Veruca Salt and Me: A Story of Interfriendtion and Redemption

Hi, guys! Do you remember the time I was furious with my best friend of over ten years and so I wrote a strongly-worded blog post and published it on the internet and hundreds of people read it?

Did you wonder if my friend Veruca Salt read the post?

She did.

Do you think it made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside?

It didn't.

Should I have saved it for Festivus?

Maybe.

Should I have worked through my feelings in a more private and productive way, like talking to a therapist?

That's not a bad idea.

Better still, could I have perhaps taken my issues directly to Veruca instead of publicly humiliating her on the internet?

She certainly thinks so.

In the interest of forgiveness (and as a testament to the power of friendship), the title and content of the aforementioned blog post have since been edited, so this post will only make sense to those who read that post in its original form. However, enough people read "The Blog" that I feel a follow-up is in order. It's only fair that I stop referring to my friend as "Veruca Salt". She would like to henceforth be known as  "A1". It's an old nickname. Don't ask.

I believe that I best process my feelings and express myself through writing, and that in doing so I was able to lay out my detailed account of how her words and actions hurt others and that this would prompt her to re-examine herself and return to being the sweet, loyal and fun friend I have known and loved for so many years. Urban Dictionary would call this an "interfriendtion". It's catchy and concise, so let's go with that. I would like to think that my post opened up a healthy and honest dialogue that repaired our friendship. 

A1 would say that I could have accomplished this in a much less public way. One woman's catharsis is another woman's humiliation, and I take no pride in hurting someone. I recognize that my blog is available for public viewing, but to say that the response to this particular post was unprecedented for this blogger would be an understatement.

You should know that A1 and I both agreed that this post is necessary. She certainly didn't want me to leave this story open-ended, with her cast as the villain. We have been friends since we were 18-years-old. The events I described in The Blog do not accurately reflect A1's character, or our history together. Hearing her heartfelt apology and explanation (not to be confused with excuse) provided clarity and a context that made it clear to me that we can absolutely move forward from this. We value our friendship and hurt feelings on both sides have been mended.

If you've been blessed in your life with important friendships that have withstood the test of time, then you know that times can get stormy. Borrowing from one of Steve's favorite expressions, "It's not all rainbows and lollipops." If you take anything away from this mini-drama, I hope it's the understanding that we all fall down sometimes. We hurt the ones we love the most. Sometimes when we hurt our loved ones, they hurt us back in ways we never imagined. But we always forgive, because we're a family. A1, The Gypsy, Mama, Cara, Beana, Sally, plus Panda and The Dr. (both absent from this year's trip), and me--we'll be playing cards in the old folks' home when we're 90. 

If you have your own "Veruca Salt" in your life, A1 and I would encourage you to pick up the phone. Y'all talk it out. The outcome could be better than you ever hoped. 

Tales from the Beach | A Mostly True Story, Volume 4

The Only Sober Girl in the Bar
I'm not trying to act superior by saying that I was the only sober girl at the bar, and I'm not implying that my friends were tanked--they weren't at all. But by day three of living off of a steady supply of beer, I built up a resistance and just couldn't catch a good buzz. Also, three nights of straining my voice to talk over the house band left me voiceless. I didn't see the point in pounding back shots of tequila to get *crunk* (as the kids say), and chugging beer with no promise of a buzz seemed like a waste of calories. So, unable to get tipsy or carry on a conversation, I elected to observe and report. Below you will read an itemized list of my findings:

• I don't think you have to get drunk to have a good time, but I do think you should get drunk to use the public restroom at a bar. Through the clear eyes of a sober woman, there is nothing scarier than a public restroom that is used exclusively by drunks. Every surface is inexplicably wet. The counters, the floor, the toilet seats, everything is wet. Is it sink water? Toilet water? Did employees hose the place down after somebody puked on the floor? It's crowded, and clumsy girls are bumping their heads on sharp corners. Other drunk girls are sharing their lit cigarettes with strangers and almost burning themselves and each other. There is a major toilet paper shortage. I want to leave this place, and immediately take a Hazmat shower and dispose of everything I'm wearing. I propose a special, separate restroom for teetotalers and designated drivers. You would have to pass a breathalyzer to gain entry, but it would be clean, dry, and well-stocked. Somebody get to work and make this happen please.
• Drunk people pontificate. I patiently listened for five entire minutes as a man explained to me that Zooey Deschanel is the greatest actress of our generation. "If she is performing with highly capable actors, the result is magical, and if she is working with less talented or inexperienced actors, they rise to meet her. She makes them better." I love me some Zooey Deschanel, don't get me wrong, I just haven't spent this much time thinking about her impact and place in cinematic history. Oh, and the Zooey Deschanel devotee? He's in the Air Force. What did I tell you? My friends are always approached by members of the armed forces. They claim we seemed "non threatening". That's a flattering characterization if I've ever heard one. Accurate, too.

Beana: Who is Zooey Deschanel?

Me: She was in 500 Days of Summer.

Beana: What?

Mama: She was in Elf.

Beana: I don't remember anyone in that movie.

Me: Did you see Failure to Launch?

Beana: Yes! I saw that!

Me: She was Sarah Jessica Parker's roommate.

Beana: Ohhh. I like her.

• I'm seated at a table with The Gypsy, who has struck up a conversation with two members of the Canadian military. The men act like they're engaging both The Gypsy and me in conversation, but I can't talk on account of I lost my voice. I wonder how long it takes them to realize I'm not participating in this conversation. Ten minutes later...

Canada Steve: That's quite an accent you have. I like the way you talk.

The Gypsy: I speak with perfect diction, and if you say otherwise, I'll slit your throat.

Canada Steve: Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. You're quite a pistol.

The Gypsy: It's too bad this one over here can't talk [points at me]. She lost her voice, which sucks, because she's got all the funny stories. My banter would be more witty if she could talk.

Canada Steve: Oh, is that what's going on? Because she hasn't said a word, but her eyes are screaming.

• Drunk people injure themselves. I passed one girl on the way to the bathroom. She was sitting on a bar stool, surrounded by the bar's security team, crying harder than Shelby in Truvy's salon, as her foot gushes so much blood that a legit puddle forms beneath her bare foot. 

• I've decided that Alanis Morissette's "You Oughta Know" is the white woman's "Free Bird". When this song plays, every woman stops her conversation and begins an impassioned sing-along, like "this is my jam!" The guys watching them are sort of into it, but sort of scared at the same time. This is, after all, a very aggressive man-hating song. My favorite thing about this phenomenon is that there is always one girl who is singing along with her friends, but she doesn't actually know the words to the song, so she nervously mumbles jibberish like, "buh da love that ya gay dat we may wasn't ayyy ayyy ta may you up bup bup...no...and every tie you bee ber bay dun dee dun dun doe ray mee. WELL YOU'RE STILL ALIVE, AND I'M HERE!"
• The same band played both nights we were at AJs. They were a group of capable musicians with an extensive and varied repertoire. The problem was, they played all their songs at the same time. I blame Glee: on Glee, they are constantly yammering about how innovative and cool it is to "mash up" two seemingly different songs, like "I'm Walking on Sunshine" and "Halo" and put them into a single performance. So the house band performed mash ups--of every song they played. Just as Beana and I would start jamming along to the first verse of "Fat Bottom Girls", the band flips the script and begins singing Radiohead's "Creep". It was very off-putting. 
• We didn't fare much better at Rum Runners. Is that place a piano bar all the time? I must have been half in the bag every other time I visited this place, because the piano came as a surprise. There was a bachelorette party going on (there is always a bachelorette party going on), and these girls were dancing on the front row and trying to get on stage like they thought they were at a Poison Justin Bieber concert. Drunk white chicks love piano bars, who knew?! I don't know if they ever play "You Oughta Know" at the piano bar, but I bet it incites riots. 
• The bouncer at Rum Runners was absurdly gruff with Cara and me. Also, he looked like Rob Riggle, the cop from The Hangover.

Bouncer: [stern and glaring] Show me your ID!

Cara: [uncharacteristically perky] Sure!

Bouncer spends an inordinate amount of time scrutinizing Cara's ID. 

Bouncer: [irritated] Do you know that your license is expired?

Cara: [shocked] What? No! I had no idea. Wow, just...no idea. Thank you so much for bringing it to my attention. [perks up again and bats her eyelashes] It's my birthday!

"It's my birthday!?" Does she think this is going to win over the bouncer? Because it isn't. She has the youthful enthusiasm of a four-year-old hoping to score a free balloon at Chuck E. Cheese. This is so out-of-character for Cara. I'm standing behind her so she can't see me laughing.

Bouncer: Today is not your birthday. Your birthday was four days ago.

Cara: [crestfallen] Well...we're here to celebrate my birthday.

Bouncer: Here [gives back her ID, disgusted] Just go.

I step up and present my ID. The increasingly annoyed bouncer gives me a dirty look and snatches the ID from my hand. I decide to act like a cold-as-ice, bad-ass bitch. Show no fear! I'm not going to let him know that I think he is comically angry.

Bouncer: Well what the hell happened here? [He's referring to the bottom corner of my ID, which features prominent teeth marks.]

Me: [bored] Puppy.

Bouncer: [Suspiciously, while still carefully examining my ID] What kind of puppy?

Me: A Pembroke Welsh Corgi.

Bouncer: Glances up with one eyebrow raised] A what?

Me: A Pembroke Welsh F^#&ing Expensive Useless Corgi. [because the quickest way to earn street cred is with needless profanity and puppy mockery]

Bouncer: Mmm hmm [hands back ID]. Enjoy your evening.

Me: [casually] Thanks, I will.

Ok, gang--that's it for the Girls' Beach Trip 2011 Recap. I managed to stretch a three-night vacation into five blog posts. I even surprised myself at how much I could remember from the trip, three weeks after returning home. I'm glad I was able to document our experiences and that the memories aren't lost forever at the bottom of a shot glass. Thanks for reading! 

Tales from the Beach | A Mostly True Story, Volume 3

The World's Meanest Cabana Man

What does "The World's Meanest Cabana Man" look like, you ask? Kinda like A-Rod. Racially ambiguous. Obnoxiously tan. Highly defined muscles. Wears Oakley sunglasses and a tank top.

Beana: He's not that big.

Translation: He probably works out two hours a day, six days a week, avoids carbs and sugar, but doesn't take steroids.

Since I'm the ginge with a history of skin cancer, securing a chaise lounge with a giant umbrella is of paramount importance. I won't last an hour out there otherwise. As such, I am reliant upon Cabana Man for survival.

You should know going into this, that my way of coping with aggressively hostile people is to turn into the wide-eyed and demure "Charlotte" from Sex and the City. 

Me: [cheerfully] Hi!

Cabana Man: [sighs, annoyed] Yeah.

Me: [confused by his hostility] Uh...I'd like to rent a pair of chairs. With an umbrella.

Cabana Man: [shrugs] Ok. Which chairs do you want?

Me: Oh! Uh...I can pick any chairs I see here?

Cabana Man impatiently nods. I attempt to communicate this information to the girls, who are about a quarter -mile down the beach, using sign language I've just invented, to ask, "Which chair should I choose?" The girls don't understand my made-up sign language.

Cabana Man: Look, I don't have all day.

Me: Right! Right...so sorry. 

Mean people make me nervous.

Me: Umm...so I can choose any chair? Ok, let's go down this way.

Cabana Man: [highly agitated] I'm following you.

I begin marching down the beach towards the girls. Following me is Cabana Man...who is fast becoming Cabana Nazi, along with a middle-aged man who is also interested in renting chairs.

Me: Let's see...I can choose any chairs without a yellow tag? We would like to be seated away from children if possible...do you--

Cabana Man shakes his head and gestures to five pairs of chairs in a row.

Cabana Man: This is it.

Me: Alright. I'll pick one in the middle.

Cabana Man begins filling out the rental form.

Waiting Man: We're going to be renting four pairs of chairs, so my family will be seated on either side of you, and there are some children, but--

Me: [smiling] Oh! I can rent a pair of chairs on the end. Your family should be all together!

I think it's nice when strangers are kind to one another and work together in a spirit of cooperation. It gives me a sense of hope for the future in a world filled with chaos.

Waiting Man and I turn to Cabana Man, who glances up from his clipboard, annoyed.

Me: Can I change to that chair? [pointing at the chair on the end]

Waiting Man: It's just I heard you say you didn't want to be near children, so that might be better for you since we have children with us.

Me: Oh, yeah, we like children. We have children. We just didn't want things to get too rowdy.

Waiting Man: Oh, they're pretty calm.

Me: I wasn't talking about your children. 

Waiting Man: [uncomfortably] Oh.

Me: [laughing sheepishly] We're on vacation.

Cabana Man: [sigh] Whatever! You need to just pick a chair and stick with it! I'm writing this down in pen!

A pen?! That's absurd. He should work in pencil.

The girls approach with their cooler and bags.

Mama: [points at our chairs] This it?

Me: Yep. [grabbing Cara by the arm and whispering] He is the meanest Cabana man ever!

Cara: To hell with him. What did he say to you?
Me: I asked to rent a different chair, so that we wouldn't be sitting in the middle of that other man's family, and Cabana Man snapped at me because he had already filled out the rental form in pen.
Cara: Well, that's his fault for being stupid. He should work in pencil.
Me: I know, right?!

Beana, unsatisfied with the position of our umbrella, begins to wiggle the umbrella out of the sand

Me: [whisper-shouting so Cabana Man won't hear] I wouldn't do that if I were you.

Beana: [loud and indignant] Why not?

Me: [in a hushed tone] That Cabana Man is scary.

Beana: Psh. [continues wiggling umbrella]

Cabana Man throws down clipboard and stomps over to Beana.

Cabana Man: You can't do that!

Beana: [Pivots around with hands on hips] Why. Not?!

Cabana Man: Because. Then the umbrellas wouldn't all be in a straight line.

Beana: Psh. So?!

Cabana Man: Don't. Touch. The umbrellas!

Me: [whispering] I told you he is the meanest!

Beana: What a bastard. He isn't even that hot.

Tales from the Beach | A Mostly True Story, Volume 2

A follow-up to my previous post, I'm attempting to chronicle my recent beach adventures with my college friends, to the best of my recollection, three weeks after the fact. Here is the second installment, later in the first night at AJ's bar in Destin, Florida.

They're Not Creepy At All

Beana, Mama, and I are sipping cocktails and enjoying the people watching at AJ's. At a nearby table, a fight breaks out between two girls, one of whom has crunchy-curly hair (it has been my experience that one never wants to cross a girl with crunchy curls. She has no qualms about clawing out your eyeballs.) The other chick is wearing a backless shirt that showcases her full-back tattoo of wings. I wonder whether they are meant to depict angel wings, or Pegasus wings, or even falcon wings. I will leave AJ's without answers.

As the fight breaks up, we are approached by a group of men who we soon learn are Marines. They are always Marines. Unless they're in the Air Force. One guy spills Mama's full beer all over her lap in a clumsy attempt at a handshake introduction. (Seriously, why do we shake hands in a bar? We're drinking beer. This is not the setting for a handshake).

Lance Corporal Cutie: Oh, man, I'm sorry!

Mama: It's cold!
Lance Corporal Cutie: I can't believe I did that! I'm not even drunk, I swear.
Mama: Wow. I have beer all over me.

Me: [points at Mama] It's her birthday.

Lance Corporal Cutie: Now I feel worse.

Me: [smiling] I meant for you to.

Lance Corporal Cutie buys Mama a beer. Bonus: Lance Corporal Cutie buys me a beer. We strike up a conversation.

Me: You are heavily tattooed, Lance Corporal Cutie.
Lance Corporal Cutie: Yeah, I am. [lifts his shirt to show off his ink]
Me: Does every tattoo tell a story, or am I going to find Yosemite Sam on your shoulder?


Lance Corporal Cutie reveals symbolic tattoos covering his torso, along with shrapnel scars. They're his war wounds. He tells me a harrowing tale from his last deployment to Afghanistan, where his fellow Marines saved him from a roadside bomb. Yeah, this small-talk just took a sharp turn into Serious Town, population: 2. He points out the heroic fellow Marines (who he repeatedly tells me he loves and that they're his brothers) among us at AJ's. These guys are conversing with Beana and Mama. I typically don't like when a group of guys approaches our group of friends at a bar, because I think their intentions are insincere. They strike up a conversation with the pretense that they "just want to talk to some nice, normal girls", but I don't believe that single men want to have innocent chit-chat with girls at a bar while on vacation. They're just interrupting our girl time. Maybe I'm jaded. Either way, after listening to Lance Corporal Cutie profess his undying love for his fellow Marines, I decide they're alright.

Then Lance Corporal Cutie asks me to guess his age. Why do people play this game? It's awkward, and it seems to only occur in bars. If you guess the person's age, and you guess too young, they may possibly be flattered, or they will find you absurdly insincere. If you guess too old, you've hurt their feelings or insulted them. If you guess the correct age, no matter what their age is, they're still insulted that you think they look their age, and will say something along the lines of, "Really? You think I look 28? Well, I am 28, but everyone tells me I can easily pass for 23. Hmmph. I guess not..." 


Lance Corporal Cutie: How old do you think I am? Go ahead, guess.
Me: Ugh...[eye roll]...25?
Lance Corporal Cutie: [stunned] What?! I'm 22!
Me: Oh. Well, I didn't guess "25" because I think you "look 25". It's just that I would never guess that a man of only 22 could be as worldly and experienced as you. Besides, I'm almost 30, so whether you're 25 or 22, you're still very young.
Lance Corporal Cutie: [Feigns a shocked expression] Wha--?! 29?! Nuh uh, no way! You're shitting me! I swear, I swear, I was sure that you were 22.

I smiled politely, but the conversation ended there. He was sure I was 22? Please. Even when I was 22, nobody thought I looked 22. I've been mistaken for 25 since I was 18. I always look older. Whatever. So, unless I've stumbled into an alternate universe where I'm living in some kind of Benjamin Button situation, there's no way in hell anybody thinks I'm 22. Sidenote: This is the second time in three years that I've revealed my age to somebody who is younger, and their reaction was to gasp in shock, and spend the next five minutes comforting and consoling me and assuring me that I appear much younger. I've never had a problem with my age, why do they feel they need to console me?

Having grown bored with my conversation with Lance Corporal Cutie, I'm even more grateful to see that Cara and Sally have finally arrived! Before I can do anything else, I must debrief Cara on the military insurgence at our cocktail table. Cara has a history of overzealously protecting her friends from skeezy would-be suitors. She will literally chase them off, hurling profanity and threats so they'll never come back. I decided these fellas didn't deserve the "Cara treatment".

Me: I know what this looks like, but it's all under control. We've been talking to these guys a while. They're Marines, they're 22, they're from Mississippi, they bought us drinks, and they're not creepy at all.
Cara: [incredulous] Really? What about the one who's raping Mama with his eyes?

Cara points across the table, and I turn to see Mama, smiling and sipping her beer, blissfully unaware that a man standing directly to her left is vigorously thrusting in her general direction, looking at her with an expression that is intensely dirty.

Me: Eww. I didn't know about that.
Cara: Hey buddy! [snaps fingers] You better lock it up!

Thrusting Marine ceases and desists from dry-humping Mama for the rest of the evening.

Cara and I turn our attention to the dance floor, where a Latino man is wearing tear-away pants and demonstrating some straight-up MTV Grind dance moves. Where is Eric Nies when I need him?

Out of the corner of Cara's eye she notices a highly inebriated young woman wearing a white sundress with a veil, dancing barefoot in the center of the floor.

Cara: That bride--has lost her shit.
Me: That is our sorority sister.
Cara: What? 
Me: True story. She's getting married. See all those girls in black who are holding her shoes and looking on with concern? Sorority sister, sorority sister, sorority sister. It's a small world after all, yes?
Cara: Indeed. You know, I have to hand it to the Bride. She's doing an excellent job maintaining her balance. And she looks hot.
Me: I'm concerned she's going to get splinters in her feet--oh! What--? Oh, now she's doing The Worm. That's nice.
Cara: I love everything about this.

Tales from the Beach | A Mostly True Story, Volume 1

Cara asked me to write a post about all the fun times we had at the beach. We had a blast and met a colorful cast of characters. It's too much for one post, but I'll share the highlights in a series of shorter posts. These are true stories, told to the best of my sharp-yet-beer-soaked recollection. I may improvise to fill in the gaps or paraphrase some dialogue, but this is basically what happened.

Meth Face Molly

Mama, Beana and I are the first from the group to arrive in Destin, so we go to AJ's to wait for Cara and Sally. AJ's is crowded, so Mama, Beana, and I stand in a single file line waiting to order a drink from the bar. Suddenly a woman comes barging in between Mama and Beana. She looks...older. And the years have been unkind. I name her "Meth Face Molly". I'm good like that. She looks like Patty the daytime hooker from My Name is Earl. She perceives Mama and Beana as great adversaries and begins aggressively sparring with them.

Meth Face Molly: Hey! Back away from my man! You better watch out! You're not so hot!

Beana and Mama are stunned. Molly reaches under the bar, pulls out a stool that was previously unseen, and that Beana was unknowingly blocking, and sits down next to a guy who is young enough to be Molly's son. I'm watching in amazement, as Beana juts her head back, and Mama's eyes bug out of her head, their signature, non-verbal way of saying, "Bitch, who do you think you are?" Molly better check herself before she wrecks herself.

I'm standing back a short distance. I can observe the catfight better this way. I watch Beana and Mama, both so offended, muttering and grumbling things to each other like "That hag!" and "Who died and made her the Queen of AJ's!" I am really enjoying the show. Molly has gotten under their skin.

Mama pays for her drink and moves away from the bar. She stands behind Molly and loudly comments about "classless people". Beana pays for her drink, and as she turns to walk away, she endures one final insult from Molly: "It's a shame you can't get a man to buy your drinks for you!" Beana glares at her, her jaw dropped in disgust as though Patty spit on her shoes. She struts off, furious. Now it's my turn to face Molly's wrath.

Me: [smiling at the bartender] Redbull and vodka, please.
Bartender: Eight dollars
I hand a $10 bill to the bartender
Molly: It's a shame you can't get a man to buy your drink.
Me: [calmly smiling] My husband buys my drinks, thank you.
Molly: [stammering] Oh, yeah? Yeah, well, my--my husband buys my drinks too!
Me: [grinning] It's nice, isn't it?
Molly: Yeah. Sure is. I'd buy you a drink.
Me: What a sweet thing to say!
Molly: You're a sweetheart, not like these other bitches [points at Mama and Beana, still shocked by Molly's continued verbal assault.]
Molly: Especially this one [points at Beana, who gasps]
Molly and I both glance at Beana, then Molly and I lock eyes with one another
Me: [straight-faced and deadly serious] She better recognize.


Molly stares at me intently. She's trying to decide if I'm serious or if I'm mocking her. We're now in a staring contest. Molly decides that I'm sincere. I'm on Molly's side.

Molly: Yeah! She will if she knows what's good for her!
Me: I'll keep an eye on her. You have a good night.
Molly: Thanks, hon, you too.

Mama, Beana, and I walk off.

Me: She looked like a day shift hooker, no?
Mama: We almost got our asses beat by that meth face, and Freaky makes friends with her!
Beana: Yeah, what the eff is that about, Freaky?
Me: I just saved us all from getting our asses beat. You have to follow the rules for managing belligerent drunks: fully agree with everything they say, maintain eye contact, and match their intensity level.
Beana: How do you know that?
Me: Everybody knows that.

Girls Beach Trip 2011: Meet The Girls

My best friends from college have been taking an annual "Girls' Beach Trip" since our first Senior year of college. We made a pact that we would do this every year, even after we got married and had kids. I think we've kept up the tradition longer than anybody thought we would. Some years it's a small group enjoying a weekend at the lake, and other years it's a beach blow-out with eight or nine girls. This year was a "big" year. Seven women in a high rise condo with ocean views, and big plans for the night life. We're gonna party like it's 2004! Only better, because we're old enough to afford mid-range liquor and all the oysters we can handle!

Some of the girls asked me to blog about our adventures. It's much too much for just one post, so this blog will exist as a brief introduction. Names have been changed to protect the fabulous. I'll be using college nicknames, aliases, and alter-egos we've adopted over the years. I've also substituted their actual photos with photos of celebrities or characters who remind me of them. The hope is that they won't mind my blogging about them if I don't reveal too much and they are represented by photos of sexy starlets.

Mama

Mama is the Cruise Director of the group. Planner of trips, maker of ham sandwiches, provider of aloe vera gel. She is also the Vice President of Conflict Resolution, meaning she will speak up for the underdog, mediate disputes, and, if need be, she will smack a bitch. In short, she's the glue that holds this operation together. She has a three-year-old and 11-month old twins, and one of her twins was born with a life-threatening tumor. I tell you this because it's brought up later in this post, and because I'm proud of her. Mama is a total blast, super-loyal, and smokin' hot. Kind of like Jules, Courteney Cox's character in Cougar Town. 


Sally

Sally is literally never angry, and she's a good person in the purest sense. She is friendly, devoted, and giving, but without being naive or blindly optimistic. She's one of the best people with whom to have a serious conversation about life because she's very thoughtful. It's not that she's impervious to anger, sadness, or disappointment; she just manages those emotions differently. She doesn't get fired up. Not one to dwell on things or hold a grudge, she's quick to shrug it off and move on. As my roommate, Sally taught me the simple joy that can only be found when sitting in a camping chair in the middle of an open field, for no reason whatsoever, just drinking beer and laughing with friends. I'm a better person for having lived with her.

Cara 

When Cara and I struck up a friendship at age 22, we really clicked, and I had a feeling that we'd be friends for years. We complement each other. We both know a little bit about everything, and we want to tell you about it...whether you want to hear it or not. She works hard and plays hard, which I appreciate. She's three months and one grade older than me, and I like to consult her when I need advice from somebody "older." We always share a room on the Girls' Beach Trip.

The Gypsy

The Gypsy is a fun, free-spirited and unpredictable kind of gal. Not unlike the lovely Drew Barrymore. She's probably the friend who is least like me, and that's cool, because she makes me do things like try edamame and rock climb (I hated it, and I loved it). She always has this mischievous twinkle in her eye. She's fiercely protective of the ones she loves, she's always planning her next adventure, and the Billy Joel song "She's Always a Woman to Me" may or may not have been written about her.

Beana

Mean Girls' Gretchen Weiners instantly reminds me of my pal Beana. Beana is in the unique position of being a lot smarter than she sounds. She means well, but behind that bright smile and sassy strut lies a girl who knows how to turn a phrase:

Beana: Those Vermont Hokies sure are strange, but I'll tell you one thing: they love their football as much as we do.

Me: Actually, it's Virginia Tech

Beana: [sighs and shakes her head] "VT" stands for Vermont. It's the Vermont Hokies.

Me: That is true. "VT" is the postal abbreviation for Vermont, but the car decal you're staring at is the Virginia Tech logo. 

Beana: Are you sure?

Me: Positive. My friend's sister went there. [That wasn't true, but I thought saying so would give me credibility and make me more persuasive.]

Beana: Well. Guess ya learn something new every day!

Freaky-Freaky Wil' Wil' (Me)

I wasn't planning to include myself in this character sketch of my friends, since it exists purely for identification and illustration puposes, and you already know me if you read this blog. But, Steve insisted that I include myself. So...the celebrity or character who most reflects my personality is Kelly Kapoor from The Office. Kelly Kapoor and I are both cheerful, friendly, gossipy chatterboxes who are pop culture obsessed and have a flair for the dramatic. Am I leaving anything out?

The Curse of the Sambino

Yesterday, we took Robinson to his very first baseball game, Rangers vs. Angels. Steve won four tickets and a parking pass in a silent auction to raise money for Meals on Wheels. We invited Scott and his little boy Holt, who turns three tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Holt!

On the way to the game, I sat in the backseat with the boys. Robinson was fascinated with Holt and couldn't take his eyes off of him. Holt was really sweet with him and would smile at him and show him his book about trucks. Holt is really into transportation right now. As we are driving to the stadium we pass a lot of road construction, and Holt would excitedly point and shout, "Truck!" "Train!" "Tractor!" and "BIGGGG TRAC-TORRR!" It was hilarious seeing how excited he was. It reminded me of Jarred when he was a little boy. He loved pointing out and identifying all the different types of construction equipment we would pass on the road. It's really sweet how even though times change, these little boys stay the same. I also learned that everything that isn't a truck or a train, is a tractor. Bulldozers, cranes, doesn't matter. When you're three, they're all tractors.

Watching a baseball game with little boys is so different than sitting with a bunch of adults. Holt gets so excited seeing the "tractors" on the baseball field, and the mascot riding around in the "tractor". It's fun getting to be silly and excited with him and point out things to Holt, like "Look at the tractor!"

Robinson sat in my lap during the game. He kept fake-coughing loudly and making obnoxious fart noises for so long, the elderly lady seated in front of me turned around to see just who was sitting behind her. She laughed when she realized it was a baby.

Robinson was in pretty good spirits, especially considering how close it was to his bedtime. We did one feeding and one diaper change while we were there, and this was my first adventure in changing diapers in a public restroom. I think it went pretty smoothly. What complicated matters was that I too was in need of a bathroom break, but being loaded down with an infant and a diaper bag made this impossible. So I had to carry Rob all the way back to our seats and give him to Steve so that I could return for a solo trip to the bathroom.

Back in the bathroom by myself, I'm washing my hands at one of the six sinks. As I walk towards the wall of seven paper towel dispensers, I discover what the woman directly in front of me has already found: only one dispenser has paper towels, and for reasons unknown, an old lady is standing directly in front of it, preventing anyone from reaching around to take paper towels for themselves. She doesn't seem to realize that there are other people in the bathroom. Why is she bogarting the paper towels? What in the hell is taking her so long? She's not drying her hands anymore...she's using the paper towels to polish an apple. Who brings an apple to the ball park? Who meticulously polishes apples in the ladies' restroom? Now she's carefully wrapping the apple in a paper towel. Now she's wrapping it in a second paper towel. Now she's wrapping it in a third paper towel. It's not a large apple. The woman and I are forced to just stand there while our hands are dripping with water. I'm about to just give up and dry my hands on my jeans. But I'm curious. Did she bring the apple from home? Why does it need such polishing? Is she about to eat the apple? If so, why does she have to wrap it up in three paper towels? What is she trying to protect the apple from? Is the apple for Snow White? These are the questions that run through my mind. She is sure she has secured the apple in her purse before walking away, still never acknowledging us. I totally bust the woman in front of me making bitchface at the old lady. Shannen Doherty just got a royalty check, thankyouverymuch. I'm amused.

Rob lasted until the bottom of the sixth inning. I consider that a huge success. Of course, in the grand tradition of Samantha attending Dallas sporting events, the Rangers lost. I'm ten for ten at this point. I'm like some kind of victory assassin. So now we refer to this phenomenon as "The Curse of the Sambino"

Robinson's First Playdate

Steve and I took Robinson to his first playdate the other day--with an adorable ten-month-old little boy named Grayson. Robinson and Grayson don't go to daycare, so they don't regularly have the opportunity to socialize and play with babies their age. I want Robinson to make friends, and at 7.5 months old, I felt that he's reached an age where he is more interactive and likes to play, so it's a good time to start placing Rob in social situations. Grayson is 2.5 months older than Rob, which for babies is a pretty big age gap. At the time of this playdate, Rob was days away from crawling, and Gray was days away from walking. Gray has lots of fun toys in his living room that he sweetly shared with Rob, and all but the most basic of toys were too advanced for Rob. It was still cute to see the boys interact with one another, and all the parents considered the playdate a success. We're already discussing plans for our next playdate, so that Robinson and Grayson see each other often enough to remember each other and become real friends.

Baby's First Ballgame | Robinson: 1, Mavs: 0

We took Robinson to his first sporting event. It was an NBA game between the Dallas Mavericks and the Memphis Grizzlies. Steve, Rob, and I dressed out in our Mavs fanwear, and brought along Uncle Scotty.

We have quite a walk from the parking garage, and Scott is happy to carry Rob, despite Rob's persistent squirminess, until we reach Will Call and Rob pukes all over Scott's sleeve. That's always the point at which Baby is handed back to Mama.

Now I'm loaded down like a pack mule with my bulky diaper bag and a baby who gets heavier by the minute and seems determined to wriggle out of my grasp as I cautiously navigate through the crowd of fans, across a very hard floor, wearing heels. I should have stretched first. Steve and Scott don't seem to notice my struggle, and frankly, I don't want to be seen as somebody who isn't capable of carrying her own child, so I have my game face on. I stand patiently with the guys at the concession stand as they order one of everything.

As Steve is moving away from the concession stand, armed with an assortment of snacks, he asks me if I can hold one of his beers. "Are you kidding me? It's taking every ounce of strength and coordination I have not to pull a Britney right here!" Steve laughs, and what I love about him is that he knows exactly what I'm talking about.

It's been five years since I attended a Mavs game. Steve says I jinx the team. I also jinx the Texas Rangers and the Dallas Cowboys. Eff "The Curse of the Bambino", I am apparently the Mistress of Destruction. I just made that up. I don't know how my presence can be responsible for all of those defeats, but I can count the number of games I've attended on two hands, and we've lost every time. It must be my fault. Superstitions aside, I sat with the guys in some fantastic seats on the lower level behind the goal. I'm a person who has a much better time at sporting events if I have great seats. I think it's because I have ADD and am never fully invested in these games, and having great seats helps me to pay attention.

I forgot how loud these games are. Had I remembered, I would have thought Robinson was too young for this. Having forgotten this detail, I had my seven-month-old out at an NBA game that tipped off roughly an hour before his bedtime.

Before tip-off, an usher came by to see Rob. She was probably in her early-60's, and as she greeted me, arms outstretched, it occured to me that she was "asking" to hold my baby. This had never happened before. That's probably why I stared at her, confused, before handing my baby to a complete stranger. She talked to him while he stared at her. She told him that she could be his great-great grandmother, presumably because like Robinson, she has (dyed) red hair. I wanted to ask her exactly how old she thought she was, because Robinson's great-great grandmother is 99.

This is also the day I come to the realization about the subjectivity of color. Because every redhead in my family has either bright copper or deep auburn hair that is undeniably red, I've never viewed Robinson's strawberry blonde strands as "red". I've been telling people for months that I have a blonde baby. However, everyone who meets him says, "Look at that little redheaded baby!" This happened at the game too, and that's when I realized: if everybody is referring to my baby as a "redhead", then that makes him a redhead. My distinction of "strawberry blonde" is meaningless when the general public perceives him as a ginger. So, until further notice, I am the proud mother of a ginger kid.

As the game tips off, the noise reaches a fever pitch, and Rob understandably bursts into tears. The silver lining is that the noise drowns out his sobs, and he quickly calms down. Granny Usher returns, this time with Paw Paw Usher, because she wants to show him the baby. "Look, he goes right to me!" she tells Paw Paw Usher, as she plucks Rob out of my lap. Paw Paw Usher notices Rob is drooling and makes a comment about teething. I was genuinely impressed by his keen observation.

Now, if you're going to attend a sporting event, and you have good seats, and you carry with you an impossibly cute redheaded baby wearing Dallas Mavericks fleece footie pajamas, you're going to draw attention. We were on TV, and on the jumbotron, and at some point during the game, an announcer-type girl approached me and asked if I wanted the chance to win Dave and Busters dollars. I could have said no, but that would have been a lie. When she returns during a timeout, I stand up (holding Robinson facing out for all to see) and she announces that after the timeout, for every point the Mavs score in the next minute, everyone in our section will receive $10 Dave and Busters dollars, but I will win $25. Dirk scored a three-pointer, and instantly I was $75 richer. In Dave and Busters currency, of course.

We brought a toy for Rob to play with, but all he wanted was my Miller Lite draft. I was nervous that we would be seen on the jumbotron or on TV: me, holding Rob in my lap, while he is eagerly gnawing on my plastic cup full of beer. I think that would make me look like a really great mother.

The Mavs lost in the final second, furthering my reputation as the Mistress of Destruction. We waited for the arena to clear out, as Robinson quietly sprawled across my lap, sucking his thumb, attracting smiles from passers-by. He did look very sweet. We considered the outing a big success, and can't wait to take Robinson to his first Rangers game this spring!

I Wanna Hold 'em Like They Do in Texas Please | Lady Gaga in Concert

Monday night, Lady Gaga played in Dallas and my friend Robin and I went for a much-deserved Moms' Night Out. After sushi at Kenichi, we headed over to the American Airlines Center to take our seats for the show. As you may recall, Lady Gaga tickets were Steve's birthday gift to me way back in October. I had a blast, but am still so tired (we stayed up way past our bedtimes), that I'm still trying to catch up.

I learned two things while at this show: her fans are enthusiastic, and holding your hand up in the air like a "monster claw" for Lady Gaga is the equivalent of holding up "three fingers" at a Nascar race.

Steve: That's weird.

There were basically two types of concert-goers: Gaga's "Little Monsters", folks who went all-out dressing up for the show. We're talking wigs, wild makeup, leotards with fishnets...well, see for yourself:

The other type of concert-goer was the curious combination of parents with young children. "This is no place for children", I remarked matter-of-factly as Robin pointed out an jubilant pair of little girls running up the escalator to the upper level seats. I understand why a little girl wants to see Lady Gaga. I understand why a loving parent might think taking their little girl to a Lady Gaga concert is a fun idea. I just hope that in all the excitement of the show, that the little girls at the concert were too overwhelmed by their surroundings to pick up on all the explicit language being screamed from the stage by their idol. Otherwise, there is going to be an inappropriate scene on the playground the next day when those little girls scream, "Dance, you motherf*ckers, dance!" to their classmates while re-enacting the concert.

At one point, she lifts up the hood of that car and begins playing a keyboard that's inside.

The concert went as I expected. How amazing are the sets for this show? She sang all of her hits, and she sang them LIVE. It was obvious there was no lip-synching, and she made a point of exclaiming that she will never let her Little Monsters pay money to watch her lip-synch. She used more colorful language, of course, making a thinly-veiled jab at Britney Spears. Nothing you'd want your little girl to repeat.

Lady Gaga is really very talented and has a beautiful singing voice. Sometimes that gets lost in all of the "performance", but for a few songs, she sat at the piano and sang while she played. The girl has a set of pipes. She reminded me of Adele and Fiona Apple. If Adele and Fiona Apple were crossed with some hybrid of Elton John and Ozzy Osbourne.

She played a stripped down version of her latest hit, "Born This Way". It sounded better than the original version, which she sang during the encore. I might get clawed in the face by a Little Monster for saying so, but "Born This Way" is my least favorite of all her singles. Michael K from Dlisted probably said it best when he described "Born This Way" as a bad Xerox copy of Madonna's "Express Yourself". I just find the lyrics so overly simplistic and lacking any poetic quality or nuance, it sounds like something that a very earnest class of middle schoolers would have written and submitted as part of an "It Gets Better" songwriting competition.

Now we've reached the point in the concert where we discuss social activism and charitable causes. She champions the cause of gay rights, and she makes a donation to fund homeless shelters for LGBT youth in the cities she visits while on tour. She chose a lucky audience member (who she selected by calling them from her cell phone while on stage) and she made that lucky Little Monster the "Ambassador" for that donation, and also invited him to have a drink with her after the show. She has the phone conversation with him while she's on stage, and he's in his seat with a camera and a spotlight on him. It was really very adorable, because the guy was the cutest little twink, whose wig and makeup appeared to be a nod to KISS. When Lady Gaga complimented him on his look, and said that it reminded her of KISS, he nervously replied that it was his "KISS meets Black Swan moment". It was so endearing.

Then...as the rocking out reaches a fever pitch, and everybody's all amped up as she just finished performing "Show Me Your Teeth"...

...she goes off on a tangent about bullying and being different and...being "Born This Way". It's important to her to make this statement, but she makes her point, rephrases her point, repeats her point some more, rambles on for several minutes, to the point where the concert lost all momentum. After ten minutes of patiently listening, I lean over and whisper to Robin, "Seriously, we just need to hear 'Paparazzi' and 'Poker Face', and then the show's over."

It really was a great show, and Robin and I had a blast. We walked across the street to the W Hotel bar, where we chatted a while longer until the lights came up. Then, we drove our sleepy-yet fabulous-Little Monster butts home.

Blogger's Note: This also fulfills Item #28 on my list of 101 Things in 1001 Days

Everybody Loves A Christmas Baby!

Remember my list of 101 things to do in 1001 days? Surely it seems I've all but abandoned it, but I haven't. Just turns out that I've all but abandoned writing about it. I will work to remedy that situation over the next few weeks. 

I'll start with one of my favorite items on my list, which I fulfilled happily on Thursday, December 9, 2010: Be Present at a Birth.

My friend Amy gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy named Hudson Scott, and I must say, he's an absolute doll!

Here's Amy's sister, a very proud Aunt Angie:

If Angie were a branch on my family tree, she would adopt a "clever" moniker to use in place of "Aunt Angie". She'd call herself "Auntgie". I'm not joking.

We're so thrilled Baby Hudson has finally arrived! I expect in the future we'll see lots of pictures of Rob and Hudson on the blog, as they will be best buds. I've been really looking forward to this! Know what else I've been looking forward to? Sushi and cocktails with my ol' pal Amy. We've been pregnant for a year! Time to let the good times roll!

"You're Some Kid"

There was lots of cheering and celebrating at our house Sunday night as we watched our friend, Graeme McDowell, make history as the first man from Northern Ireland to win the US Open. Graeme's dad's first words as he congratulated his son, "You're some kid!" pretty well sum up Graeme, who Steve and I refer to as "Grammer". It seems like just yesterday he was playing golf for UAB and driving a 1983 Toyota Tercel. I got to spend a weekend with him in 2002 when he joined Steve for a golf tournament in Steve's hometown of Geneva, Alabama. Graeme had just been awarded the Haskins Trophy, which is college golf's highest honor (think Heisman for golf), and it was a great honor to have someone of his caliber playing in this small-town 3-man scramble tournament. Graeme really is one of the nicest guys we've ever known, and we had such a great time! Taking an Irish man to the deep south was classic fish-out-of-water comedy.

First, there were our friends, Katie and Lauren, who joined the weekend of fun. Upon learning that Graeme is the #1 college golfer, they dedicate Nelly's "Number One" to him, and for the entire weekend would shout the chorus in unison every time Graeme walked into the room, which happened no less than 50 times:

"I. Am. Number One! Two is not a winner, and three, nobody remembers!"

Graeme really didn't know what to do with these girls. Or with all of this attention.

Steve's nickname for people who act like goobers and knuckleheads is "mullet". In case it isn't obvious, it's because people with mullets are morons. Graeme had heard Steve use the term "mullet" many times, often directed at him, but he didn't really know what it meant until we took him to The Office, a nightlife hotspot in neighboring Enterprise, Alabama. We almost didn't make it to The Office at all, because Graeme tried to go out wearing a pink button down shirt and a necklace.

Steve (trying unsuccessfully to hold back the laughter): Oh, no, Grammer. I can't let you go out wearing that.

Graeme (defensive): What's wrong with this? It's a nice shirt.

Me: It's a very nice shirt, Graeme. Very...European. Just trust us, you do not want to wear that shirt out here. And I'm gonna need you to lose the necklace.

Steve: It is a nice shirt...a nice shirt to get your ass kicked in. I wasn't planning on beating up rednecks tonight, and if you wear that shirt, I'm gonna have to.

Me (waving my hands): And I'm trying to get in with a fake I.D. Blending in is of the utmost importance!

[2 hours later in The Office, blinded by cigarette smoke and surrounded by good ol' mullet-headed country boys]

Steve: Aren't you glad we didn't let you wear your necklace and pink shirt?
Graeme: Yes. I see what you mean...and don't ever call me a "mullet" again.

Congratulations, mate!