Beware the Ideas of March March 15, 2012

Yes.  You read that correctly.  Beware the IDEAS, not ides of March.  Today is March 15, which is my busiest day of the year at work.  It’s the deadline for a million projects I handle all year long. Today, as of course it would be in my life, every idea is…let’s just say….horrible.

1) Coworker, not Beast, brought me breakfast this morning because she knows it is my day from hell.  It gets cold.  She goes to re-heat it for me in the microwave.  She forgets that said breakfast item is in a foil lined package. Fire in kitchen before 9:30am.  Bad idea to put foil in the microwave.

2) I just had a text conversation with PIC.  I asked her to  join me for pee drinks at my place on Friday before our outing.  I meant pre drinks.  Then I was talking about doing a phone interview as a maiming specialist.  That’s clearly not the job.  It’s marketing.  Not maiming.  Svetlana is just a bitch, though perhaps you could make an argument for marketing and maiming.  Regardless, it’s a bad idea to send incognito texts whilst trying to work and answer the phone.

3) Beast attempted to make fun of me and step kick broadway style through the office with her one crutch as a cane (she has a sprained ankle) as she delivered my mail.  She planted face first and now her chin is gushing blood.  Bad idea to make fun of me when you are clearly a bitch…because karma is too.

4) No lie.  I have to use the real last name here because it’s truly important.  Email reply to me from burnt biscuit coworker:

Her last name is Bangasser? Wow.  That must be rough….but I bet she gets a lot of dates.

Why was this a bad idea?  Because coworker hit reply all.  That wasn’t sent just to me, it was sent to Bangasser, my boss and a professor at Bangasser’s school.  Really bad idea not to watch your reply and reply all buttons.

5) I had a retching incident.  I walked into The Smelly One’s office after lunch.  He smelled so rank that I really did throw up in my mouth when I had to shimmy behind him to get into the files.  But I was so closed in that I had to hold it in until he rolled out of my way and I could jump up and run.  Bad idea to eat a big lunch, then go to the smelly guy’s office on the warmest day of the year thus far.

I declare today a mis-fire.  Can I go back to bed and start over?  Oh hell, that won’t work…if I have to do all this again I may cry.  I guess I’ll just lead by example and remind you all to beware the ideas of March… and the ides too, just in case.

On Love. February 13, 2012

Over the weekend I got into a debate with my mom about why people do stupid things for love.  It was centered around Valentine’s Day and veered into Whitney Houston’s death.  In that moment with my mom, I realized I was thisclose to being a Whitney not once but twice in my life.  It’s a deeply personal set of stories, but here goes.

The first mistake I made was a boy named Nick.  He was a model…and he was brilliantly smart.  I was young, innocent, impressionable and totally smitten.  He was my first everything.  First date, first kiss, first time I really really really lied to my parents, first person I had a drink with, first heartbreak and a million other firsts.

I was crazy about him in a way that still perplexes me.  And….he was horrible for me.  He introduced me to a world of excess and destructive behavior.  I overlooked every basic rule I was taught just because I really thought if I loved him hard enough, we would overcome and endure any calamity.  Nick and I were miserable apart, but he knew…oddly at such a young age…that we were terrible together.   I did too, but I couldn’t admit it. He was selfish.  I was selfless.  There was nothing I wouldn’t do for him, nothing I couldn’t rationalize away.  But, Nick loved me enough to know he didn’t love me enough.  It’s a horrible realization, but one that saved my life I’m sure.  Turns out? Saved his too.

After a long series of break ups and make ups, the final straw was a trip to NYC to visit Nick.  Suffice it to say what should have been a most special night ended abruptly with me turned out to the city streets alone.  A girl from a town population 1500 in a fully unfamiliar megacity….no one knew where I was…and a baby at that…. its a miracle I survived the evening.  Alone on a curb, I bargained with God.  If He would let me get home safe, I’d never put myself in that situation again.  It took every ounce of courage and strength I had to pick myself and leave.  I never looked back.  I never called.  I never emailed.  I won’t lie – that turned me hard and callus.  I was jaded and I know I hurt some people.  But I just didn’t care.  I thought they were all the same…so hurt or be hurt? I chose hurt.  Actually I chose flee without hurt if possible, but sometimes it just isn’t.

Years later, I ran into Nick at a fast food chain over a holiday back home.  Crazy right…but yeah, his modeling days were long gone and apparently he has a thing for fried food now.  Anyway, when I saw him I felt like a giddy teenager.  Then, I immediately felt suffocated and terrified.  We wound up talking in a back booth until closing, then we went to his car for more cathartic – re-hashing coulda-woulda-shouldas.

Finally, “that NYC night” came up. Turns out after I left, he felt so bad about hurting me so intensely and missed me with such veracity, that he drove further into his bad behaviors.  When that didn’t work, he checked himself into rehab, and vowed the only way he’d ever speak to me again was if fate intervened because that was the nicest thing he could do for me.

And as if it were a movie, I Will Always Love You came on the radio right then.  No kidding…. we both held each other and cried because it was so oddly poignant.  That was the last time I saw him.  I hear he’s married with a kid in the mid-west.  A far cry from the city lights and fast times of his youth.

And then… I met Paul.

Paul was, is, the mistake that almost killed me.  He was just like Nick – dangerous, handsome, smart, wealthy…. I was entwined in his life before I could think.  We were the “it” couple in most circles…but what they didn’t see was what Paul did in private.  His crazed temper. The alcohol.  The drugs.  The cheating.  It was Nick2.0 and I was too stupid to realize it.

My addiction with Paul spanned a decade.  I call it addiction because I think that’s what it was.  I couldn’t get out no matter how I tried.  All I could do….all I did…was turn myself off emotionally again because it was all I had left to do.  It hurts less if you are numb.  Have you heard that song Gravity by Sara Bareilles?  If not, listen to it or click here to read the lyrics.  The lyrics were exactly me.  I lost friends.  I lost family.  I lost myself.

All the bad things Nick did to me? Paul was worse.  Paul didn’t love me enough to KNOW he didn’t love me enough.  And my stubborn ass fought for him because I thought love was supposed to be fully unconditional no matter what torture or hell they put you through…that whole for better or worse thing you know?  I thought that part of love was pain and suffering. I thought that what I had was normal.  I forgave a lot.  I dismissed a lot.  I did things I shouldn’t have.

Eventually, by God’s grace, the insanity with Paul ended.  I’ve never been so simultaneously sad and joyous in my life.  The chains were lifted, but the gravitational pull of the relationship still sucked me in like a black hole.  In those moments of reflection, I realized that I had escaped again. Barely…..

Had I stayed with Nick or Paul, I would certainly have ended up dead.  Be that in spirit, or physically, or both – the momentum was already spinning precariously out of control.  And in some ways, I think part of me did die in each relationship.  My innocence, my ability to trust, my openness to love and be loved…those died. Can they be revived? I think so.  I’m working on it. I don’t know if I will ever full have the wide-eyed, small town, first love innocence again…. but that’s probably a good thing.

In thinking about the untimely death of Whitney Houston, I think how close I was to that path.  The world lost Whitney long before her physical body was gone just like the world lost me for a while.  I think that like me, she got involved with the wrong guy.  I think she wanted to love so much that she would have done anything to keep it, just a little more intensely than I did.  I think drugs and alcohol were an easy escape when the pain of the relationship was too much for any soul to brave.  It is so much easier to shove emotions and realizations that things are over underneath a rug, especially if the rug is a bottle of Jack….or whatever you poison may be.  It’s easier to forgive and dismiss someone’s behavior if it’s under a veil of substances.  No matter what he does, if you are turned off emotionally and can attribute it to some substance…. you last another day. I know.  I’ve done it.  I regret it.

I’m so lucky that I got out at the exact right moments.  No matter how much it hurt, life with either of them would have been so much worse.  I’m blossoming again.  I realize now that love…love is NOT what I thought.  Love should be pure.  Love doesn’t hurt you physically.  Love doesn’t scar you intentionally.  Love doesn’t emotionally break you…if it’s actual love.  And if it isn’t actual love?  Well…. do what you want, I’m not gonna judge…but just acknowledge it for whatever it is.  Real love is scary.  Real love is blind.  Real love melds two souls into one…but that doesn’t mean love should change your innate spiritual and ethical structure.

So my dearest bloggies, no matter who you spend your Valentine’s Day with, please make sure you keep your head.  It’s easy to lose track of yourself.  Remember how important you are.  And if you forget?  Ask your mom….or your best friend.  They are great for helping you remember.

Big hugs and Happy Valentine’s Day,

Me

Meet Marci….At Your Own Risk January 10, 2012

As promised, here is part 2 of the holidays with PIC .  The evening was great, but it was the antics of one party guest that really made for party stories to last the year.

Introducing….Marci

PIC has a neighbor who is…shall we just say…lewd and crass, and that’s before she crosses over her thinly veiled line between buzzed and hammered.  For the purpose of the blog, I will call her Marci.

Marci has E.D.

Ok.  I know what you are thinking.  E.D. is NOT something any woman could have.  Nay. This isn’t THAT. And, please note that I’ve met Marci exactly once before.

Observe:

PIC: Hey…how long has Marci been in the bathroom?

Me: Um…. at least two songs ago (we were singing karaoke) you think she is sick?

PIC: shrugs and keeps singing Poker Face.

Time elapses…..

Marci: WOW.  You guys! You know what! I have explosive diarrhea. Like….. (Ok. For your sake and mine, I’m going to stop here and leave the detail she gave out.  Suffice it to say she was descriptive and it made me hurl a little.)

PIC and Me: exchange mortified looks, stop singing mid Adele.

Marci: GOD that was awful. I mean….

Me: ROLLING IN THE DEEEEEEEPPPPPPP (trying to drown her out)

Marci: What. What’d I say?  Like you don’t have that happen to you!

Me: YOU HAD MY HEART AND SOOOOOOULLLLL

PIC to me later:  I don’t think I’ve ever used the words explosive diarrhea out loud, especially if the room contained people I’d met once.  It makes me uneasy.  Let’s just say E.D. instead.  I used an entire can of Febreeze in the bathroom.

Me: And that was the least intrusive part of the night….

Marci Hurt My Hand

Marci: POW! she smacks the crap out of PIC’s butt.

PIC: OWWWWW!!!!

Marci: You know you like it.  POW!!! Another smack that I could hear across the room

PIC retaliates by smacking Marci’s butt with a karaoke box set of cds.

PIC to me: Ow. I hurt my hand and wrist.

Marci: Oh nice one! Smack it!

I move between PIC and Marci, take a long drink of wine, grab the mike and sing.  Marci dives toward PIC and bites her arm.

Marci: You like it. You know it.

PIC and I exchange looks again. I was about to tackle Marci.  I didn’t care if she was 50 pounds larger than me.  Smack my PIC one more time….she must have read my look, because she settled down….for the moment.

Marci Bites…Again

From another room:

OWWWW! WHY GOD WHY?

Giggle

I turn to see what happened.  Marci has fled to the bathroom again.  I walk into the room and see a stunned PIC.

Me: What?

PIC: Marci bit me… ON THE ASS.

Me: WHAT?!  She already bit your arm!

PIC: I have a bruise from that one already.

Me: What is her problem?

PIC: (with a frown on her sweet face) I don’t know, but she has E.D.

Marci went home shortly after, accompanied by PIC and I.  I half drug, half pushed Marci up the hill to her house.  Once she was in and PIC and I could return to normal, we rang in the wee hours of 2012 with lots of singing, some more wine, dancing like mad and laughing until my abs hurt the next morning.

At the first breakfast of 2012, PIC and I discussed Marci, her E.D. and her biting problem.  And as we looked down at our lovely breakfast….and back up at each other…..we quickly vowed NOT to discuss or bring up the term E.D. again. Ever.

PIC and I resolved that 2012 will be fantastic – filled with epic moments, belly laughs, car dancing, karaoke, wine slushies and blogging.  Cheers to 2012 – may it bring you happiness on every level.

Love,

Me

Holiday Recap 1 January 9, 2012

Happy New Year Blogland!!!

I hope you all had a great holiday.  The holidays were spent with PIC of course!  I spent mine doing absolutely nothing but indulging my inner hedonist.  I ate too much, drank too much, laughed too much (is that possible?) and well… anything else that tickled my fancy.

I apologize for being absent of late, so this is a two part post to catch you up.

Holiday Shopping Godzilla Style

 

Fearless shopper I am, holiday time at the mall still kind of scares me.  And, for my PIC, holiday shopping at the mall is wholly unbearable.  She needed to buy some things from our mall though, and I volunteered quickly to help her out.

Our adventure started out innocently enough.  The true adventures didn’t begin until we were almost done shopping.  PIC’s mom wanted a toaster oven. After scouring many stores, we finally found one….at the store clear across the other end where we parked. This, to novice shoppers, would have deterred buying.  But nay. I make even shopping pros look like gangly beginners.  I mean, who else for added difficulty wears four inch heel boots, still outpaces flat-shoe wearing friends and never stops for a break once? Me. That’s who.

So, I convinced PIC that it was a bulky item, but I could carry all the other purchases if she could navigate the path in front with the toaster oven.  We made our way over screaming toddlers, the army of kiosk vendors (BACK OFF SEA SALT MAN!) and old ladies who stop mid stream to dig through their purses. I was so proud of PIC! She trudged through like a trooper!

Around the “vicky’s clearly out of secrets at this point” store, PIC stops short. Then I spy what she’s seen.  A woman, bless her heart, who weighed no less than 400 lbs. She was scarffing down Dippin’ Dots, yelling loudly that she wanted a chair. Her hair was matted up in long, greasy strands. She was clad in festive green tights…or maybe those were stretch pants?, tennis shoes and a white bejeweled and bedazzled shirt.

PIC: Son of a

Enter son child of said lady.

PIC: Blimp!

I began laughing so hard I cried. Son of a Blimp has become the new catch-phrase. Go ahead and use it – you’ll laugh ridiculously loud, or at least PIC and I do….or maybe you just had to be there.

We entered the last leg of our journey, and then this happened:

The escalator ascending to the final exit was stopped. PIC looked at me with an emotional mix of fear and anxiety. So, what did I do? The “fix it” part of me took over.  I snatch the toaster oven and go tromping. Tromping up the escalator, in the four inch boots, with bags lining up and down my arms.  PIC is yelling for me to stop, but by the time it registered that I was literally making like Godzilla, it was too late – I was already in too deep.  I had to finish.  Small apologetic look to the lady I almost decapitated, snarly look to the teenager who looked at me all haughty and self important…. and I was done. Up the stairs, all bags accounted for and my PIC behind me.

Me: And that’s how you shop Godzilla style.

PIC: Stay put, I’ll get the car.

Back in the car, PIC and I decided to celebrate with some dancing. If you’ve read long enough, you know PIC and I have a proclivity to dance at will, and car dancing is almost 100% guaranteed when we are together.  Today was a particularly beautiful day, so we had PIC’s t-tops out.

My happiest dance song EVER came one.  Moves like Jagger.  And baby, PIC and I do have the moves like Jagger!  Then my next favorite song came on: Sexy and I Know It. Around the lyric “Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle yeah”, PIC stops dancing.

I look over at her, she’s looking up.  I look up and see a woman in a big SUV peering into PICs car, giving us a wholly disapproving look.

Me: I forgot your windows weren’t tinted.

PIC: Yeah.  They aren’t and neither are the t-tops.

The woman in the SUV looks at us over the brim of her glasses and I felt instantly transported back to third grade.

Hands folded in lap, ankles crossed, looking sweet, I exclaim: Son of a Blimp!!!

PIC and I laughed….and danced….the rest of the way home.

Tomorrow’s post: Meet Marci.

Ho Ho OHHHHH! December 22, 2011

One of my favorite Christmas memories involved an emergency room.  Yes, you read correctly…an actual emergency room.

Before I begin my tale, here are some things you should note:

1) My mom is Ms. Claus reincarnate. Seriously, she would have Christmas rooms (plural) in the house if allowed.  The trees go up on NOVEMBER 1.  By November 3, it looks like Christmas threw up all over the house – inside and out.  The Griswold’s have nothing on us!

2) My dad is a trooper.  He always complies, bless him, with all of her holiday demands.  All I see is a small roll of his eye as he unfurls the 500th strand of lights, trips over a random plush snowman or hears the dancing Christmas tree sing for the bajillionth time.

***********

In this story, I was 7 years old.  My sister was 5.  Mom decided my sister and I needed some extra holiday sparkle to keep us happily believing in Santa.  She concocted a plan.

My sis and I were in the living room playing when we heard some stomping on the roof…. and some bells!  It was Christmas Eve, so that meant one thing: Santa was here!!!

I look at my sis and we exchange the “Oh crap! We were supposed to be in bed and now we will not get our presents” look.  I fled straight to my room because, in my estimation, Santa didn’t leave presents for kids if they weren’t in bed.

My sister, bless her, is quite precocious and was rebellious even then. She came to my room, grabbed me off the bed and said let’s go see him! I explained my whole bed = presents philosophy, but she declared good = presents regardless.  I couldn’t argue that.

We sneak to her bedroom window.  We keep hearing the bells and stomping and a conversation similar to this ensued:

Sister: Why is he still stomping?

Me: Maybe because he knows we are awake and he can’t come in until we are sleeping.

Sister: glares at me

At this time, mom appears and says: Actually, Santa’s stomping because there is snow up there.  He doesn’t want to track it in the house. (side note:  if anyone comes to the house, be they repairman or Senator, Mom makes them take their shoes off. NO ONE wears shoes at mom’s house. EVER.) This made sense to my sister and I.  Mom disappeared around the corner.  Her plot to re-energize our Christmas seemed to be working!

Sister: Let’s look in the fireplace!

I nod in some covert spy “we got this” manner, and we stealthily creep to the fireplace. Then, the most repeated line in my family’s history occurred:

HO! HO! OHHHH!!!!!!!!! AWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We hear Santa crash hard!

Convinced that we’d killed Santa, we look at each other in terror.

Ding Dong!

It was the doorbell!  My sister and I tumble over one another to get to the door, Mom right behind us.  It was my neighbor. Behind him? My dad.  Looking nothing near holly nor jolly.

Mom: WHAT HAPPENED?!

Neighbor: Um.  I was on my porch and I saw your husband…. um…. trying to… catch Santa.  Santa startled him, and he tumbled off the roof.

Dad: owwwww.

Mom: Sweet mother Mary….. are you ok?!

Dad: I hate Santa.

Side notes:

*Dad was fine, just banged up.  We rushed to the ER and my sister proceeded to tell everyone that daddy almost caught Santa, but the he fell off the roof.  Looking back, the responses ranged in expression from “bless” to “um-hm…I bet he was drunk.”

*Dad promised my crying sister that Santa would return with presents.

*Mom and Dad didn’t really speak that holiday.

*Santa never visited our roof again.

Merry-Happy-Holiday Bloggland!

Me