Tag Archives: love

If loving Pitbull is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right

That is not me on the left.

I’m kind of in love with Pitbull. I think. I’m pretty sure.  Admittedly, I don’t know much about the guy since my infatuation is based almost completely on the single time I saw him perform, which was at the most recent MTV VMA show. The weird thing is, I felt this way in spite of the fact he was wearing a white blazer and red pants. Am I going into menopause or something?

I was able to totally get past his  pimp suit and bald head and his penchant for wearing sunglasses indoors and love him anyway.  Maybe I was listening to Ne-Yo’s sweet voice when they were showing him or something, so that swayed me,  but I was all, “Damn, Pitbull. I think I loooove you.” (The way little Michael Jackson says it in ‘ABC’) Really, Love? Really?

Really.

His voice is kind of low and gravelly and…I don’t know, this thirty-something, suburban working mom of three found herself oddly and mercilessly attracted to the guy.  For very good reasons, I try not to think about mojo because the world cannot afford to have me become a mother again, but as I watched the VMAs I thought I might consider having Pitbull’s love child.   I thought this was odd, and so I felt the logical next step was to inform my husband of my new attraction to this Pitbull character.

Now, you should be aware before we go further that a full 90% of the things I say to my husband on any given day get exactly the same response.  Statements like,  “I think I have a brain tumor”, “Our neighbor’s kid stole our ladder”, “For a second today I thought I had misplaced my Josh Groban Noel CD”, and “Do you think that brown thing in the kid’s shower is poop, or a candy bar?”  all garner the exact same, very quiet….noise.  It kind of sounds like “ugh” but without the negative emotion most of us say it with.  It’s a totally neutral response devoid of any emotion or judgment – just enough to acknowledge I said something, but not enough for me to gauge any sort of meaningful response to the statement.  I’d wager the other 9% of the stuff I say does not even warrant the noise –that is met with silence — and then the last 1% of my musings  may get a full sentence response, but he saves that for emergencies, mostly to tell me what he wants me to pick up for lunch or (I suppose) if one of our children suddenly began to seize.  I think my husband conserves words because I have such a high propensity of wasting them.  And we get along fabulously this way.

So I expected that when I announced to BD  one afternoon that  “I  really like that Pitbull guy” it would be met with the customary “ugh” or perhaps silence. I mean, like most things I tell him, there was a 99% chance I would get one of these two reactions, so no biggie.

It was not to be.

To my utter amazement, when I made the announcement my husband actually turned his eyes away from ESPN,  looked at me, and proceeded to freak out.  “Are you kidding me?! You’re kidding, right? Pitbull?!”  Whoa. WHOA. I haven’t seen an emotional outburst of such magnitude from him since 2005, the year he found out that I had thrown away the hair gel he bought in 1997 that was sitting in our shared medicine cabinet, untouched for 5 years.

“Um….yeah, I think.” I stammered, the shock and awe of his response only beginning to sink in. A millisecond later, when I noticed he did not turn back to ESPN, my fight or flight response was triggered. My senses became sharp and keenly aware.  Time slowed down. My husband had somehow just become emotionally invested in my statement about Pitbull and he was engaging me in a conversation about it.

My brain went into overdrive: “Wait? Whaaa? Is this really happening?  BD knows who Pitbull is? I didn’t even know who he was until I saw the VMAs a week ago.  Oh my god! Maybe my husband is the one with the brain tumor! Oh my god! He may have only weeks to live!”

“You do not like Pitbull.” he tried to say with certainty, trying to regain his composure. “What on earth could you possibly find attractive about that guy?”

“I don’t know. He’s just…cool. Maybe I’m suddenly interested in younger men who don’t appear to be very intelligent, may have an accent, dress like pimps, say “Hey Baby” a lot and surround themselves with scantily clad cokeheads.  What is so weird about that?”

“Who are you?” he demanded. I’m pretty sure he wanted to follow up with “and where have you taken my wife?” but he was a little flustered.  At that moment I realized that he was also in fight or flight mode and his brain was saying: “Oh my god. She actually does have that brain tumor she’s been talking about since our first date. Oh my god! And she is going to die and leave me with all of these damn kids.  This is the worst day of my life!”  Simultaneously, we were both thinking the other had gone all Charlie Sheen and that we’re about to lose each other forever.  All because of Pitbull’s irresistible sex appeal.

We probably should have hugged and kissed and been supportive of the other person’s brain tumor, but instead I said, “Whatever. You liked Christina Aguilera when she was at her skankiest! I married you in spite of that! That should count for something.”

“I was young then. That was years ago!”

Fortunately, before things got way out of control and my husband missed more than five minutes of the game, our seven year old son, aware for the first time in his life that his parents were engaging in an emotional conversation with each other that wasn’t about the true nutritional value of frozen pizza or the absurdity of this year’s college football uniforms, stepped in to end the madness.

“Pitbull sucks, Mom.”

And that was that.  BD nodded solemnly. I reminded our son that “sucks” is not an appropriate word to use in our house, and then I left the scene, devastated.

Not only because one or both of us clearly has a brain tumor, but now my chances of getting tickets to the Pitbull show for Christmas are pretty much nil.  Damn.

Seriously, I hate you.

I first noticed the bane of my existence, Franny and Milhouse (names invented since I don’t actually know their real names) about a year ago when I moved to the damn suburbs and had to start taking the train into work.  The express train I take is about 35 minutes to downtown.  The first time I saw them, they had walked up to the front of the car near the doors of the train about 15 minutes before we got into the station.  Franny had a worried, sad expression just like Droopy Dog.  Her husband was by her side with a look of concern and deep, deep, deep, deep enduring love on his face as they stood there, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes.  On a train.  At 7:15 in the morning.  And as they stood there staring at each other, at times he would softly kiss her forehead and sometimes they would hug, and then they would always go back to looking into each other’s eyes and always with the same expressions  — she looking forlorn and somewhat constipated and him staring at her like she is an orphan about to die of starvation.  All this, standing there in the middle of the aisle on the damn train in front of about 50 people.

So the first time I see this, I think “God! Was she just diagnosed with terminal cancer or something?”  These two are fucking intense.  I wonder if it bothers them at all to stand in front of all of the sleepy, seated commuters on a train for 15 minutes and make slow, sad love to one another with their eyes? But maybe something absolutely horrible has happened to them and they don’t even care because they are so traumatized.  It’s kind of embarrassing for them, and me, but I’ll let it go.  I hope she gets cured.  I hope they stay together.  They are so obviously in love.

And then the next day came and there they were again doing all the same shit. And then the next day, and the next.  And after a few days of this, I’ve had enough. It was all I could do not to stand up and scream “Get a fucking room you silly stupid ass wipes! What the hell is the matter with you?”

Nobody could convince me that Franny has ever smiled with her eyes in her entire lifetime. Ever. Franny must be the most depressed, victimized, Eeyore-like person in the universe.  She better have a fucking crazy tough life carrying around that constant pained expression and sucking any positive energy out of the entire train car, leaving a vacuum of desolation and depression.  I think that Milhouse is under the impression that only his dutiful hugs and kisses  keep her from committing suicide every morning and I find myself praying that one day he would stop and let her get it over with so I could enjoy one single fucking day on the train.

If I had to spend more than 4 minutes with Franny I would probably eviscerate myself with a fork  just to get out of her path of misery.  There were times when I felt bad for Milhouse because he has to tend to the needs of the most high maintenance, soul sucking individual on the planet. But then it dawned on me that he doesn’t have to. He LOVES this. This drama played out every morning. He is addicted to this woman’s dysfunction.  I mean, he is as jacked as she is if he has the stomach to be replaying this scene over and over every. single. fucking day in front of an entire train car of people who want them both dead. (I haven’t taken a poll, but how could my fellow commuters not be as infuriated by this shit as I am?)

So I switched train cars to get away from them.  Their shenanigans made me feel homicidal thoughts for the first time in my life and I was worried for their safety. I started day dreaming about punching her in face until I couldn’t see it any more and I’ve never had thoughts like that in my life.  I was scared and surprised about my own visceral reaction to these two. I mean, why do I hate them so thoroughly with my whole being? What about them loving each other sick is so abhorrent to me?

Well, I had to make this stop, so I switched train cars to avoid them.  And that worked! For a day.  But on the second day in my new car where I could feel calm, peace and love?  Oh shit. Franny and fucking Milhouse apparently decide to move a car up, like they are stalking me, and once again in front of an entire train and hold each other and kiss each other and look intensely at one another in the eyes.  Sometimes she would whisper something and then his concern would grow and he’d rub her back and brush the hair from her forehead. Or he would cup both of his hands around her little face and whisper something back. I’ve never heard a single word of what these two are saying, but I imagine in a Mystery Science Theater sort of way that she’s like, “My little toe hurts again. I’m not sure if I can make it.” and then he says, “Darling, if I could take your pain away I would. But instead I’ll just treat you like a sick infant, and I’ll be concerned for your life 100% of this train ride. I love you, Schmoopie.”  and then she looks down sadly because Milhouse should have said something else like, “Darling, I will get down on my hands and knees and suck on your little toe if that will make it feel better.” But he didn’t, and so she must mope some more, all alone in this world and so very sad that her husband isn’t taking her pain away.

So now what? I could not shake these two, but I finally felt grateful I had gotten myself knocked up with kid #3 and finally I could go on maternity leave and Franny and Milhouse and all of their infinite problems they are solving with their intense, infinite love on the train each morning would disappear.  After a week or two, their specter no longer haunted me and truthfully, I forgot all about them. I was sort of busy.

Seven weeks later,  I go back to work and I have to drop my baby girl off at daycare and I’m a mess and as I’m walking to the train station, some guy runs past me like he is trying to beat the world record in the 100 meters. And lo and behold – I recognize him. It is fucking Milhouse.  Seriously, God? Today? These two? Fuck me.

So where the hell is Franny? I thought she and Milhouse were Siamese married people.  How does he expect her to survive without having his face within 6 inches of hers?  “Maybe they divorced!? Maybe she is finally dead!” I thought hopefully.  Well, that would not explain why he was running so fast with his messenger bag flopping all over the place.  He must have dropped our Franny off at the station and went to park the car and though the train wouldn’t be arriving for another 12 minutes, he was running like it was leaving the station.

Yup. Franny was standing there waiting for him with an expression on her face as if he accidentally poured cyanide instead salt into the soup and she was really serious today about jumping in front of the train because of his inadequacy. Very disappointed in him. He didn’t run fast enough I guess. Or perhaps he had screwed up everything already that morning, putting her in a fragile state that only staring into his pleading eyes would ever remedy.  UGH. Kill me now.

But then they did something I could not believe!  They separated for a few minutes! Each lined up on the platform so that they were each on one side of the throng of people waiting so they could hedge their bets so when the train pulled in one of them would be close to the door and could snag a seat where they could sit together.  So clever. I think they were probably texting the whole time just to ensure that Franny was okay as she stood waiting for the train 12 feet and 12 bodies away from her husband.

I realized then I had only seen them in that last half of the ride but apparently, they have to sit together on the train (of course) and if they can’t find a suitable seat where they can sit together, she sits down next to a random stranger and he stands there in the aisle, holding her hand, rather than finding another seat himself. I mean AREYOUFUCKINGKIDDINGME?! These two have no shame. That guy has no balls. It makes my stomach turn.

So now you know about Milhouse and Franny. I’m sorry to tell you that there is no happy ending to this story.  They still ride the train with me every morning. I have switched cars to be even farther away from them, so my mornings have been filled with peace, optimism and calm for the most part because they haven’t found me yet.

But, the story has taken a sad twist.  Franny appears to be pregnant.  I pray for that unborn child everyday.  I cannot imagine the hell on earth that awaits that child when she meets her mother.  I don’t think there is any way in hell that this is going to turn out well for that kid, because her mother’s needs are so vast, I’m sure the baby’s need for food and nurturing and love pale in comparison.  And watch out Milhouse! You spend more than 3 minutes with that child and enjoy it, Franny will have your ass on a platter. You will wish you were never born.

But the good news for me is that this baby might just mean that Franny and Milhouse will no longer ride the train together because she will be institutionalized and he’ll have to stay home with the baby and I can finally get on with being my loving, kind self again. I love happy endings.

I (heart) pathological liars. Except when they are oncologists.

UPDATE, INTERNET. This girl is back on FB and is stalking me to be friends again. Please read this post I wrote for her a couple of years ago. What say you? Should I accept?

Pathological liars are the best. Except if you have one as an oncologist. Then that could suck. Balls.

But I happen to know this girl from high school that has to take the pathological lying cake, so obviously I really liked to hang with her. She is not an oncologist. Lets just call her “Jenny”, because that is her real name.  She would regale me with stories about how she had a friend who knew the New Kids on the Block and could totally get her into their hotel or a concert whenever they came through Chicago.  I was 14 and this was big time currency in 1991.  Donnie Wahlberg and I were totally soul mates from 1990 to 1993 – he just wasn’t aware of it yet – and then I think Oprah took his place in 1994 and remains my soul mate to this day. The only difference is that Oprah knows it and just won’t accept it. Oprah is clearly not living her best life.

I digress.  So anyway, my crazy ass friend Jenny would talk constantly about her friend “Lisa” who worked at Ulta3 and was like, totally BFF with little Joey McIntyre and one day as we were perusing Bop* and Tiger Beat she was telling me how she and Lisa were going to their upcoming show and then hanging out with them afterward, and naturally she invited me along too.

Isn’t it weird that pathological liars always give you a chance to totally catch them lying?  So they’ll be like, “I’m totally Rob Pattinson’s lover, do you want to have a threesome with us?” Now, there is only one good answer for this and that is “yes”.  Not because you want the threesome (even though you know you do) but because if you say “no”, then you don’t even get to find out what kind of additional, outrageous lies they will tell to get them out of having to prove that they are fucking Rob Pattinson.  So I always say “yes” whenever a pathological liar wants to prove to me they aren’t lying, because its so damn amusing.

Curse you, ADD! (Love is looking angrily to the sky) Can I get through one fucking story without going off on a tangent!?

Okay, so of course I’m like, “I would love to go! Can I invite my little cousin who has leukemia because she is totally into Jordan and wants to put her little radiated fingers through his stiff, sticky hair and touch one of his silky vests before she dies.” (pathological liars deserve to be lied to) and Jenny is like, “TOTALLY! Me and Lisa will set it up!” and I’m like, “Awesome. I’ll let her know she can die fulfilled because you are totally going to hook us up.” Luckily I was aware my friend was totally full of shit and this is how:

1) She is of Asian descent.  But not a smart Asian (does coming to America make you dumb?).  I think this is really bad if this happens to you.  I imagine its like if you’re black, but you dance like Elaine on Seinfeld. Its just mostly impossible and completely unacceptable.

2) She is 5’2″ (this will become important later)

3) In high school, she was not that attractive and she wasn’t rich.

4) She is the oldest of three kids and her mom was a working single mom. I don’t know what her dad’s story was, but he was out of the picture.

So the likelihood of her fucking a New Kid was equivalent to John Tesh’s chances of being named People’s Sexiest Man Alive.

Okay, so we’re back in 1991. The NKOTB show is coming to Chicago, and my friend Jenny is like BFF with Joe McIntyre’s BFF, which happens to be a 17 year old named Lisa that works at Ulta3 in a suburb of Chicago. I know, right? So, its the day before the show that we are going to where we supposedly have backstage passes, and front row seats, and all access to the New Kids on the Block, who are expecting us and cannot wait to fucking meet our 14 year old asses (and my cousin with cancer).

Of course, Jenny couldn’t give me and my cancer-ridden pretend cousin our tickets or passes because you have to get those at the show. So the night before she calls me to say that Lisa called her and there was some terrible mix-up and they only had Lisa down for two tickets, so she wasn’t sure if me and my cousin could still go. So I  was like “well, can’t Lisa just call Joey Joe and explain the problem? I’d be happy to meet him at the hotel to pick up the tickets. I’m sure my dad won’t have a problem driving me.” She’s like, “I didn’t even think of that! Of COURSE Lisa could do that.” So she hangs up the phone and sits idlely for 8 minutes calls Lisa to find out and calls me back and says, “Joey has a photo shoot to do right before the show, so they won’t be at the hotel, but he said maybe he could give them to Big Rob (the bodyguard) to give to you.” So naturally I exclaim, “Oh, Jenny! You’ve just made all my dreams come true. And my cancer ridden cousin too.  Where should me and Big Rob make the big exchange?” And she fucking gives me an address and time to meet Big Rob the bodyguard.  There are so very few limits.  So then she calls the day of the concert to say that Big Rob totally has strep throat and can’t make it and yada, yada, yada. She will go on to tell me she went to the show, hung out with all the New Kids and “Donnie is so cool!” and she has pictures. Do I want to see?

Yes. Definitely.

But aw, shucks! She explained a day later that when she brought the film in for processing that everything got erased.  All she can think of is that there were metal detectors backstage and the fucking things somehow erased all the 35 mm film in her camera.  And it totally sucked because she was on Joey’s lap and everything.  I won’t even go there…

“But surely Lisa has photos?” I say. No, Lisa’s photos got erased too.

Fucking metal detectors. (Love shakes fist at the sky)

Okay, so flash forward to a lovely day in March of this year.  I’m trolling Facebook for the 34th time that day and trying to think up a clever status, when suddenly I’m told that someone named Jenny Df wants to be my friend.  Df? Is that a last name? I don’t know who this person is…until I see the personal message accompanying the invite. Ah yes, its my good old friend Jenny. Her last name has changed. To a last name that surely exists nowhere in the world. How I had missed her!! I wanted to know EVERYTHING about what I missed the last 15 years, but mostly whether she was still the biggest-fucking-not-hot-dumb-ass-Asian-liar-of-all-time.

Since we had parted ways somewhere around 1994, she told me that she went to New York and was a Tom Ford model for many years.  Years in which she made best friends with Rhea Durham and Gisele Bundchen. Okay, so admittedly I know nothing about modeling…except that I think you have to be an inch or two over 5’2″ and you have to be good looking and you have to have big boobs, like my sister.  But she did have a profile picture which showed her in a Glamour Shots-like pose with fake boobs and nasty ass extensions. She reported that she made so much money as a runway model and she invested that money so wisely, that she is now retired and now she spends all of her time volunteering to work with animals.  Her husband is an incredibly sexy, extremely talented actor that I just haven’t heard of yet.  They live in Hollywood Hills.  She was currently trying to figure out whether or not she should take the job as one of the “Deal or No Deal” girls.  I didn’t mention it, but I thought that such an intellectual pursuit might actually blow her mind, since she had been retired for so long and all. She must have tacitly agreed, for she wrote:  “The doggies need me more than the pubic (sic) right now”. I am not fucking making this up.  There’s more…

So then as the weeks go by and I’m checking Facebook 234 times a day as usual and I see her statuses every few days that go a little something like this, “Jess, it was so good to see you and Tony the other night. I’m trying to get our schedules to sync so we can be out in Dallas for the next game!”  and “So happy for my dearest friends Tom and G! Congratulations! Give little Johnny a kiss for us” and “Audrina, I’m so sad I missed you last night at the awards. We totally have to catch up again.”  and finally, “Does anybody have a good cleanse? I have a Hawaiian Tropic shoot tomorrow and I don’t want to look too fat :(”  It doesn’t even end there. She started a chat with me one night on Facebook and I swear to God, she tells me that she and Rhea Durham are BFF from their NYC modeling days and she remembers I liked Donnie Wahlberg and her dearest Rhea is with Mark Wahlberg and now its so weird because they hang out ALL THE TIME and Mark is such a sweetheart!

Lest you think I’m a pathological liar, I am not. I would have copied and pasted directly from Facebook and told you guys to go ask her to be your friend so your life would be full of amusement like mine, but when I just went to do so, I realized she is no longer my friend. And no longer on Facebook. Unless I just can’t find her because I’m blocked or something. I would write her little comments like “Jenny, you are SOOOOOO lucky to be friends with Jessica Simpson. I am SOOOOOO jealous”. and “Jenny, you look so pretty and wonderful these days. I’m SOOOOO jealous. See you when I get to LA!”  She was lapping that shit up. But somehow much to my dismay I am either blocked or she left Facebook. I don’t know how I let this ridiculously amusing friend leave my life again because its hard to find dumb Asians who are pathological liars and don’t head up North Korea , but I’m sure she’ll turn up somewhere else. Perhaps as Dean of Harvard Law or as a United Nations Ambassador.

God, wherever you are Jenny Df, I heart you.  Next time you see Tom and Gisele, punch her in the face (not the stomach) and tell her to stop pretending that Bridget Moynihan’s kid is hers. Thanks.

*OMG, I just remember that I was listed (with my picture) in Bop as one of those kids you can be penpals with. How fucked up is that? Now I see that the Bop pen pal pages where were all the future MySpace pedophiles began their journeys.  I got seriously like 200,000 letters one month from that.  Where the fuck were my parents? I would give my right arm to have a copy of that issue of Bop now. I bet it is creepy as all hell.  Good Lord.

Please try not to cringe while my 15 year old self regales you with her deep thoughts

In real life, I’m the sort of person that would never, ever knowingly humiliate someone privately or publicly. Never ever.  But I decided recently to make an exception to this rule. I think it is okay to do it to my 15 year old self, since she is gone and her friends won’t find out and its been 18 years.  God, when did I get so damn OLD?

My 15 year old self was totally ridiculous and hilarious and retarded, and I’m not sure whether it will be funny, but then I read Steam Me Up’s high school poetry, laughed until I cried, and decided that adolescent relationships are probably some of the funniest stuff on the planet. Except when you actually are 15, and then they are pretty tragic.

I went back into my journals and came up with the dramatic rise and fall of my first relationship, with a boy named Mike. We lasted approximately 3 months, but to my 15 year old self, it was like a lifetime.  I’ve copied it all verbatim, except where you see red. This is where the me now couldn’t help adding commentary on the me then.

6/26/92:

Maureen (my best friend) is going out with Malcolm who is a total sweetie except that on their one-month anniversary he didn’t give her anything she could remember it by. (gasp!) She got him a card, but it seems stupid that he didn’t even get her a flower. A week from today is our anniversary and I bet Mike will do the same thing as Malcolm. It wouldn’t  surprise me. He took me to Pinocchio tonight and we saw Layla and Bruce there. Layla got a perm and she looks GREAT! (Layla plays no role in this story, but I feel it is important to highlight that I thought perms were awesome)

6/30/92:

We didn’t fight tonight. I was happy. I think when I tell him that I love him I’m starting to mean it. I said it early on prematurely because he kept talking about how much he loved me and I felt bad not saying anything. I think our definition of love is very different. Its confusing. I’m really wondering about Friday though because I have a feeling – I know – that he’ll play it off like it was any other day. (it is SO not “any other day”! Its your one whole month anniversary. SO important.) If he got me flowers I would be so happy, but I know he won’t because he doesn’t think ahead and it probably won’t even occur to him that flowers would be nice. I got him a card but nothing else, so I don’t know.

7/1/92:

Mike called and Maureen was over and before I knew it she was talking to him about our anniversary. He forgot.  He was so sure that it would be on a Wednesday since he asked me out on a Wednesday (June 3). He can be so stupid. (Why wasn’t Mike consumed with thoughts about your impending 1 month anniversary?! I totally don’t get it) Well now I wonder if Mike will do anything for Friday. We were going to the zoo, but I guess not because his dad wants him to work. But I wonder if we’ll ever go. (Oh no! What if you don’t EVER see a zoo AGAIN?! Really? The zoo?!) We better because I want to take tons of photos since we have none.

One thing that bugs me is that Mike and I have never frenched. (cringe) Not that we should, but I wonder if he is thinking about it too. I’m waiting for him to make the first move, but if it doesn’t happen its fine – I’m not pushing it, but I just want him to be comfortable.

7/3/92:

Mike called and we had a long talk about everything and he told me that he was thinking since I didn’t love him he thought he shouldn’t love me and maybe it’d be better if we broke up.  I was like “well, I do love you” and he said he knew now and he didn’t know what he was thinking. (puking all over the keyboard. this was hard to type.) Whatever. I kept thinking about it and I screwed up in Driver’s Ed.

We went to the carnival tonight and he gave me a red rose for our anniversary.  I was surprised because he told me yesterday that presents were stupid and then asked what I wanted for our anniversary.(This guy is such a winner) I said nothing so I figured he wouldn’t get me anything. Then we started kissing and it was uncomfortable because I kept losing my balance because we were on a hill and he’s taller so I kept falling. It was funny. I started laughing. He must have felt really cool.  I think he had to settle down a little because it seemed like he was just trying to get his tongue in as quickly as possible. (laughing/cringing/laughing) I didn’t see why.

7/9/92:

Mike’s rose is still alive!

Okay, so then I write extensively for two more months about how we always fight, but I love him, but I don’t, but does he love me? And I should break up with him? But if I do, then who will I go to Homecoming with? And then his friend Tony starts liking me, but I don’t like Tony, but we become friends, but Mike gets jealous and we fight about that a lot too. So lets pick up just as my junior year of high school gets underway…

8/27/92:

Yesterday at school Mike was cordial, but it wasn’t as if he wanted to look too much like we were going out.  I figure we haven’t much time, although I wish it was like before because I still like him — I just feel like he doesn’t like me.  Well today he called me and he was nice today! That’s new. I think I’ll write him a note tonight and give it to him tomorrow. I’m going to ask him about our relationship. I told him I loved him, but I don’t think I do – but I’m not sure. I better write him a note about it. (AWESOME plan, Love. Write him a note about it – that should do the trick)

8/28/92:

Well, today was the day. Mike and I broke up. I gave him the note I wrote which mainly says, I love you, but our relationship sucks so tell me how you feel. He said “I want you to know you’re my best friend and I don’t want to lose you…but I think its better if we spend time apart from each other” so I asked if we were ‘seeing’ each other and he said ‘yes’ and I asked if we’d see other people and he goes, “Yeah, what the hell?”. I was opposed, but hes like “well there isn’t anyone else I want to see” and I said me neither. (Umm…if you break up, the whole point is to not be together anymore, but this concept clearly goes over my head…)

8/29/09:

Day 1 without Mike. He didn’t call. I’m not going to call him first – I’ll leave that up to him. (Stay strong, girl. You’re really showing him!!) Tony hinted about Homecoming a dozen times after he found out about Mike and I. I’m not going with him so I don’t give him any ideas. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Homecoming, though, because I really need a date. I hope everything with Mike turns out.(Um, he just broke up with you. I don’t think its going to “turn out”.)

8/30/92:

I went to the mall with Maureen and Mike called but I wasn’t home. I found the dress I want to wear. Its green with flowers and lace. Its so cool. (Green with flowers and lace? No wonder you can’t get a date) I hate not knowing whether Mike will ask me to Homecoming or not. The uncertainty is killing me. Tony keeps hinting about Homecoming and I just do not want to go with him. My brother doesn’t think that Mike will ask, but what the hell does he know? (a lot more than you do) I’m nervous about tomorrow. I think my best chance for Homecoming is getting Mike, so I’ll try my hardest on him. (laugh out loud – whaaaaaat?)

9/3/92:

I wrote Mike a note that mainly said I miss him but I don’t want to go out, so at lunch yesterday hes like, “Lets just end it”. I was sure after he broke up with me we wouldn’t go to Homecoming,(uh, right…) and we probably won’t but there’s still a chance although slim. (YOU. are. a. DUMBASS) I really don’t miss Mike much anymore – I’m getting over it but I really wanted to go to Homecoming. My life sucks!

9/6/92:

So much has happened! On Friday (9/4) I hated Mike. Mike and his friend Mark came to the football game together and Mike was wearing the sweatshirt I told him I loved on him and his hat backwards that I’ve always loved. (damn him!) I went down from the bleachers and put my arm around Mike and he flinched and pulled my arm away and then Mark was looking at something behind me and said “Mike there she is all alone! You should talk to her”. And they were looking at someone behind me, so I almost started crying first because I felt totally rejected, and second because I had some outside hope that maybe Mike would ask me to Homecoming. (this is where I wish “He’s Just Not That Into You” had been written in 1991 and given to me by my mother. Love – he is not going to ask you to Homecoming! Please, please figure out soon that he dumped you a week ago!) I left with my friends because I was practically hysterical. I found out the girl he likes is Amber. She is a sophomore. She is way too hot for him (I win the self-esteem prize here). Plus, Jody said her friend Marlon asked Amber to Homecoming last year and she laughed in his face, and at the carnival yesterday, Jamie said Amber is going out with a senior named Jason. I can’t say I’m not happy.

I went to a college football game on Saturday with Maureen and this guy my parents know named Chris thats my age. We had an awesome time. I’m going to set up my friend Jody with Chris.  Nothing happened today out of the normal except Chris called and we talked for about 45 minutes. I was surprised he called.  Hopefully Mike pays for his insensitivity and I get on with my life. That will be cool, I believe.(indeed)

9/7/92:

Chris, Jody, Tony and I went miniature golfing today so that Chris and Jody could get to know each other better. It was fun. Mike called and I said I was on the other line and I would call him back – of course I didn’t. Then he called again and asked if I was mad and I said I couldn’t talk. (Finally, some pride.) So then 10 minutes later a girl called for my brother and she sounded familiar but I just couldn’t put my finger on it so I asked who she was and she paused and my (12 year old) brother picked up, so I let him talk.  It was Mike’s sister. Mike asked my brother why I was mad and he told him because he blew me off at the game and Mike asked if I still wanted to go to Homecoming with him and I was like “Did I ever?” (Um, yeah, Love. That was pretty well established) but anyway – he asked about my love life and was happy to hear there was someone in it. (Reggie (who?! first mention of this character) or Chris) I might go to Homecoming with either.  I can’t believe Mike would go so low as to talk to my brother and my brother told him everything he wanted to know! My dad grounded him for doing that.  All my friends are going to Homecoming except me. I wonder if Mike is still thinking about asking me if he asked my brother that? (My eyes are bleeding. Please stop this madness! STOP!) I probably won’t even say yes anymore.(ugh)

9/9/92:

Yesterday all my friends were mean to Mike and Jody decided she didn’t like Chris.  Oh well. Tony called me to give me Mike’s defense and I told him off and then he told me I totally ignored him when we went miniature golfing and I was a slut because I flirted with Chris the whole time.(Wowzah! It didn’t take too much to be a slut back then) I know I talked to him a lot, but I had no idea I was flirting. I told Tony he was jealous and if not, he had no reason to be mad because we went as friends and it wasn’t a date. Well – I asked Chris to Homecoming with me. (FINALLY, you might stop talking about going to the damn Homecoming dance. Please tell me you are over this zero named Mike) I see it as a totally “friend” thing, and I hope he does too. Tony is going to be pissed out of his mind I think. Oh well.

9/13/02:

Well, I haven’t spoken to Mike since last Friday when he proved to be such a fucking prick (I salute you. Calling people mean names is the first sign of acceptance. Maybe you are no longer under the impression that Mike still likes you). I found out that Mike likes someone else now. He is so horny. Oh, I guess I am too.

And there you have it. I went on from Homecoming to date Chris for a whole 9 months. That one ended on or around Prom night when he “was totally checking out this slut who would probably give him a blow job if he asked” at the dance.  She eventually did.  I didn’t really put out in high school, so I was at a major disadvantage there.

Anyway, for the next six months after the Mike breakup, I’m pretty sure every time my girlfriends and I would go out, I would make sure we drove past Mike’s house just so I could see if he was home or not or what he was doing. I would assess this by whether his car was in the driveway or his bedroom light was on. Then we would go the house of whoever Jody was pining for and stalk that kid. It was REALLY, REALLY, pathetic but there wasn’t much else to do. But I like to think it was good I got it over with in high school, or I may have been this lame and clueless in college.  Wait – I was still pretty lame and clueless in college and there are journals to prove that as well. We’ve already been over my aversion to three-ways.

For what its worth, that first relationship/breakup actually taught me a ton. Like, that ex-boyfriends might have their little sister call my little brother to get information, so feed your little brother awesome tidbits about your raging sex life, even if you don’t have one. Or that when a person says “You’re my best friend, but we should spend time apart” it means you are getting dumped and that he likes someone named Amber or Misty or Dawn or Summer, or all of them, and he is very done with you. Being friends afterward is totally impossible, so don’t even go there. And if a guy is just trying to see how fast he can stick his tongue in your mouth, he sucks at play. He will be terrible in bed. So please don’t lose your virginity to a guy with a tongue thrust.  I took all of these lessons to heart and all helped later in life, except for the one about telling my brother about my pretty pathetic high school sex life. That was pretty uncalled for. I’m sure he’ll agree.

She says she talks to angels

I’m kind of psychic.  Seriously. Unfortunately it isn’t the kind of psychic where I can win the lottery, but I don’t feel that bad because nobody is that kind of psychic, or else they’d keep winning the lottery and laugh at all of the rest of us until Congress passed a law about psychics not being allowed to play and then whoever won from then on would be accused of being psychic and burned at the stake or publicly hung, and it would be bad, real bad (Michael Jackson) so it’s really for the best that I’m not that kind of psychic.

I’m also not the kind of psychic like John Edward or those women on psychic detectives, although I totally wish I was.  I would creep people out all the time by proclaiming that I hear and see dead people, in a really creepy voice that would give people the shivers and not want to be my friend. But I think I could do a really good job just making vague references to “bodies of water” or “the number seven” or ” a grove of trees” or “the letter ‘M'”, which I think pretty much sums up what psychics tell detectives.  Next time someone goes missing, just tell people you got this weird vision of “a body of water, by a road, and a grove of trees” and that you sense “something about the head…” because I mean, nobody dies from a kick in the shin. If you get killed, 90% of the time, it involves some type of bad thing happening on or near your head area and you can bet your ass your body is going to be hidden either by a road, by some trees, or by a body of water.  Unless you get an asshole that buries your body in their basement. Then the psychics will never find you. But that won’t stop them from watching Sesame Street that day and taking both the number and the letter of the day as psychic clues into your disappearance.  But I didn’t say all this to freak you out. This isn’t me as a psychic telling you that you’re going to die. As we’ve covered, I’m not that kind of psychic.  I won’t be able to find you – most especially if you’re in somebody’s basement.  Although you might have cancer, so I would check for that. We all have to get it at some point.  I’ve already had my turn, so it might be yours this time.

I’m not a pet psychic either. If I were, I never would have let my damn dog outside to get sprayed by some fuckin’ punk-ass skunk the other day.  That sucks. It would be cool though if I could make animals spontaneously combust with my thoughts alone. I mean, I would never do it to a good animal, but if a bear started eating my face at some point, I would totally do it then. And I think I would be justified. Maybe. I wouldn’t if it were a baby Grizzly eating my face though. Because babies don’t really know any better – but I would certainly be judging that baby’s mother as it sunk its teeth into my skull. “This baby Grizzly’s never learned to use his words! Where the fuck is this baby’s mother? I’m going get animal control all up in her bidness”.

Finally, I am not a psychic that gets paid to read your palm or your tarot cards, but I am certainly open to the possibility of that one day.  It would be so fun to mess with people. Except I’m actually a really nice person deep down so I would just tell people nice stuff about their futures, unless I got the sixth sense that they were an asshole. Then I would probably tell them they only had a couple of weeks to live, so they could repent and be nice to people so they wouldn’t go to hell.  I would be doing others a favor that way, so either way I help humanity. Which is kind of like my life’s mandate.  I should also note that there is nothing I like doing better than going to psychics. I don’t go out of my way or anything, but if I walk by a place that says “Psychic Reading – $5” and I have 20 minutes to burn, you can bet your ass I’ll go in there and hear what she has to say.  Then I go home and write everything down. One day I’ll have to fish those journals out. But the stuff I remember has all come true, so some people really are psychics. Kind of. Or really good guessers.

(Sorry – my ADD asked me to add this: One of my life’s biggest let downs thus far is that I’ve never been thrown a surprise party or been invited to a party that had a psychic there to tell everyone their fortunes.  See, I’m not related to, nor do I hang out with people, who think that would be the best EVER. Except maybe half of the WINOS.  But if anybody wants to know how I would like to spend my next birthday? A surprise psychic might be totally in order. We can both totally pretend that you didn’t get the idea from me and I’m totally surprised. But I guess the psychic will probably totally know and tell everybody.)

Okay, so what kind of psychic am I, you ask? Well, I’m the kind that hears a voice in my head once in a while about very important matters who is always right.  Unfortunately for my earning power, this voice generally only tells me things about my life on a need-to-know basis, so I can’t really conjure it up for shits and giggles or financial gain.  So I’m pretty useless as a psychic at a party or as your friend.  But I like to think of my voice as an angel. Probably since I’m Catholic and we Catholics adore our angels. When I was little my mom told me everyone had a guardian angel and I would think about mine for hours. Mostly at bedtime. I wondered if my angel slept when I did or if she kept vigil all night long so no monster could kill me as I slept. I think it must be the latter, because obviously, a monster has never killed me in my sleep and I hold my guardian angel accountable for that.  Because I’m sure there were many attempts, especially at ages 4 – 9.   But in addition to saving my life countless times, she also tells me stuff.

But not at church. The first time was at a commando party, so I want to note that angels, even Catholic ones, hang out a commando parties, in case you were wondering. I want to clear that up right here, right now, because it needs to be said.  So anyway, I’m at this party and my friend tells me that his new roommate graduated the same year I did from the same University and did I know him? He said his name but it wasn’t familiar, so then he pointed him out to me across the room.  And then, right then, my angel spoke. “That’s your husband.” Whaaaaat? I’m at a commando party and on my way to getting liquored up and you’re telling me that guy across the room that I’ve never laid eyes on before is my husband? This wasn’t really the way had pictured this going down. I would have done more waxing if I’d have known. Next time, maybe you could give me a little advance notice.  And by the way, has anybody informed him of this fact? (The answer to that question, I found out later, was a resounding “no”.  He had to be stalked per the pursuit strategy outlined here).  At least he was hot. I had that going for me.  Our courtship was a saga worthy of a 4 part mini-series and I won’t go into it here, but suffice to say that it was not like we met and it was love at first sight.  Or we met that night and then went out on a date right after that. No.  Too many starts and stops and drunken oratories to count.  There were many a day when I was like, “why the hell did my angel tell me that he was The One, when so clearly he is not?” But she was right, as she always is.

So then the next time my voice piped up, it was straight out of the New Testament.  You know how an angel told Mary she was going to have a baby and she was like, “The fuck? I’m a virgin. And not married and I’m like 14”. I’m not sure what verse that is, but you know, look it up.  Anyway, except for the part about being a virgin and not married and 14, that’s pretty much the same thing that happened to me.  My angel told me the night my son was conceived that I was with child and it was a boy. But thankfully, she did not tell me to name him Jesus. That would have been totally awkward.  Because people would call him “Hay-zeus” and I’d be like “No. Its pronounced “Gee-sis”, because it is God’s will”. And I just feel like he and I both would get our asses beat a lot for that.  So luckily God did not want my son to get his ass beat. He wanted his kid to have a unique name, so there weren’t like Jesus L. and Jesus C. and Jesus Y.’s in all of Jesus’s classes. Which is totally cool with me. I get it. But now that I think of it I feel bad because probably Mary was thinking the same thing as I was – that she and her son were going to get jacked because of this whole arrangement — and sadly, she was right.  That was kind of mean, God.  Just sayin’. I constructively criticize Oprah too, so its not like I’m just picking on you.

So when BD and I were trying to conceive our second little person, it didn’t turn out to be as easy as the first time, which had many benefits, if you know what I’m saying, but at the time I wasn’t really focused on the benefits.  Anyway, I became convinced that I was infertile and that we’d only have one kid if we didn’t go to all kinds of interesting lengths for number 2.  But after months of trying, I was brushing my teeth one morning and then the angel said, clear as day, “There is another little guy on the way.” ( Oooh. Read that last sentence again, slowly. If I ever write a book of poems, I’m totally going to use that last sentence. People pretend like being a poet is hard. Not if you’re a great rhymer/psychic like me. Totally easy.)  Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so then my angel tells me I’m pregnant with another boy and by this time, I know my angel is not fucking with me, so I didn’t even have to take a pregnancy test. I just ran into BD and exclaimed, “My angel just said I’m pregnant with a boy!” and he kind of rolled his eyes because I don’t think he is completely convinced about my angel, but then again, he isn’t completely unconvinced, so I did have to prove it on a stick a week or so later when I could take the test, but she was right, yet again.

So I guess what I’m saying is that angels talk to me and tell me stuff. But only when its really important. And that makes me psychic, even if it isn’t the cool kind of psychic.  I guess time will tell if I ever land a spot on “The Price is Right” whether my angel would think it was important enough to send me messages so I could yell, “$3.29, Bob!” with complete confidence. Because even if Bob Barker is a sexual predator, I still totally want to spin that wheel. Is that show even on anymore? I’ll have to ask the Internet becuase my angel isn’t answering that question.

All in favor of five year marriage contracts, say aye.

You may not have heard of this movement before because I have only recently made it up, so before you vote, I’ll explain it.

First, what I mean by marriage: two adults (I honestly don’t care about the gender) consenting to be legally, emotionally, physically, sexually and financially bound together until one of them dies.  If you get married in your twenties and you both live to be 90 — that means you’re looking at 60 – 70 years with the same person.  All of their good qualities, annoying habits, sicknesses, health, meltdowns, crisis, bad days, good days…for 65 fucking years.  I mean, even if someone is THE BOMB, 65 years is a long fucking time.

And then there are the millions of people who get married and decide that it sucks and then they get divorced – but not before they endure complete financial and emotional devastation in the process.  And if they have kids? Yeah. It’s messy. There is just so much pressure and its such a hassle to disentangle yourself from a marriage.

So I have an idea that could solve lots of problems.  Lets make it so that marriage isn’t necessarily forever.  I propose to make marriage a finite period of time.  So when you get engaged, you negotiate for how long you want to be married ahead of time.  Lets say its five years — I recommend this for the first contract.  It’s kind of like being in the army, where you sign up for an amount of time and during that time, the other person has your ass – exclusively and all the stuff that normal marriage is about. Then at the end of the time, you have the option to sign on for some more time, or split up the assets according to the original contract and amicably and legally go your separate ways. This way, if you marry somebody you wind up hating, you know you only have to deal with them for another couple of years and nobody is surprised or angered or shocked or all judgey that you aren’t renewing the contract.  If you made a good decision and your spouse is a keeper then you’re going to do everything in your power to ensure they want to renew the contract, so you’ll be a nicer person.  You won’t have the leeway to think, “So what if I haven’t taken out the garbage in 16 years? This person is stuck with me, so I can be an asshole whenever I feel like it.” You’ll try harder.

Say you’re in a five year contract and you’re coming up for renewal in a year.  Things are pretty good and you like your spouse. Are you going release some huge, putrid fart in the bed when you wake up right next to the other person? No. You’re going to save it because you want your contract renewed.  Are you going spend all the money on bobble-heads or porcelain figurines of turtles or Taco Bell Chalupas (yes, please) or are you going to tone it down? Are you going to make sure your partner is satis.FIED in bed, or be a three minute man? Are you going to think twice before you say something you don’t really mean, and say more of what you do really want, dream, hope, care about? Yeah. Yeah.  People in happy marriage contracts will constantly be working on the relationship and focused on it, knowing it can all be over soon if they don’t and it can keep getting better if they do.  And people who are miserable can see the light at the end of the tunnel, get their stuff together in an organized and professional manner, renew their Match.com subscription and start looking for the next contract. They’re going to be a free agent!! Bring. it. on.

I’m just thinking the finite contract lengths would inspire people to be more civil, more kind, more respectful to one another in marriage.  Sick of your partner or fallen out of love or out of lust? That’s okay. The contract will end. You can bear it until then.  Then you have the option to do what you want to do without being a total asshole within a marriage you aren’t happy with.  And how about when you get old? People change. Maybe the person that rocks your world at 30 makes you want to kill yourself at 60.  Or you have insane sexual chemistry with a person that you’d never want to raise kids with.  No worries!! You can find the right mate for you at every stage of your life, and have the commitment and consistency of a monogamous relationship.  And once people got used to this thing culturally, there wouldn’t be all these bitter divorces. People would understand that relationships between two committed adults are really important for human welfare, but that they don’t have to last forever.  They can end. And amicably. Or they can keep going, but on terms can be forever renegotiated, so everybody is getting what they need.

And for those few people who wind up renewing over and over for years and years, til death do they part, awesome! Romantic! You made it! And it makes it even cooler that all along the way you had the freedom to go and you didn’t. It probably means more than a traditional marriage that stays in tact for 50 years but the people don’t even talk to each other any more.  They were just too lazy or too religious to do anything else.

So now that you understand my idea, it’s genius, right?   The only thing I haven’t really figured out yet is the kids part.  That gets a little tricky.  What to do with kids that get made within the contractual period? Because I think kids are best off with two parents that love them, and each other, to death and that stay together happily until forever.  But as we’ve discussed already – that isn’t easy.  So maybe there is a special class of marriage contracts that specify the couple will want to parent children together and even if the “marriage” ends when the contract is up, there is still the understanding that both will be totally committed (and contractually obligated) to co-parent until the kids reach adulthood.  Kind of like what happens when people get divorced now, except without the expectations that parents stay together forever.

I guess my plan will not win fans with genealogists – it would make family trees a fucking nightmare.  People would end up with 10 or 12 step parents and a million half siblings, but that could be really good times.  It might also make Christmas card lists dicey, and people would have maybe 10 or 12 weddings in their lives, so you’d probably be at somebody’s wedding every Saturday.  On the other hand, maybe there wouldn’t be so much damn pressure on Your Big Day to make it perfect. And you wouldn’t burn bridges and sever ties because someone didn’t want to sit next to the cat at the reception or wear a feathered hat as a bridesmaid. Or if your best friend got preggers while you were planning the wedding, you wouldn’t care because you might have another one in a few years. The world would be full of parties and weddings that weren’t so damn complicated and were just fun! And finite!  Maybe even Stedman and Oprah would have done a 5 year “official” stint together, if they didn’t have to commit to forever. No. Probably her lawyers would spend 5 years just to negotiate the thing.

You may think this isn’t romantic, but methinks it’s actually the most romantic idea of all.  I hope that if I lived in this world of finite marriage contracts, BD and I would be one of the couples to keep signing up for more until we were 70, when we contracted to drive off a cliff together, happily, on a mutually convenient date.  I don’t know about you, but I like it.

Okay, so NOW all in favor, say aye….

Hysteria – Love’s Mom Crush, the Finale

How sad that the only living woman in the universe that was made to be my best mom friend didn’t ever go anywhere.  I had lost Kirsten, but I still had Oprah. No, I didn’t have Oprah either. Things weren’t looking great, but I moved on.

I kind of let the Kirsten thing go for a couple of years….if by “kind of” I mean I still had weekly thoughts about our blended family commune.  I wound up never finishing my research because I decided that my dream of being an absent-minded professor wasn’t as important as my dream of reproducing again. At the time, I didn’t see a way I could make both happen.  So I became a PhD dropout, sold out to The Man and wound up preggers again.

Maybe it was the hormones (whoremones?) and that I wasn’t getting enough sleep due to all that night orgasming I was doing, but Kirsten came back to mind.  What if somehow she never got my Evite? I mean, it said she never even opened it up. so there was a good chance she didn’t even KNOW I had planned a party in honor of us taking the next step in my pursuit strategy. Maybe she was thinking about me, and then when she realized that she wanted to invite my family to her next Disney World vacation, she would look for me at the university we shared and I would be gone. No forwarding address.  She would be heartbroken. The thought made tears form in my eyes (but it wasn’t enough for me to have them slowly roll down my cheek because I was fanning them so vigorously with my hands), so I decided that I must get back in touch with her again – two years after the disastrous party idea.

But first I polled all my friends to ask if that was weird and if I should do it.  Everyone told me to go for it, because I think they’re the type of people who like to drive very s  l  o  w  l  y past grisly car crashes, or TiVo and rewind a million times when Britney made her big “comeback” at the VMAs.  Yep, those are the types I chill with. So my friends and aquaintenaces encouraged me to go for it, knowing this would probably only end in disaster, and they wanted to have a front row seat. But the truth was that I was going to do it whether or not they approved — I just wasn’t going to tell them about it if they hadn’t.

My name is Love and I am a stalker.  I took a deep breath and wrote Kirsten an email, out of the blue, two years after our last contact.

I actually have the entire exchange in my email still and I’m thinking about reproducing it here, but Kirsten might see it and get mad at me. I don’t think she ever thought she would turn into a moving three-part series about a psycho-stalker who saw her as prey a potential best friend for life on a blog focused on an obsession with Oprah.  But she did, and hey – what the hell? So I guess I will show you what was written, word for word.  Here goes:

To Kirsten, From Love:

Hi Kirsten,

Its been over a year since we last spoke, but you may remember I interviewed you about finding daycare for E. How is he? Are you guys still going to [that daycare]?

A lot has changed on my side since then – I actually left the PhD program at [university] last year so I could spend more time with my boys – the hours just got too crazy…I still work full-time (now at [company]) and I’m expecting a second son in a couple of months. I guess we’ll have that in common now as well.

Anyway, I just thought I would reach out and say hi and see how things are going with you. Are you still working at [university]?  Maybe we can catch up over coffee (or McDonalds – lol) sometime!

Best Regards,

Love

Kirsten responded!! One day later:

Hey Love! Congratulations! Wow – these are big changes. I can understand why you left the PhD program. Even though you’re working full time, I bet it’s easier to leave work at work.

Now that E. is a little bit older, our family seems to be in a comfortable groove. We took him out of [that daycare] about a year and  a half ago and enrolled him in the [daycare] here on campus. Honestly, it was life changing. We love it and E. is thriving. I don’t have such negative thoughts on centers anymore…live and learn I suppose!

I would love to meet for coffee and catch up sometime – are you at [address]? If you’re downtown, maybe we can meet for lunch?

OH MY GOD. She is totally into me. RIGHT?! I mean, she responded right away and wasn’t even like “WTF? Why are you writing me two years after I did a stupid interview for you, psycho? Psycho, fuckface!” No. She sounded jazzed. Maybe I’m not crazy and I didn’t misinterpret our intertwined destinies!!

Over a few more emails we established a time and a place. I’d meet her on campus and then we’d go somewhere from there. So I’m thinking maybe Corner Bakery or Cosi or something like that, but when I got there Kirsten suggested somewhere much better and much cooler. We went to a small restaurant in a nearby museum that was really artsy and cool and only blocks away from campus. Did I say I love her yet? I do! I do!!

So I think lunch went really well this time and we just talked about stuff that friends talk about, so it was really our first real date and all I had to do was make her reveal her love for me so we and our families could sail off into the sunset….The only thing was that I was pregnant. REALLY pregnant. Like, giving birth in 5 weeks pregnant.  And I was huge.  I had the full-on preggers waddle and people would stop me and ask if I was having twins or just avoid me for fear I would go into labor at any moment.  My “little” guy turned out to be 9lbs, 12ozs, and non-pregnant I wear XS shirts,  so I was kind of hideously  HUGE. (I tried to add a picture here, but I’m WordPress challenged).

Unfortunately our lunch date had to end but I wasn’t leaving without a commitment that we would be BFF.  I asked her if I could see her again. She said yes, but that they were going on vacation for two weeks in a couple of weeks.  Given my due date that meant I couldn’t get together with her again until after the baby, and it takes at least three or four weeks after a c-section to feel normal again, so the soonest we could get together was two months later, and I’d have a newborn.  And my newborn turned out to be very sick in the beginning, so we didn’t get his surgery and medical issues put to rest until he was like 10 weeks old.  And by then, my beautiful date with Kirsten was a distant memory. And I was this new person. A new person addicted to porn. Remember?

So we emailed back and forth a few times and we couldn’t ever get a day to meet up that worked for her kids and my kids and slowly, slowly, we drifted apart again.  We never consummated our relationship with a secret handshake that I had secretly practiced so many times.  It just died out…and we aren’t BFF right now. We’re not in touch. Although I do think I’m LinkedIn with her…

As I wrote these posts this week I got all nostalgic and psycho and thought of doing it again — emailing her another two years later  out of the blue and asking her to go out for lunch again. But at some point you have to let it go, right? And now that I wrote all this about her, if we every became friends I would have to tell her and she would read it and get all creeped out and violated and then she would un-link me on LinkedIn.

But…..I did it anyway.  Today I emailed her again. I’m so creepy. GOD! I’ve come to accept that our love may have jumped the shark back in 2007, but I’ll let you know if anything changes….and then I will write the final finale for real, for real. Oh Oprah, I need you now more than ever.


Love Bites. Love’s Mom Crush Part II

Please forgive the delay in getting back to my Mom Crush story, but I have a good excuse.

It was my birthday and anniversary this week, so my husband has been busy taking care of all of my whims and most don’t involve my laptop.  One of those whims included the cutest Coach bag EVER. So I’ve been spending hours in front of a mirror admiring myself wearing it.  I’m a one purse kind of girl, and I haven’t had a new bag in three years, so it was so long overdue.  I feel like now that it is mine, maybe people will think I have some idea of how to dress myself.  But probably all they have to do is look at my shoes and realize I’m hopeless.  Forgive me for hating designer high heels – I like how they look on other people but I look like I’m a drunk prostitute when I wear them because I’m walking down the street tripping and swearing like a sailor and my clothes have fallen off and my hair is all tousled in the process because it takes a lot of energy to make the walk from the train to my office and then bandage up my mashed up, bloodied feet. So I stick with simple Naturalizer kitten heels, the favorites of corporate butch lesbians everywhere. I’ve explained how one of my greatest fears is being butch, but I have to side with those ladies on this one.

All of that was almost enough to take my mind off my mom crush story for a few days.  Okay, so I think where I left off was how I met this sparkly, beautiful rarity (you know, a mom I might actually welcome a play date with) named Kirsten through a daycare forum. So we had our conversation where I fell in love with her, and then it all came to an abrupt end when the conversation about the daycare we were thinking about sending our sons to was over.  Then I vowed to make her mine.

This took some strategy.  I went about it much like I would pursue a boy crush – and let me tell you, BD didn’t make it easy for me to land him, so I thought this might be a piece of cake compared to my stalking pursuit of BD back in the day.

So here is an outline of my general pursuit strategy:

  1. Find someone/something that I absolutely cannot live without.
  2. Make sure said someone knows who I am, and ideally wants me to stalk them even if they don’t know it yet. You can determine this by whether or not they file a restraining order. If no restraining order, proceed to Step 3. If restraining order, abort mission. Chances of success are quite low.
  3. Find a common interest. If none exists, manufacture one.
  4. Ask for their help, preferably on something that requires a lot of quality time with them.
  5. Show them how cool I am and subtly persuade them that they cannot live without me.
    1. Try sober humor first.
    2. Follow up with lunch/dinner/cocktail invitation. Drinks optional.
    3. If 5.1. or 5.2 fail, get drunk and dial, unless you know where they are.  Then get drunk, find them and profess your love. (You’ll see this one in action here)
    4. If 5.3. doesn’t work, flash boobs.
      1. Avoid 5.4 if this is a mom crush, unless you are currently breastfeeding a child under 12 months old.
      2. Avoid 5.4 if you don’t have big boobs.
      3. In other words, 5.4 is totally out of the question for me, but some others might find this a useful strategy.
  6. Get target to declare their love for me. Solidify bond through exchange of bodily fluids.
    1. In the case of a non-sexual pursuit, a secret handshake will suffice.
    2. In the case of a food item, gentle mastication and prolonged digestion will suffice.
    3. In the case of a celebrity of the same sex who has her own talk show, write emails to her or her producers every day/every other day about why you should be a guest on her show and write a blog that proves the depth of your loyalty by giving her a shout-out every day, along with constructive criticism.  When she finally sees you are The One and invites you to be on her show, admire, then touch, then ask exactly how she did her hair (see example here).
  7. Never let them go. Never. Remember how much work it was to land them?

Simple plan, right? Oh, and for those of you who can see the genius in this strategy, all this stuff is copyrighted and will be in my memoir one day, so don’t even think about reproducing it in written form.  I know it’s a risk to publish that list now, since they are ideas that the world has not seen, coupled with the fact that they have been proven to work every time, in every situation.  However, by all means, use this strategy in your own life and then tell Oprah about how it changed your life and who told you to do it.  Don’t forget that part about who told you to do it.  Oprah and I are still struggling to get through step 6.3, but I have total faith one day it will happen. Perhaps with your help.

So sorry – back to Kirsten. My dearest Kirsten. The Mom that was born to be my best friend. Okay, so we get off the phone and I decide that if Kirsten is sending her baby to that daycare, then I should probably send mine there too. I trust her judgment. Her little boy started there only a few weeks before our first call and mine was due to start within the next few weeks.  This daycare was a home daycare where the lady made you spend two days with her and your kid there before the kid could go on their own.  Kind of a pain in the ass, but it seemed like a good idea and it turned out to be for sure.  When I went there I met Kirsten’s little boy, E.  E was the cutest baby (besides mine) in the world. But he was unhappy at that place. He cried a lot and the lady said he was just really hard to soothe. I agreed with her. Whenever she just put him in a saucer by himself, he cried. Whenever I gave him attention or picked him up and played with him he giggled. Go figure. He may have been giggling because he was happy to get love and affection, or it could have been because he wanted me to be best friends with his mother and call me Aunt Love one day. I’m pretty sure it was the latter. But still, it bugged me that it didn’t seem like this daycare lady was very compassionate to this little guy. He did not like her. So after my first couple of “observation days” there, I called Kirsten.

I told her that E didn’t seem that happy at the daycare and I was a little concerned. Was he always cranky? She said he was the happiest baby ever, but he’d been home all summer full-time with his dad, so there was probably just an adjustment happening.  The daycare lady’s assistant was very kind and I saw that E liked her. Kirsten noticed too. She was a little nervous, but was pretty sure it was all good since he liked the assistant so much. I suggested we keep talking and keeping tabs on the place. Pursuit strategy step 2 – check.

(Note: I kept looking but didn’t find any better daycare options and I was running out of time for my guy, so I paid the deposit for this daycare.   To make a super long tangential story short, I didn’t wind up sending my son there. That lady was just too batty. By the grace of God, the day before we were supposed to start, I found another daycare that I loved.)

I called Kirsten again, but only got voice mail. I told her what we decided and suggested she come over to our new daycare. She emailed me back. She was going to stick it out at the one she was at. CRAP. No, FUCK.  Now Kirsten and I no longer had a reason to become BFF, besides that destiny dictated it.  Still though, I think I cleared the Pursuit Strategy hurdle Step 3.

It was time to up the ante move on to Step 4.  Asking for assistance.  So at this time I’m a PhD student and I’m in a class based on ethnographic research in marketing.  For simplicity’s sake, ethnographic research involves interviewing people as a form of research and observing them in their natural habitat.  I decided that my paper for that class was going to be called “A Postmodern Exploration of an Emotional Consumption Experience” which really meant that I had a really good excuse to ask Kirsten to be a participant in my new study, because it was about choosing daycare.  So I emailed her about it and asked her if she would be willing to be a subject in my research. Actually, she was the only person I emailed about it. And she said she would do it and she suggested we meet at ——- wait for it ———– McDonalds.   My heart leapt out of my chest. McDonalds!? Kirsten likes McDonalds?! We are so, so right for one another. Pursuit Strategy step 4 – mission accomplished.

Before you thought this story was creepy, but now you can see the genius of this plan, no? So I have to interview her about her decision as a mother to choose a daycare and now I can ask her all kinds of background questions so I can figure out if her husband is right for mine and make totally, completely sure that she and I agree on all things.  So far, we were totally in sync.  And she was willing to give me 90 minutes of her weekend – a huge deal for a working mom.  I was beginning to think she was starting to fall in love with me too.  And I was doing research. Killing two birds with one genius stone.  God, sometimes I can’t believe how good I am.

We met at a McDonalds playland, sans kids, and I bought her lunch. She ordered a salad. Not a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.  But maybe she only ordered a salad because that maybe that is what I was going to order and she didn’t want to seem like the sort of person who loved Value Meal #2.  Well, that is what I told myself. I was a little disappointed with her choice, but I remembered that she was the one who picked McDonalds, and there is nothing wrong with salads, right? Right? Right. Of course not. It’s all good.  She and I were the same height, she was probably a dress size smaller (salads, probably) and she was good looking in an all-American kind of way. She would look really good at the family J.Crew inspired garden parties I had been fantasizing about for so long.

After I got over all of my nervous giggling and tongue-tiedness, we were finally able to make it through the interview.  I learned much more about her life and circumstances and I loved her even more and her husband and her kids and I think at that point I was pretty pissed that I hadn’t gone out to Jared the Galleria of Jewelery and bought matching half heart pendants that had “Best Friends” written on it when you put the two together, because I was ready to get down on my knee and present it to her if I had it.  I mean, Step # 5 had come for sure.  It was time to ask her out. But I couldn’t do it then because I was thinking that maybe she would think my research was bogus and that I just asked her because I was obsessed with her which was true. I had to be professional and not let her know the depth of my personal interest. Plus, I had to buy some time to pick out our matching pendants.  Silver or gold? I just wasn’t sure what she’d prefer. It would take many more hours of thought to make such an important decision.

So a week later, I decided to plan “The Kirsten Party” at my house (I kept the theme to myself). The only problem was that the only people I knew that would come to a party I had were people I’ve known my whole life or were my neighbors or were my colleagues at school, who all knew each other.  She’d be the only person there who didn’t know anyone. And that might be fishy. But what the hell? I had to get her and the family to my house.  So I planned a BBQ, in her honor. But I didn’t tell anybody except BD, who told me I was psycho. He warned me against it. But I think that he was secretly afraid that her husband was going to turn out to be his BFF after all and he just wasn’t ready for the emotional depth a commitment like that might require. Or he thought I was psycho.

I sent out Evites. And waited. Some people said they’d come, but they weren’t really important except as proof that I had a life and friends that Kirsten could easily assimilate into.  Kirsten didn’t reply. Not Yes, No OR Maybe. So I made Evite do that thing where it reminds you that you haven’t replied.  And no reply. IN FACT, there wasn’t even a record that she had viewed the Evite. But I had the right email address. What to do? Did this mean she didn’t realize that we were meant to be? Or that it just went into her junk mail? Or that Evite was blocked on her work email?  It seemed like I’d be forced to call her.  And you know how I hate the phone. And if I called, what if she said no or sounded like she wanted to say no but didn’t know how to and it was totally awkward when I started sobbing and moaning softly on the other end? I didn’t have her home address, so a paper invite was out of the question.  While I have no moral dilemmas to stalking someone if I’m only trying to give them the gift of me, I don’t want it to be obvious to them. Step 5.2 was not working as well as I had hoped. It was almost time for the drunk dial as required in Step 5.3.  I had two glasses of wine. I was feeling a bit more bold. I was going to call her, dammit, because it was really for the good of everyone involved.  So I did. And I dialed the wrong number and the person was mean and my swagger dissipated and I drank another glass of wine and passed out. And then I tried to cancel my party. But BD wouldn’t let me.  So we had it. And Kirsten didn’t come. But my other friends did and they were cool and why did I need another friend anyway? I am SO busy. I mean SO BUSY.  I don’t even have TIME for another friend, you know?

So I let go of my dream of Kirsten…kind of.  Except for when two years later and eight months pregnant with my second son I decided it was time to rekindle my love affair with her.  I’ll save that for my next post: Hysteria! Love’s Mom Crush Part III.  My fingers hurt now. And my ego too. But it gets better…

If you were to tell me that I’m a mother of two, I wouldn’t believe you

I wouldn’t. And yet, the facts show that I am indeed a mother of two. I even have a muffin top that I swear at every day to remind me of this fact, and yet…

Moms are supposed to be responsible, mature and organized.  I am none of these.

Moms are supposed to know how to cook, make scrapbook thingies and keep their kids’ faces clean. Umm…no on all three counts at my house.

Moms don’t let their kids watch too much TV, listen to inappropriate music or play outside by themselves. My kids have seen every episode of Scooby-Doo ever created, can sing every word to both Kanye’s and The Killers latest albums and I’ve had my 2 year old returned to me no less than three times by a mother who does supervise her children.  (I should note that I wouldn’t have let the two year old out by himself on purpose, but he escapes a lot while I’m checking Facebook or watching Oprah. It’s a conundrum.)

Moms with careers are always talking about feeling guilty that their kids are at daycare. I rejoice because I know I am doing them a favor by working. Their daycare is 100% more safe, fun and educational than their time at home with me.

Moms aren’t supposed to bring their kids to McDonalds more than 4 times a year. They are supposed to feed them homemade, organic foods and shop for earth conscious toys.  The bulk of my children’s toys came out of Happy Meals, which I purchase an average of twice a week for them. I am madly in love with the McDonalds #2 meal and whatever addictive drug they put in the Diet Coke, so I feel a compulsion to go there whenever I’m feeling elated or anxious or happy or sad or lazy. Which covers most days. So the fact we only go twice a week kind of makes me a martyr for my children’s health.

Moms know which way they are supposed to go in the school parking lot and whether their kids are legally required to get vision tests before kindergarten and they dress their kids cutely and/or appropriately for school.  Can I just tell you – my five year old picks out his own clothes, which I buy in bulk from eBay because stores confuse me, so nothing generally matches and there are always a few things in there that I wouldn’t have paid for any day of the week, like the oversized dork dark purple T-shirt with this sci-fi D&D dragon on it in neon colors. Its something Napoleon Dynamite would have salivated over, and would get my son justifiably jacked by a posse of 8 year olds for wearing if he were eight, but at five he adores it and insists on wearing it with red and black wind pants. Which don’t match. At all.

I try not to photograph my children when they look like this to save them a little money in future therapy sessions and so I can look back when I’m old and make up stories about what a good mother I was, but I’m sure the other mothers at school are thinking “WTH is the matter with that kid’s mother?” (not WTF, because I’m convinced I’m the only mother whose thought bubbles must always include an F-bomb).  I know I would be thinking that about me if I were them.  But as you know, I’m a lover, not a fighter.  So as long as he has clothes on of any kind and we’re out the door on time to give me the extra 20 minutes I require to navigate the school’s fucking traffic pattern and catch my train, I’m not going to complain.

Moms are also supposed to edit their thoughts around their children. If a four year old asks, “Mom, what is a terrorist?” because he is listening a little too closely to NPR, a good mom says “Oh, honey. Don’t worry about that. Lets go to the farmers market and get some delicious organic beets!”  I go into a 20 minute lecture about who terrorists are, which depending on your religion and politics, could be just about anybody and cite examples from September 11, which of course, he wasn’t even alive for.  I’m sure my 5 year old knows more about war, prisons, and the criminal justice system than any kid his age. If he asks an intelligent question, I give him a totally age inappropriate, (hopefully) intelligent answer, like we’re in a masters political science program together. The other day while he and the neighbor kids were playing cops and robbers, I hear my son protest as he’s being brought to the jail in the backyard:  “COPS don’t decide if robbers go to jail! The JUDGE decides that! And probably the robber’s lawyer will say hes not guilty so it could take forever to figure out if he is going to jail!  I can get out on bail you know!” That almost got him beaten up, but it made my day. Someone in my house listens to me.

I’m just nothing like a person who fits my description of an appropriate mom.  I’m not like my mom and I get the feeling I’m very little like the other moms I regularly crash into every morning in the school parking lot.  Even blogging moms – they have mouths as dirty as mine – but I get lost in all the talk over prescription drug abuse. I have no idea what Xanax or Vicodin or Percocet are — but I hear about them all the time.  From what I gather, they must be sweet. But I’m a weird mom, so I don’t even have an prescription drug addiction worth noting.

So I come up short a lot. And I find myself gasping sometimes when I tell myself, “Love, these kids have only one mother. And that is you. That’s pretty wack.” To which I answer, “I know, RIGHT?” to which I then reply, “Poor kids”.  And then I say a prayer for them and start writing a new blog to try and forget the sorrow I feel for them that they didn’t get one of the totally normal moms.

On the other hand, the kids do have a few things going for them because of the mom they have:

1) If there is ever a b-boy competition in kindergarten, all of the hours my son spends watching ABDC on TiVo and having me rate his performance (pa-fo-mince) with spot-on impressions of Mario Lopez, Lil’ Mama, Shane Sparks and J.C. Chasez, will pay off and he will totally win. (“YO! That was so DOPE! Can I get a slow mo on dat?!”)

2) When the plague comes around again, my kids will survive — and thrive– because there isn’t a germ they haven’t picked up in daycare, or school,  or from a 4 day old discarded half-eaten cheeseburger that they finished off after finding it on the ground in the park.  Seriously, bubonic plague — bring it on.

3) I posted an excruciatingly long video on YouTube for my family blog of my toddler son “playing” the guitar and singing his own made up songs which inexplicably has been viewed hundreds of thousands of times, and which advertisers now want to pay us for.  So I know how to pimp out my kids so that they can go to college.

4) Each of my sons will be happily married. I find it hard to believe that they could marry anybody who, when compared to their mom,  will not blow them away with her mad skills in any culinary, cleaning, or child care domain. I think I’ve set the bar low enough that if she knows how to make any meal from ingredients that do not come directly from a box, they’ll commit the rest of their lives to worship her.  And the best marriages are those wherein the men are easily satisfied and worship their wives.

5) They’ll never doubt how much they are loved.  One thing I do excel at is telling them how much I adore them, how incredibly special they are and showering them with hugs and kisses.  I do that well. Because I can’t help it. And because they’re awesome  — even if they are single-handedly responsible for this goddamn muffin top.

Help me make up my mind – is John Mayer as much of a d-bag as I think he is?

I don’t like grey areas.  I’m a person who is only comfortable if I hold a strong opinion on something that goes one way or the other. So I think in binary – 0 or 1 (shit, its painfully obvious now that I once was a programmer), off or on, for or against, night or day, black or white (except in Obama’s case, in which a mix between black and white is incredibly delicious).  This isn’t really a trait I’m all that proud of, but hey, it is what it is. Obama rocks my world. McCain? I used to love him when I had to pick between him and any other Republican. But when juxtaposed with Obama? Oh sweet Jesus, are you kidding? (I must take a moment to compose myself – the lust overwhelmed me for a minute there).

So I have some really nagging issues that will not resolve themselves. I just don’t know where I stand and its making me crazy. I know where I stand on everything. Except these incredibly critical, highly thoughtful and earth-shatteringly bold questions. So what better way to formulate a “for sure” opinion by asking The Internet?  Okay, so here are the most pressing questions I have for you, wise Internet friends*.

  1. John Mayer writes great fucking songs. “Comfortable”, “Daughters”, “Say”? Awesome. The work of a truly sensitive, sexy, intelligent genius. Okay, but I read Us Weekly like the bible and that guy appears to be a total douche, unable to even fathom the emotional intelligence to write these songs.  So my question is: Is John Mayer a douche bag or what?

  2. UPDATED: Polldaddy doesn’t show you guys the “other” answers people put in. So I will. Other answers Love loves: “yes, but he’s so damn hot” and “yes in public; no in private. The guy is a media hound”.

  3. Michael Jackson. MJ. The King of Pop. I didn’t realize until he died and they did those video retrospectives on VH1 how fucking cool he was. I mean, I own almost all his shit, but not until he died did I just freak out about how cool he was. I made my 5 year old and 2 year old sons sit down and watch all his videos with me. I think that accounts for most of their nightmares these days, but I felt it was imperative that they knew who MJ was.  I mean, how else will they ever grow to understand their mother?  On the other hand, some say this guy a child molester. In my humble opinion, child molesters should be killed upon a guilty verdict being rendered. I’m sorry, but I have compassion for anybody else in this world, but not pedophiles. Ever. Never. Now, MJ was acquitted of that stuff, but so was OJ but everybody knows he did it. Yet, every famous person that ever met the guy swears he was the coolest dude on the entire planet and I kind of hope he was.  Now, I’m taking a big risk since Oprah’s episode on MJ airs tomorrow and Oprah may reveal her true thoughts on this subject, which will count for a lot.  But I’m going to trump Oprah and ask the Interent. My question is: Was Michael Jackson a pedophile or what?

  4. You may have read my last post about men being sex addicts. All of them. So my question is this: if you marry a professional athlete or rock star, who many women want to fuck on contact and who you are away from very often, do you seriously, honestly believe and expect that your husband will remain faithful after you marry the dude? Is that even realistic?

UPDATED: Other answers Love loves: “Depends on the dude. I doubt Herschel Walker would” and “Don’t give a shit as long as I’m married to a rock star”

I would provide a fourth question, but I have a very strong opinion on whatever other question you may throw my way. Try me – and I’ll give it to you just the way I think it is.  It’s just these three that have me totally baffled.

Oh wise Internet, what do you say?

* Nel and Belle’s answers count x5 since they have read all of my posts and know the very essence of my soul.