"You're both hotter than Angelina."
Anna and I high-fived and made brief entries in our mental history books: Nineteenth of May, Two Thousand and Eight. Hotter than the hottest woman ALIVE.
For the record, this wasn't some line; he meant every syllable. Sure, only because he finds pregnant women patently offensive and fiercely ugly (in his hilarious yet sick and twisted world, it's not a "baby bump," it's a "people sack"), but that's not the part I'm going to remember.
Me, I'm going to hold on to the part where a man - a warm blooded, testosterony man - told me I was hotter than Angelina Jolie. Because, let's face it, that's not going to come up again any time soon.
Anna and I high-fived and made brief entries in our mental history books: Nineteenth of May, Two Thousand and Eight. Hotter than the hottest woman ALIVE.
For the record, this wasn't some line; he meant every syllable. Sure, only because he finds pregnant women patently offensive and fiercely ugly (in his hilarious yet sick and twisted world, it's not a "baby bump," it's a "people sack"), but that's not the part I'm going to remember.
Me, I'm going to hold on to the part where a man - a warm blooded, testosterony man - told me I was hotter than Angelina Jolie. Because, let's face it, that's not going to come up again any time soon.
When I called Mike J, he was on the golf course.
"Hey, what's up?"
"I have a question about hockey."
Over the last few days, I've had a lot of questions about hockey. What's a power play? Is it always two minutes? Does it end if someone scores? If the goalkeeper catches the puck, but the force of it pushes him back over the goal line, does it count as a goal?
I'm pretty sure that if I were a superhero, my super power would have something to do with my ability to get really, really obsessive over really, really unimportant stuff.
Like hockey. I'm late to the game (went to my very first on Wednesday) I know, and could easily be accused of fair-weathering (Dallas is in the playoffs), but this is exactly like the time someone said, "Come on, Heather. We're taking you to Fenway." The hook was set, and incidentally, the Sox weren't even having a winning season. So what I'm saying is, this was to be expected.
But here's what I didn't predict: hockey? Is sort of a turn-on. And by 'sort of' I mean 'totally.' Something about it is hot in the way Zidane's oh-my-dieu sexy head butt was. Violence generally makes me pretty uncomfortable, but for some reason, when it's on the field of play - when it's sanctioned - it is bodice-rippingly awesome. And while this is an exciting new discovery in the wide, wide world of sports, I find myself feeling a little bit concerned. You know, about what I'm going to do with myself during the off season.
"Hey, what's up?"
"I have a question about hockey."
Over the last few days, I've had a lot of questions about hockey. What's a power play? Is it always two minutes? Does it end if someone scores? If the goalkeeper catches the puck, but the force of it pushes him back over the goal line, does it count as a goal?
I'm pretty sure that if I were a superhero, my super power would have something to do with my ability to get really, really obsessive over really, really unimportant stuff.
Like hockey. I'm late to the game (went to my very first on Wednesday) I know, and could easily be accused of fair-weathering (Dallas is in the playoffs), but this is exactly like the time someone said, "Come on, Heather. We're taking you to Fenway." The hook was set, and incidentally, the Sox weren't even having a winning season. So what I'm saying is, this was to be expected.
But here's what I didn't predict: hockey? Is sort of a turn-on. And by 'sort of' I mean 'totally.' Something about it is hot in the way Zidane's oh-my-dieu sexy head butt was. Violence generally makes me pretty uncomfortable, but for some reason, when it's on the field of play - when it's sanctioned - it is bodice-rippingly awesome. And while this is an exciting new discovery in the wide, wide world of sports, I find myself feeling a little bit concerned. You know, about what I'm going to do with myself during the off season.
It was in January, shortly after I fell to pieces over my Richard/Monica situation* and I was doing what I thought I was supposed to do: getting right back on the horse. We met watching a college basketball game, flirted over too many cocktails and then, in true post Gen X fashion, got to know each other better in the most intimate of intimate settings. MySpace.
This URL is listed on my profile. Naturally. I've been writing this site for six years come July and it's as much a part of me as where I live or my phone number. Only, more so, because unlike my zip code, it doesn't change every few years.
As he read up on my (mis)adventures, part of me couldn't help but cringe. What a time to meet me! I was still, in my heart of hearts, convinced that I would never be happy again, despite a very sincere determination to try. It's worth noting that I was up front about all of that when we met; I don't believe in false advertising. The lesson he took away from his reading, however was not exactly what I'd expected. He did express concern over his bad timing, but then he said something unexpected. He asked if I'd ever intended for any of the relationships I wrote about to work out.
Kapow!
I'm pretty certain that punching me in the chops would have achieved the same effect. First, shock, then came some form of anger (indignation, maybe?), but then I cooled off, telling myself that he couldn't know. All he saw was a girl who put her love life (no matter how finely edited) out on the Internet for... entertainment.
"That's a fair question," I told him, finally. "And yes, of course I sincerely wanted them to work."
He took me at my word. Not everyone is willing to do that.
It crosses my mind, every once in a while, to retire the blog. I worry what it says about me to people who don't know me. I can understand how it looks reckless -- crazy, even -- and attention hungry. At one point, it probably was. But it stopped being any of those things many years ago. I worry that when I don't write clearly enough, it's hard to see that, even as a truly accomplished smart-ass, I am (with some notable exceptions) thoughtful, careful and well-intentioned. Or I try to be. Oh, the things I hold back! I don't (intentionally) exploit the people I love for a good story. I don't even rat out the rattiest of the rat bastards until long after their stars have faded and I can't remember having ever dialed their numbers.
But that isn't always how it appears. And lately, I've been wondering more and more if having a public life doesn't present a very real threat to my private one.
(Don't worry: I'm not going anywhere at the moment; just ruminating.)
*If you don't describe all your life events in terms of Friends episodes (weirdo), this scenario is best described as a younger female, dating an older, basically perfect-for-her male, until he announces he absolutely does not ever, not ever ever, want children. So, the romance terminates in a tragic stalemate, she cries herself to sleep (and awake) and eats way too much Ben & Jerry products. The end.
This URL is listed on my profile. Naturally. I've been writing this site for six years come July and it's as much a part of me as where I live or my phone number. Only, more so, because unlike my zip code, it doesn't change every few years.
As he read up on my (mis)adventures, part of me couldn't help but cringe. What a time to meet me! I was still, in my heart of hearts, convinced that I would never be happy again, despite a very sincere determination to try. It's worth noting that I was up front about all of that when we met; I don't believe in false advertising. The lesson he took away from his reading, however was not exactly what I'd expected. He did express concern over his bad timing, but then he said something unexpected. He asked if I'd ever intended for any of the relationships I wrote about to work out.
Kapow!
I'm pretty certain that punching me in the chops would have achieved the same effect. First, shock, then came some form of anger (indignation, maybe?), but then I cooled off, telling myself that he couldn't know. All he saw was a girl who put her love life (no matter how finely edited) out on the Internet for... entertainment.
"That's a fair question," I told him, finally. "And yes, of course I sincerely wanted them to work."
He took me at my word. Not everyone is willing to do that.
It crosses my mind, every once in a while, to retire the blog. I worry what it says about me to people who don't know me. I can understand how it looks reckless -- crazy, even -- and attention hungry. At one point, it probably was. But it stopped being any of those things many years ago. I worry that when I don't write clearly enough, it's hard to see that, even as a truly accomplished smart-ass, I am (with some notable exceptions) thoughtful, careful and well-intentioned. Or I try to be. Oh, the things I hold back! I don't (intentionally) exploit the people I love for a good story. I don't even rat out the rattiest of the rat bastards until long after their stars have faded and I can't remember having ever dialed their numbers.
But that isn't always how it appears. And lately, I've been wondering more and more if having a public life doesn't present a very real threat to my private one.
(Don't worry: I'm not going anywhere at the moment; just ruminating.)
*If you don't describe all your life events in terms of Friends episodes (weirdo), this scenario is best described as a younger female, dating an older, basically perfect-for-her male, until he announces he absolutely does not ever, not ever ever, want children. So, the romance terminates in a tragic stalemate, she cries herself to sleep (and awake) and eats way too much Ben & Jerry products. The end.
Someone out there understands me. Someone who makes purses. With fur mustache appliqué. I'm pretty much beside myself. I imagine this is akin to what it would feel like were I to find out there's a support group for people with unreasonable attachments to Q-tips. I am not alone.
And I need this.
What could be more calming, in times of stress, than stroking Magnum's mustache which happens to be handily attached to your purse? Nothing, that's what.
And I need this.
What could be more calming, in times of stress, than stroking Magnum's mustache which happens to be handily attached to your purse? Nothing, that's what.
Every couple of nights, I call my sister for the Fetus Update. See, I learned last week that I am going to be an aunt and I'm taking this new role very seriously.
"How are you feeling?"
"Are you fat yet?"
"Are you selling pictures of your bare baby bump to perverts on the Internet? I bet there's a lot of money in that."
She takes it all with very good humor and sends me camera-phone images of our November baby, and promises that I'll be the first to know when she plumps up (if you have a skinny-minny sister, you understand). She lets me name and rename the Fetus, depending on the day's events. Gidget. Olive. Oliver. Olly Olly Oxen Free. And I ask her over and over to tell me about hearing the heartbeat. Which she does.
The lord (and the Internet) knows I'm not exactly ready to be a mother, but from what I can tell, there are much less stringent requirements to being an aunt. In fact, I think it's kind of a prerequisite that you have intentions to coddle and at least mildly corrupt the offspring of a sibling if you're to achieve any sort of real success at it. And me, I was born for this job.
Following in the footsteps of my own very accomplished Aunt V, I will send the coolest, most obnoxious birthday gifts. Things that make noise, need batteries, require assembly. Board games with really small pieces. I'm fully prepared to celebrate half-birthdays just to fit it all in. I will sing subversive limericks and teach him/her to twist its tongue and say "apple," just as soon as it learns how to speak.
And when I'm not busy being a smart ass, I'll nibble fat baby thighs, bury my nose in that warm sweet spot at the back of the neck, plant loud exaggerated kisses on its belly. Sing it songs that it will hear in pictures - sing the one about the cow in the wagon - the same as my mother did.
I will not knit, or nag, or be tolerant of back talk. I will have treats in my purse - right next to the handiwipes. I'll bestow nicknames, pretend to like knock-knock jokes and amusement parks, and pack irresponsibly unhealthy picnics to take to the zoo. Make up wild, ridiculous stories. And I will watch my mouth, because a kid should really learn all the best swears from his grandpa.
"Will you come visit when the baby is still real small?" she asked me on the phone one night.
"Are you crazy? I'll be in the damn hospital while it's being born, " I said. "Visit... when it's small... you've got to be kidding me."
"You will?!"
"Yeah...but in the waiting room where none of that nasty stuff is going on."
"Good."
I am so ready for this gig.
"How are you feeling?"
"Are you fat yet?"
"Are you selling pictures of your bare baby bump to perverts on the Internet? I bet there's a lot of money in that."
She takes it all with very good humor and sends me camera-phone images of our November baby, and promises that I'll be the first to know when she plumps up (if you have a skinny-minny sister, you understand). She lets me name and rename the Fetus, depending on the day's events. Gidget. Olive. Oliver. Olly Olly Oxen Free. And I ask her over and over to tell me about hearing the heartbeat. Which she does.
The lord (and the Internet) knows I'm not exactly ready to be a mother, but from what I can tell, there are much less stringent requirements to being an aunt. In fact, I think it's kind of a prerequisite that you have intentions to coddle and at least mildly corrupt the offspring of a sibling if you're to achieve any sort of real success at it. And me, I was born for this job.
Following in the footsteps of my own very accomplished Aunt V, I will send the coolest, most obnoxious birthday gifts. Things that make noise, need batteries, require assembly. Board games with really small pieces. I'm fully prepared to celebrate half-birthdays just to fit it all in. I will sing subversive limericks and teach him/her to twist its tongue and say "apple," just as soon as it learns how to speak.
And when I'm not busy being a smart ass, I'll nibble fat baby thighs, bury my nose in that warm sweet spot at the back of the neck, plant loud exaggerated kisses on its belly. Sing it songs that it will hear in pictures - sing the one about the cow in the wagon - the same as my mother did.
I will not knit, or nag, or be tolerant of back talk. I will have treats in my purse - right next to the handiwipes. I'll bestow nicknames, pretend to like knock-knock jokes and amusement parks, and pack irresponsibly unhealthy picnics to take to the zoo. Make up wild, ridiculous stories. And I will watch my mouth, because a kid should really learn all the best swears from his grandpa.
"Will you come visit when the baby is still real small?" she asked me on the phone one night.
"Are you crazy? I'll be in the damn hospital while it's being born, " I said. "Visit... when it's small... you've got to be kidding me."
"You will?!"
"Yeah...but in the waiting room where none of that nasty stuff is going on."
"Good."
I am so ready for this gig.
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