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The First Time

9 May

When I got home from work, my puppy Porter was in the window wagging his big fluffy tail. Dane was sitting on the couch, watching a documentary on the History Channel. I changed my clothes and we went to Zen West Roadside Cantina to celebrate Cinco de Mayo with sangria.

He had fish tacos for dinner and I had a quesadilla. We talked about little things of no importance and recalled the loud, old Jewish couple sitting in front of us at the Mary Poppins production we saw the night before. He was good at imitating them and it made me laugh so hard. I remember where we were sitting in the restaurant and the little kid running in circles who repeatedly played the same, really annoying song on the jukebox while his mom and dad completely ignored him. I don’t recollect what song it was now, but it was spinning in my tipsy head as I tried to fall asleep later that night.

Back at my house, we drank wine and watched a show that was saved on the DVR. Porter chased his tail and we laughed. Dane suggested that he was just like that kid at the restaurant, really, except fluffy. He adored Porter. He was mad when I first rescued him because he didn’t want a dog, but as you can see, he fell in love with him pretty quickly:

 

Screen Shot 2013-05-08 at 3.56.40 PM

 

When it was time for bed, Dane cuddled with me for a bit before heading to his room. He said he was happy things were going well with us (we had fought in the months prior) and we made plans to see each other when I was back home from house sitting on May 9th.

The next morning, he came in early and kissed my forehead before he left. I glanced at him through squinting, sleepy eyes as the sun poured through the sneaky cracks in the blinds, directly on my pillow.

That was the last time I saw him.

We emailed a bit that week and he called on the 8th to say he wasn’t feeling well. He had heartburn. I told him to get some TUMS.

“Thanks, good idea,” he replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That was the last time we spoke.

I miss him, and I’ll never forget a single moment.

The memories we had together and his passing are a constant reminder of the beauty and fragility of breath and life. One year ago, this propelled me out of my routine stillness. It was like an awakening from the numbness of the patient etherized upon a table in T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

Grateful and inspired, the months that followed sparked the first time I truly began to live.

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On Blogging

29 Apr

Blogging has been an unexpected journey for me. It started as an extension to the journals I began at age 12 that lasted until about 23, filling five books:

 

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The quote on the cover that says, “Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale” is ironic, really, because from page one the reader can sense the true awkwardness of a chubby, shy, hopeful romantic (even at age 12) who experiences the absolute opposite of anything resembling a fairytale.

The topics within the second half of that top journal alone talk about my friends and I at 15-years-old facing being dumped, eating disorders, rape, my dream date for a dance who broke me into pieces by choosing to go with a girl he said was prettier, drinking, a stomach being pumped, a stabbing, depression and death.

My romantic awkwardness and my tendency to over-think everything continues throughout the five journals and despite every moment that would make most readers cringe as I embarrass myself on the regular, the entire thing is woven together with a sense of “gratefulness, hope and humor” that I had and continue to carry with me as I go.

I stopped writing things down for a few years and when I picked it up again, I chose to blog and decided that no matter what depressing thing happened in the world or in my personal experience, I was going to write for myself and shed a humorous light on life. I was tired of reading and watching awful things, you know? I didn’t expect, or necessarily even want others to read it. I’m grateful that people do read and comment, but I still don’t expect it. I simply wanted to creatively journal for myself and had no idea there was going to be a community aspect.

My stats, number of followers and being Freshly Pressed meant and still mean very little to me.

With that said, I was delighted to meet people, be real and learn that I can make others laugh. I think the community has introduced us all to others who inspire us and/or have somehow changed our lives. Writers can easily connect with each other here–we all know about an artist’s deeper layers that exist within each one of us. It gives us an immediate connection and for some, a way to throw around ideas. Through this I’ve also met some friends I’d like to keep for a lifetime, had conversations with people from all over the world and even had a very odd fan fiction story written about me. I wonder whatever happened to that guy.

Perhaps the real bonus for this little lady has been the dick pictures from past commenters, even though I continually announced that I would laugh at every penis entering my inbox (and I did… that pun was not intended, by the way).

Little did those dudes know about the coffee table book I’ll publish someday called, “Is This Your Dick?” that will highlight all the ding dongs.

So, that’s what makes my blogging experience go ’round.

Why do you blog?

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Katie Couric: Part 1

22 Apr

Two weeks ago, my boyfriend and I went to NYC because yours truly was a guest on Katie Couric’s daytime TV show on ABC. Basically, one of my posts here (I will repost it before the show airs, I am not yet sure of the date) caught the attention of a producer and they invited me to be on the show. Crazy, I know.

I was nervous. I mean, I barely know how to walk in a straight line, my laugh is kind of ridiculous and I often stumble over my words. The other day when I sneezed in the parking lot at work, my shoe flew off and a guy laughed at me. A few weeks ago I fell while running and my shorts got pulled down and guess who wasn’t wearing panties?

What I am trying to say is that things can get weird around here, but I accept this. I was worried, however, that it would be difficult to control this general clumsiness/awkwardness and I didn’t really want to have to tell you a story about how I embarrassed myself in front of Katie Couric, an audience and cameras.

What was a girl to do? I was told that getting a lot of sleep would help, but instead my nervousness led us to margaritas:

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and then this happened…

guy

…but too many margaritas and that creepy old bikini guy didn’t do the trick, you guys, so the next morning I was up at 5 am thinking of all the ways I was going to screw things up. I thought of how to get out of it and even pretended to have a stomach ache, which my boyfriend saw straight through and resulted in him physically taking my hand and pulling me through New York City to the studio. Bless him.

When we got there, I changed in the green room and went to hair and makeup. The women who fixed me up did a beautiful job, but I felt a bit weird because I don’t usually wear much makeup and I could tell it made my boyfriend uncomfortable, too:

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Him: You’re so….sparkly.

Me: I knew it! I look like a sparkly whore!

Him: Well, don’t worry, it’s just makeup for TV and I bet up close Katie Couric will look like a sparkly whore, too!

____

The idea of me hanging out with Katie Couric while we both looked like sparkly whores made me feel a lot better.

We watched the first segment in the green room before someone came to get another woman and I for our segment. Everything after that felt like a whirlwind because suddenly, whilst in a cloud of hairspray, a guy was clipping a microphone to my bra, a woman was using a lint roller on me and the makeup artist was retouching my lipstick.

I don’t remember much that happened after that. The conversation with Katie Couric was short, and funny, but I have no recollection of what was said. She was nice and very laid back and mentioned afterward that she liked my slippers (more on that later) and that I was funny. I secretly celebrated with imaginary high fives all around to everyone nearby.

My boyfriend says I did well, but maybe he’s just being nice. Who knows. I didn’t fall, so that’s a plus. He did mention that he heard me guffaw at Katie’s sex joke while on camera, so I hope they edit that out because yikes.

Anyway, that sums up the time I was on Katie Couric’s daytime show….one of the most random things I’ll ever do. I’ll be able to tell you more about the subject later and will let you know when it airs if you want to DVR it or something.

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If I Were A Linguist

14 Apr

This morning in the shower I wrote a poem about being a linguist. I am not a linguist, but this is what would happen if I were one.

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If I were a linguist
who uses her tongue freely,
I would be cunning and write a poem about
driving a lexis
and wearing a diphthong.

There’d be something in there about synnning
and taxes and that’s why
I’d be awkward and have no friends
if I were a linguist,

so I wouldn’t be much different from who I am now,
if I were a linguist.

 

 

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Kevin – A Possible Book Preview

7 Feb

Some of you have asked for a preview of my collection of stories. It is not finalized, and I may not even include this one, but feedback is more than welcome. Let me know what you think.

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About four years ago I began seeing a guy named Kevin. He was younger than I was, which was a change of pace from my usual interest in older men. He had a “top secret government job,” which I thought sounded sexy and mysterious.

Kevin and I had a lot of fun together. I liked his preppy style. He was a typical party guy who loved drinking and socializing, which was perfect because I also happen to enjoy drinking and socializing.

Our first date was to a really fun bar in the city on a hot Tuesday night. It was a perfect date, really, even if we did get a bit too tipsy. He was tall and I loved his cute nose sunburn, and the way he looked into my eyes when he bent down and tucked my hair behind my ear before he kissed me.

I have to admit that I am such a sucker for a hot date on a summer night with some cold drinks. Who isn’t?

When it was over he dropped me off at my house and said he would call me the next day. When he did, he invited me to meet his parents out on Friday for happy hour, and then he and I would go out afterward. It sounded fun.

That Friday I wore a pretty blue dress my mom had bought me for “something special.” I was excited, and I’ll admit a bit nervous to meet his parents on only our second date.

Kevin picked me up and we met them at a bar on the water in Fells Point, a really cute area in Baltimore City. His parents, Phil and Viv, easily were two of the nicest, most fun people I have ever met. They were young, hip and everything I could have wanted on a date with parents…until his mother took out a nail file.

It could have been the effect of the beer, but I swear to you that I watched in slow motion as his mother reached over to her son and began filing his nails. My jaw dropped.

“He doesn’t keep up with his nails very well, does he?” she commented.

“Err, I hadn’t noticed,” I replied.

“Well, he doesn’t. He’s not very good with his room, either. You’ll have to push him to clean.”

The whole thing lasted only about three minutes, but I am telling you that it was such an odd moment that I couldn’t help but comment on it later. “Kev, does your mom always file your nails like that?”

“Yeah, she does, she’s kind of a control freak.”

I kind of wish I had run at that moment, but do you think we should we really judge people immediately about things like that? He was younger than me, after all. Maybe he was just a bit immature, or maybe I was just making up excuses. I didn’t know, I was just glad it was over.

He and I went to another bar and got food and more beers and somehow we thought it would be fun to make a bet that for every beer I drank, he could drink two in the same amount of time. It turned out that he could, but as you can imagine after my four pints and his eight, I ended up drunk and he ended up extremely drunk. We kept laughing and enjoying ourselves, though. He was such a fun guy to be around!

Afterward, we decided to walk back to his house, hand in well-manicured hand. He lived about seven blocks from where we were and at block three he started picking up the pace.

“Why are we rushing?” I inquired, doubling my step to keep up.

“Sorry, I have to use the bathroom.” My roommates are out, so when we get inside just make yourself at”…and then, my friends, he pooped his pants.

Right then and there, Kevin farted and pooped his pants.

I got a cab home.

We never talked again.

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Eros, Philia and Agape

9 Dec
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Baltimore Love Project, Hampden

 

One soul, two bodies,
both with intense longing
that transcends physical appetite.
My best friend, equal, alike in virtue,
we know passion without necessity of reciprocity.
Pure, this is love that consumes and surpasses all else.

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NeverEnding Imaginations

20 Nov

I love reading creative posts and catching a glimpse of what’s inside the imaginations of other bloggers. My imagination gets wild and crazy and I can think of a few childhood experiences that certainly played a major role in that development.

One example is my love for the 1984 film The NeverEnding Story.

Cue majestic music, bitches:
 

 

When I was a kid, I made my parents rent that movie every weekend for approximately two years. Something about it truly grabbed my imagination and expanded La La Land into a vast empire where I am still a beautiful empress with a British accent. I also blame it for giving me imaginary friends (a mermaid and a turtle) that lived in the sewer.*

At night I made up related stories while curled up on the floor in my Care Bears sleeping bag. In my head, I WAS The Childlike Empress and I lived in an ivory tower made of glorious light. I imagined (still imagine, just kidding, kind of) someday walking down the aisle wearing her headpiece:
 

But with real pearls. Image from Etsy.

 
Except back then I was jonesin’ for some Atreyu:
 

Atreyu sporting the Auryn. Image from Google.

 
Is there something from your childhood that you associate with the development of your imagination? Do you still make up stories in your head as you fall asleep? Have you ever put someone’s baby on a dog and pretended he was riding Falcor? No? Oh. I guess I haven’t either, then. That would be a weird thing to do.

Also, this is the song from the movie. Look at this guy. Just look at him…and there upon a rainbow is the answer to a never-ending story.

 

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* My imaginary friends and I are no longer in contact.

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Can Attractive Women Be Funny?

25 Oct

While Nikki Finke, Editor in Chief of Deadline Hollywood, was watching the Emmys’, she wrote:

“Beautiful actresses are not funny. They don’t know how to do comedy…Only women who grew up ugly and stayed ugly, or through plastic surgery became beautiful, can pull off sitcoms or standups. Bowen isn’t a comedienne just like Brooke Shields wasn’t and a zillion more. Because it’s all about emotional pain and humiliation and rising above both by making people laugh with you instead of at you. So stop casting beautiful actresses when you should be giving ugly women a chance.”

It reminded me of an article I read in Vanity Fair by the late Christopher Hitchens. He explained that attractive women don’t need to be funny to get attention from men, that women in general aren’t childish (crude) enough to be funny and that the rare female comedians who are funny are normally “hefty or dykey or jewish” (oh my).

There are other opinions out there suggesting women in general aren’t funny.

So, can attractive women be funny? Can women in general be funny people?

Nope. You’re right, Nikki Finke and ghost of Christopher Hitchens (who quoted the 1911 poem “The Female of the Species” by Rudyard Kipling, which says women deal with the seriousness of motherhood and have no time for jest). I guess we can all agree because we all have the same views on what it means to be “beautiful” and/or “funny,” despite the variety of both female characteristics and types of humor that exist.

I really just can’t think of any funny, pretty women on TV and my lovely lady friends/the beautiful female bloggers are certainly all dull.

And yikes, Kristin Wiig, Maya Rudolph and Tina Fey never get me to even crack a smile:

Photo by Annie Leibowitz, Vanity Fair

Anyway, I’m off to make some sort of stew and have a baby or something. If readers have any examples of funny, attractive women, please share.

No? You don’t? Didn’t think so.

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Happy Birthday, Christopher!

23 Oct

Today I would like to wish a very Happy Birthday to my best friend, Christopher De Voss. What makes our relationship unique is that we “met” on WordPress about seven months ago and immediately clicked  (pun not intended, but appreciated while proofreading). One might say our silly senses of humor had something to do with it.

Chris doesn’t know how grateful I was for his posts back in May when I lost Dane and needed a laugh. He took the edge off of a rough couple of months. We got closer after that and now the man makes me guffaw every day. Sometimes during our conversations, my laughter actually echoes throughout my house and my abs ache. He gives me a good workout!

He is a great, fun, thoughtful man and he deserves a party. I can’t throw him a party (900 miles will do that), but I did make him a birthday celebration (everything in the picture except the table and plate)*. Obviously, I had to eat the whole cake by myself except for this piece (and then I ate it anyway). Gosh, how unfortunate.

Eat your heart out, people who like crafts and/or cake

 

Oh, and I got him this:

You’ll never guess what’s inside

 

If I could actually present these things to him in person today, I would wear this Chewbacca costume:

Because Star Wars

 

Anyway, as my last birthday surprise, I wanted my whole lab to sing “Happy Birthday” to him, but it turns out that scientists are awkward and quite camera-shy*, so this is all you get, buddy*. I’m sorry…and I’m sorry I ate your cake and made your wish for you. However, the wine is still here, perhaps we can drink that together someday*.

Anyway, here is the video I chose instead:

 

 

haha…kidding:

 

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*I hate crafts, but I spent Saturday night learning to bake a cake,  make balloon animals, make homemade candles and draw R2-D2. ::curtsies::

*Unable to do anything that doesn’t involve sciencey things, really.

*I know you hate when I call you “buddy” and that every time I say it, Pauly Shore gets his wings.

*Sorry…finished the wine.

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Power Ballad Serenade

19 Oct

Last night, as I sat down to relax after my long work day, I was startled by a man right outside my window singing at the top of his lungs, “I wanna know what love is, I want you to shoooow me!”

I hoped and prayed that he was drunk and/or had the wrong house. I peered through the blinds, but it was dark and I couldn’t quite make out his face. He continued singing, “I wanna feel what love is, I know you can shoooow me!!”

I opened the window and shouted down to him, “Do I know you?!”

“Yeah! It’s me!” he yelled back. I squinted, but still couldn’t see him.

Just then, the woman across the street opened her window and screamed, “I’m over here, jackass!”

Giggling, I shut the window and watched him turn and stumble across the street. I went back to relaxing and waited patiently for Christopher to get home from work so I could tell him the story and secretly I hoped we would then have a Foreigner sing-along. We did.

Oh please, don’t look at me like that. Everyone loves a power ballad. Which is your favorite? I wanna know, I wanna know, I wanna knnooooowww…

 

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