Monday, June 26, 2006

Happy Thighs

I'm seriously fat, guys.
Like really. Even my "fat shorts" don't fit. Arms, face and all, they seem okay, but my midsection is like a round ball. And no, I'm not pregnant. No fetus in the world could survive my alcohol intake. My baby will see pink elepants for MONTHS in development. And yes, I'll stop drinking when I find out I'm pregnant. I'll stop smoking, too. Hey! I might even stop mainlining crack. You never know! I'm kinda committed that way. Well, except for reading a lot and being decidedly democratic. I might force those two things on my kids. Isn't that my priority?? As a parent? Shape the young minds like you want 'em!

But let's talk about fat shorts for a bit. Out of all the "fat clothes" a woman may posess, these "fat shorts" are key. Shorts in general are destructive items for us fat girls. Skirts? Done. Nylons are my best friend. Long skirts? DONE. Low cut blouse and a lot of eye makeup.

But there's really no hiding your weight in shorts. I have dimples upon dimples, happy indicators where I had never really wanted emotions. My butt, midsection and thighs are constantly announcing to me, "I'm SMILING!! WOO."

Yeah, woo. Get fucking UN-happy for a bit, thunderwands.

The thing is.......I'm getting married in a couple of months. And I think for about 90% of the female population, that translates into an insane effort to drop the weight and be a size 2 for the wedding. Well, here's the thing. If I were a size two, I'd drop off of the face of the earth. No seriously, I'd be like a walking tongue depressor. I'm too tall. (an excuse that has held me in good stead for years and I'm not giving it up now.....)

And the second thing is my fiance. He's that rare kind of guy that is either blind or truly in love. He loves me. He's never asked me to lose weight and anytime I point out how much MORE of me there is lately, he just rolls his eyes and then tells me again that I am beautiful. And here's the real kicker. I believe him. I believe that what he sees when he looks at me is beauty.

And then I toddle off, marvel a bit, and drink some bourbon. (Hello THIGHS! Meet Bourbon! I think you two might be related....)

Friday, June 23, 2006


I have friends.

I have the kind of friends that you wait your whole life to find.
I have two that hit the ball out of the park in terms of good friends, consistently, constantly and forever.

I told them about this blog and now there are potentially four of us reading this. WooHoo! I'm syndicated!! Well, er, actually, no, but still, I'm READ! Wooo.

I promised I wouldn't write about them, and I won't. No names, no details that could lead back to them, but I just want to put it down somewhere in print, for the world to see, because really, they are that good.

One is a friend I have had since I was fifteen. Talk about someone who knows everything about you and won't take your shit.....I can't get away with anything, except perhaps not calling her - EVER, because she knows I hate the phone. She and I live far away from each other, and have since we were 18. That's a hard obstacle to overcome, and somehow, miraculously, we have done it. I will say that she was dogged about it at the beginning, she was there, and a really awesome friend and was patient with my inattention until I finally wised up and realized what an incredible friendship I was neglecting. We keep in touch mostly by email now, but I love her like a sister and I love her mother like my own, and everytime we see each other we are INSTANTLY back like we were when we were 17 and the whole world was potential unrealized, when everything we did was the most fun I'd had in my life. She's an absolute jewel and I will fiercely guard this friendship for the rest of my life. Hat's off to you, beautiful blonde, you are so much a part of my soul I couldn't imagine my world without you.

The other is a friend I've had for 5 years. We met at work, of all places. You hope you'll like the people you work with, but you can't possibly expect to find someone you mesh with effortlessly. I got ridiculously drunk at a company event (yeah, I'm a winner...) and ran into her in the bathroom. She is the kind of pretty that makes you wary at first, because really really pretty girls suck, mostly, but she let out this glorious burst of laughter and confided to me that she was DOHA, too. (please remember this acronym: Drunk off Her Ass. This will come into play in a few months time, undoubtedly, but mostly you will see: DOMA: Drunk Off My Ass, because I love the bourbon and it doesn't always love me back.) We quickly became best friends, and that has remained to this day. A child has come, a marriage and a move to Seattle, and STILL we are in constant contact, because, because. You don't let something this good go to the wayside. Describing my friendship with her is very easy: I cannot live without her. I don't know what I think about something until I explain it to her. She is the wisest woman I've ever met, and has lived the kind of life that gives her an edge on every experience. She is also the nicest woman I've ever met, despite all my bitchy efforts to get her not to be. She is that uniquely unsullied kind of person, who gives everyone everything they could possibly want from her, and thinks of herself last, always. She is a wonder, and she's also got big boobs. I mean, the world is UNFAIR.

Both women are the once-in-a-lifetime kind of friends, and I don't think of either of them as being closer to me than the other. One is the embodiment of my past, one is my present and both are essential.

They make it hard to meet people now, though, because there's simply no need. I've got all the close female friends I'm ever going to need. I've got the best the world has to offer.

I know this, because I have met a lot of the world, and I know of which I speak.

I hope that everyone has the kind of friends that call them a jackass when they need calling it, that burst into laughter when you do something stupid, and are so genuine and warm about it that you can't help but laugh yourself. I hope that everyone has a chance to have the kind of gifts I have with these two.

Guys, I miss you. I miss you all the time, every day, in every cell of myself. But knowing you're there, and knowing I've got ya, well, that's all I need.

I love you both so much that it would embarrass you if I told you.
Thank you for all the joy.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Tennis, Asshole?

I rushed home from work today, grabbed the Pope, and we went to our normal court.
We have lately gotten into the habit of playing an hour or two of invigoratingly bad tennis, laughing and getting sunburned and running ourselves ragged on the courts.

Tonight we started playing next a man and his son, a team we see often at our local park. The father has infinite patience, gently teaching his son both sportsmanship and the game of tennis. I never tire of watching them.

They finished their game shortly after we arrived. Two teen boys, whom we have also seen a number of times, arrived, dropped off by their father in a silver minivan. They have one of those tennis club wire baskets full of balls, the ones you can just set over a ball on the court and it picks it up? Yeah, cool. They often arrive when the courts are occupied, and they don't come in and put a racket against the net pole (as clearly advised and encouraged by the "Court Rules" sign) they just wait patiently outside the courts. They neither fidget nor speak to each other and on past occasions I've thought them to be charmingly polite.

Which was because they hadn't spoken. The teens took the court next to ours and proceeded to play a blistering round of rallying. They were excellent, obviously pros in training or just damned naturals. The older brother was clearly the better of the two, and proceeded to berate and demean his brother for missing shots that would have taken me a miracle + a couple of Agassis to hit. The younger brother never said a word, and showed absolutely no emotion on his face. The older brother continued to loudly berate and groan at his brother for any mistake, even if the "mistake" was a well returned serve that the brother couldn't hit.

To put it bluntly, he was an asshole. It got to the point where I was watching him in disbelief more than I was missing my own shots, and so was the Pope. We were apalled at this kid's lack of respect, not only for other people on the court and the 10 or so tiny children that played in the surrounding field and playsets, but for his absolute lack of regard to his brother's feelings.

We met at the net under the pretense of picking up our faulted balls and agreed, the next time this kid said something, we would respond, loudly, and tell him to cool it.

We did, both at the same time on the next exhalation of disgust. The kid never glanced our way, and barely stopped in his current nastiness.

We stopped for a drink of water and I said loudly, "that kid is an asshole and he treats his brother like shit. He is vibing me off this court!" Because as you can see, I'm a delicate flower with tender sensibilities. The elder teen obviously heard me, and although I wasn't trying to be heard, and in fact thought I had been quiet, I didn't mind. His head snapped up and he stared right at me.

From that moment on his words became encouraging and guiding toward his brother's game.
I was really elated to see that, although I would have been happier hadn't my own game gone completely to hell.

Being nice takes away all my skill.

*the Pope is my soon-to-be-husband, who is begging me to call him Dick Rambone, which, eeew.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Open Letter to My Felines

Dear Cats:

Yes, I'm talking to you. Please stop eating the grass long enough to listen.
This is important.
I love you. Really, I adore you. I couldn't be happier to have you around, and when you hurl yourselves into my legs and lap at night, my heart just bursts. But PLEASE.
Please, a few ground rules.

1. There shall be no "presents" given to Dad or I.
2. If you disregard rule #1, please make sure the present isn't alive.
3. If you disregard rule #s 1 & 2, please kill the present shortly after bringing it into the house, or leave me alone when I'm trying to save the "present" with the dishtowel.
4. When you eat the grass, please remain outside long enough to vomit it.
5. I don't speak Meow. Please stop caterwauling at me to make your point. Sign language or walking to the direction of the issue is advised. If issue is a dead present, please walk directly to it. (preferably the first day the present is dead. Dad and I don't know where to look, and we'd rather not discover by smell.)
6. I particularly don't speak Meow first thing in the morning. In fact, I don't typically speak first thing in the morning, so just stay the hell out of my way.
(Meowing at the food bowl is an exception, should I have forgotten to fill it the night before.)
7. Please don't snap at me when I pick you off of my lap so I can get up and use the restroom. You've been sitting there for hours and I have to go.

If you disregard all of the above rules, you had better be on your cutest behavior, because we can only take so much.

Love, Mom