A firey orange glow now envelopes this land that was beautiful just yesterday. We had much time and took precautions to fortify the city in preparation for their attack, yet we did not anticipate a siege of this kind.
They came in the middle of the night, hidden, waiting for the opportune moment when their strike would hurt us the most. We weren't ready. And now our kingdom is being consumed by the flames of a terrible war.
We are far outnumbered, and the carnage is great. Even with some of the greatest warriors on our side, I fear we will lose this battle. Worse, I fear it will be years until the damage is fully done and we can start to rebuild what will hopefully be left of our kingdom.
Paris left me to fight today. He and his brother are no match for Menelaus, though. His brute strength and furious rage will overcome their experience and skill. I can't bear the thought of what is going to happen. And I can't go back to my husband if he kills the man I love. I am leaving the city tonight with my sister-in-law and a handful of other women and children.
This post is part of Kevin Apgar's Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign (GRBBMC) for the upcoming release of the very talented Paul Davidson's new book, The Lost Blogs. If you want to read the possible blogs of hundreds of other historical figures (though much better-written, I'm sure), click here to pre-order your copy of Paul's book. At the end of this five-day contest/exercise, the characters of all participating bloggers will be revealed. If you wish, you can leave your guesses in the comments.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Lost Blogs: Day Three
Preparing for bed tonight, as I was brushing my hair, I nearly lost my breath when I saw the reflection in the mirror. Not of myself, despite the vanity that some may say I possess. But rather, of the horizon. I turned and looked out my window at the sea that stretched out before me as far as I could see. The view was surprisingly and alarmingly tranquil.
Hundreds of ships, possibly a thousand, sails to the calm, quiet night winds, making their way to our shores. They were distant and slow-approaching, but I knew it wouldn't be long before they arrived. And my husband was certain to be on the lead ship.
My love lay sleeping -- peaceful, unaware of tomorrow's inevitable conflict. I couldn't bring myself to wake him with this news. I wanted only to enjoy one more moment of bliss with him before I was forcibly returned to the life I so willingly fled. I wanted to be free for just one more night.
So I drew the curtains closed and pushed the image out of my mind of what was to come. And I lay down beside my love, one last time.
This post is part of Kevin Apgar's Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign (GRBBMC) for the upcoming release of the very talented Paul Davidson's new book, The Lost Blogs. If you want to read the possible blogs of hundreds of other historical figures (though much better-written, I'm sure), click here to pre-order your copy of Paul's book. At the end of this five-day contest/exercise, the characters of all participating bloggers will be revealed. If you wish, you can leave your guesses in the comments.
Hundreds of ships, possibly a thousand, sails to the calm, quiet night winds, making their way to our shores. They were distant and slow-approaching, but I knew it wouldn't be long before they arrived. And my husband was certain to be on the lead ship.
My love lay sleeping -- peaceful, unaware of tomorrow's inevitable conflict. I couldn't bring myself to wake him with this news. I wanted only to enjoy one more moment of bliss with him before I was forcibly returned to the life I so willingly fled. I wanted to be free for just one more night.
So I drew the curtains closed and pushed the image out of my mind of what was to come. And I lay down beside my love, one last time.
This post is part of Kevin Apgar's Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign (GRBBMC) for the upcoming release of the very talented Paul Davidson's new book, The Lost Blogs. If you want to read the possible blogs of hundreds of other historical figures (though much better-written, I'm sure), click here to pre-order your copy of Paul's book. At the end of this five-day contest/exercise, the characters of all participating bloggers will be revealed. If you wish, you can leave your guesses in the comments.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Lost Blogs: Day Two
I awoke today, numb to the happiness I have known these last few months here, and instead filled with a dark and looming sense of impending doom. I am afraid -- not for my own life, for that is of no concern to me. But for the life of my love. And his family, who have been so kind to me ever since I arrived, unannounced. His father could just as easily have ordered my return, to avoid all this nonsense. His brothers could have thought me a cold, heartless, unfaithful wretch. But instead they chose to welcome me, to embrace and accept me and my choices.
How I dream of a day when we could be free! Free to start over together and leave this all behind. And I would willingly leave it all -- it was never about the money or the power for me. With my new love I feel more beautiful than any man has ever made me feel.
My husband told me I was beautiful, but he never loved me like this. Like all the others, he lusted after me. But he was interested in nothing more than the crown that would be his when my father passed on. The crown that should have been my departed, beloved twin brother's. No, this was never love. Rather, he has been plotting with his powerful brother and forming alliances with other kings and planning our demise. And as he draws nearer, my heart aches, for I know that my dream of a new life will never come true. I know the fate that will befall us. And I am powerless to stop it -- it is our destiny.
Still, I can't help but feel guilty. For although I deserve this horrible fate, I have brought disaster with me to this once peaceful kingdom. I will be the reason for the innocent lives that will surely be lost if this battle occurs. Perhaps I can convince my husband when he arrives to simply take me back and leave the people unharmed. I don't think he could look at me and kill me, anyway. But I must first convince myself that returning to my sad existence with him would be preferable to death.
How I dream of a day when we could be free! Free to start over together and leave this all behind. And I would willingly leave it all -- it was never about the money or the power for me. With my new love I feel more beautiful than any man has ever made me feel.
My husband told me I was beautiful, but he never loved me like this. Like all the others, he lusted after me. But he was interested in nothing more than the crown that would be his when my father passed on. The crown that should have been my departed, beloved twin brother's. No, this was never love. Rather, he has been plotting with his powerful brother and forming alliances with other kings and planning our demise. And as he draws nearer, my heart aches, for I know that my dream of a new life will never come true. I know the fate that will befall us. And I am powerless to stop it -- it is our destiny.
Still, I can't help but feel guilty. For although I deserve this horrible fate, I have brought disaster with me to this once peaceful kingdom. I will be the reason for the innocent lives that will surely be lost if this battle occurs. Perhaps I can convince my husband when he arrives to simply take me back and leave the people unharmed. I don't think he could look at me and kill me, anyway. But I must first convince myself that returning to my sad existence with him would be preferable to death.
This post is part of Kevin Apgar's Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign (GRBBMC) for the upcoming release of the very talented Paul Davidson's new book, The Lost Blogs. If you want to read the possible blogs of hundreds of other historical figures (though much better-written, I'm sure), click here to pre-order your copy of Paul's book. At the end of this five-day contest/exercise, the characters of all participating bloggers will be revealed. If you wish, you can leave your guesses in the comments.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Lost Blogs: Day One
Call it boredom. Call it fate. Call me aldulterous. But just don't judge me.
You have no idea how taxing it is, pretending to love a man your father chose for you to marry. A man who is not kind, not intelligent, not funny, not handsome, not charming. A man who to me, has no attractive qualities. Of the thousands of suitors that hoped to inherit my mortal father's throne by marrying me, many so much more handsome and charming than my husband, I was not allowed any say in the matter. This life that I would not have chosen, this forced pretense -- it eats away at me every day.
Of course I feel badly about leaving him. And I feel worse about abandoning our daughter. But for the first time, I felt something -- anything. For the first time I experienced an emotion that I never imagined I could feel in this life. It was as though the gods intervened when we met and gave me a taste of the life I could have had. And now that my senses have come alive, he is all I want. I want to feel, to taste, to touch, to experience love, to be happy.
But I fear that my husband will not allow us much time together. Surely when he returns to find me gone, he will come after us with all the force afforded to a man in his position. The very power that, by my father's decree, made me his wife.
This post is part of Kevin Apgar's Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign (GRBBMC) for the upcoming release of the very talented Paul Davidson's new book, The Lost Blogs. If you want to read the possible blogs of hundreds of other historical figures (though much better-written, I'm sure), click here to pre-order your copy of Paul's book. At the end of this five-day contest/exercise, the characters of all participating bloggers will be revealed. If you wish, you can leave your guesses in the comments.
You have no idea how taxing it is, pretending to love a man your father chose for you to marry. A man who is not kind, not intelligent, not funny, not handsome, not charming. A man who to me, has no attractive qualities. Of the thousands of suitors that hoped to inherit my mortal father's throne by marrying me, many so much more handsome and charming than my husband, I was not allowed any say in the matter. This life that I would not have chosen, this forced pretense -- it eats away at me every day.
Of course I feel badly about leaving him. And I feel worse about abandoning our daughter. But for the first time, I felt something -- anything. For the first time I experienced an emotion that I never imagined I could feel in this life. It was as though the gods intervened when we met and gave me a taste of the life I could have had. And now that my senses have come alive, he is all I want. I want to feel, to taste, to touch, to experience love, to be happy.
But I fear that my husband will not allow us much time together. Surely when he returns to find me gone, he will come after us with all the force afforded to a man in his position. The very power that, by my father's decree, made me his wife.
This post is part of Kevin Apgar's Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign (GRBBMC) for the upcoming release of the very talented Paul Davidson's new book, The Lost Blogs. If you want to read the possible blogs of hundreds of other historical figures (though much better-written, I'm sure), click here to pre-order your copy of Paul's book. At the end of this five-day contest/exercise, the characters of all participating bloggers will be revealed. If you wish, you can leave your guesses in the comments.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Bridesman?
What would be the proper name for a male bridesmaid? It's something that I've recently been seeing with increasing regularity at weddings -- men in the bridal party along with the traditional female bridesmaids. Dave was in a friend's wedding over the weekend. On the bride's side. He wasn't on the groom's side, so you wouldn't call him a groomsman. So I've decided that he is a bridesman. Or perhaps a manmaid. ;-) Your thoughts?
In any case, he looked very handsome. And I have to give him credit for being secure enough in his manhood to carry a bouquet! At least he got to wear a tux, instead of a bridesmaid dress!
The wedding was in Palm Springs at a swanky resort, and the weather was perfect. I'm definitely a fan of the destination wedding. It's a nice excuse for a weekend getaway for the guests, and for the couple it helps shrink the guest list to a more reasonable (and affordable) size.
We're thinking a vineyard might be a romantic setting for our own nuptials. But I promise, that's all the planning we've done for now.
In any case, he looked very handsome. And I have to give him credit for being secure enough in his manhood to carry a bouquet! At least he got to wear a tux, instead of a bridesmaid dress!
The wedding was in Palm Springs at a swanky resort, and the weather was perfect. I'm definitely a fan of the destination wedding. It's a nice excuse for a weekend getaway for the guests, and for the couple it helps shrink the guest list to a more reasonable (and affordable) size.
We're thinking a vineyard might be a romantic setting for our own nuptials. But I promise, that's all the planning we've done for now.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Playing House
My boyfriend's parents treated us to a weekend of skiing and relaxation two weeks ago at their Sunriver, OR vacation house. We ate great food (my boyfriend is a fantastic cook!) and drank good wine. We stayed up late, slept in, took naps. We skiied on freshly fallen, perfectly powdery snow. We played games. We soaked in the hot tub after a little coaxing on his part (I was not about to walk outside in a bikini, where it was snowing and zero degrees!). It was peaceful and lovely, and so much fun to play house with him!
Monday, March 20, 2006
Red is NOT the New Blue
Yesterday was a pretty big day -- we went shopping. For my engagement ring! And although I don’t get the final word on the ring that will be purchased, and although I don’t get to know when or where or how he is going to ask that very important question, I am so excited when I think of spending my life with this man that I can hardly wait!
Neither one of us has been engaged or married before, so this was a completely new experience for us. And it was definitely a little overwhelming. But still, so much fun!
We visited all the jewelers at a local upscale shopping venue. We received numerous lessons on the four “Cs” of diamonds – color, clarity, cut, carat. We tried on hundreds of rings to find the shape and size and design that looks best on my dainty little hand. In the end, we kept coming back to one particular style that we both loved.
Having a pretty good idea of what we wanted at this point, we decided to make our final stop at Cartier to take a peek at their selection. Now, I realize that Cartier is a high-end store, but I thought it was in roughly the same category as Tiffany & Co., where I shop fairly regularly. So I expected that there would be at least a few things there in our price range.
Our sales representative was very helpful. We tried on nearly every ring they had on display. She detailed the history of Cartier and provided some general information on their financing plans (the very fact that they have financing plans should have tipped me off to the horror that my eyes would soon behold!). She explained how you pay a little more for the Cartier name and the red box, but that the pieces hold their value better because of that Cartier inscription.
Then I tried the ring. The very same style we fell in love with hours before at another jeweler. The one that will likely be worn on my hand for the next 50+ years. (Unless he completely throws me for a loop and chooses something else.) It was exquisite. A 2-carat, nearly flawless, round brilliant diamond perfectly set on a platinum and pave-set diamond band. With a matching eternity wedding band. I can’t adequately describe how beautiful it looks on my hand. When I took it off my finger, I caught a glimpse of the price. And that’s when I almost fell over.
$66,000.
Surely, it was a misprint. Maybe the comma was in the wrong place. Or maybe that wasn’t in U.S. Dollars. Because how could a ring possibly cost as much as a luxury car? Especially when the center stone is only 2 carats! I mean, the exact same ring was just under $10,000 in every other store!
Not wanting to seem like I didn’t belong there, I tried to regain my breath and finish our conversation. When we left, I asked my love if he happened to see the price tag. He told me he, too, had almost had a heart attack.
Apparently, we’re just not Cartier kind of people.
Neither one of us has been engaged or married before, so this was a completely new experience for us. And it was definitely a little overwhelming. But still, so much fun!
We visited all the jewelers at a local upscale shopping venue. We received numerous lessons on the four “Cs” of diamonds – color, clarity, cut, carat. We tried on hundreds of rings to find the shape and size and design that looks best on my dainty little hand. In the end, we kept coming back to one particular style that we both loved.
Having a pretty good idea of what we wanted at this point, we decided to make our final stop at Cartier to take a peek at their selection. Now, I realize that Cartier is a high-end store, but I thought it was in roughly the same category as Tiffany & Co., where I shop fairly regularly. So I expected that there would be at least a few things there in our price range.
Our sales representative was very helpful. We tried on nearly every ring they had on display. She detailed the history of Cartier and provided some general information on their financing plans (the very fact that they have financing plans should have tipped me off to the horror that my eyes would soon behold!). She explained how you pay a little more for the Cartier name and the red box, but that the pieces hold their value better because of that Cartier inscription.
Then I tried the ring. The very same style we fell in love with hours before at another jeweler. The one that will likely be worn on my hand for the next 50+ years. (Unless he completely throws me for a loop and chooses something else.) It was exquisite. A 2-carat, nearly flawless, round brilliant diamond perfectly set on a platinum and pave-set diamond band. With a matching eternity wedding band. I can’t adequately describe how beautiful it looks on my hand. When I took it off my finger, I caught a glimpse of the price. And that’s when I almost fell over.
$66,000.
Surely, it was a misprint. Maybe the comma was in the wrong place. Or maybe that wasn’t in U.S. Dollars. Because how could a ring possibly cost as much as a luxury car? Especially when the center stone is only 2 carats! I mean, the exact same ring was just under $10,000 in every other store!
Not wanting to seem like I didn’t belong there, I tried to regain my breath and finish our conversation. When we left, I asked my love if he happened to see the price tag. He told me he, too, had almost had a heart attack.
Apparently, we’re just not Cartier kind of people.
A Special Announcement for All Members of the Nicole Fan Club:
Yes, this is for all one of you...
I am a totally legitimate recording artist now. Sure I've had a CD out for nine months now. But with the software that is available today, anyone with a computer and a microphone can record their own CD. But I have one-upped the thousands of unsigned garage bands out there...
I am on iTunes.
It actually happened a few months ago, but I forgot to tell you. Sorry.
Anyway, if you want to listen to clips or buy the songs, just search for "Wartime Radio Revue." I sang on the "Kiss the Boys Goodbye" record.
Oh. And if you want the entire album, contact me. I can get it for you cheaper than buying all the individual songs on iTunes. Plus, you'll get the CD cover with my name in print. ;-)
Cheers!
I am a totally legitimate recording artist now. Sure I've had a CD out for nine months now. But with the software that is available today, anyone with a computer and a microphone can record their own CD. But I have one-upped the thousands of unsigned garage bands out there...
I am on iTunes.
It actually happened a few months ago, but I forgot to tell you. Sorry.
Anyway, if you want to listen to clips or buy the songs, just search for "Wartime Radio Revue." I sang on the "Kiss the Boys Goodbye" record.
Oh. And if you want the entire album, contact me. I can get it for you cheaper than buying all the individual songs on iTunes. Plus, you'll get the CD cover with my name in print. ;-)
Cheers!
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
My name is Nicole, and I am addicted to SuDoku.
Last time I traveled by plane, I was delighted to find that the airport bookstore had a SuDoku book, pencils, and even a pencil sharpener, all for the airport-bookstore bargain price of around $17.50. By the time I arrived at my final destination, I had completed nearly half of the puzzles in the book, and had a massive headache from staring at the same nine numbers for the last six hours straight.
At work, I take a SuDoku break to solve the sometimes diabolical daily puzzle. I find a sickening pleasure in decreasing the time it takes me to complete it, or in actually being able to complete the most challenging ones. There are many sites that offer puzzles, tips, etc., but I am partial to this one.
But let me ask you this, dear readers...
Can anyone tell me how many possible combinations there are? At what point are we going to run out of new puzzles to solve?
Although I am generally good at most kinds of math, this kind of calculation is not something I can figure out on my own. So I'm counting on my friends in blogland, or possibly my mathematical-genius younger brother, who has recently gone MIA from the blogosphere.
At work, I take a SuDoku break to solve the sometimes diabolical daily puzzle. I find a sickening pleasure in decreasing the time it takes me to complete it, or in actually being able to complete the most challenging ones. There are many sites that offer puzzles, tips, etc., but I am partial to this one.
But let me ask you this, dear readers...
Can anyone tell me how many possible combinations there are? At what point are we going to run out of new puzzles to solve?
Although I am generally good at most kinds of math, this kind of calculation is not something I can figure out on my own. So I'm counting on my friends in blogland, or possibly my mathematical-genius younger brother, who has recently gone MIA from the blogosphere.
Aaahhh...
I had the best weekend. Don't even try to argue with me about it. It was the best.
We arrived Friday night at Sycamore Mineral Springs Resort after sitting in six hours of holiday weekend, rush hour, Southern-Californians-not-knowing-how-to-drive-in-the-rain, traffic. First order of business: a long soak in the private mineral springs spa conveniently located on the deck of our room, accompanied by a delicious bottle of local Pinot Noir. Second order of business: none of your business!
Saturday morning, after sleeping in and another soak in the spa (in the rain, which was surprisingly fun), we were both treated to a relaxing massage. Then, it was off for an afternoon of wine tasting. Several vineyards, the equivalent of a bottle of wine each, and at least a case of purchased wine later, we indulged in an afternoon nap before heading out for dinner.
Dinner was interesting and may deserve its own post, but a long paragraph will have to suffice. Imagine the tackiest place you've ever been. I guarantee you, it will pale in comparison to this place. Upon first arriving and getting a brief glimpse of the lobby, we were a little apprehensive. But we were given a recommendation from a trusted source that the food at the Madonna Inn restaurant was excellent, so we pressed on. While waiting for our table (because who would think a place like this would be so popular as to need a reservation), we had the opportunity to more fully explore the premises. Red velvet jacquard walls with elaborate gold-framed mirrors surrounded us. Even the wall made entirely of mirrors had extra gold-framed mirrors hung on it. Flying golden cherubs were everywhere, most holding candle-lights. In honor of Valentine's Day (at least I hope that's the reason), there were no less than ten large, red-and-white papier mache hearts hanging above us at any given spot. Thousands of white lights produced an ambient glow that I'm sure was intended to be much more subtle. A swing band of nine men in their 60s, who I can only imagine had been playing there since the grand opening in the 1960s, was playing on the stage in front of the dance floor. All chairs and benches were made of thick, pink leather-like material and dark, elaborately-carved wood. The carpet had huge pink and red roses surrounded by greenery. Multi-colored, heavy, ornate goblets were set on pink linens at every table. Our table was apparently special -- it faced a man-made lattice corner, and we sat with our backs to the other restaurant-goers underneath a huge man-made tree. The food was good, as promised, and Juro (our waiter) gave us two free desserts -- I just wish we had thought to bring a camera to memorialize the whole experience. Too bad we didn't get to see any of the rooms while we were there!
Sunday morning, we slept in again and enjoyed another soak in our private spa before heading home via a leisurely, scenic drive down the coast.
Despite the fact that I got sick from slowing down after a couple of weeks of non-stop busy-ness, it was a lovely, romantic weekend that I hope to repeat in the near future.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Important Public Service Announcement: Don't Talk to Strangers
We had never spoken before. He always just sat quietly behind me in history class. But he seemed nice, and relatively harmless, and I thought maybe he didn't have a lot of friends. So I agreed to be his date for the upcoming homecoming dance. After all, I was popular and a cheerleader, so I knew it must have been hard for him to muster up the courage to ask me.
The next day, there was a teddy bear and a note on my car. Sweet, right? I knew I had made the right choice and I was looking forward to getting to know him and introducing him to my friends.
The plan was simple. My parents were hosting dinner at our house for me and my friends and our dates. Everyone was going to arrive at 6. Not being the most punctual girl myself, I didn't mind when he was a few minutes late. But when we were all nearly finished with dinner and he still hadn't shown up, I could feel the steam starting to rise off my skin as my blood began to boil. I did him a favor! How dare he stand me up!
Just as we were all getting ready to leave, he arrived. No apology. No explanation. No corsage. My teenage naivete told me that maybe he just didn't know that you were supposed to bring your date a corsage. So I let it go, and we all headed off to the dance.
Still fuming and hoping the drive would go by quickly so I could regroup with my friends, I wasn't paying much attention to anything he was saying or doing. But my attention was immediately captured when I realized we had just blown through a stop sign and were now about to be pummeled by a large van. With no time to brace myself, we were spinning across a busy intersection, headed toward the condominium complex on the other side.
You know how a crash never sounds like you think it will? How, after the screeching tires you expect to hear shattering glass or crunching metal, but all you hear is a single smack? When we slammed into the parked car, this crash sounded exactly like I thought it would.
Stunned and disoriented, I barely heard the voices outside the car. But regaining coherence, I realized that we had crashed just outside the home of some friends of my parents. They called the police and then called my parents to come get me.
A few minor cuts and bruises (and about an hour) later, I made it to the dance and found my worried friends. But I had some explaining to do, because I arrived sans-date. I couldn't bring him, you see, because when I left the scene, he was handcuffed on the curb, mid-arrest.
Apparently, the car had been reported as stolen. And, as it clearly wasn't his, it was also uninsured. And he didn't even have a license! People, do you realize what this means?!?! I could have been kidnapped or even killed, and no one would have ever been able to find me, because T.H. might not have even been his real name! Come to think of it, I never saw or heard from my multiple-identity criminal friend again after that night. Maybe he wasn't even a student at my school! Just think what could have happened!
And that, children, is why we should never talk to strangers.
The next day, there was a teddy bear and a note on my car. Sweet, right? I knew I had made the right choice and I was looking forward to getting to know him and introducing him to my friends.
The plan was simple. My parents were hosting dinner at our house for me and my friends and our dates. Everyone was going to arrive at 6. Not being the most punctual girl myself, I didn't mind when he was a few minutes late. But when we were all nearly finished with dinner and he still hadn't shown up, I could feel the steam starting to rise off my skin as my blood began to boil. I did him a favor! How dare he stand me up!
Just as we were all getting ready to leave, he arrived. No apology. No explanation. No corsage. My teenage naivete told me that maybe he just didn't know that you were supposed to bring your date a corsage. So I let it go, and we all headed off to the dance.
Still fuming and hoping the drive would go by quickly so I could regroup with my friends, I wasn't paying much attention to anything he was saying or doing. But my attention was immediately captured when I realized we had just blown through a stop sign and were now about to be pummeled by a large van. With no time to brace myself, we were spinning across a busy intersection, headed toward the condominium complex on the other side.
You know how a crash never sounds like you think it will? How, after the screeching tires you expect to hear shattering glass or crunching metal, but all you hear is a single smack? When we slammed into the parked car, this crash sounded exactly like I thought it would.
Stunned and disoriented, I barely heard the voices outside the car. But regaining coherence, I realized that we had crashed just outside the home of some friends of my parents. They called the police and then called my parents to come get me.
A few minor cuts and bruises (and about an hour) later, I made it to the dance and found my worried friends. But I had some explaining to do, because I arrived sans-date. I couldn't bring him, you see, because when I left the scene, he was handcuffed on the curb, mid-arrest.
Apparently, the car had been reported as stolen. And, as it clearly wasn't his, it was also uninsured. And he didn't even have a license! People, do you realize what this means?!?! I could have been kidnapped or even killed, and no one would have ever been able to find me, because T.H. might not have even been his real name! Come to think of it, I never saw or heard from my multiple-identity criminal friend again after that night. Maybe he wasn't even a student at my school! Just think what could have happened!
And that, children, is why we should never talk to strangers.
Friday, January 13, 2006
I Think I'll Stick to Shaving
I normally hate forwarded emails, but every now and then you receive one that is so funny you simply must share it. This is one of those stories, compliments of my friend Kara...
All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal -- the Epilady, scissors, razors, Nair, and now... the wax.
My night began as any other normal weeknight -- come home, fix dinner, play with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet.
So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom. It was one of those "cold wax" kits. No melting a clump of hot wax; you just rub the strips together in your hands, they get warm, you peel them apart, press them to your leg (or wherever else), and you pull the hair right off. No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be? I mean, I'm not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out.
So I pull one of the thin strips out. It's two strips facing each other, stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. ("Cold wax," yeah...right!) I lay the strip across my thigh, hold the skin around it tight, and pull. It works!
OK, so it wasn't the best feeling, but it wasn't too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-Rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.
With my next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure, I apply the wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my vagina and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (yes, it was a long strip). I inhale deeply and brace myself... RRRRIIIPPP!!!!
I'm blind! Blinded from pain! OH MY GOSH!!!
Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip.
CRAP! Another deep breath and RRIIPP!! Everything is swirly and spotted. I think I may pass out... must stay conscious... do I hear crashing drums?
Breathe, breathe...
OK, back to normal.
I want to see my trophy -- a wax covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip. There's no hair on it. Where is the hair? WHERE IS THE WAX?
Slowly, I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair. The hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I am touching wax. CRAP! I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I make the next BIG mistake... remember my foot is still propped up on the toilet? I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down.
DARN! I hear the slamming of a cell door.
Vagina? Sealed shut!
Butt?? Sealed shut!!
I penguin walk around the bathroom, trying to figure out what to do and think to myself, Please don't let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off!
What can I do to melt the wax? Hot water! Hot water melts wax! I'll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits, and the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off, right?!
WRONG!!!
I get in the tub -- the water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment -- I sit. Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together, is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub. In scalding hot water. Which, by the way, doesn't melt cold wax.
So now I'm stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cement-epoxied myself to the porcelain! God bless the man who convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom! I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone.
It's a very good conversation starter - "So, my butt and hoo-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!" There is a slight pause. She doesn't know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, "Are we talking cheeks or whole or hoo-ha?" She's laughing out loud by now... I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box. Yeah, right! I should be the joke of someone else's night.
While we go through various solutions, I resort to scraping the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better then to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water, and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off! By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need post-traumatic stress counseling for this event.
My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace -- the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax. What do I really have to lose at this point? I rub some on, and OH MY GOSH!
The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend.
It's so painful but I really don't care. IT WORKS!! It works!! I get a hearty 'congratulations' from my friend and she hangs up. I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair...
The hair is still there... ALL OF IT!!!
So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I'm numb by now. Nothing hurts. I could have amputated my own leg at this point.
Next week, I'm going to try hair color......
All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal -- the Epilady, scissors, razors, Nair, and now... the wax.
My night began as any other normal weeknight -- come home, fix dinner, play with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet.
So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom. It was one of those "cold wax" kits. No melting a clump of hot wax; you just rub the strips together in your hands, they get warm, you peel them apart, press them to your leg (or wherever else), and you pull the hair right off. No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be? I mean, I'm not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out.
So I pull one of the thin strips out. It's two strips facing each other, stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. ("Cold wax," yeah...right!) I lay the strip across my thigh, hold the skin around it tight, and pull. It works!
OK, so it wasn't the best feeling, but it wasn't too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-Rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.
With my next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure, I apply the wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my vagina and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (yes, it was a long strip). I inhale deeply and brace myself... RRRRIIIPPP!!!!
I'm blind! Blinded from pain! OH MY GOSH!!!
Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip.
CRAP! Another deep breath and RRIIPP!! Everything is swirly and spotted. I think I may pass out... must stay conscious... do I hear crashing drums?
Breathe, breathe...
OK, back to normal.
I want to see my trophy -- a wax covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip. There's no hair on it. Where is the hair? WHERE IS THE WAX?
Slowly, I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair. The hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I am touching wax. CRAP! I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I make the next BIG mistake... remember my foot is still propped up on the toilet? I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down.
DARN! I hear the slamming of a cell door.
Vagina? Sealed shut!
Butt?? Sealed shut!!
I penguin walk around the bathroom, trying to figure out what to do and think to myself, Please don't let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off!
What can I do to melt the wax? Hot water! Hot water melts wax! I'll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits, and the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off, right?!
WRONG!!!
I get in the tub -- the water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment -- I sit. Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together, is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub. In scalding hot water. Which, by the way, doesn't melt cold wax.
So now I'm stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cement-epoxied myself to the porcelain! God bless the man who convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom! I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone.
It's a very good conversation starter - "So, my butt and hoo-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!" There is a slight pause. She doesn't know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, "Are we talking cheeks or whole or hoo-ha?" She's laughing out loud by now... I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box. Yeah, right! I should be the joke of someone else's night.
While we go through various solutions, I resort to scraping the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better then to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water, and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off! By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need post-traumatic stress counseling for this event.
My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace -- the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax. What do I really have to lose at this point? I rub some on, and OH MY GOSH!
The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend.
It's so painful but I really don't care. IT WORKS!! It works!! I get a hearty 'congratulations' from my friend and she hangs up. I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair...
The hair is still there... ALL OF IT!!!
So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I'm numb by now. Nothing hurts. I could have amputated my own leg at this point.
Next week, I'm going to try hair color......
Sink or Swim
I have a freakishly good memory. But there are times when my fond memories, recounts, or even photos of an event are simply not enough – I need videographic evidence. The following is a true story that, had I had the foresight to memorialize on video, would surely have won me the $100,000 grand prize on AFV.
Many years ago, I lived in Utah. I had a friend whose parents owned a ski boat, and we would often take it out on one of the many nearby lakes to go wakeboarding.
This particular summer day, we were meeting some friends at the dock for a day of fun in the sun. My friend suggested that the two of us should launch the boat, so that we’d be ready to go as soon as they arrived. I explained that I had neither backed a truck/trailer, nor driven a boat, into a lake before. But he assured me that it was easy, and promised to walk me through it from the driver’s seat of the boat. So I reluctantly got behind the wheel of his 1981 Bronco.
Things were going well at first. I was heading slowly toward the ramp, and the trailer carrying the boat seemed to be backing straight into the water. This is a snap, I thought. Why was I so intimidated? When my friend told me we were far enough in, I obediently pressed the brakes.
This is where everything fell apart.
Why am I still moving backward? The brake pedal is floored. I must need to apply the parking brake. Nope. Not helping. Let’s try pulling back out. Interesting – still sliding backward, despite my attempt to drive forward. This can’t be good.
My friend and I were yelling back and forth, trying to figure out what to do to gain traction on the mossy ramp, when I was suddenly slammed against the driver-side door. My friend had jumped over the bow of the boat and climbed through the back of the truck into the driver’s seat to try to do it himself. Not surprisingly, he had the same trouble I had.
But then it got much worse.
My feet are wet! Oh my God! There is water gushing in through the bottom of the doors! “We have to bail!” he screamed. So I gathered as many of our things as I could in 1.3 seconds and climbed out the passenger window.
Less than a minute later, I was standing on the roof of my friend’s truck, knee deep in water, in the middle of the lake. (Okay, not really the middle, but pretty far out from shore.) I couldn’t see my friend. Where did he go? I wondered. And then I spotted him.
He was diving in and out the water, trying to grab hold of the front bumper to pull the truck back to shore. Finally, he realized that, while he worked out every day, he was simply not strong enough to swim a truck, a trailer, and a girl to shore without a little help. So he swam back to shore, leaving me standing on the truck. Still knee deep in water. Crying.
After catching his breath, he started to laugh hysterically, when we both realized that the boat (thankfully, it was already detached from the trailer when we started sinking) was floating away. So he ran to the dock and jumped in to swim after it. As he docked the boat and called a tow truck, I decided that I couldn’t just stand there on top of the truck all day. So I swam to shore, fully clothed, through water that was now full of gasoline and oil.
And with perfect timing usually only found in movies, our friends pulled up at that very moment.
Amazingly, after being successfully towed out of the water and drying out for the next 48 hours, the truck still worked! And this little bath even fixed the broken radio! (But, as a trade-off, the headlights were permanently shut off.)
Years later, I was telling this story to someone, and their response was, “I can’t believe that was you! That story is famous around here!” And that’s when I realized that this would have been a winning video clip. But, of course, I didn’t think it was all that funny while I was immersed, so to speak, in the situation.
Many years ago, I lived in Utah. I had a friend whose parents owned a ski boat, and we would often take it out on one of the many nearby lakes to go wakeboarding.
This particular summer day, we were meeting some friends at the dock for a day of fun in the sun. My friend suggested that the two of us should launch the boat, so that we’d be ready to go as soon as they arrived. I explained that I had neither backed a truck/trailer, nor driven a boat, into a lake before. But he assured me that it was easy, and promised to walk me through it from the driver’s seat of the boat. So I reluctantly got behind the wheel of his 1981 Bronco.
Things were going well at first. I was heading slowly toward the ramp, and the trailer carrying the boat seemed to be backing straight into the water. This is a snap, I thought. Why was I so intimidated? When my friend told me we were far enough in, I obediently pressed the brakes.
This is where everything fell apart.
Why am I still moving backward? The brake pedal is floored. I must need to apply the parking brake. Nope. Not helping. Let’s try pulling back out. Interesting – still sliding backward, despite my attempt to drive forward. This can’t be good.
My friend and I were yelling back and forth, trying to figure out what to do to gain traction on the mossy ramp, when I was suddenly slammed against the driver-side door. My friend had jumped over the bow of the boat and climbed through the back of the truck into the driver’s seat to try to do it himself. Not surprisingly, he had the same trouble I had.
But then it got much worse.
My feet are wet! Oh my God! There is water gushing in through the bottom of the doors! “We have to bail!” he screamed. So I gathered as many of our things as I could in 1.3 seconds and climbed out the passenger window.
Less than a minute later, I was standing on the roof of my friend’s truck, knee deep in water, in the middle of the lake. (Okay, not really the middle, but pretty far out from shore.) I couldn’t see my friend. Where did he go? I wondered. And then I spotted him.
He was diving in and out the water, trying to grab hold of the front bumper to pull the truck back to shore. Finally, he realized that, while he worked out every day, he was simply not strong enough to swim a truck, a trailer, and a girl to shore without a little help. So he swam back to shore, leaving me standing on the truck. Still knee deep in water. Crying.
After catching his breath, he started to laugh hysterically, when we both realized that the boat (thankfully, it was already detached from the trailer when we started sinking) was floating away. So he ran to the dock and jumped in to swim after it. As he docked the boat and called a tow truck, I decided that I couldn’t just stand there on top of the truck all day. So I swam to shore, fully clothed, through water that was now full of gasoline and oil.
And with perfect timing usually only found in movies, our friends pulled up at that very moment.
Amazingly, after being successfully towed out of the water and drying out for the next 48 hours, the truck still worked! And this little bath even fixed the broken radio! (But, as a trade-off, the headlights were permanently shut off.)
Years later, I was telling this story to someone, and their response was, “I can’t believe that was you! That story is famous around here!” And that’s when I realized that this would have been a winning video clip. But, of course, I didn’t think it was all that funny while I was immersed, so to speak, in the situation.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Intervention
In a former life, I competed internationally in latin ballroom dance. My partner and I spent nearly all our time (and a most regrettable sum of money) on lessons, choreography, costumes, travel, etc. And it was worth it. We didn't always win, but I learned a lot and had so much fun, and our biggest competition took us to England and France, places I had wanted to visit for a long time.
My passion for dancing never waned, but after several years, it was getting too expensive and too time-consuming, and I wanted to pursue other interests. So I retired at the young age of 25.
Troy and I stayed in touch at first, but it wasn't long until I stopped hearing from him. When I started singing with a swing band, I invited him to my gigs so we could dance again, even if only for a few songs, but he never showed. As time passed, we were more like strangers than friends who spent so many years together.
And then I got an unexpected call a few months ago. He told me that there would be a producer calling me later that day to set up a time to dance for some footage for a documentary they were filming about him. So after a four-year hiatus, I put on my dancing shoes again that night. It's funny how when you love something, you don't realize how strenuous it is. We used to spend two hours a night, four days a week practicing. And with all that exercise, I could eat anything I wanted. But that night, we were both completely out of breath in the first five minutes. And my body moved differently with a few extra years and pounds. But it was still a blast to dance again. (Even though I was sore for a week in places I had forgotten about!)
After we danced, they did an interview with Troy. Initially, I was asked to wait outside the room so he could be candid, but then he asked me to stay. I was saddened and horrified at the things I heard. He is a crystal meth addict. And homeless. And unemployed. And so many other things are wrong in his life. I spoke with him after we were done shooting, wondering how I could help him. But there was nothing I could do. As I learned with my brother, you cannot convince an addict to get help. They must decide on their own that it is time to quit. I didn't know what this was all for, but I sensed and hoped that somehow the experience was cathartic for him.
I got another call today. Troy is coming home. He was shipped off to rehab the morning after I saw him, where he has been for the last two months. He sounds happy, healthy, and optimistic, and I couldn't be more relieved. I learned that this was all for a show called "Intervention" on A&E, airing Sunday, January 8 at 10 pm ET. And since I could never do his story justice, I encourage you all to watch. I'd be curious to hear what you think.
My passion for dancing never waned, but after several years, it was getting too expensive and too time-consuming, and I wanted to pursue other interests. So I retired at the young age of 25.
Troy and I stayed in touch at first, but it wasn't long until I stopped hearing from him. When I started singing with a swing band, I invited him to my gigs so we could dance again, even if only for a few songs, but he never showed. As time passed, we were more like strangers than friends who spent so many years together.
And then I got an unexpected call a few months ago. He told me that there would be a producer calling me later that day to set up a time to dance for some footage for a documentary they were filming about him. So after a four-year hiatus, I put on my dancing shoes again that night. It's funny how when you love something, you don't realize how strenuous it is. We used to spend two hours a night, four days a week practicing. And with all that exercise, I could eat anything I wanted. But that night, we were both completely out of breath in the first five minutes. And my body moved differently with a few extra years and pounds. But it was still a blast to dance again. (Even though I was sore for a week in places I had forgotten about!)
After we danced, they did an interview with Troy. Initially, I was asked to wait outside the room so he could be candid, but then he asked me to stay. I was saddened and horrified at the things I heard. He is a crystal meth addict. And homeless. And unemployed. And so many other things are wrong in his life. I spoke with him after we were done shooting, wondering how I could help him. But there was nothing I could do. As I learned with my brother, you cannot convince an addict to get help. They must decide on their own that it is time to quit. I didn't know what this was all for, but I sensed and hoped that somehow the experience was cathartic for him.
I got another call today. Troy is coming home. He was shipped off to rehab the morning after I saw him, where he has been for the last two months. He sounds happy, healthy, and optimistic, and I couldn't be more relieved. I learned that this was all for a show called "Intervention" on A&E, airing Sunday, January 8 at 10 pm ET. And since I could never do his story justice, I encourage you all to watch. I'd be curious to hear what you think.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
The Little Blue Box
I have purchased many things from the store with the signature blue box over the years. In fact, nearly every man in my life has, at some point, received a gift wrapped in a little blue box with white satin ribbon tied in a perfect bow. And yet, I have never received a gift in the coveted blue box. Got a ring once, and even that didn't come in the blue box.
It's not even a status thing. I promise. It's just that the jewelry and other items that they sell are superior in quality. And don't I deserve the very best?
My boyfriend and I celebrated Christmas last Sunday, because we would both be spending the holidays with our families on opposite coasts. And while I still longed for a gift in the little blue box, this was our first Christmas together and I did not expect that this would be the year I would finally get it.
The first gift I opened: a wireless router. Not on my wish list. But it was meant as a joke, and I get it. He always complains that he can't use his laptop at my house. (Yes, I still have a desktop.)
The second: lingerie. Even though it was from my favorite lingerie store, so far, both gifts were more for him than for me. He is usually so romantic and thoughtful, but I was beginning to question how well he really knows me.
Moving on to my third gift - the one in the Victoria's Secret bag. I was sure it would be pretty, but not exactly what I wanted for Christmas. But inside the shiny pink bag lay the most beautiful turquoise blue box my eyes ever did see, complete with perfectly-tied satin ribbon. That would have been enough, but then inside the long-awaited little blue box was a beautiful pearl necklace. I never used to think I was a pearl girl, but when I put on the necklace, I became a believer. They are so smooth and radiant and heavy on my skin. And I feel so elegant and grown-up when I wear them. (And a little like Bree Van De Kamp.)
And so my years of waiting for the little blue box ends. Here are some simple (if also slightly cliche) truths that I now believe whole-heartedly:
It's not even a status thing. I promise. It's just that the jewelry and other items that they sell are superior in quality. And don't I deserve the very best?
My boyfriend and I celebrated Christmas last Sunday, because we would both be spending the holidays with our families on opposite coasts. And while I still longed for a gift in the little blue box, this was our first Christmas together and I did not expect that this would be the year I would finally get it.
The first gift I opened: a wireless router. Not on my wish list. But it was meant as a joke, and I get it. He always complains that he can't use his laptop at my house. (Yes, I still have a desktop.)
The second: lingerie. Even though it was from my favorite lingerie store, so far, both gifts were more for him than for me. He is usually so romantic and thoughtful, but I was beginning to question how well he really knows me.
Moving on to my third gift - the one in the Victoria's Secret bag. I was sure it would be pretty, but not exactly what I wanted for Christmas. But inside the shiny pink bag lay the most beautiful turquoise blue box my eyes ever did see, complete with perfectly-tied satin ribbon. That would have been enough, but then inside the long-awaited little blue box was a beautiful pearl necklace. I never used to think I was a pearl girl, but when I put on the necklace, I became a believer. They are so smooth and radiant and heavy on my skin. And I feel so elegant and grown-up when I wear them. (And a little like Bree Van De Kamp.)
And so my years of waiting for the little blue box ends. Here are some simple (if also slightly cliche) truths that I now believe whole-heartedly:
- Good things do, in fact, come in small (preferrably blue) packages.
- All good things are worth waiting for.
- Do not judge a book by its cover (or, in this case, a package by its wrapping).
Merry Christmas! I hope Santa is good to those of you who have been nice, and even better to those of you who have been a little naughty this year.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Giving Thanks
I apologize to those of you who are still reading my blog (despite the lack of any recent posting activity) for my long, unexplained absence, and I hope that you all had a lovely Thanksgiving. In the spirit of the holiday season, I felt like publishing a list of some of the blessings for which I am thankful this year. Here they are, in no particular order:
I am thankful that everyone in my family is healthy. That there is no active cancer in anyone at this moment.
I am thankful that my parents celebrated 31 years together this year.
I am thankful that I still have two grandparents, although I miss the other two very much.
I am thankful for my niece, and for her sex-to-be-determined-but-much-to-my-chagrin-not-disclosed sibling that is on the way.
I am thankful for a wonderful boyfriend who loves me no matter what -- no matter how hormonal, how stressed, or how sick I am at any given moment.
I am thankful for my future in-laws for welcoming me into their home over Thanksgiving weekend.
I am thankful for a healthy voice, and many opportunities to share my love of music.
I am thankful for a job, albeit one that I do not always love.
I am thankful for my work girls, who make it bearable.
I am thankful for a home, albeit one that lately feels too small.
I am thankful for my girlfriends for their love, support, and for all the memories.
I am thankful for my puppy who can make me smile and laugh at the end of the day, no matter what else happened that day.
I am thankful for my anonymous friends in blogland, for the humor they provide and the thought they provoke.
I am thankful for forgiveness, and for my salvation.
I am thankful that I can breathe and see and hear and speak and walk.
I am thankful for the occasional moments of peace amid all the holiday dashing, during which I can reflect on how fortunate I have been this year and throughout my life.
May you all have a blessed and spectacular holiday!
I am thankful that everyone in my family is healthy. That there is no active cancer in anyone at this moment.
I am thankful that my parents celebrated 31 years together this year.
I am thankful that I still have two grandparents, although I miss the other two very much.
I am thankful for my niece, and for her sex-to-be-determined-but-much-to-my-chagrin-not-disclosed sibling that is on the way.
I am thankful for a wonderful boyfriend who loves me no matter what -- no matter how hormonal, how stressed, or how sick I am at any given moment.
I am thankful for my future in-laws for welcoming me into their home over Thanksgiving weekend.
I am thankful for a healthy voice, and many opportunities to share my love of music.
I am thankful for a job, albeit one that I do not always love.
I am thankful for my work girls, who make it bearable.
I am thankful for a home, albeit one that lately feels too small.
I am thankful for my girlfriends for their love, support, and for all the memories.
I am thankful for my puppy who can make me smile and laugh at the end of the day, no matter what else happened that day.
I am thankful for my anonymous friends in blogland, for the humor they provide and the thought they provoke.
I am thankful for forgiveness, and for my salvation.
I am thankful that I can breathe and see and hear and speak and walk.
I am thankful for the occasional moments of peace amid all the holiday dashing, during which I can reflect on how fortunate I have been this year and throughout my life.
May you all have a blessed and spectacular holiday!
Monday, November 07, 2005
Random Stories About Strange Men
He Doesn’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore
Three years ago, after the devastating breakup of my 4-year relationship with J, I reluctantly reentered the dating world. For whatever reason, I decided to give the online dating thing a try. The first guy I met in-person seemed normal at first. We met at the local dog park on a Sunday afternoon, so our “kids” could meet and play. We went out a couple of times over the next week, and on Friday we planned to make dinner together and watch a movie at his place. I don’t know exactly why, but I decided that night that a relationship between us was not going to happen – that the “X” factor was missing, and was unlikely to develop. So I broke up with him. (Although after only one week, I’m not sure it was a true “break-up” – mostly, I just stopped returning his calls and emails.)
He kept calling and emailing, and I thought maybe he just didn’t get that I wasn’t interested, or maybe he just needed some time to get over it. But then I got a nasty message on my phone followed by another in my inbox. Bitterness reared its ugly head once more in the form of a hate letter and dead flowers on my doorstep. FREAK.
Apparently, though, this kind of psychotic behavior is cathartic, because I never heard from him again after that.
The Boy is a Dancing Fool
Last year, I made the grave mistake of dancing with someone at one of my big band gigs. To this day, I cannot reason why, but when he asked for my phone number, I gave it to him. Even though I had just started dating someone else. And even though he had scary, way-too-intense eyes. Having learned my lesson before, I mustered up the internal fortitude to do the right thing and tell him that I simply wasn’t interested – that I was seeing someone else.
So when he kept calling (sometimes three times a day), I got really annoyed. And then when he started showing up at all my gigs, sometimes even popping backstage where I was hiding, I got scared.
Naturally, when eHarmony matched us up at the beginning of this year, I had a meltdown and immediately closed my account. He still comes to my gigs, though – um, AWKWARD!
Coffee: The Silent Killer
Last Saturday, I answered a knock at my door to find the most dreaded of all solicitors – the Orange County Register paperboy selling subscriptions. (Okay, maybe not the most dreaded, but certainly in the top ten.) He was more than a little pushy, tried every sales trick in the book in response to my many excuses, and didn’t listen when I told him I simply wasn’t interested. Finally he left, and I thought no more about our little exchange.
Until later that afternoon, when I left the house to go to a friend’s for game night. I was stopped dead in my tracks at the top of my stairs when I noticed a white, unmarked box sitting atop an Orange County Register. I replayed our earlier conversation in my head and recalled the following statements:
-“Help a guy out, and maybe something good will happen to you. It’s all about karma, you know? What goes around comes around.”
-“I’m out here doing this to keep me off the streets – to keep me from doing drugs and living a life of crime.”
-“You don’t have to talk to me through a cracked door. You can let me in – it’s not like I’m not going to hurt you or anything.”
-“It’s because I’m black, isn’t it? If I was a white guy, you’d get the subscription.”
Now I was really freaked out. Don’t get me wrong, I do not think myself so important that someone would be out to get me. And I’m not usually the paranoid type. But for whatever reason, this particular situation unnerved me. I didn’t want anything to do with that box and whatever was in it.
So I called my community’s security patrol to remove it. No answer. I tried my community’s maintenance guys. No answer. What is a girl who lives alone, whose boyfriend is out of town, left to do? I called the police. I explained to them that I did not think it was a bomb, that it was probably nothing, but that I was a little freaked out by this guy and simply didn’t want to touch the box. Always erring on the side of caution, they proceeded to send two “special” (i.e., bomb squad) officers to my house to take a report and remove the suspicious package.
Obviously, since I’m alive to write this, it was not a bomb. But the irony of this little incident is that it turned out to be…
A coffee mug.
That’s right. A gift from the paperboy, who was apparently hoping to bribe me into purchasing a subscription.
And I thought he was trying to hurt me. Don’t I feel sheepish.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Blogthing of the Day
Little quizzes are always a fun distraction from the day's work. Thanks, karlababble, for introducing me to these.
I thought I'd try this one first, since my real name is French. Apparently, the computer didn't know what to do with that.
I thought I'd try this one first, since my real name is French. Apparently, the computer didn't know what to do with that.
| Your French Name is: |
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