" in that whiny lovesick voice of his, I slap him across the face and scream at him. "You KNOW how much I hate that! Why do you insist on loving me?!?! WHY???"

EASILY HURT BUT TAKES LONG TO RECOVER.
This is true. I am emotional. And I take EVERYTHING to heart. And I remember almost every negative thing said about me ever. Somehow, though, I never manage to remember the compliments and the sweet things. Hm. Perhaps I should switch my focus.

Ok....your turn. Here are the rest...

JANUARY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Ambitious and serious. Loves to teach and be taught. Always looking at people’s flaws and weaknesses. Likes to criticize. Hardworking and productive. Smart, neat and organized. Sensitive and has deep thoughts. Knows how to make others happy. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Rather reserved. Highly attentive. Resistant to illnesses but prone to colds. Romantic but has difficulties expressing love. Loves children. Loyal. Has great social abilities yet easily jealous. Very stubborn and money cautious.

FEBRUARY: Abstract thoughts. Loves reality and abstract. Intelligent and clever. Changing personality. Attractive. Sexy. Temperamental. Quiet, shy and humble. Honest and loyal. Determined to reach goals. Loves freedom. Rebellious when restricted. Loves aggressiveness. Too sensitive and easily hurt. Gets angry really easily but does not show it. Dislikes unnecessary things. Loves making friends but rarely shows it. Daring and stubborn. Ambitious. Realizes dreams and hopes. Sharp. Loves entertainment and leisure. Romantic on the inside not outside. Superstitious and ludicrous. Spendthrift. Tries to learn to show emotions.

MARCH: Attractive personality. Sexy. Affectionate. Shy and reserved. Secretive. Naturally honest, generous and sympathetic. Loves peace and serenity. Sensitive to others. Loves to serve others. Easily angered. Trustworthy. Appreciative and returns kindness. Observant and assesses others. Revengeful. Loves to dream and fantasize. Loves traveling. Loves attention. Hasty decisions in choosing partners. Loves home decors. Musically talented. Loves special things. Moody.

APRIL: Active and dynamic. Decisive and hasty but tends to regret. Attractive and affectionate to oneself. Strong mentality. Loves attention. Diplomatic. Consoling, friendly and solves people’s problems. Brave and fearless. Adventurous. Loving and caring. Suave and generous. Emotional. Aggressive. Hasty. Good memory. Moving. Motivates oneself and others. Sickness usually of the head and chest. Sexy in a way that only their lover can see.

MAY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Strong-willed and highly motivated. Sharp thoughts. Easily angered. Attracts others and loves attention. Deep feelings. Beautiful physically and mentally. Firm Standpoint. Needs no motivation. Easily consoled. Systematic (left brain). Loves to dream. Strong clairvoyance. Understanding. Sickness usually in the ear and neck. Good imagination. Good physical. Weak breathing. Loves literature and the arts. Loves traveling. Dislike being at home. Restless. Not having many children. Hardworking. High spirited. Spendthrift.

JUNE: Thinks far with vision. Easily influenced by kindness. Polite and soft-spoken. Having ideas. Sensitive. Active mind. Hesitating, tends to delay. Choosy and always wants the best. Temperamental. Funny and humorous. Loves to joke. Good debating skills. Talkative. Daydreamer. Friendly. Knows how to make friends. Able to show character. Easily hurt. Prone to getting colds. Loves to dress up. Easily bored. Fussy. Seldom shows emotions. Takes time to recover when hurt. Brand conscious. Executive. Stubborn.

JULY: Fun to be with. Secretive. Difficult to fathom and to be understood. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Takes pride in oneself. Has reputation. Easily consoled. Honest. Concerned about people’s feelings. Tactful. Friendly. Approachable. Emotional temperamental and unpredictable. Moody and easily hurt. Witty and sparkly. Not revengeful. Forgiving but never forgets. Dislikes nonsensical and unnecessary things. Guides others physically and mentally. Sensitive and forms impressions carefully. Caring and loving. Treats others equally. Strong sense of sympathy. Wary and sharp. Judges people through observations. Hardworking. No difficulties in studying. Loves to be alone. Always broods about the past and the old friends. Likes to be quiet. Homely person. Waits for friends. Never looks for friends. Not aggressive unless provoked. Prone to having stomach and dieting problems. Loves to be loved. Easily hurt but takes long to recover.

AUGUST: Loves to joke. Attractive. Suave and caring. Brave and fearless. Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. Too generous and egoistic. Takes high pride in oneself. Thirsty for praises. Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous. Observant. Careful and cautious. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts, music and defense. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. Learns to relax. Hasty and trusty. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make friends.

SEPTEMBER: Suave and compromising. Careful, cautious and organized. Likes to point out people’s mistakes. Likes to criticize. Stubborn. Quiet but able to talk well. Calm and cool. Kind and sympathetic. Concerned and detailed. Loyal but not always honest. Does work well. Very confident. Sensitive. Good memory. Clever and knowledgeable. Loves to look for information. Must control oneself when criticizing. Able to motivate oneself. Understanding. Fun to be around. Secretive. Loves leisure and traveling. Hardly shows emotions. Tends to bottle up feelings. Very choosy, especially in relationships. Systematic.

OCTOBER: Loves to chat. Loves those who loves them. Loves to take things at the center. Inner and physical beauty. Lies but doesn’t pretend. Gets angry often. Treats friends importantly. Always making friends. Easily hurt but recovers easily. Daydreamer. Opinionated. Does not care of what others think. Emotional. Decisive. Strong clairvoyance. Loves to travel, the arts and literature. Touchy and easily jealous. Concerned. Loves outdoors. Just and fair. Spendthrift. Easily influenced. Easily loses confidence. Loves children.

NOVEMBER: Has a lot of ideas. Difficult to fathom. Thinks forward. Unique and brilliant. Extraordinary ideas. Sharp thinking. Fine and strong clairvoyance. Can become good doctors. Dynamic in personality. Secretive. Inquisitive. Knows how to dig secrets. Always thinking. Less talkative but amiable. Brave and generous. Patient. Stubborn and hard-hearted. If there is a will, there is a way. Determined. Never give up. Hardly becomes angry unless provoked. Loves to be alone. Thinks differently from others. Sharp-minded. Motivates oneself. Does not appreciate praises. High-spirited. Well-built and tough. Deep love and emotions. Romantic. Uncertain in relationships. Homely. Hardworking. High abilities. Trustworthy. Honest and keeps secrets. Not able to control emotions. Unpredictable.

DECEMBER: Loyal and generous. Sexy. Patriotic. Active in games and interactions. Impatient and hasty. Ambitious. Influential in organizations. Fun to be with. Loves to socialize. Loves praises. Loves attention. Loves to be loved. Honest and trustworthy. Not pretending. Short tempered. Changing personality. Not egotistic. Take high pride in oneself. Hates restrictions. Loves to joke. Good sense of humor. Logical.

Evil Exercise

2008-01-05T08:47:00.000-08:00

I hate working out. I hate working out on Saturdays. I hate working out when it's cold outside. I hate having to drive, then park blocks away, just to have to walk in the freezing cold to get to the gym. I hate the way my ass jiggles when I'm on the eliptical machine. I hate the way I get winded and thirsty then have to drink from a gross water fountain because I forgot my water bottle AGAIN. I hate how every other woman in the gym looks adorable in their workout clothes. I hate how other women size each other up, justifying spending $90/month because they look better than I do. I hate the way their muscles show through the spandex they wear and I hate Hate HATE how they walk around completely nude in the locker room. Put a towel over yourself already!
I hate how going only only once or twice a week is never enough. I hate that I don't feel or see any results. I hate that after 45 minutes on the treadmill, my belly pooch looks exactly the same, only maybe a little more shook up. Like Jell-O. I hate when I have to order a Caesar Salad as opposed to a cheeseburger and french fries. And I hate myself when I succumb and order that cheeseburger. I hate the way I bloat after eating something heavy. I hate that I feel guilty when I talk myself out of going to the gym.

Yes, it's a vicious cycle. ::sigh:: Guess where I'm off to now?

Dispelling Myths

2008-01-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

You’ve heard of urban legends. Those believable yet false stories that travel widely, such as the $250 Neiman-Marcus cookie recipe or putting pop rocks in your coke will kill you. (Coca-cola, I mean. I imagine that snorting pop rocks with your coke WOULD kill you. If the drug didn’t kill you first, that is.)

Over the Christmas vacation, I learned a few things about kitchen myths from my family, boyfriend, and various websites. Why should you believe me, you ask? I don’t know. And to cover my ass here…I don’t even KNOW for sure that I am correct. These are just my findings.

Myth Number One:
Pork is the other white meat.

The Boyfriend! does not eat red meat. For my family, he may as well have walked through our front door announcing he was visiting from Zyforgh in faux human skin sewn together from the popular, velvety mogblorf flower found on his planet and that he would need to be leaving soon so to make it back to his planet in time for their spring. In fact, this story probably would have been better received than telling my parents that he didn’t eat red meat. But I gave them a head’s up a couple of weeks before so that my dad did not buy any nice steaks for him or anything. My parents took these two weeks to plot carefully thought out meals of chicken and pasta and eggplant and pork.

Uh oh. The Boyfriend! does not eat pork. It is red meat, he claims.

Me: Dad! I told you Sean doesn’t eat red meat!
Dad: Pork’s not red meat. It’s white meat. Hello, the other white meat.
Sean: It’s still red meat.
Dad: No it’s not. Look (he cuts the pork down the middle). See? White.
Me: They do say it’s the “other white meat”
Sean: That’s advertising! What about bacon? That’s obviously not white meat.
Dad: I grew up on a farm. My father was a butcher. I know white meat better than you, boy.
Mom: Sean, they couldn’t advertise it if it wasn’t true. That’d be false advertising.

After about an hour of debating the topic, Sean pulled out the computer to do some research. And we finally found a website with conclusive reports:

PORK IS RED MEAT. All hoven animals and actually, all mammals are considered red meat. Humans are red meat. Bison is red meat. Lamb is red meat.
White meat is poultry. All birds are considered white meat.

The Boyfriend! was right. And I hate admitting that.

Myth Number Two:
Baking Soda in the Fridge eliminates odors.
FALSE

This seems like it would be true right? I mean, what ELSE do you use Baking Soda for? NOTHING. It’s probably the main appeal for buying it in the first place. However, about a year ago, I tested this. I had opened chicken and forgot about it. All of a sudden, my fridge smelled putrid. Like rancid meat…because guess what was in there? I spotted the source of the problem and after throwing away the rotted meat, ran to the store for baking soda. After several days, the odor dissipated. Then, a few days later, I ordered Chinese food and had leftovers. Chinese food meals usually last me several days because I pick at them over the course of 6 or 7 meals. But more often than not, I end up throwing the leftovers out because the smell of it is so strong that it begins to gross me out. I got excited, thinking the baking soda had solved all of my leftover problems! Not the case. By Day 2, my fridge smelled like a greasy kitchen and just as before, I had to toss my leftovers.

According to Matthew Jabs:
This is simply a very clever and successful marketing ploy by the baking soda people, but the fact is that baking soda is very poor at absorbing odors. Activated charcoal would work much better but is expensive.

Guess I’ll have to stop being lazy and actually wrap my food. Or better yet--clean the fridge once in a while.

Myth Number Three:
Sushi means raw fish
FALSE

Almost every member of my immediate family is in the medical field one way or another. Every last one of them frowns upon my eating sushi. Raw fish carries mercury, it’s bad for you, blah, blah, blah. Now, whether or not their theories on raw fish are true, I don’t know. That’s not what I am arguing here. What I AM arguing is that my family all seem to think that sushi is synonymous with “raw fish”. Not so -the term actually refers to the vinegar rice used. This is made by dissolving sugar in vinegar (usually rice vinegar) and tossing with the hot, just-cooked rice. Sushi therefore refers to vinegared rice served with other ingredients, which may or may not include fish (which in turn may be raw or may be cooked). The rice itself is referred to as shari. Raw fish served by itself without the rice is called sashimi.

So put that in your seaweed and eat it, mom!

Myth Number Four:
Lobsters scream with pain when boiled
FALSE

I freaking love lobster. I love the bibs they give you before you start eating. I love the first crack of the shell when you pull out that long, sweet juicy meat. I love the butter you dip it in that always manages to dribble down my chin and land on my shirt. However, I do not like seeing the lobster happily swimming around before its demise. I do not like the restaurants that ask you to PICK your specific lobster. I do not want to see it happy and living and then know that the crustacean is dead because I made that choice. Do I look like God to you?! It’s too much power. No, no, I much prefer to think that it was found dead of natural causes, washed up on the beach and the seafood restaurant’s owner found it. Yes, the restaurant business probably has a whole staff of people who simply peruse the shores of Maine looking for dead lobsters suitable for cooking.

Of course I don’t want to inflict pain on animals! I had trouble exposing of the mouse that was in my apartment last year. But this one is false on two accounts. First of all, pain doesn't just happen automatically - it is the result of specific receptors, nerve pathways, and brain regions all cooperating to convert certain physical stimuli into the perception of pain. This has all been thoroughly worked out in humans and other vertebrates. But guess what - lobsters and other crustaceans are not vertebrates and do not have these nerve pathways and brain regions (they don't have a real brain at all, for that matter). In other words, no brain, no pain.

What about the "scream" that lobsters sometime emit when submerged in the boiling water? Well, lobsters have no throat, no vocal cords, and no lungs. That awful high pitched noise you hear is actually caused by air trapped in the shell. When heated it expands and forces itself out through small gaps, causing the sound.

More interesting dispelled myths to come...

Happy Christmas and Merry New Year

2008-01-03T11:24:00.000-08:00

Sorry I fell off the face of the Earth for a while. I hope everyone's holidays and Christmakwaanzakuh was as awesome as mine was! Happy New Year to all and I will be back to post something awesome soon.

2007-12-14T12:27:00.000-08:00

Help Me

2007-12-12T14:37:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend and I are supposed to make each other's Christmas gift this year.

Every idea I had, he (unintentionally) shot down. Such as a travel coffee mug with our photos in it. Or coasters featuring the covers of his comic books (comic books that he has drawn...not just books he collects). Does ANYONE have any good ideas? He's an artist so I have a feeling his gift to me is going to be freaking awesome, and I'll end up giving him a picture frame made out of popsicle sticks. I've already knitted him a billion and one things, so that won't work.

Ugh....please, please, help me!!!!!!! Thanks to all!

Masochist

2007-12-12T09:39:00.000-08:00

Do you ever get a tiny cut on the inside of your lip that you just can't help but nibble and suck on when you're bored sitting at your computer desk? Then, you accidentally nibble a little too hard causing the tiny cut to split even wider. Now, it's bleeding and swollen which only makes you want to chew on it more! So eventually, you end up with an enormous welt the size of your entire lip spanning across your gumline. It looks like you got into a fight. Only instead of punching with your fists, you used your mouth.

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Well, today I am FORCING myself not to chew on this raw cut on my bottom lip. It hurts like a mother and every ounce of my being wants to knaw it off (as if that would really work) but I am refraining. I will FORCE it to heal!

Another Sad Day

2007-12-11T09:31:00.000-08:00

Emily May, who graduated with me from Southwest Guilford High School in 2001, died in a fatal automobile accident earlier this year.

She and I obviously did not keep in touch, as I had no idea until today that my old high school friend was gone. While others have had a chance to mourn her death, this is fresh news to me and I still haven't quite wrapped my head around it yet. She is the second friend of mine from high school to have died at the hands of a drunk driver.

When are people going to learn?

According to the articles I have read online, another girl was driving drunk and swerved into Emily's lane. Emily swerved so not to hit the girl and ended up colliding with a pole that had a red light camera on it. The heavy device fell onto the roof of Emily's '99 Mustang convertible. She was rushed to Cape Fear Valley Hospital, suffering from critical injuries and later died of these injuries.

As I sit here writing this, I am looking at photos of Emily. It's obvious to me that she was very loved and my heart breaks to those who were close to her. She was a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a cousin, a friend, and a girlfriend. She was a young woman with the highest of hopes, the biggest of dreams, and the kindest of hearts. Maybe her hopes would have been fulfilled; maybe her dreams would have been achieved; and most definitely, more people in this world would have had the honor of knowing her.

To Emily's family: I wish there was something I could say or do to help dull the sorrow and anguish that I know you are feeling.
Emily was always a joy to be around. Beautiful, happy, graceful, and funny. She was the light of any party and one of the few girls in high school who did not allow popularity to go to her head. She would be as friendly with the head cheerleader as she would with the drama geeks (ie - me). She was smart and there was never a doubt in my mind that she would be a successful young woman. Her life was stolen out from under her feet because of the carelessness of another.

Robert Fulghum states that: "I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge--myth is more potent than history--dreams are more powerful than facts--hope always triumphs over experience--laughter is the cure for grief--and love is stronger than death."

Emily was and is still loved. And it is because of the love we all exhibit that Emily Elizabeth May will live on.

I <3 Knitting

2007-12-10T13:40:00.000-08:00

So, I had a few emails with the last knitting post asking to see something I had knitted on my own. So, here, featured on this post is a lovely angora black and white scarf I knitted in a ribbed pattern for The Boyfriend! (isn't he a beautiful model?)

I have decided that once a week, I will post an I <3 Knitting picture which will feature a piece I have finished. Because I love to knit so much, I have a gazillion different random finished scarves, hats, etc lying around the apt. The Boyfriend! is insisting that I get rid of them. So, if you see a scarf or anything that strikes your fancy, let me know and I will send it your way. I am asking for some sort of small monetary supplement though for the cost of yarn (usually no more than 20 bucks) and shipping cost (because I'm a poor mofo and the evil postal service has taken enough of my money this holiday season!).

Have a great day, y'all!

Mauve Lipstick and an Alluring Pout

2007-12-07T09:03:00.000-08:00

MAUVE LIPSTICK AND AN ALLURING POUT
__________________________________________________
Occurred: End of my freshman year (high school, 1998)

I will never be the girl who can wear white and not spill on myself. You know the girl I'm talking about. She is your friend, your neighbor, your cousin, your best friend's girlfriend—or in my case, my sister.

She always chews with her mouth closed, and never spits when she talks. She can wear no make up and still look like a Calvin Klein cover girl, and then when she does wear it, her eyeliner never bunches up in the corner of her eyes creating a big black eye booger. She makes a ponytail and a baseball cap look sophisticated. Her panty hose never run, lipstick never gets on her teeth, and not once in her life has she ever passed gas; the mere thought appalls her. She has a cute, high-pitched giggle that when activated causes her nose to crinkle like a bunny rabbits. Her eyes always sparkle, her teeth—always white, and her features are perfectly symmetrical with high cheekbones that are constantly a natural shade of "rosy."

I have to thank my sister, though…I never would have made the amount of guy friends that I had in high school if it hadn't been for her.

* * *

It was another boring high school day. The drab yellow walls added to the monotony of traveling from class to class day after day. Only today was slightly different.

I had an audition coming up where I needed to learn how to play the violin. Mario and I were both in drama class together and he was an accomplished violinist. I planned to ask for his help. If only I wasn’t so painfully shy. I would have preferred to slide down a banister of razor blades and land in a pool of alcohol than randomly approach the hottest guy in school.

We had just moved to High Point, North Carolina, so I was starting over. Again. It was only two years prior that we had moved also. I hardly ever spoke to anyone unless they spoke first, and even then I responded with one-word answers:

“How are you, Colleen?”

“Fine.”

“Are you adjusting?”

“Yes.”

I was also a liar.

So, anyway, you can imagine how hard it was for me, Colleen Katana, to go up to the dreamiest boy in school and invite him over to my house to teach me to play an instrument that, when I played it, sounded more like a dying cat.

Mario towered over my 5'1 frame. He had a lean build with dark hair and even darker eyes. His style was…unusual. He had an emo feel to him before it was cool to be such. And once a month he would come to school in a costume, just for the hell of it. One time, I remember, he was a sailor. Another time, he came in scuba gear. And the strangest part of all of this was that he pulled it off. He made coming to school in costumes look cool. And every girl wanted to date him, including me.

I quietly walked over to him before drama class started, twirling my hair between two chewed fingers. For being so good-looking, he was surprisingly approachable. I fidgeted with my notebook that rested between one clenched arm and he greeted me with a wide, toothy smile.

"What's happenin' Col-Leen." He always broke my name into two very distinct syllables when he said it. A tradition he still does to this day. From anyone else, it would have been annoying. From him, it was charming.

"Uh, hi Mar—uh, Mario." I had to stop and clear my throat after saying his name. In my shy, breathy voice, I continued. My voice was so soft, it's a wonder he even heard the words I was speaking. "I was wondering if you would be able to help me with something. Maybe after school on Friday?" I managed to choke out some words about the audition and needing to learn how to play violin; or at least fake it for a day. He was more than happy to help.

Friday took forever to arrive. Each minute of each day for the entire week was like torture. What would he think if he met my brother, the black sheep of the family? Why was he so quick to accept and help me? He can’t really be that nice. No one this good looking is honestly friendly, right? Isn’t that what Dawson’s Creek had taught me?

Friday finally rolled around. Mario and I got into his '85 Honda Accord and drove back to my house, listening to Jimmy Eat World all the way. Walking into my two-story suburban house with Mario at my heels, I yelled, my voice bellowing through the hallway. "Mom, I'm home!" It was probably the loudest thing Mario had ever heard me say.

As soon as I was in my house, I morphed into a different person. I bounced into the kitchen and tossed my backpack onto the hardwood floor. Mario followed, dumbfounded at the change in my persona. As we walked from the foyer into the kitchen, my mother was pulling a cake she had baked out of the oven. Wearing a skirt and blouse with an apron over top, Mario later told me she reminded him of Donna Reed. The introductions were made as my mom and my new friend met for the first time.

We sat down at the kitchen island and my mom served us each an enormous slice of chocolate cake. Eyes wide he looked from my mother, to me, then back to my mother. “Wow, um, thank you Mrs. Katana.”

“You’re very welcome, Mario. You can call me either Mrs. K or Mama K. Most of Colleen’s friends do.

I had no idea where my mom came up with this lie, because none of my friends ever called her Mama K. I suppose it was her own fantasy. She sent me a wink and just like that the lightbulb illuminated my stupid brain. She was attempting to make me sound more popular in front a guy who she knew was one of the most popular kids at school! And guess what--it worked.

“Cool, Mama K.” My mom smiled and nodded and bounced away, back towards the oven. The cheerleader in her was escaping again, as it had a tendency to do when she was around younger people. I expecter her to break out in a "rah, rah" routine any second now.

As I was about to say something, my brother—who was living in our basement saving money at the time—came upstairs. It was 4pm and he had just woken up. Long, scraggly brown hair hung matted past his shoulders and he was wearing mesh shorts and an oversized Cinderella t-shirt—the 80s band, not the Disney movie.

For a reason that I still do not understand, Mario's eyes became wide and a huge smile was plastered over his face as he stared at Bo. By the look on his face, you would have thought Salma Hayek had just emerged from the shower in nothing but a steamed towel. "Nice shirt, man. Gotta love 80's monster rock, right?"

"Yep," my brother, Bo, adjusted his crotch just prior to shaking Mario's hand, " S'cuse me. I gotta piss." Yes, that is my brother. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mom's head fall into her hands.

Mario looked at me laughing. Not a condescending laugh, or a judgmental laugh, but a laugh that led me to believe he was just overall amused and intrigued by Bo. He pointed at him with his thumb, like a hitchhiker. "That guy is awesome!"

We walked down the stairs to my basement for privacy, in an attempt to begin practicing the violin. When we reached the bottom, Mario jolted to a stop. "Whoa. Are…those….real?" Instinctually, I glanced down at my breasts. In movies when you heard lines like this, isn't that what men were always referring to? But Mario was looking not at me, but straight ahead, his eyes were even wider in disbelief than when he met Bo.

"Oh, yeah," I shrugged, finally realizing what he was referring to. "There's one over there, too." My dad collected old arcade games. As in, the huge machines that you would go to a game room, stick a quarter in and spend your afternoons trying to win crappy plastic prizes that were held in a glass case, as if they held some value. At that time we had Double Dragon, Spy Hunter, and a Star Wars pinball machine.

Mario’s head shook in disbelief. "Your house is awesome."

The afternoon passed quickly and before I had a chance to realize how late it was, my mom called down and invited Mario to stay for dinner. He, of course, accepted. Who wouldn't want a meal cooked by a contemporary Donna Reed?

We came upstairs for dinner, and there she was, sitting at our waxed, mahogany dining room table. A vision of loveliness, home for the weekend from college: My sister. She had perfectly tanned skin, softer and silkier than any rose petal and was wearing subtly beautiful makeup with mauve lipstick that accentuated her already pouty lips. His jaw dropped to the floor, saliva trickling out onto our stone tiles. My dad, standing beside Mario, looked from the ogling boy to his older daughter and back again to the boy. With a playful smack upside Mario’s head, he went and sat at the head of the table. "Roll your tongue back in your mouth boy, and let's eat." Mario did as told.

As the night ended, I walked Mario to the front door. He looked at me, his expression unreadable. My eyes narrowed, curiosity oozing from my tear ducts. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself.

I figured I would have to be the first to say something, which is a rare, rare thing. "Well, thanks for coming over. Even if I didn't get any better at playing violin, it was still a good time."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was." He turned and opened the door. Pausing, he turned to face me again.

Eyebrows arched, I kept my eyes on his and turned my head to the left. "Yes?"

"Everything I thought about you was wrong.” A short, sharp breath escaped from his nose, “I thought I had you figured out Col-Leen. Your family—your life—is awesome."

I nodded. "Yes, it is." I had to suppress the urge to throw my arms around his neck and hug him in that moment.

His hand fell from where it was resting on the doorknob and slapped the outside of his thigh. "And your sister…wow, she is hot!" I had to suppress the urge to clench my fist and hit him in that moment.

I could not understand everyone's fascination with her. Sure, she is beautiful. But how could it be that people always confused us for twins, yet she was considered hot one? I was confused. I was frustrated. Throwing my hand at the door, I stopped him as he was about to walk out. "Hey…what is it that makes Bridget so hot?"

He sucked on his teeth, taking a moment to think. "Well, a lot of things. Her lips, for one."

I looked down at the floor. Not really the answer I was hoping for.

"So…would you like to hang out with a few friends and me tomorrow?"

My head snapped up from the floor. I answered quickly…too quickly perhaps. "Yes!"

"I'll even pick you up, if it's easier."

Since I couldn’t drive yet, that was much easier. He stepped closer to me and wrapped his long arms around my body, pulling me in close to his chest. This wasn't the courtesy hug that a lot of "friends" give you. This was an embrace. The type of hug where you held the other person, listening to their heartbeat while feeling your own pound against your chest. Before pulling away, he whispered to me, "Don't worry, Col-Leen; you're hot too."

As he walked out the door, he spoke over his left shoulder, "Feel free to invite your sister tomorrow night." He winked, got into his car, and drove off.

The next night, I "borrowed" my sister's mauve lipstick. My lips never looked so pouty. I never returned it to her, either.

Linking

2007-12-06T08:36:00.000-08:00

So, I finally understand the amazingness that is LINKING! Which means, the Ode to Merry will be revised so that her link shows up there, because believe me when I say, her blog, Mom and More Rocks!!!!!!
(See that?....See how it's linked within the text??)

I <3 Knitting

2007-12-05T13:16:00.000-08:00

This past year or so I have discovered just how much I love to knit. Actually, I'm not so sure it's the act of knitting I enjoy, but the feeling when I have finished a project. The sense of completion and pride I feel when wearing something I did all by myself.
I've learned a few techniques and I have since advanced from just making scarves. (although they are my favorite thing to create because they're so easy!) Here is a picture of my colleague, Holly, wearing a scarf I helped her finish.

Ode To Merry of Mom and More

2007-12-05T09:26:00.000-08:00

Merry was winner number two of my blog xmas style challenge, so here is her poem.
Read it/sing it to the tune of "Hey Mickey"

An Ode to Merry
Mom and More

(Chorus)
Oh Merry, your blog’s so fine, your blog’s so fine, it blows my mind
Hey Merry (clap-clap clap-clap!)
Hey Merry (clap-clap clap-clap!)

Oh Merry, your blog’s so fine, your blog’s so fine, it blows my mind
Hey Merry (clap-clap clap-clap!)
Hey Merry (clap-clap clap-clap!)

(Verse 1)
Hey Merry—
You seem to write all night and that’s a little long
Every time I check you’ve posted yet another song
Why can’t I do that too, oh you put me to such shame, Merry!

Cause when you say you will, you always follow through
Your writing gives me chills, Merry, yes indeed it do
In comparison to you, my writing feels so lame, Merry!

(Refrain)
Oh Merry, Mom and More, I check your blog each day
Your writing grabs my eye and I can never click away
Oh Merry, stories of your life, your thoughts, your kids…
It’s blogs like yours, Merry…
Oh what you write, Merry,
Write, Merry
Never disappoints, Merry!

(Verse 2)
Hey Merry—
Now when you take me to your world, I always seem to know
That every time you write you show a little more soul
Your query on BookEnds proves how well your words flow, Merry!

So c’mon and keep posting, anyway you can
Anything you want to write, I’ll take it like a man
Just don’t disappear and leave me all alone, Merry!

(Refrain)
Oh Merry, Mom and More, I check your blog each day
Your writing grabs my eye and I can never click away
Oh Merry, stories of your life, your thoughts, your kids…
It’s blogs like yours, Merry…
Oh what you write, Merry,
Write, Merry
Never disappoints, Merry!

A Sad, Sad Day in Katanaland

2007-12-03T11:10:00.000-08:00

My mother called me on Saturday, a choked sound brushing over her vocal chords. The second she said "Hello," I could tell something was wrong. Is it dad? Bridget? Bo?...

"Bo is fine," she said.

Anytime something is wrong and the bearor of bad news says, 'so and so is fine," you always know they're the person who's not. You immediately know that the person who is "fine" is the one who is suffering the most. My mind started racing. Was it a car crash? Cancer? Did he get arrested...he is, afterall, the Katana with the shortest fuse.

"Weejes passed away." Weejes is our dog. Well, was our dog, I suppose. He was a birthday present from my sister, Bridget to my brother, Bo when I was 15ish. He was a white boxer/bulldog mix, the runt of the litter, and retarded. Literally. The veterinarian said that he was the equivalent to a child who had Downs.

My family always had a tendency to adopt the stupidest or the ugliest dog. They tug at our heartstrings a little more than the adorable puppies peeking with large, wet eyes out from behind the kennel bars. We know the cute puppies will be adopted within an hour. But that ugly, mangey albino puppy with patches of fur missing, an eye that focused constantly on the wall beside you, and a case of worms so severe that his little belly was swollen to the floor, would never get adopted. Unless of course, a Katana laid eyes upon him. Luckily for Weejes, my sister did just that. My sister was his savior.

"You sure you want this one?" The kennel worker asked her. "He may not live to see the morning."

"More than sure," Bridget nodded.

"It's your money, lady. We don't give refunds, though."

Bo had been wanting a dog to keep his other Boxer, Mojo, company. He was living with us and my parents cringed at the thought of having yet another dog running around on their newly tiled kitchen and pristine hard-wood floors. But they saw the joy Mojo brought not only to Bo, but to all of us. And so, though reluctant, they agreed.

The first few weeks we had him, he could fit into the palms of my hands. I would cradle him in my arms at night and sneak him to my bedroom to fall asleep with him, only to wake up terrified at the thought that I may have accidentally crush his tiny body in my sleep. While I was supposed to be doing my algebra homework, he would curl up on my chest and fall asleep to the beating of my heart. Bo named him Weejes after my sister, since she was the one who brought him into our lives. (The name Weejes is derived from Bridgets nickname which started as Beejes, but then transformed into Weejes. My brother is an interesting character. Who knows where he comes up with this shit)

Weejes was a good dog. A loyal dog. As I said, he was mentally retarded, so we would have to teach him the basic commands, like sit, only to discover that 5 minutes later, he had no recollection of ever learning the command. We called him our "Little Man" because he was the miniature version of Mojo, his bigger brother. And when he was happy, his body would curve into a U shape and his butt would wiggle while walking sideways towards you. It was "The Little Man Dance," and it was reserved for very special occasions, such as when you had been gone all day and returned home with a treat you had picked up from the store.

For some reason, he was terrified of stairs. It took years, literally, for us to teach him that the stairs going from the porch down to the yard were in fact NOT going to turn into a giant puppy-eating monster and swallow him whole. We had to carry him up and down whenever he needed to go out, which was fine, until his 5 lb puppy frame turned into 10 lbs. Then 20. Then 50. Then 60.

He was around 5 years old when he died. He had a brain tumor that we never even knew about and on Saturday, he had a seizure. It was sudden, which makes it all the harder to accept that Weejes is gone. To anyone who understands this feeling, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you have felt the pain that I currently feel. And to those who don't understand, perhaps it's better that way. But then again, that also means that you've never experienced a 60lb dog knocking you down at the knees just so he can better lick your face. You've never had an animal constantly anticipating your arrival and whimper and cry each time you left. And while I know that this lump will take a while to disappear, and that the ache will eventually fade, I know the pain is good. In some ways, my dog deserves a few tears shed over his death for the many years of happiness and the numerous laughs he provided.

Weejes---Christmas this year will not be the same without you trying to steal the candy canes off of the tree. It will not be the same without you nosing through the wrapped cordial cherries Dad gives us every year. And it will not be the same when the whole family settles down to watch a movie with you not there to cuddle with us by the fire.

You were a good dog, Little Man. And you will be missed.

Xmas Present Winner - #1

2007-11-29T14:43:00.003-08:00

Two winners left, people. Get it while its hot! (See the post below)

An Ode to Missy:

There once was a land
On the Southeast coast
“That could make all children smile,”
It would constantly boast.

This land needed workers
Its own little slaves
To do the work of the Devil
For next to no pay.

It is at this job
Where a mouse was their boss
That two young girls met
Yes, their paths, they did cross.

The one girl, athletic,
Curvy, with one hot physique
The other, svelte and clumsy
She’d trip over her feet.

The two became pals
The best of, in fact
They vowed lifelong friendship
It was their own little pact.

The clumsy one, me
Was quite naïve
Never been drunk before
Her 21st birthday’s eve.

This dear friend of mine
(Missy's her name)
Stole the innocence from me
Yes, she is to blame.

Oh, Sweet Alcohol!
You offer such love
No man can compare,
You must be sent from above!

She’d pry the glass from my hands
Which were holding the neck in full throttle
And pull back my hair
As I threw up in the bottle

And I’m glad she was there
Every step of the way
Yes, this is what friendship
Is made of, I say.

We journeyed to Hell
Then made our way back
Now grown up and calmed down
And not nearly as whack.

She now lives cross the country
We’re forced to bond through email
It may as well be Siberia
For these two females.

And though it’s been 3 years
Since we last saw each other
When we talk it’s as if
We never left one another.

Whether 3 years or 3 days,
I admit sans her cajole
This young girl is my friend,
My family, and Soul.

We may never be neighbors
Or even in neighboring states
But I know one thing’s for sure
That this friendship’s too great—
For whenever she needs me,
I’ll be there for her
Go ahead and ask her vice versa
I’m sure she’ll concur.

Deck the Blog with Boughs of...

2007-11-28T07:03:00.000-08:00

...holly.

Right. So, ok, here we go. Because I am a Christmas NUT and love this holiday so much, I am doing something that you may consider crazy. I'm going to give a present to the first three people to comment on this post. The idea came from Merry of Mom and More (I am a computer idiot and have no idea how to link...sorry!)who got the idea from JerseyGirl who got the idea from another blogger I don't know, and so on and so forth.

So, let's recap: You, reader, comment on this post. Then, you, reader will receive one of the following Christmas gifts from me.

1) A poem written just for you. It will be tough since I know very little about every single one of you, but I'm up to the challenge. The poem will be posted here and also be sent to you via email to post on your own site.

or

2) A (used) copy of one of my favorite books. You'll get your choice of a few, just in case you haveit or have read it. I'm thinking one will be the nonfiction book called The Physics of Christmas which goes into detail about how fast Santa's sleigh has to fly in order to make it to every house in time, etc. Or you could have a copy the book Grab Your Tiger, which is an anthology of short stories (featuring a story by yours truly), Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie, or Lovely Bones.

That is all...Merry (early) Christmas bloggers!

A Redneck Holiday

2007-11-27T07:26:00.000-08:00

I could regale you with tales of my boring Thanksgiving, which consisted of a very healthy baked turkey, steamed green beans, mashed potatoes, etc. I prefer my turkey served in a vat of Crisco, my potatoes swimming in a pool of butter, and my green beans submerged in melted cheese. But, you know, this healthy stuff worked too. My arteries will thank me later.

After dinner, I suited up in a bulky sweatshirt (A GIANTS sweatshirt, which was definitely not appreciated by my boyfriend’s New England Patriots loving family!). I pulled the hood up around my ears and over the enormous ski cap that was tightly hugging my skull. Tucking the frayed hem of me jeans into blue Ugg boots, I slipped gloves over my fingers and headed out with the boys.

I was being taught how to shoot a gun. His dad showed me how to load the bullet into the chamber and the proper way to position it—against your shoulder so that there is no kick back (or something to that extent). Pretty much all I heard was “Blah, blah, blah…aim at the target…blah, blah, blah…pull the trigger.” I have a very bad tendency to get a tad overzealous and not pay attention to important details…like instructions.
The conversation went a bit like this:

Sean’s Dad: Now, you pull the lever back and you’ll see the bullet be shifted into the barrel.
Me: (I put my finger on the trigger)
Sean’s Dad: No…not the trigger, the lever.
Me: Isn’t the trigger also a lever?
Sean’s Dad: No, it’s the trigger. THIS is the lever. It cocks the gun.
Me: (Chuckles to myself that Sean’s dad said “cock”)
Sean’s Dad: Ok. So, go ahead and pull the lever.
Me: (I put my finger on the trigger. Mainly to amuse myself; I know this is the wrong “lever”)
Sean’s Dad: That’s the trigger!
Me: Oh, right. (I load the bullet)
Sean’s Dad: So, now the gun is live.
Me: The gun’s alive?
Sean’s Dad: No, the gun IS live. As in it’s ready to shoot.
Me; (I lower the gun from my shoulder) Oh, so that means, it’s like—
Sean’s Dad: Don’t lower the gun! Once it’s cocked, you want to keep it pointing at the target. Just in case.
Me: Oh, ok. It doesn’t seem to safe though to be yelling at the girl holding the loaded gun.
Sean’s Dad: Now, to aim, you align the front thingy and the back thingy (I can’t remember the proper terms) with the target. Then just pull the trigger.

I squeezed one eye shut and looked through the alignment thingy that was just in front of my face.

Sean: Nice face, hun. You don’t have to growl at your target though.
Me: So, who could this gun kill?
Sean and Sean’s Dad: Who could what?
Me: I mean, what type of game would you shoot with this.
Sean’s Dad: Well, it’s a 22 bullet. It could kill just about anyone, if aimed right, but I wouldn’t go hunting any moose with it or anything.
Me: Wow.
Sean: You’re scaring us, Colleen.

I ignored him. Through the metal viewer, I saw the brown cardboard target. The power I held between my delicate hands was tremendous. My knees shook. This metal thing that was only a few pounds, resting against my bony shoulder could take a life. Whether that life was a bird or a person, it had the power. I had the power. And I liked it just a little too much. My finger wrapped around the trigger like a snake coiling around its prey and I squeezed, gently at first. Then a little tighter, I heard the loud BANG. I lowered the gun and 40 feet in front of me, a tree branch rocked back and forth.

Sean: Hey, you hit the target!
Sean’s Dad: And you hit that leaf! See it swaying?

Oh, I could see it. But that leaf—that leaf never even saw it coming.

Not for the Faint of Heart

2007-11-19T14:31:00.000-08:00

Warning: This post is a tad bit graphic. Easily PG-13. If you are among the faint of heart and easily disturbed by potty humor, discontinue reading.

You have been warned.

So have you ever had your cell phone in your pocket and gone to the bathroom just to have it fall out of your pocket into the toilet? Yeah, me too. Only today, I had a small glass bottle of foundation in my back pocket. It fell in the toilet and shattered against the side of the bowl.

It happened as I was standing after going not only number one, but also number two. So, there, amongst my own waste, were shards of glass and foundation glop.

I knew I had two options...I could flush, but I assumed flushing shards of glass couldn't be good for the potty. Or I could go find my office manager...a woman to help me determine what to do. I decided that attempting the first option would be much less humiliating. And if the toilet clogged, so what? Then I can let them know and pass the blame onto someone else.

So I bite the bullet and flush. I hear shards of glass tinkling against the porcelin bowl and just as I thought everything would be fine, the water started swirling in the opposite direction and the water, piss, poo, and foundation started spilling over top of the toilet bowl and all over my Steve Madden suede boots. That's karma for you, huh?

I'm pretty much the ONLY girl in the office who wears foundation so I knew they'd bust me if I didn't fess up. I went to find my office manager to explain the debacle....and she joined me in the bathroom. Her face twisted, horrified by my mess. I told her that the toilet must have already been clogged because the poo wasn't mine.

"And the foundation?" She asked.

"Yeah, that's mine." It was quiet for a moment, so I continued, "I dropped my foundation bottle in there. Then when I leaned in to retrieve the pieces of glass I accidentally leaned on the flusher lever (we have those old toilets with the huge metal push handle thing)." I waited for her response, biting my lip nervously.

Amazingly enough, she believed me and a smile cracked through her disgusted face. "I knew the 'mess' here couldn't be yours. No way anything this big could come out of a girl so small!" Ahhh, if only she knew me better.

So now...I'm walking around and my boots smell like my own feces. And urine. It's awful. My colleagues all know what happened and everyone else can smell me. If I were a cartoon character, a green-like fog would be trailing behind me as I walked. To make it worse I have to get on the subway tonight smelling like sewage.

Moral of the story: Do not put anything breakable in your back pocket when using the loo.

Successful Query, yay!

2007-11-19T08:43:00.000-08:00

As some of you may know, I have been querying agents for a book I finished. My first book of memoirs, a couple of which are featured on this blog. The style of my book is very unusual, as it is in short story format, but the stories are sequential and with a narrative story arch.

I've had a lot of success with my query letter and have had all but 3 agents request to see partials or fulls of my manuscript. So far, I have yet to hear back, but my fingers and toes are crossed! I thought that perhaps, you all would want to see an example of one letter I sent out to a senior editor at Citadel Press (no, she's not an agent, but I figured what the hell...it couldn't hurt). The writing in my letter was very stylized and the type of format that will either be loved or hated by those reading it. I guess my mindset was that since most of my book was written in this style, if they didn't like it, better to weed them out early. And since there's no way to please everyone, I took a risk, hoping to grab the attention of the agent and/or editor most like myself with a similar sense of humor.

So...here's my letter with one response (from the editor):

Re: I FORGIVE YOU…(AND OTHER APPALLING LIES)

Dear Ms. *********,

I love coffee. Sometimes people try to switch my coffee from caffeinated to decaf. I can always tell the difference. I also like Pringles, but only the reduced fat kind because they crunch better when you bite into them and they aren't as greasy. I'm an actress sometimes, a photographer rarely, a producer most of the time, and a friend always. But seriously, and yes I can be serious, I consider myself a work in progress. I believe if you fall asleep at night the same person that you were in the morning, you might as well have stayed in bed. Life will kick you in the balls, but I kick back harder. I am a dreamer. I am a romantic. I am pragmatic. I am contradictory. I am who I am and I love who I am. I love my family, my friends, my life, and every crusade I've fought to get where I am. Although it's been proven that caffeine is addictive, stunts your growth, and is bad for your teeth—I like it. And I’ll never allow anyone to steal the caffeine from my coffee. My book chronicles the important, the funny, the sometimes life-changing moments I have experienced. These are my stories. These are my memoirs. These are the reasons I became the woman I am today.

My memoir, I Forgive You…(and Other Appalling Lies), chronicles the groundbreaking experiences of my life. I use humor as my defense in the face of every hardship. From the first time I was dumped to my battle with cervical cancer (and HPV), you accompany me on the stories (large and small) of my life that have made me the woman I am today. And in spite of everything, I continue searching for a love that will curl my toes and a man similar to the coffee I drink each morning: Tall, Dark, Delicious...and will keep me awake all night long.

I read about you on Citadel Press's website. After seeing that you are a senior editor for genres such as humor, memoirs, and narrative non-fiction, I decided to send you a query letter. I’m young, ambitious, and I guarantee that I will be a published author within two years.

What gives me an edge? Well, my current boss is a celebrity, an amazing writer, and extremely supportive of my efforts. Her name is Linda Ellerbee. I currently work as her associate producer for Nick News on Nickelodeon. My writing career began at age six when I started creating stories to accommodate my wild imagination. My favorite was about an angel whose job was to watch over a little orphan girl. I am a graduate of the Savannah College of Art and Design, with a BFA in Photography and have been a regular writer for TheTruthMagazine.com and a regional magazine called Chesapeake Pet. Most recently, I had a short story published in a book of anthologies, GRAB YOUR TIGER, which was released in April of 2007.

I'd be happy to send you a complete manuscript for your review. Thank you so much for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Colleen Katana

Future Best-Selling Author

Her Response:

Dear Colleen,

Thank you for this most unusual and entertaining query letter. Things are a little crazy leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday, but I’ll be happy to take a look at the manuscript afterward. Feel free to send it along.

All Best,
***********

Chocolate on the Treadmill

2007-11-16T12:19:00.000-08:00

Who would like to go ice-skating in Hell with me? Anyone? Bueller?

Well, it's official. Hell has frozen over and I, Colleen, have a boyfriend. This girl is officially OFF THE MARKET.

So, the boy, Sean, just moved to New York from Los Angeles to be with me. And things have been going great. It's like we're in this ethereal bubble of love and happiness. People stare at us, wanting to vomit, jealousy oozing from all orifices as we walk down the street hand in hand, staring lovingly into each other's eyes.

Last night, our love bubble popped. The stress of two people living under the same 600 square foot roof (and a dog...soon to be two dogs once we bring his back with us after Thanksgiving) became too much.

I came home from work, tired, achy, and cranky. I'm not an avid exerciser, but Sean is. For this reason, I joined the local gym so that we could bond over having rock hard abs and pecs that could poke your eyes out. I had been going 4 times a week, approximately; two work nights and on the weekends. My body has never been more sore. It's as though the devil himself reached his fiery little hands through my skin and ripped apart each quad, each bicep, each tricep, each hamstring, each calf...you get the picture. By the middle of this week, I could barely move, let alone work out. The simple act of laughing caused so much pain that if I even got the impression someone at my office was about to tell a joke, I would just turn and walk away. So anyway, I got home from work, and on my way picked up paper towels and some Halloween candy that was on sale. I was so excited about the M&M's and Reese's Cups I bought. I hadn't even seen chocolate in two weeks let alone eaten any and it sat in the plastic bag I carried with an aura of light surrounding it.

I got home, placed the bags on the counter and he immediately saw the candy, diffusing the flame of excitement that burned within me. Here's how the conversation went:

Him: Candy?
Me: Not just candy--but Reese's!
Him: Great.
Me: What? It was on sale.
Him: Do you KNOW how much sugar is in that?
Me: No. Is it enough to make YOU sweeter. If so, you should eat some pronto.
Him: I'm being serious.
Me: So am I.
Him: We have enough sweets in the house.
Me: Such as? Because the sweetest thing I've had these past two weeks is yogurt with fruit.
Him: There's a lot of sugar in some fruits.
Me: Yeah, in Delusionalville where you currently reside.
Him: And you have honey mustard. That has a ton of sugar.
Me: It's not like I pour the honey mustard directly into my mouth and drink it--a tiny bit goes on my sandwiches. HEALTHY sandwiches.
Him: It's still a lot of sugar.
(I take a bite of the Reese's cup. By his horrified face, this is apparently the equivalent to making out with a stranger at a bar right in front of him)
Me: Mmmm, this is SO good. I can just hear that sugar being stored as fat cells.
Him: You're not funny.
Me: Yes I am. Maybe not in Delusionalville where you currently reside.
Him: You used that joke already.
Me: But you didn't laugh. I thought I'd try it again.
Him: Nope, still not funny.
Me: Are you sure? Cause it may be--outside of Delusional--
Him: Stop! So, are we going to the gym tonight?
Me: Seriously?
Him: Well, I'm going.
Me: I'm only going if I can bring the bag of M&M's.
Him: YOU CAN'T EAT M&M'S AT THE GYM!
Me: Then I'm not going. And I'll eat them here. On the couch. And I'll purposefully drop one on your side so that it melts tonight while you're watching tv. So what is it? M&M's on the treadmill or M&M's on the couch?
Him: The gym. But we're walking in seperately and I'm pretending I don't know you.
Me: (under my breath) Good luck with that.

TEARS, FEARS, AND THOSE PRE-SCHOOL YEARS

2007-11-13T14:04:00.000-08:00

TEARS, FEARS, AND THOSE PRE-SCHOOL YEARS
_____________________________________________________________
Occurred: March 2007

Her tiny teeth crunched away at the Cheerios in the bowl in front of her. To my right sat Maddie, humming an indiscernible tune while munching, milk and grainy bits of wheat floating in her mouth suspended between two rows of teeth.

“Finish up, kiddo,” I stood, bringing my own bowl of empty cereal to the sink, “we need to get you to ballet.”

“Ballet!” she shrieked and shoved another spoonful into her mouth. Dried, crusty milk was resting on the corners of her lips and she tried to wipe it away with the back of her hand.

“And if you finish soon and dress quickly, we can grab ice cream on the way.”

“Ice cream! Ballet! Yaaay!!!!” She lifted the entire bowl to her mouth and drank the rest of her cereal with one big gulp.

Well, that’s one way to finish, I guess.

Eliza was attending a Saturday class at a local University and needed me to take care of the Mad-ster for the day. I was, of course, happy to find an excuse, any excuse, to steal her for the day and bond with my favorite 4 ½ year old.

We stretched the pink tights over her legs and threw on the leotard over that. Then, I layered her in jeans and warm sweater. She buttoned her peacoat as I tied a scarf around her neck and pulled a hat down over her ears. We left their Astoria home hand in hand and walked in the brisk winter to the nearest Baskin Robins.

Maddie skipped beside me, three of her steps equaling one of my own. She hopped around, babbling on and on about how excited she was about getting ice cream. Her little fingernails scraped my palm. “Mommy never lets me eat ice cream. Even when I’m a good girl and I clean my room and I am quiet and help her bake Mrs. Annabelle cupcakes…I still don’t get to eat ice cream.”

I looked down at her, not able to see her face; only the top of her pink and white ski hat. “Why doesn’t mommy allow you to eat ice cream?”

She stopped skipping and looked up at me, her big brown eyes so dark I could barely distinguish her pupils from the irises.

“Because I’m allergetic to milk.”

Crap. How could I forget that she was allergic milk?

“Ya know, Maddie, it’s really cold for ice cream. Wouldn’t you rather have hot chocolate with soy milk? Yum, I know that’s what I want!”

In actuality, I hate anything made of soy. I find soy milk’s odd yellow color disgusting and would rather continuously poke myself in the eye with the dull point of a pencil than taint my hot chocolate with something as vile as soy milk. But I also realized that if Maddie got sick as a result of this scoop of ice cream, I would never hear the end of it. Nor would I ever be able to see her without a chaperone again for at least six months.

So, apparently, suggesting soy hot chocolate as opposed to ice cream was the equivalent of telling her that every last one of toys was going to be burned in a bonfire while we passed out brand new toys to every one of her friends leaving her with NONE. Her legs gave out beneath her and she crumbled to the ground in a fit of tears. In the land of Maddie, this suggestion warranted acting as though you had just swallowed battery acid.

“BUT…I…..YOU…SAID….WANT…..ICE CREAM….NOT…..MILK…..”

I bit my lip to stifle the laughter. “I’m sorry, Maddie, but I don’t speak Insane Toddler. Use your words…what are you trying to tell me?” I crouched and held her body steady as she caught her breath, calming down.

“You::sniff:: said ::sniff sniff:: I could have ::sniff:: ice cream. I don’t ::hiccup:: WANT hot ::sniff:: chocolate.”

“Ok,” I said, “That’s a fair statement. Why don’t we compromise.” She stared at me blankly, waiting. “You know what compromise is?” She nodded, snot starting to drip from one nostril. I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and handed it to her. “Ok, then. I will keep my promise and buy you the special ice cream that you’re allowed to have and if you’re a good girl and don’t complain about that, then we will split a soy hot chocolate.” Her eyes lit up and she started smiling again. “Deal?” I stuck my hand waiting to see if she'd shake on it.

“Deal!” She grabbed my hand and shook it eagerly.

* * *

Maddie and I made it to her upper west side ballet class just in time, but not after spilling half of the cup of hot chocolate down the front of her sweater. (which ultimately soaked through and stained her ballet leotard underneath) We ran from the subway stop to her studio, me: always a few steps ahead, dragging her behind me. The other mothers glared at me when we entered through the heavy glass doors, knowing Maddie, but not recognizing my face at all. They assumed I was the nanny or babysitter, which ultimately meant I was dirt. Hired help. And I suppose essentially, I was the nanny for the day. I knelt in front of Maddie and unbuttoned her coat, flinging off her hat and scarf. Together, we stripped her of the layers until she stood in front of me, a tiny ballerina, her soft light brown curls hanging just below her ears. She grabbed my hand, excited to show me off to her friends. Pulling me toward the loud voices of children screaming and laughing, she stopped in front of the instructor; a tall, lean woman whose features were chiseled and exotic. Her neck was long and that paired with her pale skin made her appear like a swan in front of me.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling clumsy and awkward in front of her.

“Hello.” She smiled warmly.

Hello. She made the word sound so classic and elegant. I wished I could pull off saying hello with the same memorable charm she did.

“Are you the babysitter today?” She wasn’t judgmental or condescending. Afterall, I guess what she does every Saturday is similar to that of babysitting several pre-k children all at once.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Maddie beat me to it.

“No, she’s my Aunt Colleen.” I nodded, smiling. “And she’s a ballerina too!”

I grimaced. Why did she have to say that? I smiled weakly at the Swan-lady. Maddie and I used to dance around her old house all the time, putting on music and twirling, pretending as though we were principal dancers in Swan Lake. When I was a kid, I took dance lessons and even throughout high school and college, I did. But I am far from being a ballerina.

“Really!” It was more of a proclamation than a question. “And where did you study?”

Maddie looked at me, eyes wide, not understand the question, but pretending to.

“Oh, well, I actually am more of an actress. I studied theatre moreso than ballet. Maddie was just a little confused because she’s seen me dance in a few shows.”

“Ah. I see. And where has Maddie’s father been? Mack, I believe is his name. I haven’t seen him lately.” I paused, the wheels in my head turning about the proper way to answer this. I assumed, It’s none of your damn business, would not be an appropriate response.

Again, Maddie beat me to answering. Her little lips became suddenly pouty and her head angled to the floor, her eyes looking up at the teacher and myself from under her eyebrows. “My daddy doesn’t live with us anymore,” Her voice was quiet, “He lives with Uncle Daniel.”

It was as though the entire room of gossiping mothers hushed with the one statement. Although they all pretended to be engaged in other conversations, their bodies were all leaning toward the three of us. They may as well have pressed their ears to glasses against a wall, listening.

The Swan seemed shocked and at a loss for words. “Well, she said leaning to Maddie slightly, “Sometimes daddies choose to live with other daddies, and that’s ok too.”

Maddie looked up at me, confused.

“No,” I corrected her quickly. “No, it’s not like that. He just had to go back to Virginia for a bit.” I glanced at Maddie still looking at the floor and then at the other mothers, waiting like vultures to feed on the gossip. “For work.” I added quickly at the end.

The Swan nodded. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Aunt Colleen. I hope you can make it to the spring recital.” She glided past me, constantly a vision of grace walking on the balls of her feet like a Barbie doll.

I leaned down to Maddie who was still quiet. “You ok, kiddo?”

She nodded. “We’re still a family even if daddy doesn’t live with us.” She spoke like she was reciting something she had learned in a book.

I nodded. “Yes we are.”

“And I’m not going to cry about it because big girls don’t cry.”

“Ok, Fergie, calm down there. Big girls cry. Even I cry…sometimes.”

She scrunched her nose and it reminded me of when I was young and used to do the same thing. “I’ve never seen you cry.”

I thought for a moment. How can I explain this? “I’ll make another pact with you.” She stared at me intently. She loved the idea of being involved in an adult meeting. “If you and I are hanging out and for whatever reason, one of us feels the need to cry, we will. No holding back for whatever reason. That means, I can cry in front of you, and you can cry in front of me.”

She nodded and ran off to the middle of the dance floor. I wasn’t sure she fully understood the pact, but someday she would. And when she did, I knew I’d be there to kiss away her tears. I knew I’d be the one rocking her back and forth reassuring her that tears were a good thing at times and they let the weepies out.

Moments later, she fell, landing on her bum. She looked at her instructor and then at me. Deciding on me, she tottled over holding her backside with both hands.

“Does this mean I can cry now?” She said, her eyes wide and glistening. She bit her lip, waiting for my answer.
I nodded and opened my arms. Her little body fell into mine and her body shook as she cried.

The Night of Dino-Dog

2007-11-08T08:21:00.000-08:00

THE NIGHT OF DINO-DOG
_______________________________________________

Occurred: Summer 1997

The sun was the color of butter; a rich, deep yellow that blazed onto the powdery sand and blue ocean reflecting sunlight onto our pink faces. I was wearing my first bikini ever. It was denim blue with red polka dots, and ever-so-slight padding to make up for my lack of curves. The terrycloth towel I was laying on felt soft against my back, and the sand beneath me had molded to fit the contours of my body perfectly.

Beside me, laid Michelle, my best friend.

Michelle and I met when we were 5 years old. It was the first day of kindergarten and she and I shared a coat closet. Those were the things that best friends were made of. I honestly can’t remember much else of that first day or even those first couple years, except that we were inseparable. When I was 12, my family moved from Pennsylvania to North Carolina and Michelle and I vowed to remain friends despite the distance. We both kept our promise.

So anyway, beside me, laid Michelle. She had long golden hair that was fanned out perfectly on her towel. A pink bikini was taut against her red skin, but it was not her first belly-baring bathing suit. Her mom had allowed her to have a bikini a couple of years ago. In all honesty, both of us could have been mistaken for boys from the neck down. Her eyes, although closed, still appeared to be squinting beneath the bright sun.

I sat up on my elbows, the grainy sand caving under the towel. “My mom says that squinting like that will give you crow’s feet.”

“What are crow’s feet?” She didn’t move. Nor did she stop squinting.

I slowly turned my head towards the ocean. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t sound good, does it?”

She shrugged trying to look as though she didn’t care, but I saw her face relax from its squinted state. I smiled to myself.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a group of three boys walking our way. They must have been about 15. The first boy, the leader of the group, had sandy blonde hair and green eyes that sparkled, even from far away. He was the most muscular of the three and beneath a flexed bicep, carried a long, red wave board. The two behind him weren’t nearly as attractive. One had bleached hair and dark brown eyes, and the other had dark hair with dark eyes.

My bony elbow poked Michelle in the ribs. She groaned in protest.

“I stopped squinting, ok? Let me sleep!”

I nudged once more a little harder. “Boys are approaching. Perk up…look sexy!”

As 14-year old girls, we had no idea what looking sexy actually entailed, but we were determined to get a boy to talk to us on this trip. We were with Michelle’s parents and sisters on a beach trip to Maryland. It was my first time going on vacation with a friend’s family, and Michelle’s parents gave her a lot more freedom than my parents usually allowed, so I was taking advantage of this short-lived independence. Michelle and I had been trying all weekend to strike up conversations with good-looking guys, failing miserably time and time again. After the billionth guy ignored us, we decided to watch older girls on the beach, to study their tactics. It was genius…they would ignore the boys. Then, when a guy was in sight, they’d lather themselves with tanning oil enticingly. Glistening in the sun, the oil glided over their smooth, tanned skin. If a boy did dare to approach one of the girls, they’d drop their shades over unimpressed eyes and look the other way. I called this the “Untouchable Approach.” We decided it was worth a try.

When Michelle finally realized what I was trying to tell her, she instinctually jumped up, scrambling for the sunblock. Neither of us was allowed to use tanning oil, so we had hoped lathering lotion all over our bodies would have the same effect.

She squeezed a huge blob of lotion in each of our hands and we began rubbing it into our already lobster-red bodies. I started by putting some on my ankles and worked my way up my legs. When I reached my knees, I realized I hadn’t put my sunglasses on. With a goopy hand, I pulled my sunglasses from the top of my head down over my eyes. My fingertips squished against the lenses and when I tried to look through them, there was an enormous, white hand print all over the front. I tried to wipe it off with my arm, but that seemed to just smear it so that I couldn’t see at all.
From my right, I heard Michelle’s peeved voice. “What are you doing? They’re coming up on us and you look like you’re on a day trip from Sunnyside Mental Institution!”

Wiping the remaining lotion on my arms, I whipped off the sunglasses just as the cute boys were passing. He was much, much hotter than I had originally thought. I made eye contact with his emerald eyes and time slowed down as he passed. He shot me a dazzling smile revealing perfectly straight teeth, then looked back at his friends, laughing.

Michelle pursed her lips and spoke to me without moving her head, attempting to conceal the fact that she was talking. “Do something. He’s looking at you. You look like a deer caught in the headlights.”

My eyes were wide, and my face was blank. She was right. I flirted with as much passion as a gay boy watching a swimsuit competition did. I blinked a few times very rapidly and snapped my head back in their direction; they had their backs to us now, walking away. Crap. Another opportunity lost. I looked down at my body. Pinched between my greasy fingers were my sunglasses, practically submerged in lotion. My arms were streaked white, and globs of the white lotion were still all over my legs.

Michelle looked at me, swallowing laughter. “There’s some in your hair too.” She scrunched her nose and flipped her own hair out behind her. Lowering herself back down to the towel, I saw that her eyes were still squinting behind her sunglasses.

* * *

After days of trying to flirt successfully, and I stress the word “trying,” Michelle and I decided to give up and enjoy our last night on vacation. All week we had been eyeing an old fashioned, hand dipped ice cream parlor, but had avoided it because “sexy girls don’t eat ice cream.” Whatever. 14-year old girls have it all wrong…eating ice cream can be very sexy; just not the way I do it.

Now, with no boys to worry about, we ran from our hotel to the store’s entrance. It was 8:00pm, and we had just finished dinner; not usually a prerequisite from Michelle’s parents, but I think they were trying harder to enforce rules with me there.
The bells atop the heavy glass door tingled as we entered, cold stagnant air from the AC slapping us in the face. I swear I heard choir of angels singing as we looked through the refrigerated glass at the various flavors. Strawberry, coconut, butter pecan, cookie dough, mint chocolate chip! So many flavors to choose from…what’s a girl to do? I decided on my favorite: triple chocolate fudge with extra chocolate sprinkles. I also splurged on a waffle cone. It was, after all, vacation.

Gluttony oozed from our eye sockets as the man behind the counter handed us the enormous cones with three scoops. We happily paid our $3.50, never breaking eye contact with our desserts. Without grabbing napkins or spoons—who needed those?—we stepped out into the night.

Immediately upon walking out the door, the darkness and heat of the night swallowed us. Our ice cream started melting at a supernatural rate. Within seconds, dark chocolate goo was running down the sides of my waffle cone. It was about two blocks back to our hotel room. Knowing we’d never make it, we panicked and through snorts of laughter tried to eat the ice cream as quickly as possible. I, unfortunately, had a bit of a handicap. I have very sensitive teeth, and therefore have never been able to eat ice cream or any frozen treat quickly.

I glanced over at Michelle who had green ice cream all over her face and hands. She had managed to get her cone under control, though, eating down past the edge. I, on the other hand, had dark chocolate dripping all the way down my arms, literally past my elbows. I could feel it spread out over my mouth and cheeks, and I still hadn’t even put a dent in the mound of ice cream that stood before me in my right hand. I hunched my back and leaned over the cone so that I wouldn’t drip on my clothes. Below me, on the sidewalk was a puddle of ice cream. I continued slurping as quickly as my sensitive nerves would allow. A tingling sensation spread through my frontal lobe and I smacked a dirty hand to my forehead in pain. “Brain freeze.” I said aloud to no one in particular. When I removed my hand, I felt a drop of chocolatey sweat roll down the bridge of my nose. “Could you go get us some napkins from…” my eyes rolled up to try to see the new splotch I’d left on my forehead “…inside the store?” I glanced to the left at Michelle without moving my head.

Her face was incredulous. “Look at me! I’m as bad as you are! I can’t go in there.”

I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because I was frustrated. “Oh, no. You are not as bad as I am.”
Her laugh sounded more like a honk and then she snorted so loudly that I was surprised she had any brain cells left. “You’re right. You look horrible.”

I joined in laughing. Real laughing this time despite my miserable state. We laughed so hard that my abs trembled beneath my t-shirt. And of course I was wearing white.

I continued laughing, but Michelle’s face immediately turned to stone, looking somewhere past my shoulder in the distance. Before I could ask a question, she turned 180 degrees the opposite direction she was facing. “What is it?” I spoke through my laughter, still very confused. I looked to the right and walking toward us were the boys from yesterday. The boys with the wave boards from the beach. They were now dressed nicely. The leader, with the sandy brown hair and emerald eyes, was in a dark, electric blue button down shirt, khaki cargo shorts with a white shell necklace hugging his tanned throat.
I spun around quickly, facing the opposite direction with Michelle. I spoke quietly, more to myself than to Michelle. “Maybe they’ll pass right by us. They ignored us the other day…there’s no reason they’d say hi now.”

“Hi.” A deep voice spoke from over my shoulder.

“Shit.” I muttered.

“What did you say?” His eyes burned into my back.

My ice cream had completely melted by now and my waffle cone was soggy in the palm of my hand. Michelle’s wide blue eyes were staring at me in horror. I knew what she was thinking—it was the same thing I was thinking. We couldn’t let them see us like this.

I released my breath, still hunched over so the ice cream on my arms and face wouldn’t drip onto my white shirt. “Could you do my friend and I a favor?”

I couldn’t see him, but I imagined those eyes of his narrowing in suspicion. “Maybe. What is it?”

I heard snickering behind me. I assumed his friends were laughing at us. “I need you to go into this store here and get us a lot of napkins.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I had no good explanation. Without thinking, I closed my eyes and turned to face him.
Eyes wide, his feet sprung off the ground in horror. “Whoa! What happened to you?”

“Please will you go get us some napkins?”

“Don’t touch me!”

“We just need a few so we don’t get ice cream all over our hotel room.”

“I said don’t touch me!”

“I’m not going to touch you.” I tried to speak calmly. Reasonably.

“Stay away from me!” He looked down at the ground. Chocolate puddles flooded his flip flops, creeping into the crevices of his feet. “Is all this from you?” He gestured dramatically to the ground where several pools of chocolate stained a 5 foot radius.

I nodded pathetically.

He pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh. “Ok. I’ll get you some napkins. Just don’t…”

“…touch you,” I interrupted, “I know.”

He kept his promise. I heard the bell of the door ding and within minutes he was a few feet in front of me again with a wad of napkins in one hand. Trying to maintain his distance, he kept his body in place and stretched his arm and torso so that I could take it with my seemingly crippled body. As soon as the napkins were in my hand, he disappeared, a cloud of smoke trailing behind him.

“Thank you!” My voice boomed after him. I made a wish that I never saw his face again.

Hands on her knees, Michelle was bent over laughing.

“How is this funny?” My eyebrows lowered over my brow bone creating angry wrinkles on my forehead.

“You,” she sucked in air, gasping for breath, “looked like a cross between a dinosaur and a dog all hunched over like that.” A smile started to break through my scowl as I realized how ridiculous I must have looked. Tears were now streaming down Michelle’s cheeks and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “You transformed into this creature—like, a dino-dog!”

We collapsed laughing. It was the first of many dino-dog moments.

BubbleGum Barbie Bridesmaid

2007-11-02T08:59:00.000-07:00

MY THOUGHTS ON BEING A BRIDESMAID
______________________________________________________

Occurred: Throughout the past five years of my life

I look like “Bubblegum Barbie Bridesmaid." For the sixth time in five years I will be, not just a bridesmaid, but maid of honor in a friend/sister’s/cousin’s wedding. I will wear a two-piece cotton candy colored gown, that grazes the carpet as I walk down the center of the church. The odor and pollen of the lilies and roses which I hold between my recently pampered hands, will demolish the natural dam my nose had created, allowing snot to flow like water from a faucet. Lucky for me, being the seasoned professional that I am, I know to hide not one, but two tissues neatly folded in the ribbon that binds the evil-mucus-making bouquet together. There is one tissue for my runny nose and watery eyes, and one for me to hand the bride as she cries tears of happiness while reciting vows which ultimately seal her fate as a second-class citizen.

Like Alice when she falls through the looking glass, the bride spirals through a whirlwind of decisions. For the next year, life revolves around her. She is the center of the universe and I am her side-kick, her little white rabbit in charge of keeping time, recording details, and staying organized.

But this fairy tale wedding that she strives for and that we spend 12 months attempting to achieve is never even comparable to Cinderella’s. In the end, in every one of my experiences, the bride is left disappointed. Something goes wrong; the linens are the wrong color, the seating chart is rearranged, or red wine spills on the wedding dress. At some point of the night, the bride will trade in her tears of joy for tears of disappointment that her day did not go as planned. And I, true to form, will be there to offer a shoulder to cry on. That is Bubblegum Barbie Bridesmaid’s job.

I’ve spent the past three weddings pretending that I agree with this institution of marriage. Giving speeches about two little words that hold such a large concept: soul mate. This belief that someone, somewhere possesses the key to unlock your heart. All you need to do is find each other. Despite the numerous toasts I have given that indulge this belief, I myself, find it a bit asinine. The idea that I am limited to only having one great love in my lifetime is ridiculous.

Men are a pair of sexy leather heels. They entice you while on the shelf, looking pristine and beautiful. The leather is stiff, a little rough around the edges. As you’re writing out the check you convince yourself that you can break them in; you will be the one to wear-down that stubborn leather. But at the end of the day, your calves are cramped, your arches ache, and there are two new blisters on each foot that will soon be calluses. You give up, and sell the shoes that seemed so perfect only weeks ago to the vintage store on the corner. Another woman comes along and sees your shoes. She tries them on and they’re a perfect fit. They don’t hurt because she already has calluses formed in the right spots.

I’ve always sworn to myself that I will never say, “You’re the only one in this world meant for me." I don’t believe you are. Let’s face it, if I never meet you, chances are I would meet someone else and have a different kind of love. Not better, not worse, just different. After all, doesn’t it mean more to say “I choose you?"

The Night I Flew

2007-11-01T08:06:00.000-07:00

THE NIGHT I FLEW
_____________________________________________
Occurred: Sometime in 1987

Whenever I see a feather, I smile. I smile in the kind of way that one would when passing children playing on the street. Or in the way one would watching a stubborn dog stop in its tracks while the owner stands, defeated, tugging on the leash and collar. I smile in the way that other people look at me and know that my toes are tingling.

It was 1987. We lived in a three-story house that had "Betty Crocker-esque" wallpaper and carpet that we would now describe as being retro. I was four years old and I had four heroes. My dad, my brother, my sister, and most of all, my mom. The woman from whom I had received my eyes and my taste in music. The woman who provided me with role models ranging from Aretha Franklin to Hedda Gabler. She was a stunning mother of three. She had pale skin, the color of cookie batter and reddish brown hair that rested in soft curls just below her chin. When she laughed, bangs would fall in front of her deep blue eyes. And she laughed a lot.

She was one of those rare mothers who would play with her children, not just dress them up and show them off. We would have sock wars with our balled up dirty laundry. Sing and dance around the house while cleaning. We were allowed to help her cook, even if the end result was disastrous. We would all dress up in her fanciest clothes, put on make up, then wait for my dad to come home and pretend as if he, a Prince, had just entered the ball.

My dad was the opposite. He was reticent and stoic with glasses that hung on the end of his nose. Dark hair and small green eyes peeked out over the aforementioned glasses; a businessman to the core. He would come home every night and want the house to be quiet as he read his paper. He liked the expected. He liked his routine. He was affectionate, but in a very different way than my mother was. He could be silly when he wanted to be, but usually he was the disciplinary figure in our house. Every night at the dinner table he would have a "question of the day" for us—some tidbit of information that we all had to take a guess at and whoever answered correctly won the right to choose what to have for dessert that evening. I was the youngest and therefore never got the answer right. However, there were nights when he would cater the question to me.

"Question of the day:" his voice boomed over my mom's mashed potatoes, "Who can tell me who our current president is?" Bridget’s mouth opened revealing a gaping hole where her front tooth was missing. “Ow!” A jerking movement came from my brother as he glared at her. “Oh, uh—hm, that’s a tough one, dad…”

Bo scratched his head and furrowed his brow in exaggerated thought. Exhaling like a leaky tire, he lifted his shoulders to his ears, eyes wide in manufactured confusion. “Psh, beats me dad!”

My mom leaned into me. "Tootsie, you know this. Remember who we were talking about over lunch? What was that man's name?" Her breath had the bitter smell of coffee.

Biting the inside of my chubby cheek, I thought long and hard recounting the things I had learned that day "Is it Wonald Weagan?" I said after a few minutes.

"Very good, Colleen!" They all cheered at once and my dad nodded, sending me a wink.

"Very good, Doodlebug." He smiled and continued eating.

My mom, sister, and I used to collect feathers. If while walking to the front door from the car after a trip to the mall, or going to the doctor’s office, I spotted one on the ground, I’d squeal with excitement! Pinching the stem between my two tiny fingers I’d hold it in front of my face like a treasure. The stem felt fake—almost like plastic. I ran the tip of my index finger along the edge of the feather. It felt silky and the edge fanned out beneath my skin spreading and splitting under my touch.

We always found time to through books and try to guess at what feather came from which type of bird. One particular day after school, the three of us were going through our box o' feathers while my brother did his homework sitting at the table next to us. Swinging my legs back and forth, they dangled lifelessly over the edge of the oversized chair I sat in. I held a pale blue feather up to the light and squinted while looking at it. "I bet this is a wobin's feather." I puffed my chest out, certain that this was correct.

"Don't be stupid," my sister spoke without even raising her eyes from the book, "A robin's feather isn't blue. It's either red or brown. Their eggs are blue."

And my chest deflated, defeated again by my sister’s know-it-all attitude.

"Bridget..." My mom's voice was deep and she drew my sister's name out about 4 syllables longer than necessary.

Bridget sighed audibly. "But that was a good guess, Neener."

Neener was one of the many nicknames I developed in my family, along with Doodlebug, Umze, and Tootsie. Take your pick. I still respond to all.

I grabbed several more feathers from the box and cupped them greedily in the palm of my hands. "I wish I could fly!"

"Well," my mom's voice was back to its normal tone, "have you ever tried to?"

I giggled while scrunching my nose. A habit I still have to this day. "No, I've never twied." I spoke through my high-pitched laughter.

"Then how do you know you can't?" My mom looked down and to the right at me without moving her head, still holding a large gray feather out in front of her. "Here," she took the feathers I had in my hands and tucked the stems underneath my arms, "I'll try it with you." She helped me down off the chair, then took a few of the larger feathers and tucked them beneath her own arms. She began flapping her "wings" vigorously and her feet started running in place. I did the same all the while laughing at my beautiful mother who looked as foolish as I did.

Bridget's lip curled in embarrassment and she dug her face even deeper into the bird book. My brother laughed in spite of us, taking a moment's break from his pre-algebra homework.

"C'mon Bridget! Don't you want to fly?!" My mother's breathing was getting heavier and small beads of sweat were beginning to form on her forehead.

"Yeah, BJ, don't you want to fwyyyy?" I repeated my mother like a dictaphone. A dictaphone with a speech impediment.

Her face was growing redder with every moment. It made no difference that none of her friends were there to be embarrassed by, she was still the shade of a radish.

My mom and I began running in circles around her, singing, "We're flying! We're flying!"

Bo’s eyes narrowed and a look encroached his face that was comparable to any expression Dennis the Menace may have had; a mischievous and deviant grin spread across both cheeks. He disappeared down the hall and came running back to us in seconds holding his Nerf gun. "Not for long!!" He yelled maniacally.

Screaming voices filled our house. We were running—no, flying for our lives. Bridget grabbed her own set of feathers, finally joining in on the game. I ran, trying to find refuge from my brother, the bird hunter and tucked myself behind the couch in hopes that he wouldn’t see me hiding. Our house, which moments ago was picturesquely clean now looked as though it had been ransacked by four thieves. Chairs were overturned, Nerf balls were scattered about the floor, books had been knocked off the coffee table, and feathers were floating pretty much everywhere you looked.

My brother somehow cornered all us ladies in the foyer of our house; we had nowhere to run. He pointed his bright orange and blue gun at our bodies and squinted one eye closed like Clint Eastwood would do in an old western. "All right you yellow-bellied, lily-livered birds...prepare to meet my oven!" And just as he was about to pull the trigger, our front door opened. In walked my dad, wearing a suit, trench coat and hat.

We all froze.

Busted.

He looked around for a moment, breathing in his destroyed house, and placed his briefcase by the door. None of us dared to move. Except my mom. She flapped her wings over to my dad and kissed him on the cheek, still lifting her knees in rhythm with her flapping. "Hi sweetheart," her voice was filled with love and if I think back on it, I swear I could hear pure honey dripping from her vocal chords. "We're being birds! If you want to read your newspaper in quiet tonight, you'll have to do so upstairs. We're not going to stop playing right now." She smiled at him, and still none of us kids moved. We were barely breathing, frozen in fear.

My dad exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "Kids, cover your eyes for a moment." We did as we were told. I heard a sound that I didn't recognize…a very quiet rustling and then a soft click, like the sound I made when I sucked on my cheek, too angry for words. I lowered my hand from my eyes, the palm of it brushing the bridge of my nose. Above two chubby, pink fingers, I saw my dad’s arms wrapped tightly around my mother’s waist. He had her pulled in close to his body and I couldn’t tell where her lips ended and his started. Eyes were closed, their heads shifted from right to left every couple of seconds. I wondered how they managed to not bump noses. Would I someday be kissed like that by a man I loved? The kind of kiss that makes your knees turn to Jell-O? The thought of a boy kissing me on the lips made me want to vomit and I scrunched my nose, revolted at the thought. Why were they doing this in front of us? Perhaps they weren't just my parents--but PEOPLE too. They were husband and wife as well as mom and dad, even though I didn't quite understand what that meant at the time.

They pulled back from each other and I quickly recovered my eyes so that they wouldn't catch me peeking. I heard my father’s sigh. "Ok, kids, you can look." We all removed our hands from our faces simultaneously and I saw my brother send a crooked smile at my sister. They both knew about this revolting display? My chin brushed the floor and I was unable to lift my jaw off the ground. They knew that our parents performed this disgusting act and yet they allowed it to happen? Gross.

A smile slowly spread across my dad's round face. He methodically loosened his tie and then in one swift movement lifted both Bridget and myself, running down the hallway with us under each arm. My mom followed at his feet and my brother was close behind us, shooting again.

Soon after, for my father isn't exactly the Hulk, I was passed to my mom. Her fingers pressed into my belly and I extended my hands in front of me feeling the breeze brush across my face.

So now, 20 years later, I still smile every time I see a feather. It reminds me of a simpler time. A time when I still believed that anything could be accomplished if you just tried hard enough. The feather reminds me of the kind of mother and wife I want to be; a symbol of the kind of family I want to have. A symbol of the family that I one day will have.

That night set the standard for the type of love and marriage I deserve; the type of man I deserve. And I refuse to accept anything less than a love that will give me wings and allow me to fly.