Happy Valentines Day

I'd like to take you to Belize. And not just because that's where The Bachelor was this week, but because it's beautiful and you deserve that. I would like to whisk you away to somewhere new and tropical. You can walk around in your sandals (and socks, probably), and I'll smile at you and shake my head, but I wouldn't change anything.

I'd like to be on a long train ride with you, in a private sleeper cabin, or a diner cabin with our backgammon set laid out in front of us, while snow-capped mountains rise and fall past the windows. We would clink our glasses, then each lean out over the game and kiss, cementing that moment forever.  And then I'd roll double sixes and destroy you!! You'd challenge me to another game, but no Hetchy, no. I like to quit when I'm ahead.

I'd like to be in a cabin with you, by the ocean. It would be so secluded, there would be no internet or tv, just a wall of games and our conversation. We'd spend our days wandering the beach, with the dog of course, leaving our tracks side by side in the golden lit sand. The tracks would tell how we slowed down, probably to watch the sun set and kissed, and maybe the footprints would even tell how we held hands the entire time. What the tracks couldn't possibly tell is how you made rude gestures with your other hand, and I pretended to hate it, but was actually spastically delighted by your audacity.

I'd like to be in a romantically lit room with you, where everyone is slow dancing, and we'll meet eyes and hop right in. But we'll spin too fast, and I might get dizzy, but it's ok, love. Just a little slower, maybe? But too late! A fast song has started and you lead me to a chair and then break into the Running Man. I slump in my seat and hope there's no way I can possibly be linked to the crazy man who has just broken into the Lawn Sprinkler, but then I start laughing. You're so damned funny when you dance, and I know you're doing it just for me. So I join in and show you Feeding the Chickens again, because that's a crowd-pleaser.

"What do you mean where's your phone?"

I get all those vacation pamphlets mailed to me so I can continue to add to the list of places I'd like to take you, and they all look wonderful. But they don't show in their booklets pictures of what it would really be like. How I'll poke at your ticklish back as you try to fall asleep, just because I love the sound of your laugh. You'll hold my hands and beg me to stop, but when I plead, "just one more?" you'll actually let me!
There's no pictures of me dropping my book in the ocean and kicking at the dastardly waves, or of us in an endless search for the last place you put your phone, but that's what the reality would be. You and me, Hetch, we're not the perfect romantic couple shown in all the pictures. We would try our hardest, I'd even buy white linen dresses that would flow in the breeze, but then I'd spill a v8 on the damn thing. And you, you would probably trip and stub your toe as we walked along the beach, hand in hand, and then have to limp to the nearest cabana.

We will be rumpled, tipsy, and too loud, whether it's in Belize, or on a train. And our stained clothes and wind-blown hair won't be making it into any pamphlets.

And, Hetch? I wouldn't have it any other way. Happy Valentines Day, my love.

A List: Fictional Crushes

I feel like writing, but can only seem to come up with weird lists. Lucky you, Reader. Behold, my list of fictional crushes through my lifetime:

don't even pretend this isn't attractive

Dusty - the G.I. Joe that I think was supposed to be in the Gulf War, or something? I don't really know. He had a southern accent, that's about all I remember.

Murdoc - MacGyver's nemesis. You know, the psycho with the burned face that was always setting MacGyver's houseboat loose into the ocean. "I could fix this if I just had some duct tape," continues to be a favorite proclamation, all due to that sexy, murderous madman. I have no explanation for this, and should probably be a little ashamed.

Drop Dead Fred - That mean prankster who gave his imaginary life to help Phoebe. You just put a piece of broccoli in your mouth and said, "Mm, what a lovely piece of broccoli." *le sigh.

Johnny! - Dirty Dancing. Duh. My parents didn't let me watch this at first, apparently due to all the dirty dancing, and probably that whole brutal abortion business, but I watched it at my best friend's house. Many many times. I also forced my cousins to re-enact all the scenes with me. I'd defend this behavior, but am pretty sure we've already established that I'm not proud.

Bodhi - Point Break. Yeah, another bad guy. And it only now occurs to me that it's another Patrick Swayze role. His death is just now hitting me...

Doctor Who - but only the one played by David Tennant. Also, any other role played by David Tennant.

Xander - Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Geeks are so great.

Jayne - Firefly. He's close enough to a villain that it's ok for me to crush on him.

That's all I can think of right now.
Do you have any weird fictional crushes?

1987 Turned on the Sexy

Have you ever been asked what smell you remember most vividly from childhood? I always answer, "Lilacs," because I remember so clearly that summer essence in my parents' backyard. Upon deeper reflection, though, I realize there is one odor above even lilacs that stands out among the rest. That scent is: Drakkar Noir.

Now, men, let me ask you a few questions. Was there some kind of chain mail in 1987 that threatened the lives of your parents and dogs if you didn't wear the Drakkar? Was it the free cassette some of the bottles came with, featuring the likes of Jimmy Hendrix and Rod Stewart that drove you to the purchase? Or does it actually smell good to you? Does it smell like the success of banging hot babes in the back of that van you'll someday buy with your earnings from your after school job at the D.Q?

Who knew working at the D.Q. could be so sexy?

I need someone to explain to me why every boy I developed a crush on from 4th grade through college seemed to bathe in the fine fragrance that IS Drakkar Noir.
One boy, in particular, kept what could only be described as a family-size bottle of the stuff in his locker and would dab droplets behind his ears between classes.
It was so strong, that all my books got dosed and later in the evening as I sat down to do my homework, the smell would waft up like a cartoon and lure me to a faraway land. Drakkar would whisper to me, Who needs Advanced Algebra when you could be dating a man not afraid to wear base notes of patchouli?


Drakkar promised me a life filled with the dulcet croons of Rod Stewart and a man sporting a feathered mullet even MacGyver would be jealous of. In short, Drakkar lied.

Only recently, I learned that D. also once wore the infamous scent. He gets defensive about it now, but I can't blame him for his dark past. I imagine him, dabbing it behind his ears, and being transported to a world of mystery. Throwing on his trenchcoat and defiantly flipping his long hair out from under the collar, 'cause that shit pulls, and striding out the door. Then running back in, for one final spritz.

After all, haven't we each, at one time in our lives, been lured in by that self-important feeling one can only achieve from smelling like Treemoss and Guy Laroche?

A Few Rules

Vow 1: Be pretty. Not for him, but because I am not a hippy and end up feeling all dumpy when hair is not brushed, clothing is rumpled, pimples apparent to the world and not an accessory in sight (for shame!). Also...so he knows what he's missing.

Vow 2: Exercise! Every day! Even if it's simply taking doggins for a walk. He needs it and you need those endorphins if you're gonna get through this.

fuck yes, vogue!

     Codicil: Vow 1 does not necessarily apply to Vow 2. Do NOT be the lady who wears makeup to cardio kickboxing. It's weird, and can't be good for her pores.
Exercise will aide with Vow 1, making me thin and pretty. I will be more confident, have more energy, and it will be a giant slap in the face to Mr.-I'm-Not-Attracted-to-You-Anymore. That guy is a jerk and will not stand in my way.

Vow 3: Try to say "yes" more often than "no." If your friend wants you to trek into the city on a rainy day to listen to some execrable slam-poetry, grab yourself some public transportation before you have a chance to think about how much you abhor slam-poetry. You will be happier if you are out of the house and strengthening friendships than you will be by staying home and attempting to put dreadlocks in your hair whilst watching Bridget Jones' Diary for the thousandth time.
Maybe consider putting Bridget Jones' Diary under lock and key for the time being.

Vow 4: Go to things that interest you regardless of if anyone else is willing to go. If there are classes to learn Madonna's "Vogue" dance for a future flash mob, put some fucking eye-liner on and GO. Don't let Mr.-I-Don't-Like-the-Things-You-Like stop you just because he's feeling snobbish towards Madge. He's a cloud hovering above your parade and wouldn't know how to vogue anyway.

Vow 5: Wake up by 7a.m. at the latest. That's just good sense. And staying up late every night watching Charles in Charge is making you sad. Charles was never in charge. Those kids didn't listen to a thing he said.

Vow 6: Consider canceling Netflix. Their recommendations are crap, anyway and you don't need to watch Dirty Dancing again ever for a little while.
Baby was in the corner. Baby got out of the corner. And they fucking nailed that lift!

nailed it.

Vow 7: Don't be so angry. Sometimes things end. Doesn't matter if you saw it coming or not. Endings are sad. Buck up and move on.
Mr.-You're-Not-My-Equal will find his equal and that'll hurt. Take comfort that his equal is nowhere near as awesome as you.
...And she probably can't vogue for shit.

A Letter to my Dad

Like many of you, today I scrambled to call my dad at a reasonable hour for the both of us, as he is 3 hours ahead, to wish him yet another happy Father's Day. He was buzzing a little bit and I got to sit back and listen to him give me the details of his walk to find some snapping turtles.
As I sat there smiling, I realized something rather important that I've never actually taken stock of before: I unconditionally adore my dad. He is amusing, even downright hilarious, and he's always been fair and stable, and a solid influence in my life. What's more, he laughs at my jokes (a true testament of character), watches Harry Potter with me, and generally gives the impression that he likes me as a person. My dad, in short, has never given me reason to doubt him.
Now, 3000 miles away and desperately attempting to become a grown-up, I can thank him for his most exceptional gift: in a world where finding one's character can be mercurial and demanding, he always encouraged me to be exactly who I am.
Thanks, Dad. I love you.

Not Particularly Exciting

Imma share something with you:

Every time my foot falls asleep and I put my weight on it, I think maybe I'm somehow breaking my foot/toes and just can't feel it at the moment.
It's a terrifying few seconds, let me tell you.
whew!
Glad I got that off my chest.
I feel better. It's...it's something I've been living with for a very long time.
Aren't you glad you tuned in today?

Goldilocks Looks at Puppies

You know, every time you're feeling down you start looking one of two things: apartment listings, or adoptable puppies.
That little insight was brought to you by my delicious man-friend and all I have to say is, "Fuck yes, bitchers! That is how I keep on keeping on! Adoptable puppies are my mahfuckin' double rainbow!"
And I tell you, I will be lookin' at a whole bunch of them in the coming months.

My dad has cancer. Imma just say that right out. While there is a little bit of "poor me" in there, mostly my reaction is WHAT THE FUCK? Why can the man not catch a break? And then I thought, by some magical circumstance, if I was to be given the decision of taking the cancer and giving it to someone I know (a common acquaintance, though not necessarily someone I like), would I take it?
Dad, I've got a list of names that I would be willing to give your cancer to. You just let me know.

Add to that the fact that I'm stuck in California, and my job pays me butt-all, so there's not much chance of plane tickets in my near future. At least, with the current job, I can walk into a room and shout, "What's up, bitches?" and actually get a few laughs. Office environments tend to frown on that kind of behavior. Also, I can work in what is basically pyjamas, clearly more comfortable than any fuckin' pantsuit.

Lastly, we've got a leaky fuckin' sink. Our landlord is apparently going to be the one to fix it, though that pill-poppin booze-hound (role-model though he may be) should not actually be allowed near any home maintenance projects. Allow me to point you to exhibits
A) the kitchen light that just randomly falls out of the ceiling at any given moment;
B) the hole in our kitchen counter. Presumably some kind of weird mold thing;
C) our front door, which does not actually fit into its frame; too tight in one corner, and all gaping wide in the other. Listen to me, like the mahfuckin' Goldilocks of front doors.
D) don't even get me started on the fact that our entire living room rests atop two very nervous looking wooden stilts.

So, I look at puppies. 'Cause they're so goddam adorable! What with their big eyes and fat bellies and OMG that puppy smell! Here's a word of advice: if you're in the Bay Area and not in MA helping my dad (shame on you!) you should adopt a pup. I mean, you could adopt one no matter where you are, 'cause they're small and helpless and don't pretend you don't have the time, you selfish prick!, but if you're IN the Bay Area, you should go to Smileydogrescue.org. That's where we got our Watson Shittypants, and I highly recommend them (though not him, specifically). Or, you could just foster or hand them a fat wad of cash, 'cause they're just a rescue group and they deserve your help!
Hands off Lombard, though, or I will cut you!