Tootsie Roll, I Think I'm in Love With You

My favorite Saturday-morning-cartoon commercial from 1977 (and, yes, I'm dating myself).

Another Installment of Weird Dream Theater

Not so much weird as just plain stupid.

I dreamt I won an Oscar. For acting, of all things. I didn't remember doing so, but I had apparently appeared in one of the Twilight movies (in waking life, I read the books to see what all the fuss was about; let me save you hours of your life: don't bother following suit). I played a shapeshifter (which is interesting, because I don't recall shapeshifters in the books, but, you know, artistic license and all that). The shapeshifter spoke in a number of different accents, which apparently impressed The Academy. To be honest, I don't even know what a shapeshifter is.

I was at the Academy Awards (with a front-row seat; I delighted to note that Jennifer Anniston* was waaaaaay back there), presenting with Meryl Streep(!). She opened the envelope, squinted at the paper, and read my name. I was shocked, because I'd forgotten I was in a movie and didn't realize I'd been nominated. I made some stupid speech in which I forgot to thank family/friends/Beau, and I skipped the afterparty because I didn't think I'd know anybody there. Afterward, when I was home in my jammies, my mom called and said Did you see how utterly dumbfounded Meryl Streep looked when she saw that you'd won?? Thanks, Mom.

Fast-forward one year. I was nominated again (likely for another shapeshifter turn in a vampire sequel, but who knows?). But I didn't walk the red carpet (their reasoning was nobody really knows you... or cares who you are). The Beau was irritated because he didn't want to wear a tux. I won again, but it wasn't a big deal, so I just stuck my tongue out at Jennifer Anniston* and left.

The two Oscars ended up in the top of my closet.

*I don't have any beef with Jennifer Anniston, so I'm not entirely sure why she's the target for so much vitriol in this dream.

Yet another difference between the sexes.

Two weeks ago, The Beau and I stopped off to buy him some jeans. He agreed to try on two pairs, but when I picked up a third to show him, he just grabbed them and bought them without trying them on (I know, right?). A woman would never do that. Never ever ever. Even if she tried on one pair and decided to buy a second pair of identical style, make, and model, she'd still try them on. We understand that every pair is different. If your ass doesn't look just right, forget about it.
 
I noticed he was wearing those jeans on Saturday.

You're lucky, I remarked. Those jeans fit you nicely.

They do? Thanks.

Riiiiight. You didn't check them out the first time you put them on.

I didn't.

You mean you don't check your ass in the mirror after you get dressed in the morning?

No. 

WHAT??

How freeing that must be. Get out of the shower, run your fingers through your hair, get dressed and simply walk out the door. No makeup, no styling products, no mirror angling to check out your ass and the back of your hair.

Amazing.

I'm all for literacy, butt...

I love to read.

I have books in every room of my house (except the bathrooms--I can't quite get over the ick factor there). I take two books with me on vacation in case I lose or finish one. I make my living reading. I even read the owner's manual for my car while I was sitting in line at the car wash once.

Parents who instill a love of reading in their children have my undying respect. That's the gift that will last them a lifetime. I applaud all efforts to increase literacy.

Except one.

Ladies, must you wear pants with words inscribed on the seat? Why do you want the word PINK or JUICY in bold type on your butt? Even if I had an ass so fine you could bounce a quarter off of it, I'd never want people associating it with the words Juicy or Pink. And to the young, fit, perky lasses who feel compelled let the world know that they're cheerleaders by wearing shorts with CHEER on the backside, your classmates all know who you are and the rest of us can pretty much tell you're cheerleaders anyway. No need to spell it out.

A few months ago, I saw a woman with the word LIFEGUARD emblazoned on her glutes. If you can fit a word that long in bold capital letters on your bottom, put down the shorts and back away!

To the the ladies who wear these items in an effort to get men to look at their asses, I'll let you in on a secret that's not really a secret: they're looking at your ass whether there's an inscription there or not.

I notice men don't advertise anybody's slogan on their backsides (I'd like the bulk of the ones born after 1979 to pull their pants up, but that's another blog for another day). Ladies, follow suit!

Let's start a revolution and put these messages back where they belong--on our boobs!

This may be too much information...

But I've had this spot on my face that will not go away.

I thought it was acne, but acne doesn't stick around in the same spot for eight months.

It was there for all of my vacation photos in October. For the company Christmas party (though I have to admit it contrasted with the green shirt I wore for a pretty damn festive result). For all of the family holiday photos. For New Year's Eve. For Valentine's day. We've been together through a lot, this spot and I, but enough is enough. 

Turns out it's a little rash brought on by stress (gee, I wonder what could possibly be stressing me out so continuously for soooo long).

I went to my doctor's office and explained to the nurse that I didn't like to think I was vain, but this has been on my face for eight months, and I'm tired of looking at it (plus, what if it's leprosy or something? Leprosy would not be good). She said she understood but assured me that she didn't even notice it when I walked into the room. Kind of like this zit I have under my nose here, she said. I'm sure you didn't even notice, but I hate it.

Didn't notice it? It was all I could see! It was hard to look her in the eye because it was so distracting. It was the pustule equivalent of a blinking neon sign. It was reminiscent of John Belushi's famous zit impersonation in Animal House. Didn't notice it??

So anyway, I'm glad I got something to make this spot go away. I'm sure people have been not noticing my own neon sign for months. :)

Pigment Challenged

I am a fair-skinned woman.

Scratch that. 

I am a very fair-skinned woman.

My ancestral makeup is Swedish, Irish, English, Dutch, and Scottish; AKA: the whitest people on earth. Luckily, my dark hair allows for a bit of contrast, so you can at least see that I have features.

Growing up in the south before the era of the Mystic Tan was murder. I would slather baby oil all over my skin and broil in the southern heat for hours. My reward? A "tan" of second-degree sunburn, some super-sexy peeling, and then... you guessed it... white again. Red or white. Those were and are my choices. Sometimes, if I damaged my skin often enough in one summer, I'd freckle and those freckles would sort of grow together. But that's it.

I was so envious of my friends who would complain about sock lines if they were out in the sun for even 20 mintues.

Then came self-tanner. A miracle in a bottle! It wasn't much help. First of all, it reeked. And it left streaks. And it turned you orange. And even if you washed your hands IMMEDIATELY after applying it (like it said to on the bottle--I'm a stickler for directions), you still ended up with orange palms. It was like wearing a scarlet letter--only it was a smelly orange letter, and it was scrawled unevenly all over your palms and arms and legs.

So I gave up. After high school, it didn't seem like such a big deal anyway. I started wearing sunscreen every day (still do, and I have the face to prove it). I usually avoid shorts, opting instead for longer skirts or linen pants in the summer.

The Beau did not understand my (lack of) coloring for a long time. You see, he's Italian, and he gets the most beautiful burnished tan after only minutes in the sun. Never burns. When we have our photo taken, he's a beautiful shade of cafe au lait, and I, well, I just look like au lait. He was amused by my continual desire to sit in the shade (he loves the sun) until the day I sat in the sun and got sunburned THROUGH a pair of pants (oh yes, some of us are lucky enough to be able to burn anywhere at any time, even through protective clothing). 

And when we were in New Orleans with his family, his equally tan sister looked (ok, squinted) at me and said Wow, you haven't spent any time out in the sun working on your tan, have you? I glanced down at my freckled shoulders and remarked This is my tan.

She stared at me. She didn't realize that some skin doesn't tan. She thought I was fishbelly white by choice!

And then it hit me; I realized that I AM fishbelly white by choice--it's just that my other choice is lobster red instead of cafe au lait. I have to say, it gave me a sense of peace.  In the immortal words of Popeye, I yam what I yam.

So, to everyone out there, embrace who you are because, well, it's who you are! 

Aqua Net, Lipgloss, and Lord of the Flies

One of my old school chums made an astute observation on Facebook. She said that she learns more about human nature by watching her girls on the playground than anywhere else. The complexities of humanity get played out there repeatedly. 

It's so true. Is there anyone out there who was not scarred in some way by their experiences in jr. high or middle school? 


The Mean Girls, cliques, and heartbreak of those years more than prepared me for anything I'd experience in adult and corporate life. They overprepared me, maybe.

I remember one girl in our circle particularly. She seemed to enjoy picking one other girl out and turning the rest of the group against her. There was no rhyme or reason to who got picked or why. Then, when shunning her got old, that girl was readmitted to the circle and another girl was singled out for the same treatment. It was complete ostracism. It was cruel.

I remember when I was singled out. Suddenly, nobody talked to me. Nobody looked at me. If they had to respond to me in some way, it was with an eye roll and an annoyed voice. I was an outcast. For one month (the month was November and I still remember it vividly). And then they accepted me back into the circle again.

Months later, my friend Lela (with whom I still am and always will be close) and I were spending the night at the ringleader's house. We were sitting on the curb in front of the house under a streetlight, when the two of them looked at each other and one of them asked "Should we tell her?" Then they turned to me and said in unison: "We hated you." And then they gave me all of the details of what had happened during that cold November. How they suddenly hated my laugh and the way I bounded up to people. How my jokes were no longer funny. I was sitting outside of the beam of the streetlight in the shadows, and it all came flooding back. The pain of the rejection and the bullying brought tears to my eyes. At the end of the story, they palliated me with "But we like you again now, so it's ok." 

Ouch.

Looking back on that memory, I don't know what's more painful. Was it the rejection I felt during that November or was it the horror of knowing I participated in that same Mean Girl activity once I was back in the circle. I'm leaning toward the latter.

One good thing comes out of that pain. The friendships you make at that age are the ones that stick. These are the people who know you to the core because they were there when your favorite red earring fell into the toilet after homeroom. They were there for your spectacular wardrobe failures, including wearing cutoff sweatpants that peeked out from under a miniskirt (you chuckle, but I, unfortunately, have photographic evidence). They were there when you were in that weird, pimply, baby-fat stage. They were there when The Boy didn't like you back.

And, chances are, they're still there for you today.

My taciturn sweetheart

I have an insane sweet tooth.

You probably wonder for whom they make candy corn and circus peanuts (which are so sweet they make your teeth hurt as soon as you bite into them). They make them for me.  

Today, my coworker down the hall failed to refill her bowl of Tootsie Rolls (I'm ususally the reason the bowl needs to be refilled in the first place). In desperation, I dug into a box of candy conversation hearts leftover from Valentine's Day (wow, they get really crunchy after sitting on your desk for a month). Candy conversation hearts are a bonus, because they're the fortune cookies of candy.

Pick one out. Read it. Eat it. Repeat. (And while you're doing that, wonder why only the big-girl pants in the closet are comfy these days.)

All was good until I got to a green one with NO MESSAGE. No True Love, Let's Kiss, or Text Me. It just sat there looking back at me, arms crossed (well, not really, but might as well have been), with a sullen, green stare.

I couldn't even eat it; I put it in my paper clip bowl where I can keep an eye on it. 

I've decided the silence is a meaningful look. Is the heart going to tell me I'm wrong? I don't think so.

(And, yes, at this point, I'll write about anything.)

It's a new day!

I simply cannot tell you how light and happy I feel now that The Beau's ex is out of the state and (one would hope) getting help and getting better.

Beau seems so much more relaxed too.

We were able to hang out and watch a movie on Saturday night without cringing when the phone rang or when he got a text message (it would start with one text message and then he'd get about seven more within five minutes--it would get worse from there).

I hope she woke up wherever she is this week and felt the sense of newness and lightness too. Mental illness is a horrible burden for the people who suffer and the folks around them who suffer just as much.

Here's to good days, new beginnings, and feeling good about your situation, no matter what your situation is.

Breathe in and smile. It's gonna be a great day!

WE DID IT! IT WORKED!

Remember when I asked for your good (leave-the-state) vibes regarding The Beau's ex?

She's leaving.

She'll be 1,000 miles away.

She'll be with a family member (who will, I hope, monitor the crazy).

I wish her luck. I wish her sanity. I hope she makes a fresh start.

Now pardon me while I do my happy dance (happyhappyjoyjoy, happyhappyjoyjoy)!

Thanks for the vibes, everybody!!!

Yet Another Installment of Weird-Dream Theater

Last night I dreamt that I was sitting in an office (not mine) and I was served a subpoena. I opened it up and found out that I'd been called to testify by the company that makes K-Y Jelly. They wanted me to be a witness for the company and testify that the product really does work.

I was mortified. I don't want to talk about K-Y Jelly in public. Much less in a court of law with a stenographer on hand to record it all.

When I explained that I didn't want to talk about K-Y in public, some generic lawyer told me that I could either give my testimony or go to jail for contempt of court.

Doo-Doo Voodoo

I was chatting with my pal Tim about curses (don't ask me why; it was just one of those things that came up). He told me that a high school classmate put a curse on him once.

What was the curse for? I asked.

Overall failure, he replied.

The classmate, who was up against Tim for an art scholarship, ended up winning the scholarship. So Tim hoped that was it. No more curse, which seems more than fair. (The guy got the scholarship, but ended up being a meth head. So who was really cursed in the long run?)

We chuckled a bit and decided that it was egregiously bad karma to put a death curse on someone.

BUT...

How bad is it really to curse someone with... say... chronic diarrhea? It's annoying and exasperating and cuts road trips very short, yes. But if it only lasts a week or so, it's not deadly.

Doo-Doo Voodoo, we decided, might be ok.

Next time I go to New Orleans, I'm hittin' Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo to see if Doo-Doo Voodoo exists. You'd better stay on my good side just in case it does. :)

Evil's got a new name

I've got a problem with an ex. Not any ex of mine; no, it's The Beau's ex-wife. Beau's been divorced for YEARS. And for years before that, she made him miserable. She's the one who continually threatened divorce. She's the one who filed papers. And when he signed those papers and moved out of the house, she was shocked. Hey! Where are you going? Why are you leaving me?

And when she found out he'd moved on and started dating, all hell broke loose. Suddenly, everything that had gone wrong in her life was on my shoulders. For years, she's sent me angry missives telling me I've ruined her life (I was not aware that I have life-ruining powers at my disposal. Had I realized this, Dick Cheney would have had a much rougher run in the White House). She manipulates. She cries. She threatens. She TYPES IN ALL CAPS!!!

She's even got a little nickname for me. I'm the Horse-Faced Bitch. You might think that's harsh, but I'm kind of proud of it. When the worst thing Satan's Black-Hearted Mini Me can say about me is that I'm a Horse-Faced Bitch, I feel pretty darn good about that (even though she loses creativity points).

So here's what I'm asking you to do. Send positive vibes to send Satan's Black-Hearted Mini Me out of the state and out of my hair. Let's wish her romance and high-seas adventure! Wealth and happiness in Idaho! Amnesia in paradise! A harem of strapping lads in Buffalo! The chance to experience zen with the Dali Lama! Peace with the Pope (I hear the Vatican is lovely)! I don't wish anything bad for her. I just want her to have a new life somewhere else.

So stop reading and get to sending those good vibes already!