I know it's not appropriate to stomp your feet and yell, "No, no, no" upon reading the obituary of a 92-year-old woman. But that didn't stop me.
My mom sent me the obit for our family friend Bea. The Cliffs Notes version is that Bea lived life to the fullest and 92 years is a good, good run. We should be celebrating her life.
And I am. But there's more to it.
Back in the day, Bea finally got me to try online dating. First of all, she wanted to set me up with her ENT doctor. That didn't quite work out - something about him being not-quite-divorced and the dad of, like, 17 kids. But Bea led by example ... and met a man when she was in her 80s. Her exact words were, "I'm just over the moon! We don't have a lot of time, and I don't want to waste any of it!"
Bea's son walked her down the aisle. And I figured if Bea could find joy, I could, too. So I got off my couch and started interacting with the world again after a long hiatus.
My memories of Bea are of lipstick and laughter and being involved. She was on a committee with my mom. She helped out at the church with my grandma. She made my dad laugh with her funny stories.
Today, reading her obituary? I learned that Bea's mother died when she was just 4 years old. She was eventually sent to live with a cousin. But what could have been a heartbreaking situation was a house filled with love, a home where Bea was welcomed as a sibling and as a daughter, not as a stranger. I'm so thankful. They helped fill her tank for a lifetime of loving everyone she met.
I can't help but think of the Erma Bombeck column, "If I had my life to live over." Bea burned the fancy candles and used the "good" soaps. And I feel like that's the best way to honor her. Live it up. Use it up.
I always found it comforting to know that Bea was in the world. I think now the task is to be the Bea. If you need me, I'll be out with the girls, enjoying fou-fou cocktails and wearing an outfit that's a little too fancy because, well, why not?
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Friday, November 4, 2016
Thursday, May 26, 2016
And who did you date in 1995?
Today, I want to talk about college, friends, procuring formalwear under duress, and smoking.
Last weekend, some folks from my sorority pledge class had a little reunion. The last time we got together - perhaps 10 years ago - there was debauchery. And word is that somebody's husband puked at the late-night diner.
This time around? We met at 6 a.m. to do a 5K.
Now, lest you think I am not the girl you think I am, don't worry. I walked. Three other pals and I walked the course and felt embarrassed when the course monitors were all, "You can do eeeeet!" like Bela Karolyi.
But I digress.
We wandered around campus and did some day drinking and toured our sorority house and laughed and spoke in the shorthand that only longtime friends speak. It was good for my soul. There is just nothing better than people who knew you when.
Especially when they dig out their photo albums.
My pal Soup shared this lovely image.
Why yes, yes, that is me. That's me and my then-boyfriend, headed out to the 1995 Alpha Chi Winter Formal.
Behold the dress that I purchased with my friend Mo. It cost $109 at Dillards, and that was big, big money. But I felt like a million bucks, even though the beaded collar made my delicate ladyskin turn red and angry.
Similarly 90s-fab were my dyed-to-match shoes which are, sadly, out of the camera frame and lost to time. I distinctly remember I wanted the silk shantung shoes, but the lady at Payless said they wouldn't hold the dark dye, so I had to go for the shiny fake silk shoes. It was heartbreaking, but I still looked good.
Behold the wallpaper in the entryway of our beloved sorority house. It never occurred to me that it was anything but lovely, but in retrospect ... umm?
And finally, behold my then-boyfriend. He did not want to go to the 1995 Alpha Chi Winter Formal. No. Not at all. And that's why he didn't rent a tux until I shamed him into calling the tux rental place the afternoon of the formal.
Now, you might be asking, "Honey, why didn't you just let him wear a suit? It's fine." But this was 1995, and it was all tux, all the way. Plus, his next-best option was his least-dirty jeans.
He got on the phone with a very nice woman from the tux rental place who said she could cobble together a tux for him if she just knew his measurements. This led to me using the phone cord to measure his arms and waist while he was on the phone. When he provided said measurements, the woman laughed and said those were crazy measurements and she'd just wing it.
The fact that the tux fit at all was nothing short of a miracle. Thank you, tux rental place lady.
But it's not the tux that caught Soup's eye when she shared the photo. It was then-boyfriend's cupped hand.
He had a lit cigarette. In the foyer of the sorority house.
I did not remember this at all because I clearly blocked it out.
This was a time when having a lit cigarette inside the sorority house would get a girl sent down to the standards board. She could get fined or - even worse - forced to skip a date party or - gasp! - even formal.
I was clearly so exhausted from the tux-procurement that I had completely given up and couldn't begin to fight the lit cigarette.
Then-boyfriend broke my heart into a gajillion pieces about a month later. Crazily, he didn't end up disappearing into a hole. He's a good guy with kids and is very successful in his career. Like, national awards. He is a grown-up. Well, now, anyway.
Back in the day? I measured him for a tux using a phone cord and then he smoked inside my sorority house.
Welp. There you go. Young love. Or young woman trying to pretend her then-boyfriend isn't acting like a total tool.
I think I ended up paying for the tux, too.
Last weekend, some folks from my sorority pledge class had a little reunion. The last time we got together - perhaps 10 years ago - there was debauchery. And word is that somebody's husband puked at the late-night diner.
This time around? We met at 6 a.m. to do a 5K.
Now, lest you think I am not the girl you think I am, don't worry. I walked. Three other pals and I walked the course and felt embarrassed when the course monitors were all, "You can do eeeeet!" like Bela Karolyi.
But I digress.
We wandered around campus and did some day drinking and toured our sorority house and laughed and spoke in the shorthand that only longtime friends speak. It was good for my soul. There is just nothing better than people who knew you when.
Especially when they dig out their photo albums.
My pal Soup shared this lovely image.
 |
| Photo credit: Soup, circa March 1995. |
Behold the dress that I purchased with my friend Mo. It cost $109 at Dillards, and that was big, big money. But I felt like a million bucks, even though the beaded collar made my delicate ladyskin turn red and angry.
Similarly 90s-fab were my dyed-to-match shoes which are, sadly, out of the camera frame and lost to time. I distinctly remember I wanted the silk shantung shoes, but the lady at Payless said they wouldn't hold the dark dye, so I had to go for the shiny fake silk shoes. It was heartbreaking, but I still looked good.
Behold the wallpaper in the entryway of our beloved sorority house. It never occurred to me that it was anything but lovely, but in retrospect ... umm?
And finally, behold my then-boyfriend. He did not want to go to the 1995 Alpha Chi Winter Formal. No. Not at all. And that's why he didn't rent a tux until I shamed him into calling the tux rental place the afternoon of the formal.
Now, you might be asking, "Honey, why didn't you just let him wear a suit? It's fine." But this was 1995, and it was all tux, all the way. Plus, his next-best option was his least-dirty jeans.
He got on the phone with a very nice woman from the tux rental place who said she could cobble together a tux for him if she just knew his measurements. This led to me using the phone cord to measure his arms and waist while he was on the phone. When he provided said measurements, the woman laughed and said those were crazy measurements and she'd just wing it.
The fact that the tux fit at all was nothing short of a miracle. Thank you, tux rental place lady.
But it's not the tux that caught Soup's eye when she shared the photo. It was then-boyfriend's cupped hand.
He had a lit cigarette. In the foyer of the sorority house.
I did not remember this at all because I clearly blocked it out.
This was a time when having a lit cigarette inside the sorority house would get a girl sent down to the standards board. She could get fined or - even worse - forced to skip a date party or - gasp! - even formal.
I was clearly so exhausted from the tux-procurement that I had completely given up and couldn't begin to fight the lit cigarette.
Then-boyfriend broke my heart into a gajillion pieces about a month later. Crazily, he didn't end up disappearing into a hole. He's a good guy with kids and is very successful in his career. Like, national awards. He is a grown-up. Well, now, anyway.
Back in the day? I measured him for a tux using a phone cord and then he smoked inside my sorority house.
Welp. There you go. Young love. Or young woman trying to pretend her then-boyfriend isn't acting like a total tool.
I think I ended up paying for the tux, too.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Oh, I'm on my way, I know I am.
Ten years ago this summer, I spent a lot of time alone in a sticky home office. The window A/C unit that had been passed around the family since I was in college whirred away, and I made beaded jewelry.
I had this idea that in addition to being a freelance writer, I'd also be a jewelry artist, selling my wares at art shows. Between the fledgling writing and barely there jewelry careers, I was flat broke. This was before I realized that I like wearing jewelry a lot more than I like making it, and that 1 self-employed trade was plenty.
But I would sit in my uncomfortable, second-hand metal desk chair, night after night, beading bracelets and listening to Cat Stevens. I was still young; that was my fault.
I was alone because my live-in boyfriend was gone all the time. He traveled for work. And when he was in town, he managed to be out of the house. At the gym. With friends. With a particular female friend. Not with me. Not interested in me. I was just starting to admit that perhaps this wasn't going to work out.
I would listen to the Cat Stevens CD that my brother had burned for me illegally off a library album. He'd told me about his Cat Stevens epiphany, about how the music had shifted his outlook. I took the CD, skeptical. But I'd listen to the album, and I'd be overcome with what felt like a giant bubble in my chest. It was overwhelming, like I was about to explode. But I wasn't the exploding kind. I was the nice, make-it-work kind.
I would sit, and I'd bead, and sometimes I'd bead with tears running down my face. I didn't know why. I began to sense that I was on the cusp of something big. I didn't know what it was, or I didn't want to face it yet. But it was a huge change. I was lonely. And I was scared. And I had no idea how to even begin to put any of it into words.
So, I made some truly heinous bracelets, and a few that were OK. My friends bought my jewelry because they are good, kind people. Perhaps they knew that they were investing in my future, providing seed money for my escape. I didn't realize it.
I would sweat and string beads and cry. I thought I was at the end of the world.
Turns out I was only on the edge of the world I had known.
Things got worse before they got better. But they did get better.
This weekend, I gorged myself on free HBO. Seeing Cat Stevens inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame made me think of that sticky summer, and that now-battered CD. Yusuf, I'm sorry my brother pirated your music, but I like to think that you understand. I also like to think that you know how appreciative I am of your gift of music. Thank you.
What music defines a period in your life?
I had this idea that in addition to being a freelance writer, I'd also be a jewelry artist, selling my wares at art shows. Between the fledgling writing and barely there jewelry careers, I was flat broke. This was before I realized that I like wearing jewelry a lot more than I like making it, and that 1 self-employed trade was plenty.
But I would sit in my uncomfortable, second-hand metal desk chair, night after night, beading bracelets and listening to Cat Stevens. I was still young; that was my fault.
I was alone because my live-in boyfriend was gone all the time. He traveled for work. And when he was in town, he managed to be out of the house. At the gym. With friends. With a particular female friend. Not with me. Not interested in me. I was just starting to admit that perhaps this wasn't going to work out.
I would listen to the Cat Stevens CD that my brother had burned for me illegally off a library album. He'd told me about his Cat Stevens epiphany, about how the music had shifted his outlook. I took the CD, skeptical. But I'd listen to the album, and I'd be overcome with what felt like a giant bubble in my chest. It was overwhelming, like I was about to explode. But I wasn't the exploding kind. I was the nice, make-it-work kind.
I would sit, and I'd bead, and sometimes I'd bead with tears running down my face. I didn't know why. I began to sense that I was on the cusp of something big. I didn't know what it was, or I didn't want to face it yet. But it was a huge change. I was lonely. And I was scared. And I had no idea how to even begin to put any of it into words.
So, I made some truly heinous bracelets, and a few that were OK. My friends bought my jewelry because they are good, kind people. Perhaps they knew that they were investing in my future, providing seed money for my escape. I didn't realize it.
I would sweat and string beads and cry. I thought I was at the end of the world.
Turns out I was only on the edge of the world I had known.
Things got worse before they got better. But they did get better.
This weekend, I gorged myself on free HBO. Seeing Cat Stevens inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame made me think of that sticky summer, and that now-battered CD. Yusuf, I'm sorry my brother pirated your music, but I like to think that you understand. I also like to think that you know how appreciative I am of your gift of music. Thank you.
What music defines a period in your life?
Monday, January 27, 2014
Gird your loins: V-Day is coming!
Valentine’s Day is coming up faster than you’d like to believe. Although I have a general distaste for Hallmark holidays, I’m gonna tell it to you straight: if you’re in any kind of relationship, you need to know what the explicit expectations are for this holiday of lurve.
I have known deep, deep disappointment on Valentine's Day ... probably because I've dated some seriously disappointing boys. Check out the whole sordid tale at Aiming Low.
Also? Never tell a lady that you've never seen any girl eat as much as she just did.
I have known deep, deep disappointment on Valentine's Day ... probably because I've dated some seriously disappointing boys. Check out the whole sordid tale at Aiming Low.
Also? Never tell a lady that you've never seen any girl eat as much as she just did.
Monday, April 15, 2013
I leave a trail of broken hearts in my wake.
After the saga of my pure-as-the-driven-snow-and-also-BFF-with-Jesus prom date, Green Girl in Wisconsin planted a seed in my brain - the same seed that keeps Facebook in business:
I bet Eric loosened up after your night together and he's the lead singer/sinner of a punk rock band. Do look him up and let us know!
Oh, my.
Doesn't everyone have very detailed fantasies about people from their past, even when the relationship was entirely fleeting? I think it just makes everything easier - and more entertaining.
Case in point? My first college boyfriend is a somewhat big-deal journalist. I think you'll agree that this is undoubtedly due to my influence, seeing as how we dated while he was in journalism school.
And the oh-so-cute but oh-so-young freshman who was enamored with me when I was a senior? You know, the one who planted a kiss on me that left me speechless? And was enough of a man to just smooch and then walk off, like in the movies? Well, I'm pretty sure I'm The One Who Got Away for him. Strangely, this makes me feel somewhat better about the fact that I may have been a fool to think the "I'm looking for jobs / you're looking for a fake ID" divide was to large to bridge.
And Ex-Ex, he of the 7-year relationship? I'm pretty sure he's miserable All. The. Time. Breaking up with me can do that to you.
As for Eric, my super-religious, non-dancing prom date who acted like I was leading him down the highway to hell by wearing makeup to prom?
My pal Google made finding him oh-so-easy.
There's an Eric who is a graphic designer. And another Eric who is a vice president of some bank. Sadly, no Eric who's a punk rocker.
But the actual Eric that I knew? He sells skid loaders. His bio says he's married with 2 kids and enjoys hunting and fishing. And his photo? Well, he has the same earnest smile, and looks like the kind of guy you'd trust when looking to purchase a skid loader or other heavy machinery.
Adult Eric looked much like I expected. Thankfully, he didn't have a face tattoo that read, "Prom ruined my life." He looked normal and happy, which made my heart glad.
Maybe the "Prom ruined my life" tat is on his chest.
What stories have you concocted about your past flames?
I bet Eric loosened up after your night together and he's the lead singer/sinner of a punk rock band. Do look him up and let us know!
Oh, my.
Doesn't everyone have very detailed fantasies about people from their past, even when the relationship was entirely fleeting? I think it just makes everything easier - and more entertaining.
Case in point? My first college boyfriend is a somewhat big-deal journalist. I think you'll agree that this is undoubtedly due to my influence, seeing as how we dated while he was in journalism school.
And the oh-so-cute but oh-so-young freshman who was enamored with me when I was a senior? You know, the one who planted a kiss on me that left me speechless? And was enough of a man to just smooch and then walk off, like in the movies? Well, I'm pretty sure I'm The One Who Got Away for him. Strangely, this makes me feel somewhat better about the fact that I may have been a fool to think the "I'm looking for jobs / you're looking for a fake ID" divide was to large to bridge.
And Ex-Ex, he of the 7-year relationship? I'm pretty sure he's miserable All. The. Time. Breaking up with me can do that to you.
As for Eric, my super-religious, non-dancing prom date who acted like I was leading him down the highway to hell by wearing makeup to prom?
My pal Google made finding him oh-so-easy.
There's an Eric who is a graphic designer. And another Eric who is a vice president of some bank. Sadly, no Eric who's a punk rocker.
But the actual Eric that I knew? He sells skid loaders. His bio says he's married with 2 kids and enjoys hunting and fishing. And his photo? Well, he has the same earnest smile, and looks like the kind of guy you'd trust when looking to purchase a skid loader or other heavy machinery.
Adult Eric looked much like I expected. Thankfully, he didn't have a face tattoo that read, "Prom ruined my life." He looked normal and happy, which made my heart glad.
Maybe the "Prom ruined my life" tat is on his chest.
What stories have you concocted about your past flames?
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
I was the worst prom date ever, part II: In which I am a whore.
So, to recap: I asked my buddy Eric to the prom through the Wendy's drive-through window. He said yes, but dropped a bombshell mere days before the big event: it was against his religion to dance. He belonged to a church where the women didn't wear pants and the men didn't attend prom without asking their moms' permission.
Now, I am not a big dancer. It has never been my goal to be on "Soul Train" or "Dance Fever." But every John Hughes movie had led me to believe that prom took place on a mystical plane where awkward kids magically morphed into suave-yet-sensitive poets, where True Love was to be found behind every poofy dress and badly-pinned boutonniere. How could I not dance at prom?
BFF's parents thought this was the single funniest thing ever. They kept asking me if I wanted to borrow a deck of cards to take, so I'd have something to do at prom. And this blew me away, too, because Eric and I played cards in the student lounge all the time. If it's against your religion to dance, aren't cards also usually frowned upon?
I guess not.
I didn't give Eric a hard time. I decided just to wing it. Maybe we'd dance. Maybe I'd dance alone, or with someone else, but not in a slutty, dumping-my-date-and-stealing-yours kind of way. Maybe it would all just work out.
Maybe I was so, so wrong.
So, Eric picked me up at my house. My parents were beaming. I was wearing a black dress with a halter bodice and a short tulle skirt. I loved that dress. If I could get more than 1 thigh in it now, I'd wear it every day. I had rhinestone earrings, and my mom had curled my hair and done my makeup. Little late bloomer me was going to prom! And I looked like a girl!
Eric was awkward with my parents, but he didn't attempt to witness to them, and he wasn't handling snakes or anything. Things seemed to be going well until we got into his Buick Skyhawk.
He turned to me, face serious.
"What is all over your face?"
I stopped, freaked out by his concern. Did I have a rash? Had my lipstick bled?
No. What was all over my face was ... my makeup. The makeup my mom had applied, the makeup that we'd carefully practiced over several nights.
"I'm wearing makeup," I said.
Eric grimaced and started the Buick.
As we drove off in silence, I felt horrible, like there was something horribly wrong with me. And then I realized that Eric, too, felt horrible. Not because he'd said something insensitive, but because he realized he was in the company of a harlot. And he was taking said harlot to the Sodom and Gomorrah High School Prom. Where he would surely be handing his soul over to the devil.
Yay.
Eric displayed the personality of a wooden spoon for the rest of the evening. He was cordial, but distant. His friend, who had asked me to prom after I'd asked Eric, looked at me longingly throughout the night - so maybe I did look like a hoochie. But in Eric's detachment, as he tried to just gamely get through the night of sin?
Well, he was led astray.
After dinner, the DJ announced that the dance floor was open, and instructed all couples to take the floor. And Eric? Well, he did as he was told.
Eric got up of his own volition and headed to the dance floor.
I felt kind of guilty dancing with him, but I also wanted him to see that the floor wasn't going to open up to the pits of hell, which would then swallow him whole. He stood, barely moving, his fingertips barely touching my waist, for 3 and a half minutes of some unforgettable song. And then it was done. And then we spent the rest of the night sitting at our table. And I wished I had that deck of cards.
At the end of the night, I think we shook hands. Or maybe not, as that would have involved actual physical contact. At any rate, it was amicable yet distant - like how you'd say good-bye to a poisonous spider right before running away, screaming.
I'm not sure what happened to Eric after graduation. In my fantasy, he's happily married and doesn't think back on his senior prom as The Night He Saw The Devil (And She Looked Like a High School Girl) or The Night Some Skank Wearing Makeup Led Him Astray.
I hope.
Now, I am not a big dancer. It has never been my goal to be on "Soul Train" or "Dance Fever." But every John Hughes movie had led me to believe that prom took place on a mystical plane where awkward kids magically morphed into suave-yet-sensitive poets, where True Love was to be found behind every poofy dress and badly-pinned boutonniere. How could I not dance at prom?
BFF's parents thought this was the single funniest thing ever. They kept asking me if I wanted to borrow a deck of cards to take, so I'd have something to do at prom. And this blew me away, too, because Eric and I played cards in the student lounge all the time. If it's against your religion to dance, aren't cards also usually frowned upon?
I guess not.
I didn't give Eric a hard time. I decided just to wing it. Maybe we'd dance. Maybe I'd dance alone, or with someone else, but not in a slutty, dumping-my-date-and-stealing-yours kind of way. Maybe it would all just work out.
Maybe I was so, so wrong.
So, Eric picked me up at my house. My parents were beaming. I was wearing a black dress with a halter bodice and a short tulle skirt. I loved that dress. If I could get more than 1 thigh in it now, I'd wear it every day. I had rhinestone earrings, and my mom had curled my hair and done my makeup. Little late bloomer me was going to prom! And I looked like a girl!
 |
| Prom Me, with our dog who loved having her picture taken. |
He turned to me, face serious.
"What is all over your face?"
I stopped, freaked out by his concern. Did I have a rash? Had my lipstick bled?
No. What was all over my face was ... my makeup. The makeup my mom had applied, the makeup that we'd carefully practiced over several nights.
"I'm wearing makeup," I said.
Eric grimaced and started the Buick.
As we drove off in silence, I felt horrible, like there was something horribly wrong with me. And then I realized that Eric, too, felt horrible. Not because he'd said something insensitive, but because he realized he was in the company of a harlot. And he was taking said harlot to the Sodom and Gomorrah High School Prom. Where he would surely be handing his soul over to the devil.
Yay.
Eric displayed the personality of a wooden spoon for the rest of the evening. He was cordial, but distant. His friend, who had asked me to prom after I'd asked Eric, looked at me longingly throughout the night - so maybe I did look like a hoochie. But in Eric's detachment, as he tried to just gamely get through the night of sin?
Well, he was led astray.
After dinner, the DJ announced that the dance floor was open, and instructed all couples to take the floor. And Eric? Well, he did as he was told.
Eric got up of his own volition and headed to the dance floor.
I felt kind of guilty dancing with him, but I also wanted him to see that the floor wasn't going to open up to the pits of hell, which would then swallow him whole. He stood, barely moving, his fingertips barely touching my waist, for 3 and a half minutes of some unforgettable song. And then it was done. And then we spent the rest of the night sitting at our table. And I wished I had that deck of cards.
At the end of the night, I think we shook hands. Or maybe not, as that would have involved actual physical contact. At any rate, it was amicable yet distant - like how you'd say good-bye to a poisonous spider right before running away, screaming.
I'm not sure what happened to Eric after graduation. In my fantasy, he's happily married and doesn't think back on his senior prom as The Night He Saw The Devil (And She Looked Like a High School Girl) or The Night Some Skank Wearing Makeup Led Him Astray.
I hope.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Shiny! Pretty!
I’m just gonna come out and say it: I love jewelry.
I do. Really, really. Shiny or colorful or gaudy or just plain bizarre? Sign me up. More than once, I have come home from the flea market with some treasure purchased from a card table set up outside of a Winnebago and had this conversation:
Dad: That’s … interesting. What are you going to do with it?
Me: Umm … I’m gonna wear it?
Dad: Oh. Well, that’s nice.
I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that because I never get rid of anything, I have secret stashes of jewelry around my house. That way, I’m totally prepared once those huge earrings from 1983 come back. All that stuff they sell at Forever 21? I probably have the banged-up original. And yeah, it’s way cooler than the knock-off.
Lest you consider busting into my house, the total value of my shiny! pretty! hoard is probably about $12. But I love it.
It’s not often that I am insanely jealous over another woman’s baubles, but I’ve definitely had my moments. Usually, it’s some over-the-top vintage piece. But there was a time when I had severe engagement ring envy.
I was jealous of the shiny! pretty!, but mostly, I was jealous of what it stood for. I was lonely. I felt like I was destined to be alone forever. I wondered if my friends with the shiny rings truly appreciated the value of having a best friend who was their partner in crime. I wondered if they occasionally looked down at their left hands and smiled, seeing both the physical beauty of the jewelry and the galactic, holy-shit amazingness of having 2 humans promise to work together to figure everything out forever.
When My Guy and I talked about getting engaged, he was surprised at my enthusiasm for ring shopping. He didn’t think I’d want to go. Shaaa - right! I totally wanted to go!
Except it was totally stressful and overwhelming. None of the rings were quite right.
Until … we saw The Ohmigod Ring. Because I tried it on and all I could say was, “Ohmigod.”
My sweet husband gave me that ring 2 years ago today.
I look at it all the time. Sometimes I wear my wedding band and engagement ring on different hands, so that I can appreciate them separately. Sometimes I just look at them because ohmigod, they are so pretty. But mostly?
Mostly, I look at my rings and think about My Guy, and the look on his face when he gave them to me. And I think about how lucky I am to have a true partner and friend, and how My Guy was so totally worth the wait.
Now, granted, sometimes I look at them and think, “Damn! I need to clean these rings - I look like a hobo!”
But, keep in mind that My Guy always refers to his wedding ring as “My Burden” - typically while raising his left hand to the heavens and pantomiming a classy “Why, God, whyyyyyy?” moment. Either that, or he’s playing with the ring - err, excuse me, I mean burden - spinning it around, tossing it in the air, and generally making me believe his prediction that at some point, he will lose the ring - err, burden - and I can’t be upset.
So, it’s cool. Marriage is all about balance. Plus, I have a bunch of lovely plastic flea market rings he could wear instead.
I do. Really, really. Shiny or colorful or gaudy or just plain bizarre? Sign me up. More than once, I have come home from the flea market with some treasure purchased from a card table set up outside of a Winnebago and had this conversation:
Dad: That’s … interesting. What are you going to do with it?
Me: Umm … I’m gonna wear it?
Dad: Oh. Well, that’s nice.
I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that because I never get rid of anything, I have secret stashes of jewelry around my house. That way, I’m totally prepared once those huge earrings from 1983 come back. All that stuff they sell at Forever 21? I probably have the banged-up original. And yeah, it’s way cooler than the knock-off.
Lest you consider busting into my house, the total value of my shiny! pretty! hoard is probably about $12. But I love it.
It’s not often that I am insanely jealous over another woman’s baubles, but I’ve definitely had my moments. Usually, it’s some over-the-top vintage piece. But there was a time when I had severe engagement ring envy.
I was jealous of the shiny! pretty!, but mostly, I was jealous of what it stood for. I was lonely. I felt like I was destined to be alone forever. I wondered if my friends with the shiny rings truly appreciated the value of having a best friend who was their partner in crime. I wondered if they occasionally looked down at their left hands and smiled, seeing both the physical beauty of the jewelry and the galactic, holy-shit amazingness of having 2 humans promise to work together to figure everything out forever.
When My Guy and I talked about getting engaged, he was surprised at my enthusiasm for ring shopping. He didn’t think I’d want to go. Shaaa - right! I totally wanted to go!
Except it was totally stressful and overwhelming. None of the rings were quite right.
Until … we saw The Ohmigod Ring. Because I tried it on and all I could say was, “Ohmigod.”
My sweet husband gave me that ring 2 years ago today.
I look at it all the time. Sometimes I wear my wedding band and engagement ring on different hands, so that I can appreciate them separately. Sometimes I just look at them because ohmigod, they are so pretty. But mostly?
Mostly, I look at my rings and think about My Guy, and the look on his face when he gave them to me. And I think about how lucky I am to have a true partner and friend, and how My Guy was so totally worth the wait.
Now, granted, sometimes I look at them and think, “Damn! I need to clean these rings - I look like a hobo!”
But, keep in mind that My Guy always refers to his wedding ring as “My Burden” - typically while raising his left hand to the heavens and pantomiming a classy “Why, God, whyyyyyy?” moment. Either that, or he’s playing with the ring - err, excuse me, I mean burden - spinning it around, tossing it in the air, and generally making me believe his prediction that at some point, he will lose the ring - err, burden - and I can’t be upset.
So, it’s cool. Marriage is all about balance. Plus, I have a bunch of lovely plastic flea market rings he could wear instead.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
My dog, my self.
Foxie Doxie loves this time of year.
There’s just so much to do. I’m pretty sure his mental to-do list looks like this:
- Go outside. Patrol fence line for several hours. Ensure perimeter is secure.
- Bark at birds, random noises, people walking down the street, and air.
- Recline on hot, sun-baked concrete. Pant.
- Refuse to go inside.
- Secure perimeter. Bark. Attempt to tunnel under fence.
- Finally go inside. Refuse to let humans wipe paws.
- Pee someplace in the house. Humans can find it later. Or much later.
- Accompany humans on walk. Lose shit.
It’s that last one that’s really on my nerves.
See, Foxie has lived with me for 9 years. Or 10. I forget. Anyway, he was completely insane that first week, and my sweet, late Dr. Vet thought that a little sniparoo in the crotchal region would calm him down. But it didn’t.
That first year or 2, I managed to walk him by himself, and targeted times and routes that limited his exposure to other dogs. That way, I limited him screaming like a banshee. My attempts at training were not successful, so I practiced avoidance instead.
But then, I left Ex-Ex, and moved with 2 dogs into an apartment. If you’ve never lived in an apartment with dogs, I have to say … I don’t recommend it. Basically, it sucked.
I walked Geriatric Poodle and Foxie Doxie 3 times a day. And it was on 1 of those walks that I experienced my post-break-up rock bottom.
I’d lived in my apartment for about a week. It was freezing, and it had snowed. And I had not yet learned that I needed to abandon the retractable leashes for the shorter, I-am-the-alpha-and-you-walk-where-I-say-you-can-walk style.
Foxie saw a guy walking a husky on the other side of the street. A husky-breed dog, not a solidly build boy who has to shop in that special section of the JCPenney’s boys department.
That was all it took for my otherwise mild-mannered doxie to lose his shit - screaming, barking … and pulling.
It was icy. He ran to the end of his retractable leash, then proceeded to pull me and Geriatric Poodle down the sidewalk.
I yelled. It did no good. The guy on the other side of the street stopped, probably to enjoy the spectacle. I ended up with Foxie’s very long leash wrapped around my legs and a nearby fire hydrant.
Geriatric Poodle was nonplussed. I was on the verge of tears. Foxie was foaming at the mouth.
The guy across the street looked at us. “Do you need some help?”
I imagine he was trying to be kind, but I was emotionally frail. And so, I simply said, “No. No, just leave me here to die!”
So he did.
I unorigamied the leash and drug my little dachshund shithead back to the apartment. And then I cried. It was one of the worst days of my life.
Now, all that to say … we, collectively, as a dog and a doggie mama, must have come so far since that time. Except we haven’t.
I have Dog Whisperered the crap out of this dog. He is crate trained. He is affectionate and doesn’t mind baths. He lets me administer eye drops like it’s a walk in the park.
Except those walks in the park? Are still horrendous.
My Guy and I have basically decided that Foxie is just … special. And going to be crazy forever. So, we try to avoid other dogs whenever there’s a leash involved. We hide him behind parked cars. We make him sit mid-walk just to pull it together already.
But I’m still afraid that our neighbors catch one note of his scream and think someone is being disemboweled.
We’re good people. We try. A lot.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Destined to date dudes?
Remember when I asked for dating questions? My mailbag overfloweth!
Dear Cha Cha,
I spent my 20s working hard and making myself into a fun, mostly successful, well-rounded lady. Now that I’m in my 30s, it looks like most guys my age spent their 20s acting like they are still in college. How can I make a relationship work with these dynamics?
I spent my 20s working hard and making myself into a fun, mostly successful, well-rounded lady. Now that I’m in my 30s, it looks like most guys my age spent their 20s acting like they are still in college. How can I make a relationship work with these dynamics?
Dating Diva
Oh, Diva. You can’t.
You know how in your favorite movie and mine, “Say Anything,” how Lili Taylor’s character set John Cusack straight? She told him, “The world is full of guys. Be a man. Don’t be a guy.”
It was good advice, and it holds up. It also applies to those folks looking to be in an honest-to-God / Allah / Buddha / Oprah relationship with a human of the male persuasion. The world is full of guys. Date a man. Don’t date a guy.
The tricky thing here is that yes, the world is full of guys. And yes, they get in the way, and make it harder to find the men. And men don’t all look like the Marlboro Man or the guy on Brawny paper towels. Some of them look like My Guy, with his silly logoed t-shirts and goofy grin. But he’s a man. He’s responsible and respectful. He’s comfortable in his own skin, and if he says he’s going to do something, he does it.
That’s what you’re looking for. Your job - if you’re looking for more than a good time or somebody to be in your fantasy football league - is to politely pass by the guys and find the men.
Like you, men are busy working hard and being well-rounded. I guess you could loiter about corporate parking lots to identify age-appropriate men who leave late, but not too late. Or go to the gym really early, when all the men work out before work. But really? I think you’ll get more sleep and avoid looking like a stalker if you just keep being your well-rounded self, but in some larger arenas. Expand your circle while you expand your comfort zone.
Join a sports league where you’ll meet new people. Commit to online dating. Volunteer. It’s all stereotypical advice, but stereotypes exist for a reason - there’s a kernel of truth. But what nobody tells you is that’s all about math.
Trust me. I was a Mathlete.
You can’t sub for 1 game of dodgeball and then proclaim that there are no eligible men in the league. Likewise, you can’t look at your eHarmony matches for free and then say you’ve tried online dating. You’ve gotta commit for months. A longer window of time will increase your sample size. It will introduce you to a larger pool of people - prospective dates, or a woman who’d love to set you up with her eligible man-brother, or whatever.
The more people you know, the larger your sample size. The larger your sample size, the greater probability that somebody will stick. To you. And you’ll stick right back.
There’s also some more complex equation that illustrates the importance of talking. Make small talk with the cute man-dodgeball-player. Or shoot an e-mail to the funny man-online-dating-profile-haver. I only took Math 10 in college, and I’m pretty sure this equation is calculus. But you know it’s there, and it’s true. Like gravity.
Dating takes tenacity. Be a woman, and stick with it. Somewhere, a man is wondering when he’s going to stop meeting chicks and get to date a woman like you.
I’m not a licensed anything, but I know stuff. Ask me questions in the comments, or at noodleroux (at) yahoo (dot) com.
You know how in your favorite movie and mine, “Say Anything,” how Lili Taylor’s character set John Cusack straight? She told him, “The world is full of guys. Be a man. Don’t be a guy.”
It was good advice, and it holds up. It also applies to those folks looking to be in an honest-to-God / Allah / Buddha / Oprah relationship with a human of the male persuasion. The world is full of guys. Date a man. Don’t date a guy.
The tricky thing here is that yes, the world is full of guys. And yes, they get in the way, and make it harder to find the men. And men don’t all look like the Marlboro Man or the guy on Brawny paper towels. Some of them look like My Guy, with his silly logoed t-shirts and goofy grin. But he’s a man. He’s responsible and respectful. He’s comfortable in his own skin, and if he says he’s going to do something, he does it.
That’s what you’re looking for. Your job - if you’re looking for more than a good time or somebody to be in your fantasy football league - is to politely pass by the guys and find the men.
Like you, men are busy working hard and being well-rounded. I guess you could loiter about corporate parking lots to identify age-appropriate men who leave late, but not too late. Or go to the gym really early, when all the men work out before work. But really? I think you’ll get more sleep and avoid looking like a stalker if you just keep being your well-rounded self, but in some larger arenas. Expand your circle while you expand your comfort zone.
Join a sports league where you’ll meet new people. Commit to online dating. Volunteer. It’s all stereotypical advice, but stereotypes exist for a reason - there’s a kernel of truth. But what nobody tells you is that’s all about math.
Trust me. I was a Mathlete.
You can’t sub for 1 game of dodgeball and then proclaim that there are no eligible men in the league. Likewise, you can’t look at your eHarmony matches for free and then say you’ve tried online dating. You’ve gotta commit for months. A longer window of time will increase your sample size. It will introduce you to a larger pool of people - prospective dates, or a woman who’d love to set you up with her eligible man-brother, or whatever.
The more people you know, the larger your sample size. The larger your sample size, the greater probability that somebody will stick. To you. And you’ll stick right back.
There’s also some more complex equation that illustrates the importance of talking. Make small talk with the cute man-dodgeball-player. Or shoot an e-mail to the funny man-online-dating-profile-haver. I only took Math 10 in college, and I’m pretty sure this equation is calculus. But you know it’s there, and it’s true. Like gravity.
Dating takes tenacity. Be a woman, and stick with it. Somewhere, a man is wondering when he’s going to stop meeting chicks and get to date a woman like you.
I’m not a licensed anything, but I know stuff. Ask me questions in the comments, or at noodleroux (at) yahoo (dot) com.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Let's talk about dating. Dating, when you don't get carded a lot. Because you're an adult.
It seems that the people are desperate for snarky dating advice for the grown-up set. My posts about dating as, you know, an adult get about a gajillion more hits than my typical posts about dog poo and me being dumb.
I'm not saying that I'm an expert on dating in your 30s, but I did manage to come out of it sort of sane. Or, so completely messed up that it's entertaining. Whichever.
Soo ... what dating-as-a-grown-up topics can I expound upon for your reading pleasure? Online dating? Courting with kids? Moving forward after a rocky past? Gimme questions and I'll attempt to address them with wit, kindness, and creativity.
Spill it, readers. Post queries here, or shoot me an e-mail at noodleroux (at) yahoo (dot) com.
I'm not saying that I'm an expert on dating in your 30s, but I did manage to come out of it sort of sane. Or, so completely messed up that it's entertaining. Whichever.
Soo ... what dating-as-a-grown-up topics can I expound upon for your reading pleasure? Online dating? Courting with kids? Moving forward after a rocky past? Gimme questions and I'll attempt to address them with wit, kindness, and creativity.
Spill it, readers. Post queries here, or shoot me an e-mail at noodleroux (at) yahoo (dot) com.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
More advice for all the single ladies.
My dear friend who's exploring Dating as an Adult recently posed a question:
What do I say on a first date when the guy asks me what my ex did to ruin our marriage?
At the time, I didn't have an answer that was even remotely valuable, and it bothered me. I've since given it some thought, and here's what my ruminations have produced:
Keep it light! Keep it gay!
All that to say ... oh, sister.
I think the real questions being asked here are, "How fucked up are you? Are you going to be a jealous psychokitty? Will your ex slash my tires? Do I need to rent a storage unit for your emotional baggage?"
Now, having been a bitter, pissed-off ex and having come out the other side with some semblance of emotional health, I think I have earned the right to comment freely on this topic. Because when I first started dating after my debacle of a break-up with Ex-Ex, my favorite, most passionate topic of conversation was Let Me Tell You How Horrible My Ex Is.
I did not realize at the time that this was a sign that I was so not ready to date.
Looking back, I was ready to date when I refrained from bringing up my ex on the first (or even second!) date. I gots your emotional health right here, bitches.
Now, if your prospective fella asks you about your ex on the first date, it raises a red flag. What if he's looking for a show-me-yours-I'll-show-you-mine ex comparison? If so, that means he's not over his ex and, in my opinion, is not ready to date.
But if he's trying to gauge your emotional health ... well, that's a tiny bit distasteful to me, but I'm kind of persnickety like that. But I think you win if you just come up with a glib, fun way to both answer the question and redirect the conversation. Because you are under no obligation to show him your divorce decree - now or ever. And you certainly don't want to air your dirty laundry during the wooing phase.
Enjoy the woo. Embrace the woo.
So, next time, dear friend, that you are faced with such a question? Here are a few suggested responses:
Oh, we're both much happier now. And I get to hang out with you! (don't use this one if the date has stalker potential)
Well, he decided he didn't want to be married to me any more. And, come to find out, I didn't want to be married to him, either. Things are really going well now.
(If you're feeling particularly snarky) Well, we just didn't have a lot in common anymore. He loved porn and golf. My interests were more focused on our kids. Now, we're both pursuing our bliss, and all is well.
(If the date's really not going well and you wish deep in your soul that you were in your pajamas, watching CSI) How did he ruin our marriage? Oh, he didn't. We're still married.
What did he do? His coworker. (OK, maybe this one is a bit too snarky to be light. But it's funny.)
Oh, that's a conversation for another time. Suffice to say that we're working together to raise our kids, and we're both happier. (Damn, this one sounds really mature.)
Readers, what am I missing? Suggestions?
What do I say on a first date when the guy asks me what my ex did to ruin our marriage?
At the time, I didn't have an answer that was even remotely valuable, and it bothered me. I've since given it some thought, and here's what my ruminations have produced:
Keep it light! Keep it gay!
All that to say ... oh, sister.
I think the real questions being asked here are, "How fucked up are you? Are you going to be a jealous psychokitty? Will your ex slash my tires? Do I need to rent a storage unit for your emotional baggage?"
Now, having been a bitter, pissed-off ex and having come out the other side with some semblance of emotional health, I think I have earned the right to comment freely on this topic. Because when I first started dating after my debacle of a break-up with Ex-Ex, my favorite, most passionate topic of conversation was Let Me Tell You How Horrible My Ex Is.
I did not realize at the time that this was a sign that I was so not ready to date.
Looking back, I was ready to date when I refrained from bringing up my ex on the first (or even second!) date. I gots your emotional health right here, bitches.
Now, if your prospective fella asks you about your ex on the first date, it raises a red flag. What if he's looking for a show-me-yours-I'll-show-you-mine ex comparison? If so, that means he's not over his ex and, in my opinion, is not ready to date.
But if he's trying to gauge your emotional health ... well, that's a tiny bit distasteful to me, but I'm kind of persnickety like that. But I think you win if you just come up with a glib, fun way to both answer the question and redirect the conversation. Because you are under no obligation to show him your divorce decree - now or ever. And you certainly don't want to air your dirty laundry during the wooing phase.
Enjoy the woo. Embrace the woo.
So, next time, dear friend, that you are faced with such a question? Here are a few suggested responses:
Oh, we're both much happier now. And I get to hang out with you! (don't use this one if the date has stalker potential)
Well, he decided he didn't want to be married to me any more. And, come to find out, I didn't want to be married to him, either. Things are really going well now.
(If you're feeling particularly snarky) Well, we just didn't have a lot in common anymore. He loved porn and golf. My interests were more focused on our kids. Now, we're both pursuing our bliss, and all is well.
(If the date's really not going well and you wish deep in your soul that you were in your pajamas, watching CSI) How did he ruin our marriage? Oh, he didn't. We're still married.
What did he do? His coworker. (OK, maybe this one is a bit too snarky to be light. But it's funny.)
Oh, that's a conversation for another time. Suffice to say that we're working together to raise our kids, and we're both happier. (Damn, this one sounds really mature.)
Readers, what am I missing? Suggestions?
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Dating advice for all the single ladies.
One of my sweet, recently-single-as-a-grown-up friends recently asked me to write a book about dating as, you know, an adult. Oh, and would I please write that right now? Thanks.
It make me laugh, and it got me to thinking, too. Since I didn't marry until a month shy of my 36th birthday, I guess I am uniquely qualified to talk about what it's like to maneuver about the dating pool after you've realized that you're no longer 23 and would really prefer a padded suit with some boobage support over that little crocheted string thing.
You get my drift?
So, since I don't have time to write a book, like, right this second? I'll condense my Older Lady Dating Advice.
1. You know what you want and what works for you. This means you can be more focused in your dating pursuits. Don't feel like you have to spend time with Mr. Probably Not. Listen to your gut.
Case in point: Remember my match.com stalker? My gut reaction was no. I should have stuck to that and not given him false hope by giving him another chance. He was nice enough on the first date, but I think my gut reaction was based on a subconscious feeling that he was capable of creepiness. And boy howdy, I was right. Which leads us to ...
2. Don't be afraid to be a bitch. Or a whore, or an unmarriageable spinster, or whatever nasty thing anybody might call you. You've made it this far and have earned the right to do what is right for you.
Chances are that if you're single any time after age 30, you've survived some serious heartache. So when some dude tells you, "Good luck ever getting married?" Feel free to laugh. Because, really? We all know that marriage isn't the finish line. It's the beginning of the real work. So ...
3. Have fun.
And yes, at multiple points in my dating life, if you'd told me to have fun, I would have beaten you to death with the chicken drumstick I was eating while sitting on my couch, in sweatpants, watching some vh1 countdown show. Lest you think marriage has changed me, I now sit on the couch, in sweatpants, eating chicken and watching vh1 next to my husband. He knows to stay on his side of the couch.
Anyway. Dating is absurd. And when you're over 30, you feel dumb, like being single is paying some sort of hideous karmic debt. And you bounce between feeling like you're the only single grown-up in the universe who isn't living in mom's basement, or you're the only single grown-up who doesn't know what the fuck they're doing.
Neither of these things are true. Which leads us to ...
4. Fake it 'til you make it. At this point in the game, nobody knows what they're doing. If they think they do, they are morons. The people you really want to associate with will admit that they have no idea what they're supposed to be doing in Adultdatingland. You don't either! Look - you already have something in common!
Be honest. Be really you. Be nervous, but don't let your nerves keep you on the couch, eating chicken. Be brave. If nothing else, you'll have some great stories to tell. Like the time I saw Engelbert Humperdink.
So, in closing: Trust yourself. Stick up for yourself. Be authentic. See Engelbert Humperdink.
Any questions?
It make me laugh, and it got me to thinking, too. Since I didn't marry until a month shy of my 36th birthday, I guess I am uniquely qualified to talk about what it's like to maneuver about the dating pool after you've realized that you're no longer 23 and would really prefer a padded suit with some boobage support over that little crocheted string thing.
You get my drift?
So, since I don't have time to write a book, like, right this second? I'll condense my Older Lady Dating Advice.
1. You know what you want and what works for you. This means you can be more focused in your dating pursuits. Don't feel like you have to spend time with Mr. Probably Not. Listen to your gut.
Case in point: Remember my match.com stalker? My gut reaction was no. I should have stuck to that and not given him false hope by giving him another chance. He was nice enough on the first date, but I think my gut reaction was based on a subconscious feeling that he was capable of creepiness. And boy howdy, I was right. Which leads us to ...
2. Don't be afraid to be a bitch. Or a whore, or an unmarriageable spinster, or whatever nasty thing anybody might call you. You've made it this far and have earned the right to do what is right for you.
Chances are that if you're single any time after age 30, you've survived some serious heartache. So when some dude tells you, "Good luck ever getting married?" Feel free to laugh. Because, really? We all know that marriage isn't the finish line. It's the beginning of the real work. So ...
3. Have fun.
And yes, at multiple points in my dating life, if you'd told me to have fun, I would have beaten you to death with the chicken drumstick I was eating while sitting on my couch, in sweatpants, watching some vh1 countdown show. Lest you think marriage has changed me, I now sit on the couch, in sweatpants, eating chicken and watching vh1 next to my husband. He knows to stay on his side of the couch.
Anyway. Dating is absurd. And when you're over 30, you feel dumb, like being single is paying some sort of hideous karmic debt. And you bounce between feeling like you're the only single grown-up in the universe who isn't living in mom's basement, or you're the only single grown-up who doesn't know what the fuck they're doing.
Neither of these things are true. Which leads us to ...
4. Fake it 'til you make it. At this point in the game, nobody knows what they're doing. If they think they do, they are morons. The people you really want to associate with will admit that they have no idea what they're supposed to be doing in Adultdatingland. You don't either! Look - you already have something in common!
Be honest. Be really you. Be nervous, but don't let your nerves keep you on the couch, eating chicken. Be brave. If nothing else, you'll have some great stories to tell. Like the time I saw Engelbert Humperdink.
So, in closing: Trust yourself. Stick up for yourself. Be authentic. See Engelbert Humperdink.
Any questions?
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
In which I am an ignorant tween.
Let me just preface with this: I hate baseball.
I know, I know. It's America's pastime. A game of tradition and patriotism. Got it. Personally? I find it even less exciting than watching paint dry.
Case in point: we used to go on family vacations to Minneapolis, where we'd settle in to watch the Twins. My mom and brother we ecstatic. My dad and me? Not so much.
I distinctly remember one Twins game where my dad and I spent 3 hours watching the overweight family in front of us eat nonstop. And then there was the family behind us with the gaggle of small, grabby children. Grabby children who had been brushing our backs and touching our seats all night. At about the 7th inning, the grandma of the grabbies proclaimed to the mama, "Why, Jill! Just look at all that mucus! He's sick!"
And my dad and I spent the rest of the game hovering on the edge of our seats, attempting to avoid the fountain of bodily fluid seated behind us.
I'm sure my mom and brother could tell you all about that game and whatever magic Kirby Puckett worked that night, but what I remember is obesity and mucus.
So, all this to say ... I don't know much about baseball.
Also? I didn't date much as a teen. I know you find this shocking.
Which leads me to ask a question to which I've never gotten a straight answer. And yes, I realize that my compulsion to never end a sentence with a preposition probably contributed to that dearth of dating.
When it comes to making out, what are the bases?
Seriously. Is kissing first base? Or is that just a given? Are there different bases for above clothes or underneath clothes touching? Have the bases changed, now that girls dress like hoochies and, if you believe the news, give mouth hugs to anybody who asks?
I can figure out what a home run is. I mean, I was raised on cable TV. But the bases? A mystery.
I am a married woman, so I have managed to have a somewhat successful dating life despite my horrible lack of bases knowledge. However, in my relationship with My Guy, I'm pretty sure he sees the bases like this:
First base: Kissing
Second base: I let her hold the remote. Not a euphemism.
Third base: Gettin' it on
Home run: She made meatloaf! And that's not a euphemism!
I know, I know. It's America's pastime. A game of tradition and patriotism. Got it. Personally? I find it even less exciting than watching paint dry.
Case in point: we used to go on family vacations to Minneapolis, where we'd settle in to watch the Twins. My mom and brother we ecstatic. My dad and me? Not so much.
I distinctly remember one Twins game where my dad and I spent 3 hours watching the overweight family in front of us eat nonstop. And then there was the family behind us with the gaggle of small, grabby children. Grabby children who had been brushing our backs and touching our seats all night. At about the 7th inning, the grandma of the grabbies proclaimed to the mama, "Why, Jill! Just look at all that mucus! He's sick!"
And my dad and I spent the rest of the game hovering on the edge of our seats, attempting to avoid the fountain of bodily fluid seated behind us.
I'm sure my mom and brother could tell you all about that game and whatever magic Kirby Puckett worked that night, but what I remember is obesity and mucus.
So, all this to say ... I don't know much about baseball.
Also? I didn't date much as a teen. I know you find this shocking.
Which leads me to ask a question to which I've never gotten a straight answer. And yes, I realize that my compulsion to never end a sentence with a preposition probably contributed to that dearth of dating.
When it comes to making out, what are the bases?
Seriously. Is kissing first base? Or is that just a given? Are there different bases for above clothes or underneath clothes touching? Have the bases changed, now that girls dress like hoochies and, if you believe the news, give mouth hugs to anybody who asks?
I can figure out what a home run is. I mean, I was raised on cable TV. But the bases? A mystery.
I am a married woman, so I have managed to have a somewhat successful dating life despite my horrible lack of bases knowledge. However, in my relationship with My Guy, I'm pretty sure he sees the bases like this:
First base: Kissing
Second base: I let her hold the remote. Not a euphemism.
Third base: Gettin' it on
Home run: She made meatloaf! And that's not a euphemism!
Thursday, January 5, 2012
An open letter to whomever wallpapered our bathroom.
Dear Wallpaper Man or Maven -
I don't know whether to punch you in the mouth or shake your hand.
You know how sometimes wallpaper comes off in big strips, and sometimes it comes off in teensy, tiny little shards?
Yeah.
The wallpaper you put up lo those 20 years ago falls into the latter category. That shit is stuck to the wall like white on rice. And my meager attempts to scrape it off resulted not in big sheets of sweet, sweet relief, but in teeny razors of emotional pain. Itsy bits of blue metallic paisley paper that pollute my life and stand between me and a remodeled bathroom.
I respect your wallpaper hanging prowess. But don't you ever, ever come near my home ever again.
Peace out -
Cha Cha
I don't know whether to punch you in the mouth or shake your hand.
You know how sometimes wallpaper comes off in big strips, and sometimes it comes off in teensy, tiny little shards?
Yeah.
The wallpaper you put up lo those 20 years ago falls into the latter category. That shit is stuck to the wall like white on rice. And my meager attempts to scrape it off resulted not in big sheets of sweet, sweet relief, but in teeny razors of emotional pain. Itsy bits of blue metallic paisley paper that pollute my life and stand between me and a remodeled bathroom.
I respect your wallpaper hanging prowess. But don't you ever, ever come near my home ever again.
Peace out -
Cha Cha
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tell it like it is.
Nobody asks my advice. And I have a lot of good advice to give. If I’m feeling this way at 36, just imagine what it will be like when I’m 86. Oh, Lord help us all.
So, it occurred to me the other day that I should have taken many, many things in my dating life as signs. Signs that OMG, this is totally not the man for me. For example:
Ex-Ex thought nothing about using the afghan that his grandma knitted as a moving blanket, wrapping it around a washing machine as he and a pal maneuvered that machine up four flights of stairs, destroying said afghan in the process.
I didn’t heed that sign. And I didn’t pay attention a few weeks later when I caught him using my grandma’s tablecloth as a rag while replumbing the bathroom sink. Sure, I grabbed the tablecloth and asked him WTF he was doing. But I didn’t see it as a sign of narcissism or stupidity.
Pay. Attention. Ladies. This shit is important.
Also? I don’t know what sort of vendetta Ex-Ex had against linens derived from grandmas. He needs counseling. Obviously.
Now, I did pay attention in college, when a suitor asked me to either call him or walk over to his fraternity house to wake him up so we could go to the movies. Even my young brain knew that this was a bad sign and most likely a ploy to get me into the vicinity of his bed. If you wanna go to the movies with me, you should also be able to set your alarm.
I asked another guy to the movies instead. We saw Tommy Boy and it was fine. It was fine even though that suitor wore the ugliest sweaters ever on each of our 3 dates. But I guess I get props for knowing that ugly sweaters were fixable. Expecting to be babysat was not.
My Guy does stuff that makes me crazy. I could write a year’s worth of blogs about his kitchen cleanliness or lack thereof. However … I’m a list-maker. And the other day, it was Monday, and I just needed a different flavor of list.
Things I like about My GuyGives excellent hugs
Very funny
Kind and supportive of my crazy ideas
Super smart but not in an asshole sort of way
Always has the right tool
Reads and learns stuff and is always an interesting conversationalist
Gives me sips of his beer even when I should probably just get my own
Is silly
Puts up with the 27 dogs
Makes delicious food
Loves blue … because such allegiance to 1 color is admirable
Is both pro-pancake and pro-cake
Acts like I’m pretty even when I’m not and I appreciate that very much
Teaches me stuff all the time, like how to throw a spiral or how to calm the fuck down
Plans carefully but also takes stuff in stride
Keeps secrets
Tells jokes
Has the best laugh EVER
Again, pay attention. This is the important stuff.
So, it occurred to me the other day that I should have taken many, many things in my dating life as signs. Signs that OMG, this is totally not the man for me. For example:
Ex-Ex thought nothing about using the afghan that his grandma knitted as a moving blanket, wrapping it around a washing machine as he and a pal maneuvered that machine up four flights of stairs, destroying said afghan in the process.
I didn’t heed that sign. And I didn’t pay attention a few weeks later when I caught him using my grandma’s tablecloth as a rag while replumbing the bathroom sink. Sure, I grabbed the tablecloth and asked him WTF he was doing. But I didn’t see it as a sign of narcissism or stupidity.
Pay. Attention. Ladies. This shit is important.
Also? I don’t know what sort of vendetta Ex-Ex had against linens derived from grandmas. He needs counseling. Obviously.
Now, I did pay attention in college, when a suitor asked me to either call him or walk over to his fraternity house to wake him up so we could go to the movies. Even my young brain knew that this was a bad sign and most likely a ploy to get me into the vicinity of his bed. If you wanna go to the movies with me, you should also be able to set your alarm.
I asked another guy to the movies instead. We saw Tommy Boy and it was fine. It was fine even though that suitor wore the ugliest sweaters ever on each of our 3 dates. But I guess I get props for knowing that ugly sweaters were fixable. Expecting to be babysat was not.
My Guy does stuff that makes me crazy. I could write a year’s worth of blogs about his kitchen cleanliness or lack thereof. However … I’m a list-maker. And the other day, it was Monday, and I just needed a different flavor of list.
Things I like about My GuyGives excellent hugs
Very funny
Kind and supportive of my crazy ideas
Super smart but not in an asshole sort of way
Always has the right tool
Reads and learns stuff and is always an interesting conversationalist
Gives me sips of his beer even when I should probably just get my own
Is silly
Puts up with the 27 dogs
Makes delicious food
Loves blue … because such allegiance to 1 color is admirable
Is both pro-pancake and pro-cake
Acts like I’m pretty even when I’m not and I appreciate that very much
Teaches me stuff all the time, like how to throw a spiral or how to calm the fuck down
Plans carefully but also takes stuff in stride
Keeps secrets
Tells jokes
Has the best laugh EVER
Again, pay attention. This is the important stuff.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Facebook is crazy and so am I, episode 5287.
This week, one of my FB friends has been posting like crazee. The perpetrator? My first love, the college boy who broke my heart into a gazillion pieces.
The posts in question? Photos of his newborn daughter. Comments gushing about how he didn’t think it was possible, but in the first 4 hours of her life, she got even more beautiful. Photos of them snuggling. He was lit up like a Christmas tree.
It was really sweet. My heart was glad for him.
And then it occurred to me: he had sex with someone else!
My Guy’s response?
“Yeah, but he was thinking about you the whole time.”
Bwah ha ha!
When I thought the world was ending when that college boy broke up with me 17 years ago? I had no idea just how worth it the wait for My Guy would be.
The posts in question? Photos of his newborn daughter. Comments gushing about how he didn’t think it was possible, but in the first 4 hours of her life, she got even more beautiful. Photos of them snuggling. He was lit up like a Christmas tree.
It was really sweet. My heart was glad for him.
And then it occurred to me: he had sex with someone else!
My Guy’s response?
“Yeah, but he was thinking about you the whole time.”
Bwah ha ha!
When I thought the world was ending when that college boy broke up with me 17 years ago? I had no idea just how worth it the wait for My Guy would be.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Mixing my poop and Star Wars metaphors. Skillfully, of course.
Remember a few weeks ago when Lady Doodle had explosive diarrhea in my laundry room?
Of course you do. Because it was awesome!
Well, that was truly The Day of Poo. Because that night, I received this e-mail:
Cha Cha,
Hi there! How are you? I actually had 2 dreams about you in the past week (don't remember much about the content though) and thought I would say hi and see how you are doing. Please don't feel obligated to respond but feel free to do so if you wish. I hope you and your family are great and that you are happy! Take care, The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful
I sighed. I reflected on how my house smelled like shit. I read the e-mail to My Guy. And then I reflected on My Guy's brilliance when his only response was, "Well, guess who broke up with his girlfriend?"
Heh.
Alice and Jake thought I should reply with "Whenever I have dreams about you, they don't end well for you. Just sayin'." But we also discussed how maybe it would be the bigger thing to do to respond and let him know I'm getting hitched. The mature thing.
I waited a week, because that's how long it takes me to get all mature-like. And then I sent this:
Howdy -
Sorry for the delayed response - things are a little hectic here. Just bought a new house, so am busy cleaning, painting, and getting ready to move. I'm getting married this spring, so there's the little business of getting ready for that, too. Lots going on, but we enjoyed a brief but quiet Christmas in Iowa. Everyone is happy and healthy, and my brother got married this fall. Good times.
I hope you and your family are well and enjoyed a happy holiday.
Cha Cha
Which then garnered an almost immediate response:
Cha Cha,
Great news! How exciting! I'm very glad to hear you are doing great. Exciting news for your brother too!
All is good here too. Ladybug is doing great and really enjoying school and her friends there. She's playing soccer and I'm her coach and that's a blast for both of us. My time with her is 50/50 now which is wonderful. Work is going ok as we work through another merger.
I'm really glad you are doing great and congratulations to you and your family. I wish you the very best! Take care, Ex-Wonderful
Really?
My Cliff Notes version of this would read, "That's great! Everything's great! I'm great here, too! In no way did I e-mail you to test the waters! There's nothing to see here! Have a great day!"
It makes me think of my favorite scene from Star Wars, when Chewy, Han and Luke bust into the jail to get Leia, and Han ends up talking to the other security guys on the intercom. "Umm ... situation normal! Minor weapons malfunction. Everything's fine here ... uh ... How are you?"
In the midst of the cleaning and dog poo and painting and all of it? This was barely a blip on the radar, other than adding to the poo build-up. Which is pretty amazing, all things considered. But it's hard to spend much time thinking about Jabba the Hutt when you're about to marry Han Solo.
Just sayin'.
Of course you do. Because it was awesome!
Well, that was truly The Day of Poo. Because that night, I received this e-mail:
Cha Cha,
Hi there! How are you? I actually had 2 dreams about you in the past week (don't remember much about the content though) and thought I would say hi and see how you are doing. Please don't feel obligated to respond but feel free to do so if you wish. I hope you and your family are great and that you are happy! Take care, The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful
I sighed. I reflected on how my house smelled like shit. I read the e-mail to My Guy. And then I reflected on My Guy's brilliance when his only response was, "Well, guess who broke up with his girlfriend?"
Heh.
Alice and Jake thought I should reply with "Whenever I have dreams about you, they don't end well for you. Just sayin'." But we also discussed how maybe it would be the bigger thing to do to respond and let him know I'm getting hitched. The mature thing.
I waited a week, because that's how long it takes me to get all mature-like. And then I sent this:
Howdy -
Sorry for the delayed response - things are a little hectic here. Just bought a new house, so am busy cleaning, painting, and getting ready to move. I'm getting married this spring, so there's the little business of getting ready for that, too. Lots going on, but we enjoyed a brief but quiet Christmas in Iowa. Everyone is happy and healthy, and my brother got married this fall. Good times.
I hope you and your family are well and enjoyed a happy holiday.
Cha Cha
Which then garnered an almost immediate response:
Cha Cha,
Great news! How exciting! I'm very glad to hear you are doing great. Exciting news for your brother too!
All is good here too. Ladybug is doing great and really enjoying school and her friends there. She's playing soccer and I'm her coach and that's a blast for both of us. My time with her is 50/50 now which is wonderful. Work is going ok as we work through another merger.
I'm really glad you are doing great and congratulations to you and your family. I wish you the very best! Take care, Ex-Wonderful
Really?
My Cliff Notes version of this would read, "That's great! Everything's great! I'm great here, too! In no way did I e-mail you to test the waters! There's nothing to see here! Have a great day!"
It makes me think of my favorite scene from Star Wars, when Chewy, Han and Luke bust into the jail to get Leia, and Han ends up talking to the other security guys on the intercom. "Umm ... situation normal! Minor weapons malfunction. Everything's fine here ... uh ... How are you?"
In the midst of the cleaning and dog poo and painting and all of it? This was barely a blip on the radar, other than adding to the poo build-up. Which is pretty amazing, all things considered. But it's hard to spend much time thinking about Jabba the Hutt when you're about to marry Han Solo.
Just sayin'.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Cha Cha goes to the movies. Or sits on the couch.
When I was in junior high and high school, I babysat the crap out of my hometown.
Seriously. I don't mean to brag, but I was in high demand. I babysat a lot. I like kids, kids seem to like me, and I was careful to clean the kitchen before the parents got home.
One particular Saturday night, after my young charges had gone to bed and I'd tidied the kitchen, I made a gruesome discovery. My otherwise hip and awesome employers ... didn't have cable.
Seriously.
But I found myself entertained by an old movie on public television. If you've never seen it, rush out right now and rent, buy, or steal Marty, starring Ernest Borgnine.
Marty is a lovely little movie - and I hadn't seen it since until it was on TCM this week. Watching it again was like slowly savoring creme brulee.
But here's the deal: it's a movie about lonely people, people who are scared of not being needed, people who are on the verge of giving up. There are old women who are unsure of their role when their children don't need them anymore. And there's an old maid and a lonely bachelor who are both on the cusp of accepting their fates as duds.
As a teenager, I could appreciate feeling left behind. But as a woman who is about to be married for the first time at 35?
Well, when the woman daringly tells her potential suitor that she's 29 - outing herself as a spinster - and half expects the man to reject her immediately?
I could taste her apprehension.
I have been that woman.
I have toyed with the idea that I was deficient, an ill fit, destined to be alone - but not wanting any of that solitude. I've been bitter, but managed to pull myself back from that abyss a few times. I chose to pursue my happiness even though I was terrified - and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
The great thing about Marty? It's all about good, decent people and the decision to pursue or settle in.
Seriously. I don't mean to brag, but I was in high demand. I babysat a lot. I like kids, kids seem to like me, and I was careful to clean the kitchen before the parents got home.
One particular Saturday night, after my young charges had gone to bed and I'd tidied the kitchen, I made a gruesome discovery. My otherwise hip and awesome employers ... didn't have cable.
Seriously.
But I found myself entertained by an old movie on public television. If you've never seen it, rush out right now and rent, buy, or steal Marty, starring Ernest Borgnine.
Marty is a lovely little movie - and I hadn't seen it since until it was on TCM this week. Watching it again was like slowly savoring creme brulee.
But here's the deal: it's a movie about lonely people, people who are scared of not being needed, people who are on the verge of giving up. There are old women who are unsure of their role when their children don't need them anymore. And there's an old maid and a lonely bachelor who are both on the cusp of accepting their fates as duds.
As a teenager, I could appreciate feeling left behind. But as a woman who is about to be married for the first time at 35?
Well, when the woman daringly tells her potential suitor that she's 29 - outing herself as a spinster - and half expects the man to reject her immediately?
I could taste her apprehension.
I have been that woman.
I have toyed with the idea that I was deficient, an ill fit, destined to be alone - but not wanting any of that solitude. I've been bitter, but managed to pull myself back from that abyss a few times. I chose to pursue my happiness even though I was terrified - and for that, I'm eternally grateful.
The great thing about Marty? It's all about good, decent people and the decision to pursue or settle in.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Let's talk about my uterus, shall we?
I spent Thanksgiving with My Guy and his family. He is one of five children. There were 17 of his family members there. And me. It was a touch overwhelming. Fun, but lots different than the typical me, my parents, and Poochie.
And? I fell into The Trap.
A sat down to talk to My Guy's grandma. She's sassy and I like her. My Guy has alluded to her difficult tendencies, but I hadn't seen this first-hand.
We talked about the new house. Which led to:
Grandma: So, what are you going to do with all those bedrooms?
Me: Well, we'll figure it out.
Grandma: Are you going to have children?
Me: Well, we'll figure it out.
Grandma: You know, My Guy has always wanted children.
Me: (oh, shiiiiit.) Well, we're not really sure.
Grandma: Oh really. Why?
Me: (fuuuuuuuck.) Did you know that I'm five years older than My Guy?
Grandma: Really? No, I didn't know that. Are you worried you're too old to have babies?
Me: (well, that lame-ass plan backfired.) Umm?
Grandma: There are lots of ladies who have babies into their 40s. Their FIRST babies.
Me: (giving up.) Uh-huh.
Grandma: You have lots of time!
Me: (kill me now.) Can we get married first?
Grandma: Well, I'd hope so.
And ... scene!
When I recounted this to My Guy hours later, he was apologetic. "I'm so sorry! Was there anybody there to save you?"
"Uh, no."
"That sucks. My cousin is usually really good about that. Grandma probably isn't happy that we'll be living together before the wedding."
"Really?"
"Whatever. I don't care."
"Do you think your grandma thinks I'm a virgin?"
"Uh - I don't know. I don't care."
"Maybe I should have told her that I don't want to have children because I'm terrified of intercourse."
"Yes! You should have asked her about it! 'Do we actually have to touch? What if he just has really good aim?'"
"Love it. 'You had four children. How does it work?' That was totally a missed opportunity."
And then we cackled like the evil people we are. And I was thankful.
And? I fell into The Trap.
A sat down to talk to My Guy's grandma. She's sassy and I like her. My Guy has alluded to her difficult tendencies, but I hadn't seen this first-hand.
We talked about the new house. Which led to:
Grandma: So, what are you going to do with all those bedrooms?
Me: Well, we'll figure it out.
Grandma: Are you going to have children?
Me: Well, we'll figure it out.
Grandma: You know, My Guy has always wanted children.
Me: (oh, shiiiiit.) Well, we're not really sure.
Grandma: Oh really. Why?
Me: (fuuuuuuuck.) Did you know that I'm five years older than My Guy?
Grandma: Really? No, I didn't know that. Are you worried you're too old to have babies?
Me: (well, that lame-ass plan backfired.) Umm?
Grandma: There are lots of ladies who have babies into their 40s. Their FIRST babies.
Me: (giving up.) Uh-huh.
Grandma: You have lots of time!
Me: (kill me now.) Can we get married first?
Grandma: Well, I'd hope so.
And ... scene!
When I recounted this to My Guy hours later, he was apologetic. "I'm so sorry! Was there anybody there to save you?"
"Uh, no."
"That sucks. My cousin is usually really good about that. Grandma probably isn't happy that we'll be living together before the wedding."
"Really?"
"Whatever. I don't care."
"Do you think your grandma thinks I'm a virgin?"
"Uh - I don't know. I don't care."
"Maybe I should have told her that I don't want to have children because I'm terrified of intercourse."
"Yes! You should have asked her about it! 'Do we actually have to touch? What if he just has really good aim?'"
"Love it. 'You had four children. How does it work?' That was totally a missed opportunity."
And then we cackled like the evil people we are. And I was thankful.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Gratuitous photo Friday.
Cute, isn't he? I think I'll marry him.Also? My Guy gets triple points for moving tables, organizing wayward relatives, and generally kicking ass and taking names at Poochie's wedding. What a gift.
Plus? He's so cute!
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