Job Insecurity.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no.

Kathryn, the other copywriter intern here at B* Advertising, has been let go. The partners just announced that they will not be offering her a full-time position because of the current lightness of the work load. Makes sense. Makes perfect sense. Makes perfect nauseating sense if you knew that I am the other copywriter intern…and my internship (and thus my review) is up on December 6. Then they’ll decide my fate. And if the work is still slow…

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no.

And to think I used to secretly wish this upon her! She was mean to me, probably because I threatened her job when I joined this place, so I secretly wished she’d disappear. Then I could work without hearing her typing away in the other corner, trying to one-up me. Now she’ll be gone tomorrow, and I can definitely say THIS IS WORSE.

I do have a back up job. It’s my first job. Not a bad job, but it’s not what I want to do. It’s not where I pictured myself. And I certainly did not picture working with a man who found my AIM, hit on me, told me intimate details about his married life, and then spit me right back out because I didn’t want to return his attractions. If I go back to my old job, he’ll be there. Awkward.

Kathryn was crying. I walked over, sat behind her, and scratched her back. She stopped crying. “It’s amazing how that makes the tears go away,” she said quietly. I guess she’s human after all.

Please God. I have one month. C’mon pace, pick the hell up!

At the Shadowbox Cabaret

Me: I like your goatee.
Waiter: Thank you. You should grow one.
[later]
Waiter: Who here has never been here before?
*Everyone points at me*
Waiter: Oh my god! You’re a virgin? YOU’RE A VIRGIN?!
Me: That depends on who’s asking. Are you my dad? Then YES.

The Shadowbox Cabaret is a comedy musical production with music, singing, dancing, skits, and lots of laughter. Last night's production was aptly titled "The Freak Show". Lots of slutty nurses, goth leather, werewolves, Frankenstein, and scary campfire stories. The waiter in question had a 5-inch braided goatee hanging from his chin. I had to comment.

3 Diseases and a Party.

Three years ago I confronted the painful reality of Scoliosis. A month ago my doctor diagnosed me with Fibromyalgia. Yesterday, I was additionally diagnosed with Sciatica.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. Don’t get me wrong, it sucks ass. Much of my life has been pain-ridden, one hand doing work, the other hand rubbing the spot that hurts…then the next…then the next. I can’t do some things healthy people can do. It is painful, taxing, and expensive. But now that I know exactly what I have, I feel better prepared. I haven’t won the war, but now David isn’t just a little boy, he’s a little boy with a powerful slingshot…and he has a pretty good idea of where to hit Goliath. Knowledge is power.

The doctor isn’t worried about my Scoliosis, so that’s been put on the backburner (where it will hopefully die a short, sweet death). I’m taking an anti-depressant called amytryptaline for my Fibromyalgia to take away the pain in my muscles. As for the newfound Sciatica, I’ve been ordered to do physical therapy for a month. After that, if I haven’t improved, it’s off to the CAT scan for me. One day at a time. That’s all I can take.

In other news, I finally found a compromise between my laziness/frugality and my need to “do something” for Halloween. The answer: A dinner party. A “harvest” party, if you will. Nevermind that the two living rooms are under construction, the dining room is clogged with everything the living rooms used to hold, the downstairs bathroom has been out of order since I moved in, and I have no idea what to cook. I am Leslie, Mighty Warrior Princess of all things spontaneous and fun and harvesty and…

Oh shit I have no idea what to cook!

Desserts are easy, but what’s a good fall party appetizer? What’s an easy entrée? How do I do this without breaking the bank?

Help, please?!


The party is on Saturday night, so submit all frantic suggestions and award-winning recipes before then. Or laugh at me after.

Scoliosis, Fibromyalgia, and Sciatica are diseases of the spine, muscles, and nerves, respectively. For more information, look it up.

7 Things.

Thank you, Daphne, for giving me this list and thus something to do at work.

7 Things I Plan To Do Before I Die

1. Conceive a baby with the man I love AND give birth the natural way (no C section).
2. Stay a size 6 while continuing my diet of chocolate and sweet potato fries for as long as humanly possible.
3. Become so well acquainted with the English language that I always know the exact word to describe what I am feeling instead of squirming and squeezing my brain until a half-baked word comes out.
4. Expand my Chinese vocabulary and improve my American Sign Language and Russian (I don’t like Spanish or French).
5. Write a bestseller novel about the dramatic movie that is my life.
6. Master the art of shooting a gun while looking totally badass AND managing to NOT shoot myself.
7. Prove to my parents that it is possible to have a happy marriage, functional children, AND a clean home all at the same damn time.

7 Things I Can Do

1. Contort my face to resemble a pig, fish, or anything else that’s ugly.
2. Bake a mean and thoroughly irresistible pumpkin chocolate chunk cake.
3. Clean and organize anything.
4. Battle in witty banter…and win.
5. Sing…in a choir, in a talent show, in karaoke, at church, in the car…I’m mighty good at it too.
6. Write and verbalize what I want to say in an engaging, interesting way.
7. Swallow big pills.

7 Things I Cannot Do

1. Drive stick.
2. Stand or walk for longer than an hour a day.
3. Focus on more than one thing at a time. VERY linear thinker. (However, I’m good at multi-tasking. It makes sense, trust me.)
4. Point with a straight finger. (I have double-jointed fingers so when I point, my finger is crooked.)
5. Play video games that involve gangsters or golf. Snore.
6. Own a doll. They are ugly, stiff, and scary. Only stuffed animals for me.
7. Go to bed without brushing my teeth. MUST always go to bed with a clean mouth.

7 Things That Attract Me To the Opposite Sex

1. Structured, handsome face
2. Brunette or darker
3. Strong, manly hands
4. Humor and wit
5. Intelligence equal to mine
6. Faith in God
7. Ease and charm

7 Things That Attract Me To The Same Sex

1. Charm and magnetism
2. Range of interests
3. Maturity in thought and manner
4. Humor and wit
5. Love and compassion
6. Energy and optimism
7. A love for food

7 Things I Say Most Often

1. I know, right?
2. I’m hungry.
3. Love you, baby.
4. I’m hungry.
5. You’re crazy.
6. I’m hungry.
7. You look like a goon.

7 Celebrity Crushes I Am Not Ashamed of
I don’t really have celebrity crushes because 1) I think I'd lead a tortured life crushing on someone I'd never be with and 2) I think the one I'm already with is pretty damn hot so...

7 Paradoxes I Am Not Ashamed Of

1. Love kettle corn, hate butter popcorn
2. Love popcorn Jellybellies, hate Jellybeans
3. Attracted to Caucasians, not attracted to Asians
4. Love a bright green, don’t have a green thumb
5. Love lobster, hate crabs
6. Cry on my side, sleep on my back
7. Devour chocolate or soft candy, can’t finish a piece of hard candy

Psycho Series 4

Yesterday Jason and I wanted to pick up a pie from a pizza parlor but since it was Sunday, we didn’t know if the place was open. I insisted he call the place and ask for the exact hours, but he called his friend instead. I claimed he went to an unreliable source and pestered him to call the parlor directly, but he refused. He didn’t talk to me all the way home and when he did, he said he was mad because I second-guessed him. I said I did no such thing. I just wanted to make sure!

Oh God. I said. I’m doing the same thing my father does to me.
She bent over, laughing. “Poor Jason,” she said.
I know. I smiled. I feel sorry for him too.

Love Makes The World Go Round

And the lack of it makes it stop.

Yesterday Truman called me. He's not just my mechanic, he's my friend. A month ago, he told me that he was a recovering atheist; he hated God for his dad's addiction to crack, his mom's death, and his ex-fiance cheating on him. But he wanted to see his mom again and knew what he had to do to make that happen - that's where the "recovering" part came in. Moved, I bought him a few worship CD's with his favorite song, dropped them off, and invited him to church. Weeks later, he showed up. The next week, he brought his girlfriend. He was getting back on track with God and I was a part of it. Even in the midst of my own struggles, I was given a chance to help someone and it felt good.

"I don't know how to tell you this..."
I had done something wrong. What did I do?
"But I can't go to church with you anymore."
Why, Truman?
"Do you want the truth?"
Yes please.
"It's you."
What? What...I don't understand...what did I do?
"You didn't do anything. It's just that...well...I sit in church and I try to listen, but all I can think about is you."
My brain stops. I can't think.
"I think it'd be better if I went to another church."
But...but I can sit somewhere else! We can go to another service! Would that help?
"No, no, I really think I need to go to another church."

He told me that the last year of his 3-year relationship with his girlfriend was hell, and it was about to end. I wanted so badly for Truman to find love, and I was sorry that I could not give him what he was seeking. But I respected him for recognizing his weaknesses and making a change. We said goodbye on a hopeful note.

I was stunned. Guys think of me a lot? Like that? I wasn't flattered. I kept thinking, Where did I go wrong? Why is this happening? I was supposed to be aiding your life, not stunting it.

*

This past Monday, a Japanese model named Tenshi was scheduled to arrive from Nigeria. My bestfriend, Chris, had found her online. For a month and a half, they shared the deepest intimacies of their lives. I was still surprised, however, when he told me that she would be flying over within weeks to stay for 2 weeks. The flight cost? $1900. I tried to hint caution, but it was too late. He had already sent $600 to her to help with the flight. Plus, what could I have said? For months his desire for true love had grown more and more intense. He has so enamored with Tenshi that he was already hearing wedding bells.

I wasn't surprised when she disappeared. I never believed she was Japanese, a model, or working in Nigeria. I didn't even believe she was a woman. Whoever she was, she was gone, now $600 richer.

I asked Chris if he was okay. He didn't say much, only that he was disappointed. The next weekend, he drove to Baltimore with his friend Nikki for an extravagant getaway. He came back $550 poorer, quiet, and deeply in love with Nikki, who also professed her desire for him but has a boyfriend. Days later, a self-proclaimed sex apathest started writing erotica. He's still writing.

*

A few weeks ago, an old co-worker from my previous job found my AOL screenname and contacted me during work. We talked openly about our lives...a little too openly. He shared all the details of his troubled marriage, his domineering wife, his sexual frustrations, and the burden of raising 2 small boys amidst it all. I have a habit of telling too much, and in turn, I shared intimate details of my life that he had no business in knowing.

It wasn't too long before things went too far and I knew it. He readily declared his attraction to my figure, my face...he showered compliments and innuendos that should have been directed to his wife. Things needed to change, but how? I'd never been in that situation before, yet a part of me wanted to listen to him because he had no other outlet for his feelings. He wasn't a bad person. Was I overreacting? I discussed it with friends. "Have you considered leaving Jason for him?" No, I replied. I love Jason. I would never. "Then you know what you have to do," they replied.

It was only a matter of time before he made another distasteful comment toward me. This time, I swallowed my fear and gently but firmly told him the truth. I think we've crossed a line, I said. You've said things that are inappropriate and should be said to your wife. I'm sorry you're hurting. You need someone to listen to you, but I'm not that person. You need a professional counselor. You need to seek help.

He spat back. He defended his actions. He degraded and insulted me. He said, "I thought you were a girl I could talk to about anything, but I guess I was wrong." He left the conversation and hasn't spoken to me since.

*

Love changes people. So does the lack of it. Love is a wondrous, mysterious puzzle. It's boundless, measureless, and infinite - yet can be captured in a single moment. The lack thereof also has no bounds, no measure of what it is capable of, and can change a person in an instant. Wars, both large and small, are fought on the existence and the lack of love. As imperfect people, we have been on the giving and receiving side of both. Perhaps each of us was born with a different amount of love poured upon us. Yet we are each born with the capacity to love, and the decision to use it...and how and upon whom we use it...is also ours. Love is not a lesson. It is simply inescapable.

Down In Fraggle Rock

I don’t know what was cuter. The adorable Fraggles singing and dancing on the television, or my punch-drunk boyfriend clapping his hands with glee, sitting on the very edge of the bed swaying and jumping and singing with his Fraggles. He was 4 years old again. He was even grasping his sippy cup – a large bottle of Zinfandel.

He tirelessly explained the entire world of Fraggle Rock - pointing and explaining, pointing and explaining. First came the Fraggle characters: “There’s Red Fraggle. She’s the hot one. That’s Wimbley. He’s crazy - look at his nose. There’s Mokey, she’s a hippie. Oooo, there’s Gobo! He’s my favorite!”

Then the other characters: “See those little guys? All they do is work. They keep building glass but the Fraggles eat them. Oh, that’s Doc and his dog. His dog sees the Fraggles but Doc doesn’t believe him. Uh oh, here come the Gorgs! Gorg tries to catch the Fraggles. He’s mean.”

Finally, an adult synopsis of the meaning of life: “Fraggle Rock teaches you all kinds of lessons in life. There’s just so much to learn! Jim Henson created the show to spread world peace. See how there’s all these different cultures and none of them understand each other? See? See? Seeeeee?!”

Two episodes later, I was tired, cold, and snuggled deep inside the covers. Jason, on the other hand, gestured toward me and, with his eyes still glued to the screen, said, “This is the last episode, I promise honey. I’ll brush my teeth and go to bed after that.”

And he did. While humming the theme song.

Ah, life is so good, down in Fraggle Rock. (*clap clap*)

Thank you everyone for sharing your irrepressible joy and vigor for Fraggle Rock. I honestly had no idea that Fraggle Rock was ever a show. (I was born the year of its debut in 1983; it ended four years later, when I probably would have joined the ranks of Fraggle fans.) For a moment, I’d forgotten how important child shows are to us. MY favorite muppet memory is the movie “A Muppet Family Christmas”, which aired in 1987 on HBO. I can still see that crazy chef trying to fry Big Bird for Christmas dinner. What a hoot…

Special thanks goes to those who introduced me to the cult that IS Foamy the Squirrel. Had it not been for your outrage at my ignorance, I undoubtedly would suffer a knarly, squirrely death. (Personally I think he’s kind of scary looking, but that’s just me. And don’t tell him I said that.)

The Joy of Pants

After months of procrastination, I finally went shopping for pants this weekend. You can only recycle two pairs of old jeans for so long. Plus, the shrinkage left my ankles bare, giving me reoccurring flashbacks of mom’s horrendous fashion experiments up until I hit puberty.

Jason, whose pants overflow from his dresser onto the floor to form small hills (and whose mother buys him all his clothes), could not grasp how shopping for pants could be so dreadful.

I didn’t know where to begin. My short stature? My thin legs? My wide hips? My straight and narrow figure?

So I set off to shop on my own, thinking better of staying to explain the exhaustive nature of finding pants, lest I fly into a rage that would incorporate flailing of the arms.

First stop was Plato’s Closet, a consignment shop. I was quite a sight - a small Asian girl loading every spare limb with at least 10 pairs of pants. I must have tried on 50 pairs. As you can imagine, lots of hopefuls were dashed. Too long, too tight, too loose (nothing too short, that would be the day). Two hours later, my back was picketing the decision to shop. I only found ONE pair that fit perfectly – a light blue pair of Union Bay cords.

The next day, I set off for the mall right after church. He must have felt sorry for his pantless girlfriend, because Jason agreed to shop with me. However, as soon as we entered JC Penney’s, Jason shot off in the opposite direction explaining, “I’m going to find something fun to do. Call me when you’re done.” (He later divulged his decision to eat at Applebee’s, where he unknowingly stumbled upon a gathering of stranded boyfriends who toasted him upon his entrance.)

I tried my ever-faithful PacSun. When I first discovered that their jeans fit me, I bought 6 pairs on the spot. This time, I was looking for colorful cords. Nothing. So I walked into the GAP. At first glance, I didn’t see any nice cords. I was muttering under my breath and just about to walk out the door when I walked straight into a rack of all kinds of cords. Selah! I had no idea what size I was, let alone what GAP size I was, so once again, I stacked my limbs with every prospect and waddled into the fitting room.

An hour later, I’d found 2 pairs that I liked AND fit me comfortably. Sound the gong! By this time, Jason had found me and was impatiently tugging me out the door. When I put the items on the counter to buy, he threw a new winter cap on the pile and shot me a “I deserve this for enduring the torture that IS shopping” look. I shot a “You’re the one who agreed to come with me you bum” look, but all he did in response was change his choice of cap color. Fine. I cave.

Before he completely pulled the plug on shopping, though, he spotted Suncoast Video and just had to go in. I’d spent hours that weekend collecting, counting, and organizing years of Jason’s neglected coins. There were stacked on his dresser, piling inside his beer mugs, overflowing in his car. It was an eyesore, but the fact that it was an eyesore that could pay for dinner motivated me to continue until my fingers reeked of brass. The total tally? $60. Half in pennies! I insisted we share in our newfound wealth, so after some thought, Jason decided he wanted to buy a new DVD and then I could have the rest. Into Suncoast we went.

The new releases were a loss. Neither of us could find something we both wanted to see. And then he spotted it.

His eyes bulged. He squealed. He held it tightly in his arms (rather, he put it in my arms and made me hold it tightly).

I looked at it. You have got to be kidding me.

It wasn’t Terminator, Die Hard, South Park, Star Wars, or even another obnoxious video game. It wasn’t anything that would lead you to believe that the same man had hauled his colossal and very dangerous tommy gun to a friend’s party the night before where he bragged, passed it around, and said things like “Yeah man, that’s the real shit.”

It was the entire first season of Fraggle Rock. FRAGGLE ROCK. Did I mention it was Fraggle Rock?!

I shook my head no, but he insisted. And after we bought it, he could not talk about anything else.

“I got Fraggle Rock!”
“Hey, did you know? I HAVE FRAGGLE ROCK!”
“Fraaaaaaaggle Rock, la la la laaaaaa!”

I gave it some thought, though, and I would much rather him watch Fraggle Rock than his usual gun toting, mission killing, whore raping video games. I mean, we both got what we wanted, right? I got my pants, he got his Fraggle Rock. I clothed my lower half, he…got video puppets.

This morning I received an email.

im sittin here watchin fraggle rock. now thats some cool shit! You need to watch this stuff.

im supposed to go over to chris day's place later so he can look at this tommy gun. i hope he wants to buy it, or at least trade for it.

It just goes to show. Guns and ammo may come and go, but Fraggle Rock is here to stay.

Psycho Series 2

Today's morning session went smoothly. She believes that I have a strong desire to heal, grow, and follow God's will, and thus I will be among the fastest to achieve my goals. I wasn't ready for such optimism, nor am I sure that I am as strong as she believes me to be, but things are looking up and that is all that matters.

So for today's edition of Psycho Series, I'd like to share an email that I opened upon returning to work.

Subject: how’s it goin…hot stuff

how was your session this morning? are you still crazy?

that last one was a loaded question... WE'RE ALL CRAZY!!!

i got my paper done early last night and i passed out around 10. thats
how im up so early when i dont need to be. YAY!

It’s pretty cold this morning, that sucks.

well, I’ve been up for about an hour now, its time to take the kids to
the pool.

talk to you later.

love ya!
Jason

Subject: Yes I am hot and don’t you forget it.

Jason, let me just start this email by reminding you that I know where you sleep, I know where you poop, and you taught me how to use a gun.

With that said, yes I am still crazy. I am crazy, I am wonderful, and you love me. I repeat. YOU LOVE ME.

Thank you for sharing your poop schedule with me. Once again, I’d like to remind you that to flinch or run out of the room when I fart is a total double standard when I have withstood more than my share of your gastrointestinal rumblings. Should we one day share a bathroom, I better not hear you run for the hills when your Lady Love is taking the throne.

I love you too.

Leslie

This Is Why I Stick To Nair.

I did not write this. I received this in an email from a co-worker this morning. Had my doubts at first, but I lost it when she said"woo hoo". (Does anyone really say that?) Personally, I stick to shaving and Nair. It may not be as quick, but it's better than getting your Woo Hoo sealed shut.

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 hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off. easy! 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.

(YA THINK!?!)

So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its 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 the 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 GOD! Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip.

CRAP! Another deep breath and RRIIPP! Everything is swirling, vision 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.

DAMN! Like 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 super-glued myself to the porcelain! God bless the man who had 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 - "OK, my butt and whoo-hoo 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 hole or whooooo-hoo?"

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 GOD!

The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend. It's sooo painful, but I really don't care. " It works! IT WORKS! " I get a hearty congratulation 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.

Housekeeping! May I fluff your peeloh?

When you’re in a working relationship, you try to do things out of love. Sometimes you do things out of spite. And sometimes, you do things because the alternative is just too revolting for words.

This weekend, during the two 5-hour shifts he was gone at work, I cleaned his room. No, I OVERHAULED his room.

The first time I ever walked into his room, it was dark. I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t notice his Beavis & Butthead poster or the dust icicles hanging from his ceiling. I was too busy not-watching the movie and trying to make a move on the oblivious but handsome boy sitting next to me.

These days, he’s still handsome (and oblivious). We still not-watch movies and I still make moves on him (although it’s gotten noticeably easier to get his attention). But MY GOD, if ever there were a room that cried out NEGLECT, it would be his. His room was like the potbellied orphan on TV whose big eyes said, “Help me! I eat dirt and poop and the flies are my friends!”

Saturday night, I heard the cry of the potbellied orphan: “Clean me! Clean me!” I had a flash vision of Jason’s buddies high-five’n him. “Your girlfriend cleans your room? All right! Rock!” But I’m not a submissive wife with dirty feet in a baggy dress. I’m a clean-cut girlfriend who cleans because it’s therapeutic; as I clean out a room, I clean out my mind. Plus, I don’t want to step on any more mysterious crunchies on his floor or stare at any more dust icicles before I fall asleep.

So I made his bed. I scoured his dresser for boxers and tee shirts with holes, held them up before my scrutinizing nose, made a face, and threw each one into the trash. (That’s right, honey. If you’re reading this, I threw away your holey, thinned out boxers and I DID IT WITH A HAPPY FACE. And they’re LONG GONE now so you CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT! Who’s your daddy now?!)

Then I climbed the Mount Clothes Everest and brought back small piles to fold and organize. Climb, fold, organize, store in dresser, repeat. I organized each drawer according to type. Underwear, tee shirts, jeans, and khakis. Since his room is small and storage space is limited, I neatly laid his pants in a corner of his floor and only stored away warm weather clothes. At least this way, he’d reach for clothes already on the floor and won’t mess up my pristine organizational skills inside the dresser, now that it’s turning cold.

I tucked away his duffle bags. I dragged his army bag full of gun ammo into the corner. I organized his smelly shoes. I picked up all his cough drop and gum wrappers. I took out his trash. I vacuumed the floor, sucking up years of hair, BB gun pellets, dirt, and grime. And to top it all off, I sprayed the air with Febreze so that the surprise would smell fresh.

I closed the door and waited for him to come home. His reaction was priceless.

“What the hell happened to my room?!
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Suppressing smile.
“But it’s…it’s cl-clean! And my clothes! Y-you…what did you do?!”
Why, I just don’t know what you’re talking about. Can’t suppress smile any longer.
“Mooooom! She cleaned my room! And you let her?!”

Despite his teasing, he couldn’t stop smiling.

The next night, he was gone again. So I cleaned again.

This time I attacked the long, makeshift shelves above his headboard. I should have taken a picture. His shelves were what Rip Van Winkle would have found if he had woken up on a shelf, then was visited by King Dust and Queen Grime, who then pooped MORE dust and grime on the shelf, and then had 1 million dust babies who had 10 million more dust babies who ALL POOPED MORE dust and grime on the shelf.

And Jason has 5 of those shelves - WITH YEARS of long lost collectibles, old receipts, letters from every insurance agency on the planet, alcohol bottles, golf balls, buttons, knives, legos, toy cars, nails, coins, and every odd wangdoodle and wagnot you can think of. (Including an old, yellow stalk of weed.) ALL SO DUSTY that I couldn’t tell the shape or color of anything until I hosed it with cleaner and scrubbed each item with 10 paper towels.

I know.

So I attacked one shelf at a time. I scrubbed every item until it shone with my reflection. I stood on my tippy toes to wipe each shelf with Orange Pledge. Every swipe of the towel collected inches of black dust that would fall onto his bed. (I kept my mouth closed in fear of wayward dust balls.) Then I sorted through everything, knowing that the dirtiest trash can be the most prized treasure (which means my ass is grass if I throw away anything important). So I inspected each item, which ended up either in the Paper-Letter Box, Odds-End Box, or Trash of Doom Bag. Items left went back on the shelf, this time placed in a way that was tasteful and space-efficient.

Hours later, I was finished. My hands were caked with Pledge oil and my hair probably had a dust ball or two clinging to it, but you should have seen that wall. The Hygiene Angels were singing. I was ready to throw away the evidence, re-Febreze the air, and wait for my praise.

But he came home early. I had just stepped off his bed and was reaching for the trash bag when he walked in. I froze.

“Hi! Wait a second, what’s this? HEY! What the- YOU CLEANED MY ROOM AGAIN! MOOOOOM! You let her clean my room again?!”

After he calmed down, (“This is going to take me YEARS to dirty up again!”), he insisted on checking my work by sorting through the trash with the weed stalk. He salvaged a few gun parts, but other than that, I had done a good job.

Once again, Jason was smiling. “I can’t believe you cleaned my room,” he said, “You’re too good for me.”

I know. I replied. I know.

Say CHEESE

I've finally managed to sneak onto Jason's laptop to upload all the pictures he has stored of our escapades for the last 7 months. Blogs are so much more intriguing when accompanied by pictures, don't you think? I tried to add a picture or two to every blog that was appropriate. Enjoy!

There's a Reason They Call it a COMFORT Blanket

Yesterday, 3 co-workers - Susan, Jennifer, and Heidi - and I snuck out of work into the rain to Zip's, a popular burger joint in town. As we left Zip's and climbed back into Susan's car, Susan and Jennifer both gasped in horror. Heidi and I leaned forward from the back seat to see what all the commotion was about.

Jennifer held up a soaked drawing drawn by Gracie, Susan's 7 year-old daughter. But Susan, noticeably more horrified, held up what looked like a 5x5 piece of soaked gauze. It was thin (you could clearly see each individual woven string), it was the color of dark mucus, and it was stitched together in the middle (clearly it had seen better days). Now, it was soaking wet. I've never seen anything more pathetic.

What is it? We all wanted to know.

"THAT," Susan pointed, "Is Gracie's blankie."

Ugh. We wrinkled our noses. That's her blankie?

"Well," she explained, "It used to be a huge towel. I used it to prop her head up when she was a baby. After that, she had to have it everywhere she went. I can't tell you how many times we've had a crisis because of this thing." And she proceeded to enlighten us with a story about the time when the Olive Garden threw away the blankie, denied everything, and Susan being the dogmatic tyrant she is, demanded they dump ALL their trash out onto the driveway where she spent an hour wading in trash in her new dress until she found the marinara, alfredo soaked blankie.

Jennifer shook her head. "You shouldn't have done it, Susan. You shouldn't have let her have the blankie. Now you've spoiled her." Now it was Jennifer's turn to regale us with a story about a previous roommate who, to Jennifer's horror, brought her blankie (really a pile of filthy rags) to school. It smelled so revolting that Jennifer would sneak the blankie out of the room and wash it when her roommate wasn't looking. "I just don't get it," she said. "It smelled so bad and she was in college! What was her mother thinking?" She shook her head disapprovingly. "When I'm a mom, I will NEVER let my children have blankies."

Heidi just shrugged her shoulders. "I never had one, so I don't understand it either." They nodded unanimously. Maybe it's just because we never had one. But still!

Meanwhile, I had been very quiet. Yes you would let your children have a blankie. You would if that was the only thing that comforted them. You would if that was the only thing that helped them sleep. You just don't understand. Don't knock what you don't understand. But I didn't say anything. I was afraid to let them know that I still sleep with my blankie - the one I've had since the day I was born.

My aunt, my dad's older sister, gave the blankies of her then 9 and 7-year-old boys to me. Pink and white baby blankets. I loved them. During the day, they were my capes as I flew into the next adventure. During the night, they were my ever-faithful companions, snug in my chubby little arms. I never questioned the wisdom of or the reason behind having blankies. Why should anyone question something they've lived with their entire life?

When I was 3, I accidentally left them in a hotel in the midst of a family vacation. I didn't know they were gone until after we arrived at our next destination, hours away. When I finally found out, I couldn't be consoled. Sympathetic, my aunt and uncle drove all the way back to retrieve my treasures. I still remember the euphoria I felt when they came back, blankies in tow.

When I turned 9, my mom would cluck disapprovingly every time she saw me with them. "You're too old for those!" she declared. "What will other people think of you when they see you with a blankie? Give them to me. If you don't, I'll throw them away when you're not looking." No! I snatched them back. I'm not too old. They're mine. You can't ever throw them away. I'm not even going to give them to my kids. I'll...I'll still have them when I get married!

A few years later, the white one disappeared. My mom had finally managed to throw one away. But I wasn't detered. The pink one was my favorite anyway, and I simply kept a keener eye on it.

Years passed. I took it to college. No one ever said anything. By then, I had stopped packing it with me on trips. My pension for practicality and light travel trumped even my need for the blankie. But it was still an unquestioned part of me. I never asked why.

I still remember the first time Jason slept in my room. I turned around and everything - my decorative pillows, my buddy pillow, and my blankie, had disappeared from my bed. The bed looked so...boring...with just the two regular sleeping pillows. Where did it all go? I peered over my bed. They were all lying scattered over my floor. I reached for them. Jason pulled me back into bed.

"You don't need them."
But I want them.
"Why?"
C'mon, just my blankie.
"Why?"
Because it helps me sleep.
"Why?"
Because I like to hold it when I sleep.
"That's what I'm here for. You get to hold me now."
But-
"No. Hold ME."

And he would wrestle me until we were snug in each other's arms and that was the end of that. We still have that conversation, except this time we do it for more for comical effect since I know I'm going to lose. Yet it was the first time I ever questioned my need for a blankie. Why did I need it? Why was it such an integral part of my daily rituals?

Sitting in Susan's car, I knew the answer. When I played, it was my turban in the Middle East, my cape as Super Girl, my toga as a Roman heiress. But when my parents fought...when they really screamed...when they turned on me and called me things...when they ignored my wounds...when I had no friends...when my first boyfriend cheated on me...when I loathed myself for 5 years and could not look myself in the mirror...I had one solace. My pink blankie.

To this day, one deep sniff of my blankie can make me smile, make me say Time to start the day or Now I can sleep. It carries a specific smell that only I recognize. In 22 years, it's been washed innumerable times. But the smell comes back. When something carries 22 years of tears, hugs, playtimes, and secret whispers, it's just not something you can wash out.

So am I saying that you better not traumatize your children or they'll end up with a blankie attached to their hip until the day they die? No. What I am saying is that some bonds just can't be broken, not even by disapproving parents, societal standards, or silly boyfriends. Everyone needs comfort. That's why they call it a comfort blanket.

Psycho Series 1

She said I could sit anywhere I wanted. I chose the couch. I like my space...and the open choice to fling myself dramatically across a soft cushion if the need arises.

"Do you have any questions before we start?"

Yes. I set out a small to-go cup of peaches on the little table between the bowl of gumdrops and the bowl of jollyranchers. Can I eat?

We settled in. I told her why I was there, as best as I could summarize.

"Any homicidal tendencies? Are you a possible danger to yourself or others?"

I stared at her.

"Okay no," she jotted on her pad, "Except occassionally toward her mother..."

I smiled. We talked. She set an even pace and, instead of the slow neutral nods of so many other therapists, she reacted to what I said. This was good.

"Do you have any questions before we end today?"

Yes. Can you help me?

She smiled. "Yes."

Next session is next Thursday morning. We will choose the best type of mental therapy. We will set goals. We will discuss how much flatulence is too much and how to patent the boyfriend buttcork.

Because we only see each other once a week

Subject: guess what

just writing to say that i love you and im thinking of you.
ive been pretty busy the last few days, and it doesnt look like its
gonna let up much till this weekend.
im just looking forward to seeing you friday.

have a good day, ill see ya soon. in the mean time, i always have your
picture.

jason

When he's not busy holding my hand under his butt and farting on it, he can be truly marvelous.

First counseling session is first thing tomorrow morning. Keep a few things crossed!

M-O-O-N. That spells Monday blog.

Weekend Goodlights

1. Drove to Newport, KY on Saturday with Jason. Had 3 scrumptious appetizers for lunch near a window that overlooked the Ohio River. Beautiful and sunny.
2. Walked to the Newport Aquarium. Observed and imitated many a fishie. Sharks were particularly menacing. Loved the area with all the colorful little birds that perched on my hand. Except for the little bastard that chomped on my finger and wouldn't let go.
3. Drove to Ohio Renaissance Festival with Jason's parents on Sunday. Mentally logged fact that Jason's parents listen to "cool" music, therefore not all older people are depraved.
4. Jason buys a turkey leg so large that, had he had longer hair, I would have mistaken him for a caveman.
5. Bought badass, overpriced ring shaped into the sexy facial features of a cat.
6. Mentally logged the comical sight of too many layers and too much boob action in too much heat. Feel smart and satisfied with choosing a modern outfit of tank and shorts for myself.
7. Shop owner asks me to take off my sunglasses, compliments me on my beautiful eyes, and proceeds to indulge me in Victoria's Secret's process of bra sizing. Stop to admire his collection of bikinis made of chain mail.
8. Costumed renaissance man leans over my chest while I was walking, takes a long sniff, and looks a little too satisfied.
9. The Mud Show. Doesn't get much better than half-naked men wallowing in dirt. Unless I'm also wallowing in it.
10. The "Hey Nunny Nunny" Sisters singing "The 5 Constipated Men of the Bible". So catchy. So bowel moving.
11. Got a henna tattoo on my left hand. The elvish word, meleth, for love. The symbols look so cool, I must dye my skin much more often.
12. Drove home. Mad and quiet at Mean Yours Truly. Half-way through the ride I get a frustrating call from my dad. Mean Yours Truly pats the empty seat in the middle and holds me close after I scoot over. I love Wonderful Yours Truly again.
13. Watched the last installment of The Stand by Stephen King. Found myself alarmingly attracted to Rob Lowe's early 90's hair. Upset at his character's needless and untimely death.
14. Sit and spew random thoughts on his bed. He listens. I pause and he gazes into my face. Without warning, tears fall. Sometimes he's so moved by a moment or a thought that he cries. I chuckle and throw my arms around him. He swears the house must still be under construction because debris is flying into his eyes (it's 50 years old).
15. Turn off lights. Tell him I love him so very very much and nuzzle my nose under his chin. Takes me a minute to realize I'm crying. No, my forehead is crying. Foreheads can cry? Oh, he's crying again. It's dark and he swears he doesn't know what I'm talking about. I hold him closer. I'm smiling with my eyes closed. We fall asleep.