Oh, Christmas tree *sigh*

So, I have good news, and I have bad news. The bad news is that, last night, our Christmas tree fell over. The good news is that, as I was screaming, “MAN DOWN,” my batshit-crazy dog saw sticks everywhere and thought she’d died and gone to Nirvana. On second thought, since only good girls go to heaven, that bitch is going to Valhalla … but not for long; because, when she’s in – she wants out, and when she’s out – she wants in.

Anyway, as we cleaned ornaments and water off the floor, I thought about the note I leave for people who baby-sit her when we’re gone, and I wondered what I would write to Vikings if they had to keep her for forever. This is that letter (from her):

Dear Olaf, Olaf, Olaf, Erik, Olaf and Steve,

Thank you so, so, so much for taking care of me. I really appreciate it and you. I also wanted to share some important information about myself, so you will still love me at the end of this date. First, I’m a strong, independent, single female, who likes to take slow bike rides in the morning, long walks in the woods at night, and snuggle all weekend long. I have long, shiny, black hair and am shallow, so feel free to tell me how pretty I am. We’ll get along better that way. What else?

My turn-ons include shoes, bacon, belly-rubs, cat poop and tennis balls. They are literally my favorite things EVER! Turn-offs include vacuum cleaners, groomers and fuzzy socks. They genuinely terrify me and make me very, very, very bitey. My doctor says that’s normal, but I don’t know if he can be trusted. He’s knuckle-busted me with a thermometer more than once, the bastard.

Also worth mentioning, I’m SUPER flexible, so please don’t feel like you need to wake up early on my account. I mean, you might, because I snore and fart in my sleep, but – other than that – easy peasy lemon squeezy. Really, I’ll eat breakfast and dinner when you do; and, while I love table food, please don’t let me have it – not even if I beg, steal or demand it . . . all of which is quite likely to happen during our time together.

About the whole Ragnarök thing, I say “Cry havoc, and let slip the me of war”. . . on one condition: On the boat ride there and back, I will need to keep my head out the window and into the wind the entire time. Seriously, don’t fuck me on this. I need to smell EVERYTHING. I call it my canine spidey-sense, and it’s how I have kept everyone around me alive for all of these years. They’re welcome. And finally, I feel like I should warn you that . . . if you die on the battlefield . . . I will stop, drop and roll in you. No offense. It’s just my grieving process. I do, however, promise not to eat you . . . unless you didn't feed me breakfast before we left the longhouse. In said case, be glad you won't be alive to see what I do to your body. It will make Beowulf look like something out of Disney.

Sincerely,

Your new best friend, the Dawg

Alas, this post isn’t about my batshit-crazy beast. It’s about Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive. mkromd has participated every year, and this year is no exception. If you've never done it, here’s how it works . . .

Each December, http://blog.nathanbransford.com sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. It goes something like this, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my site to keep it going. So we should totally do this! For each tweet or comment you post below (until the first week of January 2016), I'll donate 50 cents on your behalf, and for each person who “joins” my karma ran over my dogma, I'll donate one dollar (up to $50 total). This is the sixth year we've done it, and I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post below. As dysfunctional as it is, it's become the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.

*********

Just when I thought no one was paying attention to my blog, someone sent me a note about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma); and, for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.

That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.

You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.

So there I was . . . walking around . . . outside . . . in India . . . without shoes on . . . when I stepped in bird poop.

If you know nothing about me, please know this­ - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot right in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry, I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”

Now, if you know anything about mosques, then you probably know the following:

1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it . . . ever.

2. In many Asian cultures, showing someone the bottom of your feet is like giving them the finger.

3. Either one of these things can be offensive. Done together, there’s no question. It’s just plain rude.  

I now know that too.

That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself, which naturally resulted in a massive tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally jaunted (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.

Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.

Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? Wow, me neither!

But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs . . . for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in no parallel universe would those have worked, even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.

So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.

I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.

After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor . . . engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”

To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).

Have a great holiday! Talk to you later. 

Chapter Two I think I fell in love with you

The title of this month's post is a tribute to Elvis Costello for three reasons:

1. It's Elvis Costello, do you really need a reason other than that? If so, we cannot be friends.

2. This summer, DB and I saw him in concert with the Imposters, and it was the best show we've ever seen, together OR individually. No contest.

3. He just released his memoir, Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink, which is already packed in my suitcase for this weekend's trip to Pennsylvania (because my nephew is getting married).

And, since we're talking about matrimony and Appalachia, I've decided to post a chapter from my magnum opus (she says sarcastically) that discusses both. Also, to my writing group, who, "Stood by me in the middle of Chapter Three," I know you think it's bad juju to share this since it hasn't been published; but, seeing as this story is also about the Blues, maybe Albert King is right, "If it weren't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all." With that...

Chapter 35: It’s a good day for the Blues. 

Not only is that one of the greatest songs ever written, Malford Milligan, Storyville’s soulful, sage, lead singer is right, “Sometimes you fly so high, you can’t find a place to land,” but still ... “It’s a good day for the Blues.” Well, I get it. Though I’m the recipient of countless, huge blessings, when I’m stressed, even a little, like I was while planning DB's and my wedding in 2011, I have a tendency to snark at people about any and everything. And frankly, it’s unacceptable. In fact, on that same trip home, at my nephew’s party, my mom was so exasperated that she called me on it and said, “Do you think we created language as a species to accommodate your inner need to whine? If so, do you suppose Mother Nature gave me feet to walk away from you while you do it?”

I ask you, in all honesty, do you understand how I became this person? Do you?

Cynicism notwithstanding, the worst part of that conversation is that she’s right. On second thought, the worst part is that she had our entire family jump on the bandwagon. And I don’t mean my brothers and sister with whom I actually will fight. I mean her cousins and aunts: women in their 70s, 80s and 90s. People you simply can’t debate, and not just because they’re deaf or because your mother will kill you for being disrespectful. Women you can’t bitch in front of because they actually have reasons to complain and still don’t do it. Women who have buried children and partners, witnessed more than one war, and fought for the right to vote, the right to fair pay, and the right to live their lives as they see fit. Women who did all of it admirably ... grateful for the things they had ... not devastated over the things they lost.

So, when they tell you that you’re missing out on the happiest times of your life, you listen. After all, like Woody Allen once said, “Life is full of misery, loneliness and suffering, and it’s all over much too soon.” The trick is to find people to share that desolation with, especially the big moments, which is why a few years ago, DB went to Pennsylvania with me for a wedding.

Just so we’re all on the same page, unless you’re a local, nuptials in Appalachia are like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Because, not only are the Blue Ridge mountains home to the world’s best Bluegrass music, they’re also a Mecca for mullets and preachers who handle snakes, all of which you’re likely to experience if you’re there for a special occasion.

Don’t get me wrong. Where I grew up is honestly one of the most beautiful landscapes on Earth. So much so that the natives say they only inbreed to, “keep outsiders from coming in and ruining it.” But, like everything in life, it has its pros and cons. Pro: Mountain people definitely know how to party. I’ve actually attended receptions where the bar served homemade moonshine then handed the empty jugs over to the band so the music could start. Con: After too much moonshine, I’ve played the jug ... on stage ... and there’s a fine line between being so drunk that you go blind versus being just drunk enough that you’re willing blow “whoo whoo ... whoo whoo” into a bottle while a large bearded stranger in overalls sings, “Billie Jean is not my lover.” Sadly, while you may be tempted to believe that’s hyperbole, it’s not. Nor is the fact that it didn’t just happen to me in Pennsylvania. It also happened to me in Mississippi at a barbeque festival. Though I remember neither incident, I’ve been told I’m a natural.

You know, it’s sad that Storyville broke up in 2000. I feel like we could have made really beautiful music together.

Note: Dear Mr. Milligan, on the off-chance a snowball landed in hell and you’re reading this, please call me. I’m totally available for your reunion tour, and (spoiler alert) I also play the spoons.  

Black diamonds are a girl’s best friend

That’s right, this year’s ski trip is planned, and the winner is Winter Park. Unfortunately though, that means the loser is me, since Mary Jane is going to KICK.MY.ASS. This is a mountain whose motto is, “No Pain. No Jane.” And they mean it. With an elevation of 11,700 feet and a 1,766-foot vertical drop, she hits like a girl… on the Women's US Olympic boxing team.

However, before I can tell you the rest of the story, I feel the need to explain something first: The term vertical drop refers to the distance between the summit and the base, measured straight down. And, while 1,766 feet doesn’t sound all that intimidating, trust me on this one–it is. Sixty percent of Mary Jane is expert terrain. In other words, there will be bumps, trees, grade and stupidity… but not necessarily in that order.

At any rate, I guess what I’m trying to say is that if I’m going to survive this, I need to bring my A-game, which is just funny. Because, if you know me, then you know that I didn’t even have an A-game when I skied competitively in high school and college. At best I was a B minus... graded on a curve. At forty-three, now I just bring my F-game, as in “What the F was I thinking?”

That being said, I’m not going to lie, I’m crazy excited (with the emphasis on excited not crazy). I’ve never done Winter Park, but TB has, and she loves it. Me? I love the fact that Mary Jane is named after the local mining camp madam who bought the land in the late 1800s. And, just so we’re all on the same page, I’m not judging. Like I told TB, “If you had to pick between your dignity and your own mountain, what would you call the resort?” Exactly.

With that, I’m off to work out. Talk to you later.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.

But if that runs out, I’ll happily drink red. Also, I’m sorry for being incommunicado. For the last six months, I’ve been working on my book with the most amazing editor ever (you know who you are). Oh, and I wrote a children’s book, which is a crazy-ass story in-and-of-itself (why and how I wrote it, not what I wrote). Though, in the spirit of full disclosure, if you were to read both projects, you wouldn’t believe they came from the same person. In other words, I love being bipolar. It’s awful.

I’m kidding. I’m not bipolar; but, if I were, I’d be fifty fucking shades of it with no safe word. The truth is that I just needed a break from working on the same manuscript for so long. That being said, this post isn’t about either one of my books. It’s not even about a biPolar Express kid’s book for the holidays. It’s about Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive. mkromd has participated every year, and this year is no exception. If you've never done it, here’s how it works . . .

Each December, http://blog.nathanbransford.com sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. It goes something like this, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my site to keep it going. So we should totally do this! For each tweet or comment you post below (until the first week of January 2015), I'll donate 25 cents on your behalf, and for each person who “joins” my karma ran over my dogma, I'll donate one dollar (up to $50 total). This is the fifth year we've done it, and I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post below. As dysfunctional as it is, it's become the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.

*********

Just when I thought no one was paying attention to my blog, someone sent me a note about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma); and, for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.

That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.

You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.

So there I was . . . walking around . . . outside . . . in India . . . without shoes on . . . when I stepped in bird poop.

If you know nothing about me, please know this­ - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot right in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry, I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”

Now, if you know anything about mosques, then you probably know the following:

1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it . . . ever.

2. In many Asian cultures, showing someone the bottom of your feet is like giving them the finger.

3. Either one of these things is offensive.

4. Both of these things together can be life-threatening.

I now know that too.

That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself, which naturally resulted in a massive tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally jaunted (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.

Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.

Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? Wow, me neither!

But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs . . . for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in no parallel universe would those have worked, even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.

So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.

I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.

After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor . . . engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”

To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).

Have a great holiday! Talk to you later.

P.S. (A Toad Retrospective)

In 1992, when I was a college student at the University of Wyoming, I went to see Toad the Wet Sprocket in concert. They’re still an awesome band; but, if you’ve never heard of them and are wondering what the hell their name means, they took it from the Monty Python skit, Rock Notes, where Eric Idle plays a journalist who delivers the best music news report ever, "Rex Stardust, lead electric triangle with Toad the Wet Sprocket, has had to have an elbow removed following their recent successful worldwide tour of Finland. Flamboyant ambidextrous Rex apparently fell off the back of a motorcycle. "Fell off the back of a motorcyclist, most likely," quipped ace drummer, Jumbo McClooney, upon hearing of the accident. Plans are now afoot for a major tour of Iceland."

Anyway, in 1999, the band released a compilation album, P.S. A Toad Retrospective; however, today's story isn’t about Toad the Wet Sprocket OR Monty Python. It’s actually about toads. To be specific, it’s about our toads. That’s right, they’re back; and, in their honor, here is last year’s, “Frog and Toad are Friends.”

PS (no pun intended): Sorry for recycling content again, but this may truly be one of my favorite mkromd posts ever. Also, I promise something new next time. Since getting back from Spain, I've been working on the book, and I'm ridiculously excited. Things are finally looking up, so keep your fingers crossed for me. And, finally, with that . . .

Frog and Toad are Friends

I love our house. It sits on an acre of woods with a stream behind it; and, on any given night, you can watch fireflies while listening to the owls and frogs. Likewise, on any given day, you’re bound to see rabbits and cardinals, as well as the occasional sandhill crane, heron or turkey if you’re lucky. Lately though, our yard and patio have been covered with toads… hundreds of tiny, baby toads.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. For some reason, I like eating breakfast outside. I do, and every day I pour a glass of orange juice, make a bowl of oatmeal, grab a cup of coffee and a tennis ball, then sit on the steps and play with the dog while trying to wake up. Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’ll be the first person to admit that I’m not a morning person. I’m barely an afternoon one, so when I saw my entire patio hopping, I said to myself, “Self, if you’re still dreaming, please turn this oatmeal into the world’s biggest doughnut right NOW.” When that didn’t happen and the disappointment subsided, I became so intrigued that I needed to know what the hell was going on.

And that’s when I saw them… dozens upon dozens of adorable, little toadlets… everywhere… which immediately made me think of the book of Exodus… which immediately made me want to fall to my knees and scream, “I knew I should have let God’s people go!!!” But I didn’t. Given that I started running again and my poor neighbors have endured enough these days, I went inside and got DB instead.

Now, for the record, I love and adore my husband immeasurably. Not only is he warm and brilliant, but he has this charming, Buddhisty innocence that makes me want to be a better person. And, as we stood there, watching the baby toads, we saw two of them climb onto the patio together. One was curious and brave and determined to blissfully bound and rebound on any and everything around it. The other stood at the edge and watched him like, “What are you doing? Do you NOT see those two giant humanoids staring at us? Come back.” then furiously hopped over to him, all-the-while thinking, “ARGH… Really?! I swear to God, if someone picks me up, I will pee all over them. That's right. They will be covered in warts and toad stools if I plan it right.”

And in that moment, I was immediately reminded of the children’s book, Frog and Toad are Friends, and I’m Toad. I’m cynical and I’m gun shy and I’ve been on enough patios to know that it can all go horribly wrong in ways that you can’t even predict. And DB is Frog. He’s that friendly, fearless, calm being who believes the world isn’t a terrible place. Sure, it’s big and bad things happen, but it’s more exciting than it is awful and if you don’t hop out of the grass, you’ll never experience the splendor. Also, at the risk of setting the bar low, I want to be that kind of amphibian, but I’m not. I cannot rally that kind of optimism anymore, which is ironic when you consider that, throughout my life, I kissed a lot of frogs who didn’t turn into princes (at least not mine), then fell in love with a prince who also happens to be a Frog.

Do these skis make my ass look fast?

Sorry for the month-long blogging hiatus. Life has been crazy, not in an I-use-Crayola-markers-for-makeup kind of way, but crazy nonetheless. Thankfully however, I’m blessed with great friends who know exactly when to stage an intervention. Enter this year’s ski trip; but, as always, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

Growing up, I was lucky enough to spend my summers in Virginia horse country at my Aunt and Uncle’s house. And, while it’s true that I never learned to ride, I did learn that my grandmother raised her daughters who raised their daughters the right way: Never rely on a husband or a trust fund, because you never know when either one might run out. Don’t get me wrong, I wish I could have been a trophy wife with a drinking problem. It just wasn’t in the cards. I love doughnuts, I hate doctors, and I’m a complete misanthrope. Other than that, I’d have fucking nailed it.

In any case, the point is that, like everyone in that part of the world, my cousins had horses and rode competitively. They did dressage, but some of their friends did cross-country and show jumping, and some of them did all three, which is also known as eventing. If you’ve never seen it, you should. It’s basically the equestrian world’s equivalent of a triathlon. Personally, I can’t figure out how they do it. I can barely master a horse that eats quarters instead of hay and goes in circles… electronically. But I love the idea of riding, especially three-day eventing because they actually say things like, “my comfort zone is crotch height.” Yes, really. It allows them to use their bodies as human tape measures when gauging a jump.

Now, just to make sure we’re on the same page, God help all of us if I ever decide to take up that sport; because, at forty-two, I’m pretty sure boob height is rapidly approaching crotch height, and no one wants to have that conversation with me, especially at a competition sponsored by Rolex. Seriously. You should simply trust me when I tell you that would be out of everyone’s comfort zone, particularly since I’m not above using hand gestures if I feel like there’s ambiguity and my safety is on the line.

Anyway, I also love that eventers will tell you they do it, “three ways in three days.” Otherwise stated, they do one event each day: dressage, cross-country and show jumping. So what does all of that have to do with this post? Well, nothing and everything, so stay with me. We’re almost there.

You see, every year I take a ski trip out west; and this time, since it was just TB and me, we decided to get multi-mountain passes for Keystone, Arapahoe Basin and Breckenridge. The idea was to hit Keystone’s Outback and do some tree skiing on day one, head over to A Basin on day two for Pallavicini, one of Colorado’s steepest runs, and then wrap up with a day of moguls off the South Side of Peak 10 at Breck. Three days. Three ways: Trees, pitch and bumps.

Honestly though, for two women in their forties, I would tell you that we held our own… OK, that's a lie. TB held her own because she stills run marathons. Given that I only run my mouth and errands, on the last day, my legs were simply shot. But, because I'm an idiot, I agreed to head over to Peak 9, which has extremely tight ungroomed mogul runs, and it was a mistake.

So, there we are... on a run called Devil’s Crotch… and I’m looking more like something from Rosemary’s Baby than Warren Miller… when I hear TB say, “Stop fighting the mountain and start working with it.” Which, in her defense, is very Zen; but, in my defense, may not be altogether accurate… because I feel like I’d be a biter and a hair-puller in a fight (I have no empirical evidence to support this theory, but I’m pretty sure I’m right)... and I decide, “You know what, I’ll do it.” So I sit into it… and I’m hauling… and it feels really good… until I hit the biggest mogul of my life… and it hits me right back.

I *might* have peed myself, but I’m not really sure, since I don’t actually know how long I laid there, but I can tell you this: When you come to, and your ass is near your armpit, you’re not only out of your comfort zone in any sport, you’re out of your league. On the up-note, when I got home and called my mother to tell her about the trip, she said, “At least the only thing that died was your dignity.”

Talk to you later.

You’ve Got Mail

Have you ever said to yourself, “Self, where am I going and why am I in this handbasket?” Well, I have. In fact, I had that very moment today. You see, of late, life has been insane. I’m crazy-swamped at work all day, busy querying agents each night, and–in between–I’m trying to schedule a ski-trip out West. In other words, at the risk of putting my balls in your face, it’s a lot to juggle. Seriously.

Be that as it may, let me say this: I’m not complaining. I love my job and I love my boss; and, in this market, not everyone can say that. Furthermore, although trying to get published has only produced more evidence that God clearly hates me, at least the manuscript is finished. As for heading to Colorado to ski, I understand that’s a first world problem. It’s like bitching because you only got one packet of barbeque sauce for your twenty piece McNuggets. I get it. I do. However, disclaimer disclaimed, I have something to say to Yahoo Mail, which I’ve been using to contact said agents, and here it is, "Dear Ymail - Given that I’d like to become a real writer one day, I’ll try to provide grammatically correct feedback about your Conversation “feature.” Ready? Off is the general direction in which I would like it to fuck. Not kidding. Sincerely - mkromd"

But, before I can tell you why Yahoo so justifiably deserves my wrath, I have to tell you this part of the story first . . .  Since the holidays, I’ve spent easily a hundred hours researching literary agents who handle humorous memoirs/narrative nonfiction work (specifically geared towards women) and are willing to take on new writers. I even found a select handful who specialize in female bloggers looking for book deals. If you don’t believe how long all of that took me, just ask the NSA. They can totally verify my digital whereabouts. Note: Dear National Security Agency, thank you for backing me up. Also, while you may have read thousands upon thousands of texts between my sister and me, I’m not whiny or needy. She likes hearing every minute detail of my life. It makes her feel important (she’s welcome). And though her replies say things like, “Did you HAVE to send me a disgusting pic of your toe? It’s a spider bite. You’re not going to die, so stop freaking out.” When I saw her face-to-face, she hugged me and said, “I’m glad you reached out for help. As a woman with a degree in Biology and a mother of all boys, I was the most logical person to contact. Besides, I wanted to be there for you. Even mom was worried it would spread and you could lose your whole leg.”

Anyway, I digress. The point is that, using the criteria above, I created a list of ten agents and worked with an editor to craft the query letter and mini-proposal. Then I began submitting my work, and it was a mistake. Today I found out that Yahoo decided to “tag” every email with a similar Subject line (e.g. Query for your review), assume it was one conversation (regardless of the recipient), and combine them into one threaded discussion, so every agent can see exactly who I’ve contacted and what I said. Yes, really. It’s like Gossip Girl, the Mid-Life Crisis episode, with a splash of American Horror Story thrown in to mix things up a bit.

In any case, on the off-chance that a snowball landed in hell and one of those agents is visiting my blog (despite her better judgment), I sincerely apologize for the chaos and deeply appreciate your interest. I realize you may feel like you weren’t special, but I assure you that’s not the case. Hours upon hours went into finding you; and, like Herman Cain once said, “It’s true there were a lot of other women, but think of how many I didn’t bother.” Given that I just quoted him to help my case, perhaps hell really did just freeze over. That’s OK, I’ll ski that, too. Speaking of, I’m off to plan our trip out West. I mean really, how bad could it be?

Talk to you later.

Every day I write the book . . .

Happy 2014. With that, I have two things to share. First of all, I’m pleased to report that mkromd raised sixty dollars for Nathan Bransford’s annual Hooray for Heifer drive. Many thanks to those of you who posted comments (once or several times), joined my blog (you know who you are) or simply visited my karma ran over my dogma (the more the merrier). It was genuinely most appreciated.

Also, as always, we donated bees; because, let’s face it, the world needs them. If their job were left to people like me, everything on this planet would die. I’m not kidding. One could argue that I’m (literally) the Grim Reaper of gardening. Personally, however, I like to think of myself as a horticultural hospice worker, easing the transition, so plants can go to God without fear. They’re welcome.

Secondly, the manuscript is done, as in stick-a-fork-in-it-DONE. Since I’ve been asked to write a guest post about the experience, I won’t share too much here, only that I simply had no idea how hard it would be. All jokes aside, at each point, I thought the next phase would be easier and it never was. It was like Sisyphus, minus the cardio. Seriously, first you have to decide what to write. Then you have to write it. Then you have to muster the courage to submit it to an editor for style, flow, voice and grammar. If that doesn’t sound intimidating, keep in mind these are people who have absolutely no problem whatsoever letting you know the difference between, “you’re shit and your shit.” And the worst part is this: that’s their professional opinion, so it’s accurate. 

In any case, if you can survive making those edits and still have a sense of humor, you move into the next stage: the query letter and mini-proposal. Or, as I like to refer to this process, “shock and awe.” Not because of how fabulous it is, but because your writing takes ANOTHER pounding. You basically have to disregard everything you’ve learned from your writing coach, peer reviewers and editor. Then create a business proposal so agents and publishers are willing to look at the first fifty pages of your book, which have to be good enough to make them want to read the rest of it. It’s like a dysfunctional game of Chutes and Ladders with a pinch of Monopoly thrown in, “Your book didn’t get picked, go back to Start and do not collect $200 or a bottle of tequila on your way there.”

Anyway, as promised, when the guest post is released, I’ll share a link to it. In the meantime, thank you again for supporting Heifer. Talk to you later.

I wonder as I wander

I apologize for dropping the blogging ball lately. However, at the risk of blaming the victim, I swear I have a good reason. I’m still working on the Editor’s changes to my manuscript. And, while it’s true I got the edits in July, I had absolutely no idea how hard this process would be. But that’s the bad news. The good news is this: She likes it. In other words, if the journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step, I have my shoes on and tied, so wish me luck.

That being said, this post isn’t about my book. It’s about Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive. mkromd has participated every year, and this year is no exception. If you've never done it, here’s how it works . . . Every year, http://blog.nathanbransford.com sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. It goes something like this, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my site to keep it going. So we should totally do this! For each comment that you post below (until the first week of January 2014), I'll donate 25 cents on your behalf, and for each person who “joins” my karma ran over my dogma, I'll donate one dollar (up to $50 total). This is the fourth year we've done it, and I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post below. As dysfunctional as it is, it's become the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.

*********

Just when I thought no one was paying attention to my blog, someone sent me a note about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will help me make amends (and improve my karma); and, for those of you who regularly read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing that's ever happened to me abroad.

That probably happened in India, after I graduated from college.

You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.

So there I was . . . walking around . . . outside . . . in India . . . without shoes on . . . when I stepped in bird poop.

If you know nothing about me, please know this - I’m a complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist, I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot right in. No kidding, about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry, I stepped in crap and I need to get it off.”

Now, if you know anything about Islam, then you probably know the following:
1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it . . . ever.
2. In most Asian cultures, showing someone the bottom of your feet is like giving them the finger.
3. Either one of these things is offensive.
4. Both of these things together can be life-threatening.

I now know that too.

That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop "incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment. I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my knickers on High Street that he agreed.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact, I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on myself, which naturally resulted in a massive tear in my nylons. As I looked at my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally jaunted (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.

Though I was able to successfully repress most of what happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.

Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters tall you are? Wow, me neither!

But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones into the garbage and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I opened them, they were thigh-highs . . . for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and in no parallel universe would those have worked, even if I'd had a garter-belt, which I didn't.

So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead, I tried to make my B Plan work.

I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.

After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.” It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor . . . engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved. That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re French. Let’s go.”

To think I was scared of what could happen on our last family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or, post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from mkromd).

Have a great holiday! Talk to you next week.

Let it roll, baby roll

Can we please have a moment of silence for my dignity? It died this week at work… on a toilet seat… much like Elvis did. Only there were no drugs involved. In fact, there was no toilet paper involved either, and that’s exactly where this week’s story begins. 

You see, when I’m at home, I accept that there’s never toilet paper when I need it. Though I buy it once a week and restock each bathroom in our house every weekend, for some reason there is never a square to spare when I'm in the loo. The roll is either as barren as Carthage or has a single, tattered remnant of hope still glued to the cardboard. 

But that’s not the point. The point is that you don’t expect that to happen at work. You don’t grab a roll on your way to the bathroom, “just in case.” Nor do you do a little recon before you “drop trou.” You assume that everyone has done their part. In other words, both you and the toilet paper roll are completely covered. Worse than that, at home, at least you have options: Kleenex… paper towels… packing tissue. I’m not proud, but I am honest, and there are days that the cocktail napkins in the kitchen drawer should be grateful they dodged a bullet.  At work, your only option is to twerk like Miley Cyrus to elevator music and hope you can actually drip dry with some modicum of success… which is precisely what I did.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. 

At the risk of blaming the victim, I should say that there was, indeed, some toilet paper on the roll when I walked into the stall. Not enough to line the seat, per se, about twenty to thirty squares, but definitely enough to take care of business. So there I was… jeans around my Dr. Martens… peeing… when I reached for the toilet paper… and accidentally pulled the entire roll with its holder off the wall. Yes. Really. The toilet tissue literally flew across my lap, landed on the floor, and proceeded to unravel as it rolled all the way to the restroom sink… while I helplessly watched in abject disbelief and horror.  

It’s times like these I wish I had more middle fingers so the universe knew exactly how deeply I wanted it to fuck off. Anyway, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m not sure what happened next. I like to think that by repressing it, I actually found some dignity. Note: If no one claims it within twenty-four hours, I’m keeping it.

Talk to you later.