He was my North, my South, my East, my West...

It's a line from one of my favorite poems and also one of my favorite movies, Four Weddings and a Funeral. And all week I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Though for the life of me, I have no idea why. Normally when this happens, I recite whatever the poem du jour is while I'm brushing my teeth, and it's over. That's that. However, when I can't shake it, it's usually a sign that I need to do something constructive with it... Enter this week's blog topic.

You see, for as bad as my luck is, it's rare that I rant. Honestly. I try to see the positive (or at least the humor) in most of the things that happen to me, but sometimes a person has to pull a George Carlin and let it out. So here I go... The only thing worse than airplane food is airline service. Oh wait - neither one exists anymore, nor does their compassion (at least on Delta and United).

Now, in their defense, I don't have the best travel karma, and DB knows it. It's not like I can hide it from him. However, when his dad died, he needed help, so I had two tasks: get him to Montana the day it happened, and get the rest of us there for the funeral. That's it. When I started looking on-line, I couldn't find tickets for less than $1000 each. So I called Delta and United and asked about bereavement fares. Turns out, even though their Web sites claim they exist, they don't... kind of like your luggage on an international flight. At any rate, I couldn't (in good conscience) let him spend $4000 in airfare, so I went back on-line and started mixing and matching itineraries in an attempt to cut costs.

It's true that you get what you pay for.

DB's flight was fine (and it was only $500), but his kids and I weren't so lucky. For the low-low price of $600 per ticket, we had to drive to an airport two hours away and take the red eye, which arrived in Montana on Sunday at 2:00 AM. Then, I had to turn around and take them home at 6:00 AM that Tuesday. When the alarm went off that morning, DB rolled over, stroked my face for a couple of minutes, and said, "I love you with all my heart, but you're never making our travel arrangements again. You're really, really bad at it." Then he got up, got his children up, and got us to the airport.

For the record, the best part of waking up is NOT Folgers in your cup... it's sarcasm.

But he's right, I am really, really bad at it. And it's not the first time he's been on the receiving end of it. You see, every Easter, my very large family descends (en masse) onto Washington DC to celebrate the holiday at my Aunt’s house. While we’re very Irish and a little German, we actually aren’t that religious… we’re just that co-dependent. We’re also gossips who discuss every birth, death, and divorce ad nauseam. So believe me, if you’re dating someone – we want to meet them. And this year, they wanted to meet my partner and his children.

Now, to be fair, most of them have already met DB… and they adore him… in spades. My mother thinks he’s charming. My sister thinks he’s good looking and funny. And my brothers think that they could kick his ass if they needed to… but only because DB’s a pacifist and wouldn’t hit them back, which they fully acknowledge. They even accept that they would have to jump him while he was meditating (and even then only if there were no other Buddhists hanging out with him at the time). My father, to whom I was very close and who passed away in 2006, was a professional jazz pianist for over 50 years and would have loved him, too. And not just because DB plays Blues guitar, but because he’s just that cool, and my dad would have genuinely enjoyed his company. In other words, my partner has passed with flying colors, and this means a great deal to me.

At any rate, since it was my family that we were visiting, I volunteered to plan the trip… which I tried to do from work… between meetings… in a cube. But I did a great job! I really did. I got round trip tickets for $140 each… not too shabby (over a holiday no less). Unfortunately, they were for April 9 – 11. Easter happened to be April 2 – 4 this year, and (naturally) our tickets were non-refundable, non-exchangable. This is EXACTLY why neither my sister nor my best friend allows me to plan ANYTHING.

You see, it all started several years ago, when I lived in England. I begged my mother to visit for a month and she agreed. I was so excited to see her, that the morning she was scheduled to arrive, I got up, rushed to the airport, got flowers for her, and stood there waiting… for five hours. Finally, at around noon in London, I was panic-stricken that SOMEHOW they had lost my mother SOMEWHERE over the Atlantic Ocean. Now, you should know something about me. When I’m upset, really upset, I start to cry and I talk at a decibel that only bats can hear. No really, it’s true. I do. So I’m standing there… at a Customer Service Desk full of stiff upper-lipped Englishmen… sobbing… sounding like Alvin and the Chipmunks… trying to explain to British Airways that I’ve “lost my mother.”

They thought she’d died.

And when they said, “She died?” I thought they meant, “She died!” And when they said, “On the flight?” I thought they meant, “ON THE FLIGHT!” It goes without saying that I flipped shit. In my defense, I am the youngest of four children. I am the baby of our family, and I have been coddled ALL my life. Before that day, I had not once, not ever, had to deal with real tragedy, and I was not about to start then. Instead, I did what I always do in these moments, I called my sister. Yes, at 6:00 AM in Southwestern Pennsylvania, my beautiful, wonderful, oldest sibling woke up to a phone call from London to hear me, wailing like a bi-polar, helium sucking rodent, saying “Mom is dead… and it’s not my fault. She died on the flight.”

At that moment, we were no longer 36 and 29 year old women with lives and careers of our own. We were 14 and 7 again, and any tact, patience, or eloquence of speech we may have mastered in adulthood fell to the wayside as we became victims of our birth order. She was simply my big sister, and she was pissed that I woke her up. Without skipping a beat, on a speaker phone at Heathrow International Airport, I heard, “mkromd, you idiot! She’s not even ON the flight. She’s at home… ALIVE… IN BED… and ASLEEP… LIKE I WAS THREE MINUTES AGO! She flies in TOMORROW MORNING.”

You know, the English aren’t always stoic… Not when they think something’s funny. Because the next day, when my mother did arrive… on time… as scheduled, the same Customer Service Rep at British Airways who had helped me the day before walked over to us and said, “Madam, when a child loses their parent it’s regarded as misfortune. When an airline loses one it just looks like carelessness. Welcome to London.” But the saddest part of that WHOLE story is that it’s not nearly as bad as what I did to my best friend.

See, I’m ALL about bargain shopping. I am. I own $600 shoes, but I will be the first person to gravitate towards a good deal when I find one, and one time, several years ago, TB and I were heading out West to ski. She had booked our hotel in Aspen, gotten our lift tickets, scheduled our flights, and reserved our rental car. I had three tasks: pack the toothpaste, bring the shampoo, and book a hotel room in Chicago since we were flying out of O’Hare at 6:30 in the morning. Most people would look at a $65/night hotel in Chicago and see red flags. Me, I saw a cost savings opportunity, and I took it. And it was a mistake.

After driving around Chicago for two hours, my best friend and I finally pulled into a convenience store and asked for directions. Now please understand something, if you get NOTHING else from my blog, take this piece of advice. When a man… at a ghetto Seven/Eleven… asks you if you’re SURE you have the right destination address… you should cut your losses and find a Radisson… that is at least 30 minutes away from your current location. Seriously. Here were the directions he gave us: Go out of this parking lot and go right. When you see a Subway with bullet proof glass, go left. The road will go from four lanes to two and you will go under the overpass where hookers hang out. Stay straight for another mile or so until you see a Storage Utility Facility. It’s behind that. You can’t miss it.

It was the original no-tell motel, complete with an hourly rate. The only thing that saved my best friend from killing me that night was the fact that there HAD to be undercover cops there and she knew it. It wasn’t all bad. We took turns sleeping, but we ended up safe. On the up note, I never have to plan anything for us. She just organizes it and makes me write her a check for half the expenses. My sister does the same thing. It’s a win-win, really - and DB is now in the same boat. I bet that, regardless of the direction we head: North, South, East or West, he plans all of our future trips.

Talk to you next week.

It's my party, I can cry if I want to...

This week I turn thirty-nine. In other words, I'm old enough to legally date someone half my age. Between that and the fact that I helped my partner say good-bye to his father, it's been a long week. So when I called my best friend from Montana, she suggested that we get massages when I get home. While this may seem harmless enough, trust me when I say that it's a bad idea. The last time time we tried this, my dignity fell farther than a new born giraffe, and in case you haven't been paying attention to my karma, I don't necessarily believe it will go any differently this time around either....

See, a few years ago, I talked TB into a spa weekend. We were stressed. We needed it. We DESERVED it. Sure, I found it on-line and it was cheap, but really… how bad could it be? Actually, it doesn’t matter which of the two of us you ask. It was the Bates Motel of spas, down to the creepy guy who checked us in. That weekend, my best friend opted for a body polish, an herbal bath and a deep tissue massage. I got an herbal wrap, a Vichy massage and a pedicure. Do you know what a Vichy massage is? OH MY GOD, ME EITHER! I thought it was a massage with high-pressured shower heads done by a FEMALE masseuse, but clearly it’s not. It’s a massage, done in the shower, by a man, in a rain coat.

But to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first...

So we check in, and a scary, older man comes to the desk and says, “Which one of you is TB?” Now my best friend is GORGEOUS. So he looks at me (who isn’t), then looks at her, counts his lucky stars, giggles, introduces himself, and sleazily lisps, “I’ll be doing your body polish. How do you want me to take it off you?” Which comes out as, “I’ll be doing your body polith.” At this point, I have to walk away because I’m laughing so hard. No kidding if she could have burned a hole into me with laser vision, she would have. So she asks what her options are, and he replies, “You can wipe it off yourthelf… or I can do it for you.” I don’t remember the details because I was laughing so hard, but I clearly remember her threatening to kill me and saying to him, “Um, I’ll do it myself, thanks!”

After getting checked in (and checked out), we get into our spa robes and they take us into separate rooms. TB goes with the pervert, and I have a lovely woman named Sue who does my very relaxing body wrap. I get done an hour later, and I walk out to the “relaxation” area, where my best friend is sitting, reading People, with her legs crossed, kicking the air. I ask how it went, cause really – how bad could it be, and without looking up, she tersely replies, “it was… OK” and she licks her finger, turns the page and continues to kick her leg and read. We sit there for a few minutes… silently… and I can tell she’s seething. Now, this upsets me, and when I get upset, I get chatty… very chatty, and this drives my best friend NUTS. So she indulges me by listening, but she’s not about to dignify my conversation by participating.

So we’re sitting there, and I’m chatting, when in walks the pervert who did her body polish, and says, “Are you mkromd?” He can tell from the horrified expression on my face that I am, and he says, “I’ll be doing your Vichy massage.” Which again comes out as, “I’ll be doing your Vithy mathage.” For the first time in 20 minutes, my best friend in the whole world looks at me, smiles, and mouths, “Karma is SUCH a bitch.” After a mild panic attack and mouthing back, “help me,” I go into the room, and he explains that this is NOT a massage with a high-powered shower head. There is, in fact, human contact. It is him - in the shower with me on a table getting a massage. He will be touching me. As I’m processing how many points my dignity has dropped, he hands me something the size of a Kleenex and tells me to get naked, lay on the table, and put it across my “backside” which comes out as backthide. I looked at him like, “Really? You’re totally fucking kidding me.” But instead of saying that, I say, “Clearly you don’t know how much ath I have under this robe, cause I need a lot more towel than that.” Being the great guy he is, he hands me TWO washcloth sized towels and walks out. At this point, I lay face down and proceed to cover my ass with these two paper towels.

Clearly, God hates me.

So there I am, naked, in the shower, and in walks this man, in a rain coat, and he locks the door. Then it gets weird. At this point, I say to myself, “Self – if he turns on porn music, it will be a house of horrors for everyone involved... not just yours truly.” Instead he turns on the water and starts rubbing my shoulders. After three minutes, he lisps, “You’re very tenth. Do you know that?” I’m like, “You think? Normally, if you want to get naked in the shower with me it takes a nice dinner and a shit load of tequila.” Instead I say, “Frankly, right now, I’m too weirded out for words.” So to help me, he keeps lisping, “Just relax. It’s a thuper prothedure.”

As the water is pelting into the back of my skull and I’m begging for a sniper in a clock tower to kill me, the only thought that goes through my head is “I’m in hell. Dante was right, Beatrith. Abandon hope all yea who enter here.” Call it therndipity, but at the VERY moment I think I’m in hell, he LITERALLY put his hand into the crack of my ass, folded the washcloth over, and started massaging my butt cheek! So I say to myself, “Self, did he just make a hospital corner in the crack of your ass?” And as I’m trying to convince myself he did not, he does it to the other cheek. Now I’m sure I’m in hell… until he says, “OK, flip over.”

At that moment, I’d had enough. I might be in hell one day, but I’m not going there with him. So I instead I tell him, “See that ass you just made hospital corners in? You stand a better chance of watching a donkey fly out of it than seeing me flip over. We’re done here.” So, he shuts off the music. He shuts off the shower, and he leaves the room. I was so horrified that I ripped the washcloth out of the crack of my ass, yanked my spa robe and my dignity off the floor, and ran back to the “relaxation area” with the shower cap still on my head. My best friend took one look at me and said, “So did he fold the towel down the crack of your ass too? Thought so.”

What do you say to a woman who knows you well enough to know that you have a facial expression for that kind of event? You say the only thing you can say, “Yes, but I only paid a hundred bucks for it. Do you know what I’d have to pay in New York to have a man make hospital corners in my ass?” And to think we’re still best friends?

I'll let you know if we hit the spa, but personally - I hope we don't. I still haven't fully recovered from the last time. Either way, I'll talk to you next week.

Business Up Front. Party in the Back.

Note: This was written over the last few weeks before we received the sad news that DB's dad passed away from cancer. I haven't changed it because I love how fondly it describes him and I think he would approve. With all my heart, I hope he rests in peace.

Sorry for dropping the blogging ball the last few weeks. We were in Montana so I could meet DB's dad for the first time. I’ve met his mother on several occasions, last summer at his house and this winter in Maui at his sister’s place, and I like her. I like her very much, actually. She’s a renowned artist who is well read, well educated, well traveled and well… cool.

Turns out, even though his parents are divorced, I like his dad a lot, too. He's a good man, and DB has a lot of his qualities. You see, even though my partner is calm, centered, and Buddhisty, he's also pretty rugged. And while that may just happen when you grow up hiking and fly fishing in Western Yellowstone, it's probably more likely to happen when your old man does it, too. At any rate, it was great to see DB in his element. Personally, I'm only in my element when I'm in Ann Taylor. And, while that may seem shallow... and it is... in my defense, nothing in their summer collection makes me itch. Mother Nature can't say the same thing.

But I digress... The point is that it was a great vacation. We ate too much, drank too little, slept too late, and laughed too long. In other words, a good time was had by all.

His dad has this amazing log cabin that overlooks the mountains. It's really remote with a lot of private property, so every morning I would sit on the deck with a cup of coffee, enjoying the view while trying to wake up. And one day, I heard a soft 'screeching' sound coming from the garage. When I asked DB what it was, his dad said, "Those are Phoebes." Now, when I'm in the middle of nowhere, and you tell me there are Phoebes... and they're scratching and screeching... from the garage... I think you're a serial killer and that I'm next.

Little did I know that Phoebes are birds, which would CLEARLY explain why DB woke up with Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" in his head every day. Actually, sometimes he woke up with Johnny Cash instead, another gift he got from his dad. I didn't know his father taught him to play guitar. Turns out, his uncles and best friend play guitar, too. And while I'm not surprised, I was still delighted every time they played, individually or together. And I like the culture around it. These are men who enjoy sitting on a log cabin porch, playing the Blues - especially Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash. That said, DB and I are now old enough that when he says, "the wild life are making requests," he means turkey, deer, and Phoebes... and not the kind the kind of Phoebes that are skanky... even though they don't wear underwear either.

You know what though, even though we've grown tame in our old age, we did go out one night, and I have to be honest - it was the best date I've ever had. See, DB has had the same best friend (BW) for thirty-four years. Personally, the only thing I've kept that long is my baby-fat, but I have a best friend, so I know that this man knows where all of DB's skeletons are buried - the good, the bad, and the ugly... and he has the pictures to prove it (of the haircuts, the women, and the cars). In other words, I immediately liked him. He and DB played guitar together before, during, and after high-school, and he now owns the local music store where they used to hang out as kids. According to them, at twelve years old, they would go in, beg to play the expensive, collectible guitars, get shot down, and still be thrilled that they could hobnob with the guys who worked there.

At any rate, DB's best friend has worked there on and off for years - even while getting his degree in Music. And when the owner passed away, he left the store to BW and another person - no strings attached (and no pun intended) - simply because he knew it would be in good hands (again no pun intended). A concept that appeals to me greatly. So, after the three of us went out for dinner, we went to the store to hang out, even though it was closed. And that's when BW and DB picked the nicest guitars off the walls and played the Blues like two men who had been playing together all their lives.

Until the day I die, that will be one of the best nights of my life, and on the drive home, when I told DB what I thought about his family and friends in Montana, he said his best friend liked me as much as I liked him. His dad seems to approve, too. And that makes me happy. I wanted so desperately to make a better impression on his father than I did his mother. See, I LIKE DB’s mother, and so far… she likes me. Though for the life of me, I honestly cannot figure out why. We couldn’t be more different… that and the fact that I accidentally took her snorkeling on a nude beach in Maui.

OK, fine - there, I’ve said it. Yes, I took this amazing woman to a nude beach to look at “fish.” In my defense, I’d never been to Hawaii before. In their defense, God hates me, and I know it and should plan accordingly. So when one of the natives recommended this awesome secluded beach with “crystal clear water for a great view of the local fare” I should have guessed that he meant NAKED PEOPLE HANGING OUT IN THE SURF. But did I? Nooooooo. No, I didn’t. Instead, I walked over to the water, put on my gear, and headed straight into the tide. It took ten minutes and one wrong turn at the coral reef for me to figure out that we were NOT in Kansas anymore and that I was NOT looking at an eel.

Now, ALL THAT SAID, do you know how nudists stare at you when you put on a face mask and start swimming around them? On the OFF chance you don’t, let me tell you. They look at you like you’re the freak. It’s true, they do. They literally stared at me like, “Pervert.” And the whole time the only thing I could think was “Fucking really? You’re the one with burnt nuts, and I’M THE PERVERT?” And while I was COMPLETELY freaked out, DB, his mom, and his step dad were GREAT about it. DB’s mom was so classy and pushed my apologies aside by explaining that, as an artist, she’d worked extensively with nudes and told me not to worry about it. And DB, well, he was a Blues Guitarist for ten years and has been a Buddhist for much longer than that, so he just rolled with it and had a great time regardless. Me, I went to Catholic school in Appalachia, where being naked in a lake/creek/river/pond meant that person probably didn’t have indoor plumbing and they definitely needed a bath. And if you happened to be the unfortunate soul who saw them, you prayed you wouldn’t end up like Ned Beatty in Deliverance. Cause while there aren’t many atheists in a fox hole on a battlefield, there sure as hell aren’t any at a water hole in Southwestern Pennsylvania.

But… she wanted to get to know me better, so she started e-mailing me a few months ago. You can see why it took her some time to work up the nerve or to think it was a good idea, but she did it. And you have to understand why I wanted SO desperately to make a good impression with my reply. I was getting a badly needed second chance. So when she e-mailed me, I e-mailed DB and said, “HELP ME! What do I say?” And in his laid-back, Buddhisty, philosophical way, he replied, “whatever you want to” and he embedded this really clever, little picture from Google images. So now I have his e-mail up, and I have her e-mail up, and I replied to DB… only I sent the following message… to his mother: justbecauseyouareabuddhistandcalmandcenteredandgettousegoogleimagesatworkandidonotdoesnotmeanyoulovememorethaniloveyouorthatyouarethemotherfuckingbossofme.

Her reply said, “You write just like you talk.”

You know, you only get so many opportunities to make a first impression. And, who knows, maybe the third time will actually be a charm. That said, this year is honestly looking better than last. Maybe I’ve paid some karmic dues because she ended our last exchange with, “We would love to have you in this family”... the same thing his father said as we left Montana. And while I immediately thought of Groucho Marx who said, “Do I really want to be a member of any club who would have me?” I knew the answer… in this case yes. Yes I would.

Talk to you next week.

This morning I woke up with a Woody...

Every day, DB wakes up with a song in his head, and that makes sense. He's played guitar for over 40 years, and music is a core part of his being. Likewise, every morning, I wake up with a quote in mine. And today, I woke up thinking of Woody Allen, who said, "I like writing. It keeps my mind off grim subjects. It's therapeutic in the same way a patient in an institution is given fingerpaints." He also once commented, "I am at two with nature." And that's where our narrative begins...

But, as always, to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

If you know me (and some of you may), you know that I love to downhill ski and whitewater kayak. Other than that, physical activities are nothing more than excuses to buy new clothes... honestly. So it's not surprising that I can't get into shape - even though I need to. You see, I’m thirty-eight years old and my cholesterol is atrocious. I also have Addison’s and need to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible or there will be hell to pay later on. Given all that, you’d think I’d take this situation more seriously. It’s just that, while there might be hell to pay, I’m less scared of going to hell than I am of going to the gym. Odds are I’ll know people in both places, but at least the ones in hell will understand why I’m there.

See, gyms terrify me. They absolutely aren’t middle-aged, divorced-woman friendly. It’s true! When people see you there without a wedding ring, they assume you’re either getting in shape to get a man OR you got out of shape and that’s why you lost one. But it isn’t just that… I’m honestly the least coordinated person I know. If you were to see me jogging, you wouldn’t make eye contact. It’s that bad. You would say to yourself, “Self, I thought running was an autonomic response that land mammals were just born being able to do.” Well, both you and Nike would be wrong. My body doesn’t JUST DO IT ©. I run like the poster child for Ritalin.

Anyway… when I tried to explain all of this at my physical, my doctor didn't care. She said it was time to get things back under control, and she gave me a few choices: Lipitor for the cholesterol and Cortisol for the Addison's, OR diet, exercise, and supplements, with lots and lots of regularly scheduled blood panels. Clearly, I should have opted for better living through chemistry, but I didn't. Instead, I started getting ready to get into shape. In other words, I met my best friend for lunch and told her how my appointment went.

Now, my best friend is a runner. She runs five miles a day, every day, so she knows what she’s talking about. And when she suggested that I do the Couch Potato to 5K program, I thought, “OK, maybe...” That was before we booted up her laptop and looked at their Web site. Within two minutes, I knew it wasn’t for me. Sure, while it starts out do-able: you buy a treadmill, you get an iPod, you find good running shoes, you get some workout clothes… eventually, those bastards try to make you use that stuff. They expect you to run for 90 seconds... IN A ROW, and that’s just misery.

That said… I know I have to do something. So when DB told me that he wanted to go mountain biking for Father's Day, I saw it as an opportunity to make a lifestyle change and get more active. Plus, I love and adore his kids who also wanted to do it, so it seemed like a win-win. And it was... until it turned into Gilligan's Island, the home edition. Note: If you're too young to know who the Skipper, the Professor, and Ginger are, then stop reading. If, however, you're old enough to be in my age/demographic, then just sit right back and hear a tale of our fateful trip.

See, DB spent the first twelve years of his life in California, and he spent the next twelve years of his life in Montana (before moving to Austin to play Blues). So when he says "mountain biking" he means "MOUNTAIN" biking. I, on the other hand, say "mountain biking" and mean, "Hellllloooo, I grew up in Appalachia where we also have real mountains, but my bike didn't have a gun rack, so it was easy for the natives to spot me." And in a region of the world where there are colloquialisms about Syphilis, it's better to opt out than get singled out, especially if your Senior class voted you, "Most Likely to End Up like Ned Beatty in Deliverance."

In other words, I've mountain biked, but I wouldn't say I'm good at it.

However, being the team player that I am, I helped load bikes and pick trails. And when we got to the park, I helped unload them and pick an ice cream place for later. After that, when we got on the damn bikes, things just went downhill... literally. Actually, because the universe demands balance, it went uphill first. And EVEN THOUGH WE LIVE IN THE MIDWEST, that hill was huge. I don't care what DB and his kids say. In fact, it was so huge that I begged DB's daughter (ChB) to fake an asthma attack... and she doesn't even have asthma. And, because she's also a team player, she did (have I mentioned that I really do love and adore his kids).

Anyway, we get up the first hill, and I think I'm done, when I realize, nope! We've only conquered Dante's first level of hell. The trail is on a cliff! So I'm literally hugging the other side of that trail tighter than some poor bastard in the bicycle lane on the Autobahn. Then, the actual descent begins - and somehow I end up in front of the pack. Now let me tell you something people, the only thing I do worse than mountain bike is navigate, and now I'm doing both. In my defense, I got us to a trail. In their defense, it was an incredibly flat one... with two children who love speed... in 90 degree weather. On the upside, we ended up in a horse pasture with grass up to our knees, mosquitoes out the ass, and Chinese exchange students on holiday.

And personally, I didn't mind the horse pasture. I minded the wrong turn at the third birdfeeder that took us out of the park and into private property, where we trespassed for over three hours and 15 miles. When we finally got back into the park, and I got off my bike, I was as lame as Barbaro when he broke his leg after the Kentucky Derby. So I turned to ChB and said, "To the untrained eye, it might look like I'm limping, but it's actually a swagger." And no kidding, this beautiful, brilliant, artistic child whom I love to bits said, "Yeah... the swagger of a cripple." People say I love my partner because I adore his kids. While it's not true, it has merit.

AT ANY RATE, I still need to find a way to get into shape because CLEARLY mountain biking isn't it either. And when I met my best friend for lunch to tell her about my weekend and my "exercising options" dilemma, she said, "You're going to die at 45 if you don't exercise. You have to do something! I think you should try Detox Tea again." The sick thing is she thinks she's giving me good advice. I love her, but obviously she's forgotten what happened last time. I drank a cup of that stuff, and I hadn’t seen that much shit fly since 1989 when I had to tell my parents I didn't get into Georgetown University.

Do you know what Detox tea is and what it does? In theory, it purges your system so all of the toxins are removed and your organs are cleansed. In reality, it’s like a roto-rooter going through your intestines and pushing out everything it comes in contact with. I literally sat in the bathroom for two hours, begging to die. When it was finally over, I was certain that I'd shit out my kidney and the part of my brain that could recognize it as an organ. In other words, I'm done with Detox Tea, even if it means I still have absolutely no idea how I'll get into shape.

OK, I'm off to Montana to meet DB's dad (and no - we won't be mountain biking). Wish me luck and talk to you next week.

Our Relationship is at a Crossroad...

I'm SO excited. This weekend, DB and I are seeing Eric Clapton's Crossroads 2010 concert. It was his birthday gift from me, since - even though he's now "the man" at work, he's still a Blues Guitarist at heart. And I have to be honest, between that and the fact that he's a laid back Buddhist, he's impossible to buy presents for. Seriously, what the hell do you get someone who only wants enlightenment? Especially if that person gives AMAZING gifts! And while DB isn’t competitive at all, I make EVERYTHING a contest. Really people… my personality test said that I could have been a Drag Queen.

All jokes aside, I literally spent HOURS looking for something that says, “The gifts I give to you are better than the gifts you give to me” but does it in a centered and calm way. And I found it! After much angst and finagling, I scored two tickets to Eric Clapton’s 2010 Crossroads Guitar Festival, which will be a veritable auditory orgy for people who love the Blues. DB will get to see Albert Lee, the Allman Brothers, BB King, Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, Jimmie Vaughan, and John Mayer to name a few.

The ironic part of this tale is how I figured out the perfect gift.

DB and I have known each other forever, but we only started dating last year. And in that, “should we/shouldn’t we” phase, he was burning CDs for me so I could transfer them to my iPod. No kidding, he has thousands upon thousands of music files. He’s burned me Blues CDs, Reggae CDs, Soul CDs, Punk CDs. You name it, he owns it, and now I do too. But sometimes, he just burned CDs that he thought I’d like, which he did late last Spring. At the time, I was changing office locations, so I threw it into a box and brought it to my new cube. Shortly after that, when life finally slowed down a little, I started to unpack, and that’s when I saw a CD case labeled, “For mkromd from DB.” So I thought, “Hmmmm… I don’t remember this one.” And I put it into my laptop, cranked my headset, and started to work. Do you know what he put on a CD that was meant to impress me?

Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen...

No doubt it is the greatest song Freddie Mercury ever sang, but is it really something you give to a woman you want to date? So when I met my best friend for coffee later that day, I told her what he did and she shrieked, “OMG! I love Fat Bottomed Girls.” That’s when the three college-aged women beside us got up and moved to another table. While trying to recover, TB emphatically explained, “By Queen! I MEAN AS IN THE SONG BY QUEEN, NOT AS IN ‘I LIKE FAT BOTTOMED GIRLS’ AS A SENTENCE!” I told her they didn’t believe her because they were too young to know anything except Bohemian Rhapsody from Wayne’s World. She said it was because I was too God-damned bottomed for them to believe I wasn’t her date.

At any rate, that’s when she said, “You know… Isn’t Eric Clapton doing Crossroads again this year? You should take him to see it.” So we pulled out her laptop and started looking. Naturally it was sold out the second the tickets went on sale, so I told her I’d look for them later. I wasn’t going to do it RIGHT then. And that’s when she showed me something incredible… People actually read what I write. This amazes me, but she's right. Perhaps it's because my life is like a train wreck and people want to avert their eyes but can't.

Whatever the reason, thank you; however, I must admit I'm a wee-bit freaked out since blogging hasn't always panned out for me. That, and when she Googled last week's hits, MKROMD linked to an "Exotic" site. Now, when I saw exotic, I thought National Geographic. When she saw it, she thought stripper pole. It turns out that she was right.

How and why do these things always happen to me?

Because let me tell you something... in case you haven’t been reading about my life, if there is ONE person who should never attempt to use a stripper pole, it's me! The one time in my life I tried to be sexy, it ended VERY badly for everyone involved. TB and I were going to happy hour with a bunch of people, and (of course, as always) I was running late. So she called me. In my defense, when I heard a man’s voice on her phone I thought it was one of our crass friends who was already drunk, and when he said, “What are you wearing tonight?” I immediately replied, “You in 20 minutes.”

Turns out, it was her boss.

Within two seconds, TB was on her phone screaming, “Oh my GOD! What did you say to my boss? He just walked out of my office in horror. WHAT DID YOU SAY?” So I tried to explain and when that failed I said that it was his fault because he started it, but she didn’t seem to care. All I heard was, “I was going to set you two up tonight! He’s been dying to meet you, so I told him to call you from my phone and say that he was coming and that we were on our way. You idiot, he was asking ME what I was WEARING and if it was CASUAL or not when you HAPPENED TO PICK UP THE PHONE.”

Needless to say, he and I didn't go out, which is for the best! Because now I have DB, and I'm going to Crossroads 2010 this weekend. Talk to you next week.

I've had a wonderful time... but this isn't it.

Have you seen the movie, "It's Complicated" with Meryl Streep? It's about a divorced woman who starts sleeping with her ex-husband (Alec Baldwin) and ends up falling for (and almost losing) a really great guy (Steve Martin) in the process. If you haven't seen it, you should. It's hilarious. Because honestly... while Sarah Jessica Parker may be the poster child for single girls having sex in the city, Meryl Streep is a champion for divorced, middle-aged women being horrified by it in the burbs.

At any rate, I love romantic comedies, but I especially loved this one. Not only is it well done, but it answers the question that all of us want to know after ending any bad relationship, "Did we do the right thing? Were they a catch or not?" I think it's normal to wonder, I just think it's more important to remember what we say in Appalachia, "Simply because you can catch something doesn't make it good. Loads of people catch Syphilis, that doesn't mean you want it for life."

That said, I genuinely have *no* idea why Southwestern Pennsylvanians have a colloquialism about venereal disease.

However... I do understand why we say, "You can never go home again." Heraclitus said it thousands of years before us. He just said it more eloquently, "No man stands in the same river twice. The man is not the same, and neither is the water." And who am I to argue with him… especially when he’s right. You get older. You get wiser. Hell, you get back fat, but you are not the same person - and neither is anyone else. And just like Meryl Streep, this year my best friend and I painfully discovered that nostalgia isn't what it used to be.

You see, every winter, TB and I take an annual ski trip out West. We're pretty hard-core skiers who have been lucky enough to do some of the best resorts in the world. And this year, we decided to head to Colorado again. Now, even though I went to college out West and spent more than one Spring Break at Keystone, I’d not skied that specific mountain for almost 20 years, and it was interesting to see how much both of us had changed. We’ve both gotten much bigger, we both make more money, and neither of us seems to attract college kids anymore. In other words… we’ve grown up. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. At thirty-eight, I no longer party like a rock star, smoke like a chimney, or swear like a sailor… which is good. Unfortunately, I also no longer ski like I’m in a Warren Miller movie or believe that bathing suits are optional. In fact, not only are they required, they’re required to have a skirt.
Anyway... every year on these trips, we try something we've never done before, something to make us believe that we're still young and fun: dogsled racing, ziplining, indoor sky diving, etc. And this year we tried snow biking, a sport which is only popular with people who don’t believe that skiing and snowboarding are lethal enough.
So there we were, at the top of a mountain, signing waivers... when I heard myself say, "Self... how bad could it be?" And instead of saying, "Bad, really-really bad," I heard Mae West instead, "When choosing between two evils, try the one you’ve never tried before." So instead of skiing. We did it. We went snow biking, and we had a BLAST! That said, I will tell you, I stood at the top of a snow-covered mountain... on a bike that had skis for tires... a flag on the back for visability... and a bucket on the handlebars for my gear... and I thought to myself, “Oh sweet Jesus... I'm going to die and go to hell in the handbasket on the front of this damn thing. The irony.”

But that's not the point.

The point is that Meryl Streep's character heard Mae West, too, "Try the guy you've never tried before..." because relationships are like snow biking, and I don't mean that your crotch hurts if you hit a bump. I mean that, if you only do what you know, you can miss out on a having a truly wonderful time.

Talk to you next week.

I'm Dysfunctional? You're Dysfunctional!

This week at work we took personality tests... and I failed mine. Per my results, I am competitive to the bone, shallow on the surface, and stylish to a fault. In other words, I'm a drag queen. Actually, I just wish I was. I'm not that fierce. All that aside, the idea is noble. Its to help us better understand ourselves and our peers so we can play to our strengths. It’s also a twist on the Golden Rule, and instead of treating each other the way WE want to be treated, we should use this information to treat people the way THEY want to be treated.

At any rate... since it's like a twenty-two page instructional manual that's all about me, I decided to give a copy to my partner, DB. Now you should know something, I love my partner beyond measure. He’s the warmest, sexiest, smartest man I have ever known. Honestly, if I could have custom-ordered a mate, it would be him. And while that’s GREAT and I appreciate him EVERY single day, it’s also intimidating. Because while I am a headcase, he happens to be cool. Very cool, actually. He’s a Buddhist who dropped out of the rat-race for a decade to play Blues guitar in Austin. He’s calm and he’s centered, and while I fully understand what I see in him, I literally have absolutely no idea what he sees in me. I have actually been described as a squirrel on Jolt, which is not altogether off the mark... And now, I have the data to prove it.

But it’s not just all of that (as if that isn’t bad enough), he’s also an amazing single dad who is incredibly good looking and in extremely good shape. He’s over six feet tall with salt and pepper hair, six pack abs, and an ex-wife who is a Yoga teacher. Yes… fucking… really. Clearly I needed more evidence that God hates me, because let’s be honest, the three hottest fantasies men have include nurse, porn star, and Yoga teacher. No, it’s true. I’ve asked.

So when he asked me out, you can imagine my reaction. It was somewhere between shock and horror. Shocked because I’m thirty-eight years old, and on my best day, I never looked like a Yoga teacher. Horrified because I’m thirty-eight years old, and on my best day, I never looked like a Yoga teacher.

Now… if you ask him to tell this story, he will tell you that I was playing hard-to-get. I, however, will tell you the truth. I was terrified, but you have to understand something. The last time I dated, I was twenty, when awkward meant your date crossed that fine line between, “Trust me baby, you’re gonna dig it” and “Wow, I fucking hate you. You should leave now.” At thirty-eight, awkward enters a realm that you can’t even begin to wrap your head around. It’s somewhere along the lines of… this is gonna get weird before it gets cool.

And just like it takes a village to raise a child, it takes an arsenal of qualified adults to get a divorced woman ready for sex. It does. At the very least, it’s your best friend, your sister, your therapist, your stylist, and the manager at your local Ann Taylor. Your best friend talks you out of it, your sister talks you back into it, and your therapist helps you weigh the pros and cons of each. Then, once you decide that you actually CAN do this, your life becomes a flurry of activities best described as a work plan to make it happen.

1. You calendar sync with your partner and the kennel. In other words, is your date available, are you available, and are the kids unavailable? You want the house completely to yourself. No one wants to get caught by their kids or watched by their dog. If you wanted that, you never would have gotten divorced.

2. You agreed on the day and time, now you have to start preparing physically. This is where your dignity takes its first hit. You go to the salon, strip down and have your eyebrows, legs, and bikini line waxed. Then you get your facial, your pedicure, and your high-lights handled. In other words, you pay about $400 to look thirty-seven instead of thirty-eight. So literally, you run through your budget and wonder if you can afford to have sex. And for the first time in your life, you understand how college guys in Vegas feel.

3. You know the day and you know the time. You’ve gotten all of the hair on your body handled. And while you may look thirty-seven, you look like a thirty-seven year old workaholic. That means your body has betrayed you on every level imaginable… unless you’re a Yoga teacher. So, you call the manager at your local Ann Taylor, who has been dressing you for a decade, and you explain the situation, clearly giving new meaning to the phrase “retail therapy.” Your ass has to look smaller. Your boobs need to look bigger. She’s been here with you before: career events, Christmas parties, divorce court, first date. She knows what you need, and she has five outfits – complete with shoes – ready for you when you get there.

Now… I love this woman. She has great taste, and she is brutal. She knows my physique and she knows how to dress it. And better than that, she’s a divorced, middle-aged woman who has been in this boat herself. And even though she’s my age, she’s like a fairy God-mother getting mid-life crisis Cinderella ready for the ball, no pun intended. Only the glass slipper is a stiletto that costs $150 and is designed to give you height so your weight is distributed and your ass looks smaller. You look GREAT. The only problem with the outfit you just bought… is that it has to come off if you want to have sex.

So, everything is done. You’re physically ready, but emotionally and psychologically you’re not even remotely close to being prepared. You’ve talked to your sister, your best friend, your mother, your therapist and your bartender, and the day arrives, but… like Churchill said, “When you’re going through hell, keep going.” So you keep the date, and it’s gone great. He’s an amazing guy. You’ve talked. You’ve eaten. You’re at his place, and you’re kissing. One thing leads to another, and you’re in his room, on his bed. He’s harder than Calculus, but the thing is… you know you got fucked by Calculus. You’re still not sure how THIS date is going to end. It is, as they say in Vegas, a crap-shoot because part of you is REALLY digging it, but part of you is terrified since you haven’t done this in a very, very, VERY long time. So you tell yourself that having sex is just like riding a bicycle. Then you remember… the last time you rode your bike, you ended up with scabs on both knees, and how the HELL would you explain THAT at work THIS time. Then you’re thinking about Calculus and how you were twenty when it fucked you, too, and how that didn’t end well for you either, so what the HELL are you doing in this situation? And part of you is imploding and part of you is exploding, and you are literally a human push-me, pull-me of action and reaction.

At that moment, you have to fish or cut bait because clothes are starting to come off. That’s when he takes off his shirt and you see that he has a great body. God clearly hates you. He still has the physique of a twenty year old. You… not so much. You take off your shirt, and the only way to describe the difference between your body at twenty and your body at thirty-eight is that you are like a transatlantic flight, “Please be careful when opening the overhead compartment, as the contents have shifted in transit.” And then you shut off the lights and think this is going to get weird before it gets cool… and it does. And for the first time in your life, you're glad you aren't a drag queen. Even if you aren't fierce.

Talk to you next week.