Best Boyfriend Evah!

Reasons why S rocks!

1. The man knows his way around plumbing!

I moved into an apartment that's in a building that's being renovated. Well, I don't think my landlord expected anyone in there so soon, but when faced with the prospect of a rent check he let me move in.

When I looked at the apartment the water was cut off.

So, imagine my surprise when I moved in and learned that the faucet in the bathroom sink runs continuously . . . when it's in the off position.

I couldn't even use the cut-off valve under the sink because IT was a few twists from falling apart. S came up, replaced my faucet and cut-off valve. I've snaked drains and such, but I don't think I would have known what all to get to accomplish this job. That night, I slept in the quiet silence of my apartment without the sound of the gentle waterfall from my bathroom. I think the cats were a little disappointed.

2. He fixed my rocky toilet.

I told you, it's an old building.

When I'd lean forward the toilet would rock. In a way it was kind of nice and soothing to take care of business while gently rocking, but I was starting to feel a bit like Rainman.

3. He saved me from the heart attack I might have had if that scary ass Camel Cricket had jumped in my face.

4. When I got home from work he had the massage chair set up with a glass of red wine next to it.

5. He knows how to wake me up without unleashing my inner bitch.

6. He can set up my wireless internet connection.

7. He can fix my roommates internet connection when the fools at Knology can't.

That's just the tip of the iceberg . . .

Payback!

"When I was in seventh grade I transferred to a Catholic school from public school and it was a difficult transition.All of the kids had known each other since kindergarten and were super close. They let me in for maybe three months and then someone made up a ridiculous rumor about me and I found out because when I walked up to a group of girls chatting, they literally shut me out. I tried to take a spot where there was an opening in the group and they promptly shifted to shut it."

I know right, how cheesy that I'm quoting my own blog!! But, I didn't feel like linking back to an entry so deal.

So, this past holiday season I went to a friend's Christmas party. It's always more or less the same group, but I had a lot more fun this year. I think it was partly because it was the first time I wandered the room unattached so more people came up to me and talked to me.

In particular, this one woman I'll call Bitchin' (which she totally was!). So, Bitchin' comes up to me and says, "I've seen you at these get togethers before, but we've never talked. My name is Bitchin'."

We started doing the polite chit-chat thing and I bring up that I'm from N.O and went to LSU. And, she starts talking about how her hubby went to LSU Law School and they get together for the U of A game every year! Then, she started dropping random last names, and one of them made me ask: Chlorine?!? One of the BITCHES that made my life hell in 7th and 8th grade!!!!! (I might not have said that last part.)

I nearly fell out of my chair (of course, the killer punch may have had something to do with THAT).

I was all, "Oh, I haven't seen her in ages. Really not since '89, how is she?"

Of course, she's still perfect!!!!

She's a lawyer living with her lawyer husband in a super trendy part of N.O. where people like Sissy Spacek own homes!

Anyway, I kind of laughed and said, "You know, I didn't really know her all that well. I only remember one story that typifies how she was back then."

Bitchin' says, "Oh GOD! You've got to tell me!"

Me, "Okay, we were in eighth grade Algebra and our teacher got on Chlorine. She was all, 'If you don't learn how to do this then how will you be able to figure out how much gas you need to mow the lawn?" to which Chlorine wrinked up her nose, tilted her head and said, "I'll just let the gardener figure it out!"

Bitchin' laughed so hard she snorted.

At which point, Bitchin' says, "Oh, that's so typical. My spouse went to fancy private schools all his life and so did Chlorine. I went to the county school and Chlorine's husband went to public schools, too. Anyway, on our way back from one of the LSU games to N.O. all of a sudden there was this loud noise from one of the tires. I was all, 'Pull over, we need to look at this now.' So, Chlorine's husband and I are like, 'Get the jack and tire iron . . . " and Chlorine and my husband are standing behind us, totally afraid to get dirty asking, "Can't we just call somebody?"

Which, you know, made me just smirk and nod my head.

There's one other "moment" with Chlorine that I remember that I just couldn't bring myself to share.

We had to do some sort of poster. I don't even remember what it was now, but my brother helped me with it. So, she comes up to me, all sweet and nice and says,

"Nice poster! Did you do all that yourself?"

I was ridiculously shy then and quietly said,

"No. My brother helped me with some of the drawing."

She totally dropped the sweet act, squinted her eyes at me and said, in the snottiest tone,

"Yeah, we figured," and returned to her pack.

Ugh! It was little moments like that, that made me terrified of her.

She'd be so sweet and then cut you with the snittiest little remark.

What was worse was that it was a small school and all the teachers knew how much money her daddy had AND she was a straight-A student: so, all the teachers thought she was just a ray of sunshine.

Bitchin' admitted, "She's irritatingly perfect and happy, but she's really pretty cool now. She's really laidback."


Which was kind of nice to hear.


I realize that 7th and 8th grade (ages 12 and 13) are trying times for all of us. She was probably just as insecure as I was and we spent so much time hating ourselves that we took it out on those around us.


I'm big enough to forgive and forget.


Also, I promised to send them her eighth grade picture as it's huge and she's got braces and
PERMED BANGS in it!


Turns out Bitchin's husband handles the alumni newsletter for his law school.


AWESOME!

Meant For Each Other

Ya'll know I just moved right?

Well, this weekend I was reorganizing my shoe rack and S walked into the room to see what I was up to.

I hear him quietly say, "Baby?"

I straightened up, turned to look at him and asked, "What's up?"

Him, still quiet, "Walk away from the closet and don't look back."

So, I did. And I, now whispering, asked, "Big bug?"

Him, still in sotto voce, "Oh yeah."

So, I slowly turned to look into my closet and expected to find this:




Which, yeah, would have freaked me out and I would have jumped on the bed like a big baby, but I could have sent in one of the cats and that would have been the end of that.

Those lazy asses might sleep most of the day, but you but a twitchy bug in front of them and it's ALL OVER! We're talking JUNGLE CAT baby!!!!

But, OH NO, what I saw, was THIS:



Which, made me go, "Huh?" And, I don't know if you can tell here, but it's got a really long, mean, looking horn or something coming out of it's butt: so, you know, the cats were not an option.

So I said, "Okay, let's just slowly take out the clothes and see if we can't catch it. Then we'll just let it go outside."

And S, bless his heart, gulped and really coolly said, "Yeah, okay."

So, I went into the kitchen, found an old jar and with S using a playing card (like standard size, not some big ass UNO card or anything) we popped it into the jar and closed the lid.

Now that it was contained, we both had the opportunity to take a better look.

Neither of us had ever seen anything like it before and when we had fulfilled our curiousity he offered to take it outside.

I said, "Okay, but let it go on the other side of the street. You know, in case it decides it wants to come back here it at least has to make an effort."

And, just, just as he's headed out the front door I called for him, "Hey S?"

Him, "Yeah?"

Me, "You know, while we've got him we'd might as well take a picture."

He grins, shows me the camera he's got behind his back and says, "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing."

I smiled and said, "We gotta look that up!"

Him, now blushing, "Yeah, I was gonna check my bug book."

When he came back in from the release I asked him how it went and he said he had to tap it out of the jar and it stood there for a second and then just sauntered away.

I guess when you look like that you have very little reason to run away from anything.

(FYI: It's a Camel Cricket. Harmless to people, but it has been known to feast on fabric.)

Baby Got Back . . . and side, and middle.

I'm fat.

Now, from that one picture of my face I look okay, but trust me when I tell you it's all about angles.

Lately, I've just been feeling really fucking fat.

It was confirmed for me at my doctor's appointment last week. He didn't mention the weight gain, but I fucking cringed every time the nurse inched the scale towards a region that I'll refer to as, "Fat Ass."

I'm at a weight that I'm not happy with, AT ALL!

My whole life I've been up and down in weight. But lately I feel like I've been at a constant up.

And, I'm worried.

I'm worried that some day I'll hit a point where I get the courage to just decide to be fat and then let myself get yooooge!

But, it's not just that I'm fat right now.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of trying on clothes that look too tight.

I'm tired of being tired.

I'm tired of flinching when my boyfriend run's his hands over my body. (And, God bless this man because he knew me back in the day when I was so small I could have turned sideways and disappeared and he still, STILL thinks I'm as sexy as day one.)

And, oh God, he wants to take nekkid pictures of me. Not dirty, dirty ones or anything, but I'm terrified. Terrified that when he looks at the pictures he's going to realize, "Trixie is fat!"

Because pictures don't lie people; they are hard evidence!!!

And, you know, it's a new year and new beginnings and whatnot.

But, I'm not making any resolutions.

I'm not going on a diet.

I've got some of it down, it's not like I'm eating cheeseburgers, fried chicken, biscuits and fries.

The truth is, those things wreak havoc on my system.

I can't eat greasy, high fat foods, so for the most part I don't.

Because the truth is, I don't eat until I sigh.

My problem is a general lack of activity.

The saddest thing?

I actually have a gym membership that goes unused most months.

I know! (I'm actually sitting here frowning and slowly shaking my head.)

Anyway, that's one of my life goals for this year.

To put my gym membership to good use and to run/walk at least one 5k this year.

This one year, I did the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer 5k and I shit you not: the bald, recovering chemo patients had faster times than I did!

So, not only do I want to finish a 5K, I'd like to do it with a respectable time.

Other personal goals?

To write more fiction.

To submit at least one piece for publication.

To procrastinate less.

To arrive at work ON TIME.

To give it one final push at going to the gym before work! (J! I can hear you! I can hear the big loud Chris, "HA!" all the way from Cali buddy!)

To celebrate 30 like I'm the first person to ever turn 30!

To write more letters. Real honest to goodness letters on my pretty, pretty stationery.

I've also got all these books that are wonderfully introspective and give you tasks to complete on your quest towards self-discovery. I know that sounds incredibly hippified, but I'm looking forward to working through some of them.

Anyway, that's it for the new year.

It's not particularly original, but it feels better getting it out there.

Tune back later on my weekend and why S rocks!!!!

Just Like Chicken

My brother Curl is a teacher. He has been for almost ten years now.

Every year at Christmas he gets an "interesting" assortment of gifts from his students. This year, his school's Assistant Principal got a gift that tops the american flag clutching ceramic bald eagle that my brother got a few years ago.

Curl is kicking back in the teacher's lounge when his AP walk in with a bottle of perfume.

She smiles and says to him, "I got perfume this year! Check it out!" And, she holds up a bottle that looks like this:



(I don't know about you, but most of my fine perfumes come in a Roller Bottle!)

My brother, wrinkling up his nose says, "Oh. Well, I'm sure it smells nice."

The AP, still smiling, "Read the label."

The scent?

Wet Pussy.

(Santa, thank you for the lovely jewelry but where's MY bottle of Wet Pussy!)

But wait, it gets better . . .

One of the Teacher's Aides walks into the lounge and says, "Oooh, perfume," snatches the bottle from my brother's hand, and without reading the label, opens it up and smears it on her wrist and proclaims, "Hmm, this smells familiar, but I can't quite place it."

Just Say No

When to walk away from a proposal.

My ex and I were leaving campus for the summer and he was helping me pack my car.

We hugged good-bye and he said, "I hate that we can't be together."

Me, "Yeah, it sucks but your parents are only 20 minutes away."

Him, "Let's not do it anymore."

Me, "Well, I don't think my dad would keep paying tuition if I move in with a guy."

Him, "It's not just the holidays. I want to always be with you. Marry me."

Me, "Uh, uh, uh . . . are you serious?"

Right here it still sounds all sweet and a little clumsy.

Then he busts up with: "If you don't say yes now, I might never get the nerve to ask again."

Right at that last line I should have hopped in my car and PEELED. THE. FUCK. OUT.

But, because I was 20 and didn't know any better I thought it was romantic and said yes.

I didn't even get a bended knee or a ring.

Not that it's all about the ring, but COME ON!!!!

Next time, I'm not accepting any proposal unless it involves a pretty ring and the gentleman assumes the position.

Funny side story.

New guy and I were hanging out at recently and he busted out with some chocolate covered strawberries.

I'm sitting at the edge of a recliner, waiting for him to come back from the fridge and he drops down on one knee in front of me.

Ya'll, things are going great and I still get all weak-kneed and butterfly stomachy when I think about him or when I talk to him (and since it's long distance ya'll, I treasure those talks).

I mean, I literally feel 16 here!

So when he dropped down on one knee* like that I panicked and got that whole "deer in headlights" look and went pale.

I actually slid off the recliner and ended up sitting next to him on the floor.

He was all, "Are you okay?"

Me, "Yeah, yeah, don't worry about me . . . "

DUDES IN THE READING AUDIENCE... if you're dating a woman, NEVER EVER drop down on one knee in front of her.

Even if it's to tie your shoes.

*By the way, he dropped down on one knee to feed me the strawberries. Which, was incredibly sweet, but STILL!

I Don't Want No Scrubs . . .

You know how I was saying I never get hit on.

Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration.

I do get hit on quite frequently by Black men. Which, you know would be all fine and dandy if it was like TAYE DIGGS.

Oh, but now sweetie, I get hit on the Germain Dupree's of this world.

The ones that are on the corner going, "Say, say baby giiirrrl . . ."

Take for instance my latest suitor at Stupid-Mart.

I walked in to pick up a few items and I was in a pretty good mood. I was finally back in town, which meant sleeping in my own bed, and in a few days S would be up for the weekend.

I walk in and there's your Stupid-Mart employee restocking the lettuce. I walk in and grab some apples when he leans over and says to me, "Good evening! How are you tonight?"

Me, smiling "Great, thank you!"

Doo, doo, doo I'm wandering around and realize I need lettuce and he's still standing in front of it. So, I walk up behind him and start looking at expiration dates and stuff.

He goes, "Oh, oh, I'm sorry I'm in you're way . . . let me move so you can see ALL the lettuce."

Me, smirking uncomfortably, waving my little bag of lettuce, "Oh no, it's okay. I found what I was looking for."

I go to walk away and he says, "Say, you come here often?"

BWAH, ha, ha, ha, ha.

Aside from being the sorriest line I've ever heard, I'm at a grocery store!!!

Yeah, I go there often. You know, to BUY GROCERIES!

Me, "Not lately, no."

I push off and wander over to tomatoes. Where I start picking up little plastic packs of grape tomatoes and he leans into my aisle again and says, "What's wrong with those?"

I, now a bit annoyed that this weird ass won't leave me alone, pick up a pack of tomatoes and loudly ask, "What's wrong with them?!? They look fine on top but when you flip the packs over they're rotten! LOOK!"

And, one by one, I pick up each pack and show him the nasty white goo oozing out of the tomatoes.

Him, "Aw man, I'm sorry. Say, I've got some in the back if you want to come with me and pick one out."

Riiiiight!

. . . A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me . . .

Cutest Baby Evah!

Look at those big blue eyes!

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock - BULLSHIT!

The other day I was driving home from work and it hit me: I'm 29.

Clearly, I've known this since March 18, 2004, but it didn't really click.

See, the thing is, my mom had my brother when she was 29.

She was always my "marker."

When I got married at 20 I said to myself, "Mom had Curl at 29: I've got loads of time."

Only, here I am at 29 with no husband and no intentions of remarrying.

So, what now?

I know a lot of women who proudly say, "I've known my whole life the one thing I want most is to be married and have children," I can honestly say that was never me.

I was dating a "younger" guy when I was 18 (he was 16) and his sister (14) asked me how I'd planned out my future. I went on about finishing school, working and becoming successful.

And she says, "Okay, but what about getting married, having kids . . . " I just looked at her a bit stunned and said, "Hmm, I guess I just figure that will fall into place when the time is right."

And then, two years later I was married.

I know that at first I didn't want kids. I wanted time with my husband, time to finish school and time to start a career.

But then, I started to realize that I wanted kids, just not with J.

So, I started snarling at other people's children. Really putting on a good act because everyone thought I hated kids when the truth is I love kids.

I used to work as a party hostess for little kids' birthdays, I volunteered at the Children's Museum, I even volunteered as a Teacher's Aide for a Kindergarten teacher, and I loved every minute of it.

On some level, I must have known that things weren't right between J and I. I think we all have that nagging little voice that pipes up when things aren't right, but you choose not to listen to it because then you might have to do something about it.

A few months ago I visited with an old friend and I got to hold her 7-month-old and there was a part of me that wanted to cry.

Mind you, this is one of the most beautiful babies I've ever seen: red hair, milky white skin, rosy cheeks and huge (I mean HUGE, like the Campbell's Soup kids HUGE, but not as creepy) blue eyes.

Right at the second when she was handed over to me, she looked up at me and just broke out into this huge toothless grin: the steel restraints I'd put on my ovaries finally gave way, and for the first time in years I thought:

"Fuck! I want children."

I don't think it was my biological clock ticking.

I don't think it's because I'm one year away from 30.

I think it's that I'm finally allowing myself to admit it's okay to want children.

But, I'm not going to rush things.

When I meet the right man: the one that makes me feel safe, cared for and protected, I'll know.

I'll know it when I realize I want my future children to have his eyes or his dimples.

Until then, I'm not sweating it.

Anyway, mom was 34 when she had me.

Before the Haircut

After

The Raspberry - Understood in Any Language

My Super-Cute New Haircut or The Look On My Face After working with "Adults" All Day?

Is that Allen Funt?

I don't get hit on very often.

It just doesn't happen with any great frequency, so imagine my surprise when it actually does.

Recently, I was on a business trip and had just wrapped up a particulary hellish day. Now, any of you who travel for work are familiar with the blessed corporate expense account.

So, I'd been fantasizing about good food, wine and cheesecake and I made a date with myself to go to The Cheesecake Factory. I realize it's not the most inspired choice, but mmmmmmmmmmmmm cheesecake. Besides, I wasn't paying for it so why the hell not.

I walk in, and just as I'm being walked to my table I started thinking about a conversation I'd recently had with J.

I'd recently convinced him to buy a pink button down. He was a little nervous because, as you know, it takes a real man to wear pink.

So, he starts punking out on me saying, "Trixie, I'm gay and all, but none of the guys at work now."

Me, "Wearing pink doesn't mean you're gay. Besides, lots of men are wearing pink. It's the new black!"

Him, "Okay, but what am I supposed to do when they give me a hard time about wearing pink?"

Me, "Just tell them pink is the new black"

Then he gave me that, "Ohhhhhh. OKAY - that'll make it better," sarcastic face of his and we both started laughing.

So, I walked into the restaurant smiling and started glancing at the menu.

When, out of nowhere this good looking gentleman comes over to my table and says, "I was sitting at the bar and I saw you come in. I'm up here on business and I was wondering if you knew of any places that might be cool to hang out?"

Me, smiling and putting on my Chamber of Commerce voice, "Oh, there's lots of things to do in Birmingham. You should check out Five Points, that's a cool little area. And, if you've got time during the day the State Park has some nice hikes. Or, you know, there's always shopping (and I gestured out the window at the sprawling mall). I'm sorry, I'm up here on business, too, andI don't really know much of Birmingham either."

Him, "Well, I don't get much time during the day since I'm at a conference. I'm on business, too, I'm staying at the Marriott nearby."

Now, right about here was when I realized he was waiting for me to say, "Oh, I'm staying at The ______________," but I've seen too many episodes of A&E's Crime Files to know this is when shit starts to go awry.

So, I said, "I'm sure that's a nice hotel and I'll be the people at the front desk could give you tons of information on local attractions."

Then he says, "I'm only here for one more night anyway. Are you going to be back up this way for dinner tomorrow night."

Me, "I'm not really sure just yet what I'm doing for dinner."

Him, "Because, I was thinking maybe we could get together for dinner."

Me, inside my head, "Wah!!!!! ARE YOU HITTING ON ME!"

I was thisclose to leaning out of the booth to find a camera crew moving in my direction to tell me that I was on Candid Camera.

Instead, I played it cool, "Oh no, I'm busy tomorrow night. Yes, yes, I'm very busy. Very busy. I'll probably have dinner with one of the instructors even. Nope, nope, sorry, busy."

Him, "Oh."

Then I did that goofy thing that girls do: shrugged my shoulders, crinkled my nose, smiled and said, "Sorry."

After he'd walked away I sat there with a smirk on my face thinking, "Holy shit! I was just hit on! Someone hit on ME!"

And, truth be told, he wasn't bad looking.

I retold my brother this story and he asked me, "Why didn't you tell him, 'I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend."

You know, I'd thought about it, it was right there at the tip of my tongue when I realized this guy was hitting on me and then I realized his response might have been, "Hey, I'm just talking about dinner."

You see, I read Cosmo and watch tv so I know these things.

Later on, I asked myself, "If I wasn't dating S, would I have said yes?"

Fuck no, I watch CSI, Crime Stories, Forensic Files, The Deliberate Stranger:

I know what happens to the young girl who accepts an invitation from a good looking stranger!

Dude, wherever you are out there, it's not like I'm saying I thought you were a serial killer or anything, but I'm already taken.

Taken, yes, very, very taken.

Drunkity, Drunk, Drunk, Drunk

Last weekend I was in New Orleans.

Last Saturday I was in the Quarter.

J was in town and I met up with him so that we could hang out.

Quite honestly, I think a large part of why we got together was because he needed to escape his immediate family for a few hours.

Sure, we missed each other (it's probably been years since we didn't see each other on a semi-daily basis), but I've spent time with his nieces so believe you me - he was needing a good excuse to get away.

So, we were kicking back, checking out the cute boys and knocking back drinks (you know, the usual things ex-husbands and wives do together) when I spotted a sign for Handgrenades.

You see, this is the honest truth, I'd never had a Handgrenade and what kind of New Orleanian would I be without ever having had one.

Something about the lime green half-yard with the handgrenade base and the toy handgrenade floating on top just seemed so fun.

So, I looked at J and said, "How 'bout it?" He smirked and said, "If we get one of those we'll get drunk."

I looked at him and said, "Uhm, hmm: and?"

He said, "It's only 2 in the afternoon!"

I said, "So, it's perfectly acceptable."

We sidled up to the "walk-through" window (where I'm certain I saw a sign that said, "You must be at least this tall to buy drinks here.") and each ordered one.

I don't really remember finishing my drink, but I do remember finishing J's.

We'd stumbed into a t-shirt store and J found a neon orange New Orleans Correctional Facility T that he just had to have.

But, the place was lacking dressing rooms and I said, "Just take your shirt off right here and try it on."

Well, maybe I slurred that just a little.

Now people, J doesn't need very much encouragement to take off his shirt in public. So, just like that, there he was: shirtless.

And God help me, it was a case of you don't know what you got 'til it's gone, because dude is smokin'! (Yeah, it may have been the copious amounts of liquor I had just imbibed, but he did look pretty good.)

The shirt didn't fit, but at least he got to take off his shirt in a public place.

After this we wandered over to some benches in front of The Market Cafe.

I don't remember very much of our conversation, but I think it was pretty deep.

Then Curl, my brother, called me because we were going to meet him and S to see Kinsey at Canal Place.

And the second my brother heard my voice he sneered, "You're drunk!"

I quickly passed the phone to J.

Shortly after hanging up with Curl, I called S. S was also acutely aware that sobriety had left the building.

If I recall correctly, his response was an amused, "You sound like you're having a good time."

In my haze, we arranged for him to meet us for the movie as well.

Hours later (okay, maybe like 30 minutes), I called him and said, "Where are you?"

To which he responded, "Can you see me yet?"

I looked up and he was on his cell walking towards me with a huge grin on his face.

I faught the urge to run to him all cheesy-movie-like and grinned back.

Poor guy, I think I sort of jumped on him and started macking on him right there, in front of my ex.

Then the rest is all a blur.

There was a 12 oz draft involved and then a few martinis.

I seem to remember a Venti Soy Pumpkin Spice Latte and me giggling as I walked into the already darkened theater.

I heard my brother hiss, "You're drunk."

And then, I lost it.

Perhaps it was the frightening sight of Peter Saarsgard's flacid penis, or maybe it was the pencil drawings of an aroused vagina, all I know is before I got there, Canal Place had impeccably clean bathrooms.

That's right folks, I threw up.

Tossed my cookies, ralphed, vomitted, puked, worshipped the porcelain god: whatever you want to call it, there was your's truly.

This was round one.

I managed to puke one more time before the movie ended (I think it may have been shortly after witnessing the gentleman who could become erect and climax in a ten second span, and really, wouldn't that make any woman sick?)

That was round two.

With J on one side and S on the other, we made it back to the car without any further incidents.

Somehow, I thought I was out of the woods, but it is clear to me now that God is evil.

I was merely experiencing an intermission.

S , also quite experienced in the art of copious imbibing, took this brief break to take care of his girl.

He popped into a corner drugstore and purchased a bottle of aspirin and a Sprite.

He offered to get water, but I insisted on Sprite.

And really, what wise man argues with his drunken girlfriend.

I thought I was okay. I really did, and then: round three.

On the way home, J and I were following S in my car (J was driving!) and I looked at J and said, "Pull over. PULL OVER NOW!" Mere seconds after he stopped the car, I flung the door open and lost all of the Sprite and the two aspirin I had just taken.

(Thanks J for rubbing my back and not making fun of me.)

In the process of throwing up, the entire bottle of aspirin that S had just bought managed to fall out of the car and straight smack into my river of vomit.

I thought to myself, "Dammit!"

So, I leaned out, gingerly picked up the bottle and shook it clean.

J asked, "You're not actually going to keep those are you?"

I looked at him and said, "Dude, he bought these in the Quarter, do you KNOW what they cost?"

Ya'll we were on the way to my house to drop off my car and myself and for some asinine reason I convinced the boys to take me with them to drop off J.

DUDES!!!!

WHY DO YOU LISTEN TO ME!!!!

I think, I think, I went another five rounds with this whole "STOP THE CAR" nonsense and most of those were with S driving.

And ya'll, he was great. What with the rubbing my back as I leaned over to vomit and holding my hair back.

HE HELD MY HAIR BACK - he totally loves me!

In all, I threw up eight rounds and I learned a few things:

Handgrenades are evil.

I'm just as much of a lightweight as I was at 19 (the last time I got this sick).

My reflexes are just as good as they were when I was 19 (not a speck of vomit hit me or my car).

S is an amazing, patient boyfriend.

J is an amazing, patient friend.

Pumpkin Spice Latte is just as tasty the second time around.

Change

I thrive on change.

I think that's part of the reason I start job hunting after a year at any position.

If you read my posts, you'll know that I was a military wife. That was great for me because every three years you are guaranteed change.

A few weeks ago my roommate came home and told me we were getting kicked out.

You see, our landlord is a judge who ran for the State Supreme Court and lost. He has friends all throughout the state and a lady friend of his lost her race in her county. She is now jobless and must move to the city I am in to gain employment.

Given that she is a friend of the landlord's, the landlord feels that she needs our place more than we do.

So, we have to move.

I was pretty pissed when I found out, but then I realized that wherever we go it will feel like "our" place.

My roommate have a platonic relationship (as he is a gay male and I am not) so it's not "our" place in the romantic sense.

When I moved in with him I had decided to leave my spouse. Fortunately for me, my roomie needed help making rent so we each found a situation that suited our needs.

But, I have always felt that I moved into "his" space.

So, I like the idea of moving into a neutral space that is neither his nor mine.

It's ours.

Anyway, I learned about the move about a month ago and my roomie still hadn't found a place. So, last night I spent about five hours riding around the city and calling up the numbers on for rent signs.

And, I finally found a place.

I got home and told my roomie, "I have something to tell you and I hope you don't get mad. I found a place. I can afford it on my own, but if you still want to live together I'd like to."

He was a bit stunned and I can't say that I blame him. But, he knows I've been looking and there isn't much out there so he's in.

This is the way I do things from time to time.

I make a decision, make it happen and then go from there.

Like I said, I like change and I'm not afraid to make it happen.

Hold Up, Wait a Minute . . .

I got this email the other day from an old friend of mine. See, he reads the blog and he was castigating me for being down on myself lately.

I got kind of annoyed. Mainly because that's just the nature of a blog I think. I mean, some days you're down.

Sometimes those days last for a while.

Get over it!

Right now I'm up.

I am currently typing from the comfort of my bed.

Yes folks, this here baby is now wireless.

Which, seems sort of dangerous really.

I'm also up because my laptop is not the only thing occupying my bed these days.

S is here.

He is currently working away on my roomate's computer as it's had a lot of issues lately.

So, life is good.

Really good when you consider that right at this very second his head is on my shoulder.

So, why the hell am I still typing!

Night folks!

Miss America, Soy Yo (I Am Miss America)

"I am not pretty."

Those are the words I used to say to my reflection in my mother's vanity. I would sit with my chin on my hand and stare at my face from all angles. I'd look at my profile and push the tip of my nose up with my finger. "If only I could have a Morgan Fairchild nose," I would moan in my head.

I remember the first time I saw Whoopi Goldberg's standup act on HBO.

I don't remember it because it was funny (although I'm sure it was), but I remember it because of this one particular bit that she does.

She affects the tone of a little girl while placing a long-sleeved yellow shirt on over her dreadlocks. She flings the long sleeves and tail over her shoulder and tells the audience to look at her beautiful "long blonde hair."

I was stunned into silence.

I thought I was the only one that did that.

My "long blonde hair" was a golden bath towel wrapped Turban style around my 10-year-old head. I’d stand in front of our bathroom mirror and fling that towel around with all the vivacity of the most talented shampoo model.

Let me make one thing clear: I don't blame my childhood insecurities on Barbie.

I blame them on Christie Brinkley.

She was all the rave when I was growing up.

Her "All American" looks stared back at me from the racks at the grocery store. I coveted her naturally rosy cheeks and that shining cap of golden hair that tumbled over her shoulders.

I was not that lucky.

I am of Honduran descent so there is absolutely no escaping my dark looks.

As hard as I tried to fight them, they were the first things that people saw when they looked at me.

My closest childhood friend had blond hair and blue eyes. We did everything together and eventually came to think of each other as sisters. This delusion was swiftly shattered when I overheard her mother refer to us as Salt and Pepper. I, of course, was Pepper.

In fact, most of my friends were blonde-haired, blue-eyed.

I didn't purposely surround myself with Caucasian friends.

It just worked out that way.

It wasn't until I got to high school that I had Hispanic friends, and they were just as messed up as I was. Our parents spoke to us in Spanish and we responded to them in English, and we all struggled in the quest to find the right foundation that didn't make us look orange or ghostly. Some of them told me that I was lucky and had a name like Melissa, not Marietta or Margarita.

I was always secretly grateful that my parents had given me such an Anglo sounding name.

But, that was high school.

I'll never forget the first time a man said to me, "Your eyes are so dark and mysterious." It made me take another look at my reflection.

I learned to make peace with my dark, curly hair. My first day as a curly headed woman, someone asked where I got my fabulous perm, I smiled shyly and said, "Oh, my hair is naturally curly." I still engage in the occasional fight to iron out those curls, but I’ve learned to like my "wild woman" look.

I've even come to accept the fact that Kate Moss and I will never have the same figure.

Hispanic women, no matter how thin, always have hips. I can look at the women in my family, big and small, and see that genetics are something I can only fight to a certain point. So, now when I look at my body I don't just see "big" hips, I see the soft curves that made Marilyn Monroe such a sexy woman.

I’ve also realized that as much as I tried to deny my background, my parents never let me forget where I came from. They shipped me off to Honduras every summer where only one of my cousins spoke English. I never lost the ability to speak "their" language, and for that I am eternally grateful.

So, you know what, I'm not white, but I'm as American as the next person; I get misty when I hear the Star Spangled Banner and the United States is what I refer to when I say home.

I've been accused of not being "Hispanic enough," but what does that mean?

Does that mean that I should have an accent when I speak or that I should look like Hollywood's interpretation of a Hispanic woman.

You know the one, the one with the really bad dye job wearing tight jeans and red high heels and ruffled ankle socks.

Maybe I'm not Hispanic enough, and I know I'm not white. just don't define me by my race because that was always my biggest mistake.

I know what I am: Miss America, soy yo.

Revenge of the Nerds

Because Janis Ian is a genius who still gives the ugly duckling in me hope!

AT SEVENTEEN (Janis Ian)

I LEARNED THE TRUTH AT SEVENTEEN
THAT LOVE WAS MEANT FOR BEAUTY QUEENS
AND HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS WITH CLEAR SKINNED SMILES
WHO MARRIED YOUNG AND THEN RETIRED
THE VALENTINES I NEVER KNEW
THE FRIDAY NIGHT CHARADES OF YOUTH
WERE SPENT ON ONE MORE BEAUTIFUL

AT SEVENTEEN I LEARNED THE TRUTH
AND THOSE OF US WITH RAVAGED FACES
LACKING IN THE SOCIAL GRACES
DESPERATELY REMAINED AT HOME
INVENTING LOVERS ON THE PHONE
WHO CALLED TO SAY - COME DANCE WITH ME
AND MURMURED VAGUE OBSCENITIES

IT ISN'T ALL IT SEEMS AT SEVENTEEN

A BROWN EYED GIRL IN HAND ME DOWNS
WHOSE NAME I NEVER COULD PRONOUNCE
SAID - PITY PLEASE THE ONES WHO SERVE
THEY ONLY GET WHAT THEY DESERVE
THE RICH RELATIONED HOMETOWN QUEEN
MARRIES INTO WHAT SHE NEEDS
WITH A GUARANTEE OF COMPANY
AND HAVEN FOR THE ELDERLY

SO REMEMBER THOSE WHO WIN THE GAME
LOSE THE LOVE THEY SOUGHT TO GAIN
IN DEBENTURES OF QUALITY AND DUBIOUS INTEGRITY
THEIR SMALL-TOWN EYES WILL GAPE AT YOU
IN DULL SURPRISE WHEN PAYMENT DUE
EXCEEDS ACCOUNTS RECEIVED AT SEVENTEEN

(INSTRUMENTAL)

TO THOSE OF US WHO KNEW THE PAIN
OF VALENTINES THAT NEVER CAME
AND THOSE WHOSE NAMES WERE NEVER CALLED
WHEN CHOOSING SIDES FOR BASKETBALL
IT WAS LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY
THE WORLD WAS YOUNGER THAN TODAY
WHEN DREAMS WERE ALL THEY GAVE FOR FREE
TO UGLY DUCKLING GIRLS LIKE ME

WE ALL PLAY THE GAME, AND WHEN WE DARE
WE CHEAT OURSELVES AT SOLITAIRE
INVENTING LOVERS ON THE PHONE
REPENTING OTHER LIVES UNKNOWN
THAT CALL AND SAY - COME ON, DANCE WITH ME
AND MURMUR VAGUE OBSCENITIES
AT UGLY GIRLS LIKE ME, AT SEVENTEEN

Dirrrrrrrrrrrrrrty

It was quiet this morning.

My hand moving in steady rhythm.

Hips undulating beneath it.

Until my breath came in short, quick gasps.

And then, bliss.

The only thing missing was you.