When it’s Nora’s turn to hide, I listen for the thump of Layla’s tail, or simply Nora’s voice: “Mom! I’m in Layla’s bed! Don’t find me!”
When it’s my turn to hide, it’s relaxing.
One! Two! Free! Four! Firteen! Seventeen! Ready or not, here I come!
As she counts I hurry into my room, jump into my bed, and crumple the covers around me as inconspicuously as possible so I can nap while she tip toes around the house looking for me.
This, my friends, is called “me” time.
I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re at work.
Or on your phone walking to your car.
In bed?
Skydiving?
More realistically I probably dated your husband/boyfriend/friend/son/cousin/neighbor/WHATEVER and you’re here to get a little dirt.
That’s cool, too, and I’ll get to you later.
Whoever you are, I am writing this if you’re doing a job you don’t love. If you wake up a brick of cement only motivated to get out of bed by the urge to pee, resentful about your professional status (whatever that means?), then take a bit to peruse this site, this body of work by two people whose lives are devoted to each other, their boys, AND THEIR CRAFTS. Hot damn, it’s past my bed time but I’m too riled up to sleep because Suzanne and Edgar reignited the fire inside of me to keep believing in and working on my projects. (Truth vomit: I am actually not allowed to sleep anymore because of THIS.)
But if these sites don’t inspire you (I will only judge you a little), I hope you’ll find something that does. If you’re not happy in your job, just quit. Is that irresponsible? I don’t know, dude, I’m not your dad. I don’t care if it’s irresponsible. I’m here to tell you to GO FOR IT. I am reminding you that you DO have a choice. You can do what you love because the only thing stopping you is you. I’m not saying it’s easy. Or that it will happen quickly. In fact, count on shit hitting the fan; count on things getting ugly and tangled. But if you haven’t noticed, I’m about as unkempt as it gets but I’ve never been more blessed.
Now go out and invent fat free ranch dressing that doesn’t taste like paste, or fly to the moon. Your dreams, your call.
As for those who came for dirt, please scroll down and come back soon.
[Note: I was sorely disappointed by the results in Google Image of "Pig Butts Mud Dirt" so whoever is in charge of that -- you need to get your act together.]
Go get yourself some flirty bangs. But first, take a good long nap, because you will never ever be able to sleep again unless you’re ok looking like that thing on the right.
You can ask Tracy, “How do you bend your finger in that ring?” and she will demonstrate, and you can wonder where she got the fun idea to paint her ring finger a different color than the others, but if you make negative assumptions about her professionalism based on her style, she would quickly prove you wrong.
And I like her for that — the way she does what she says she will do, the way she takes herself seriously at work without losing herself in her work.
It would be fair to say I can be a little melodramatic. Can you be “a little” melodramatic, you might be wondering? Isn’t that like saying you’re “a little” gay? Or “a little” sorry?
Whatever, your logic is boring me.
I was especially A LITTLE melodramatic when I dated #4 and I’d threaten to pack my bags and leave in the middle of fights. (Exposition: we didn’t live together, I had no bags, only a purse, and I was typically drunk without a car.)
One melodramatic day in particular always resurfaces in my mind when I’m near a lake and ever since I took Nora to feed the ducks this past weekend, this story has been begging me to tell it.
#4 and I went for a run in Washington “Wash” Park, one of the most popular parks in Denver, with The World’s Best Dog, except at the time she hadn’t quite earned her title for reasons described later. It was a gorgeous day, around 85 degrees, typically Colorado with blue skies and no humidity, and the inspiring, snow capped Rockies wrapped around the park.
We took a break from our 4-mile jog and I decided Layla deserved a little free play after a few miles of running sans smelling, peeing or pooping, so I let her off the leash.
Rewind to paragraph 5. Wash Park is one of the most popular parks on the weekend. People are everywhere roller blading, throwing frisbies, riding bikes, teaching their kids how to pump their legs on the swings. It’s sorta Disney Land without the creepy women dressed as Princesses.
The second I unhooked Layla’s leash I raised my head and looked forward to a humble pond. Apparently, Layla made this same observation because she sprinted toward the water glazed with quiet ducks and moss as fast a I have seen her run.
Very quickly, I discovered that — in the right context — all of God’s children, self included, have a little bit of Richard Simmons in their DNA. My limbs took on their own agendas, spasming in various directions, as I screamed into the playful tone of Saturday: “GIARDIA! GIARDIA! She is going to get GIARDIA!” and began chasing after her as though a real crisis was actually unfolding. The ducks squawked from the pond as Layla belly flopped into the water blatantly ignoring my high pitched demands for her to git. her. ass. back. here. right. now.
Deep breaths, Katie. It’s all in the past.
From where I stood at the edge of the mucky water, panicked and annoyed, #4 appeared to be his collected self watching this unfold from the paved pedestrian path except, wait, what was that, his shoulders were trembling. Oh hale no. He was laughing.
Then I flitted my eyes around the rest of the pond. Everyone had stopped throwing the frisby, laughing with their kids, taking a nap in the warmth of the sun. All eyes were on the woman who just chased her dog into the pond screaming:
“HELP, SHE IS GOING TO CATCH GIARDIA.”
Let me afford you a little perspective, something I did not have at that time: Giardia isn’t that big a deal (to most people) because it doesn’t kill you. It causes some pretty bad intestinal issues, like diarrhea or bloody stools. I know this because Layla had it once before and when I saw the blood in her poop I called 911.
“MY PUPPY! BLOOD! POOP! MY PUPPY! BLOOD! POOP!”
(Haven’t requested the 911 recording but I’m confident it went something like that.)
It was also expensive to treat, leaving little room in the budget for drinking and shoes. It was hard times.
As it turns out, Layla did not get giardia after her plunge that day, but I left with an interesting question: Would I be that kind of mother?
I always thought I’d be a calm mom. I really did. As though after 12 hours of labor I’d spontaneously lose the gene that causes me to freak out in non-emergent situations. I envisioned being collected in any context. “What? She’s licking a razor? Everyone take a deep breath and get a grip. It’s just tongue skin.” Then everyone would whisper “How does she do it? How does she know everything?”
Any remaining hopes of being that kind of mother dissipated last Saturday when I was A LITTLE melodramatic as both Layla and Nora ran with purpose toward the lake that looked very similar to the one at Wash Park many years ago. I screamed, I had jazz hands, I think I would have made Richard Simmons so very proud.
Because GIARDIA!
Last night I was sad. And I really hate to disappoint you but there was no real great “sad” reason. And what’s more annoying is that the facts point to “happiness.” I’m healthy: “woot.” Nora is healthy: “woot.” I have a job: “woot.” But the hormones and the chemicals in my body were not “wooting.” They were playing violins on the deck of the Titanic as I hugged myself and rocked back and forth and got angry at Rose for letting Jack go. What do you mean “You’ll never let go, You’ll never let go!”? I’m pretty sure you just chiseled his freezing hand from yours and pushed him to the depths of the sea.
Rose, you just let go. HO.
So I was sad. And I was thinking about aging. And the way it is making its indelible mark on my face. And I guess first I should tell you that I selected a name for my sunspot from your suggestions — all four of your suggestions (crickets chirping, anyone?) — and her name is Dorothy, Dottie for short. Thank you to my brilliant Aunt Paula. Then I started to think of ways I could make Dottie less visible. I thought about makeup techniques, laser surgery, hats, face paintings, standing such that you only ever see the right side of my body.
But those techniques are flat out ridiculous. So in my post-workout, late-night burst of creative energy, I decided on something a little more practical.
I decided to put a banana on my forehead. And not surprisingly, after I did this, I realized a few important things. So I’d like to share my thought process with you.
Bananas feel cool and soothing on your forehead.
Bananas are shaped perfectly to fit on your forehead.
Banana still smell gross.
A banana on my forehead probably detracts from my sunspot.
I like bananas.
I should do this more often.
Bananas help with cramps.
I have cramps.
Maybe that’s why I’m sad.
GET IT TOGETHER. Back to bananas.
Banana are pretty.
Bananas are cheap.
Banana bread!
I’m hungry.
Monkeys eat bananas.
Awwwww, Monkeys!
Monkeys get to eat a lot.
I’m hungry.
You can say “There is a banana on my forehead” in so many different ways; it just depends upon your inflection and facial expressions and, most importantly, your commitment to bananas. Hereinafter are some examples:
There is a banana on my forehead!
(paranoid)
There is a banana on my forehead?
(not convinced)
There is a banana on my forehead.
(confident)
There is a banana on my forehead.
(people-pleaser)
There is a banana. On my forehead.
(defensive)
There is a banana? On my forehead?
(shame)
There is a banana on my forehead!
(charades)
Do you remember the point of this post?
(See, that’s the power of bananas.)
For the first and only time during my trip to Kiawah Island, I admired the beach from a fancy pants restaurant with Miquel on Sunday afternoon where I’m pretty sure there are rules governing what you wear and how you look. I can confidently say we broke every one of them. I remember saying “what is in my hair,” and “why do you look like that,” and “that little girl is staring at us.” I have a picture, but I don’t want to break the Internet.
I was checking my email at lunch when I opened one from a lawyer indicating, “We spoke too soon; the judge has not yet granted our order to vacate trial.” Let me back track. On Friday I learned that the case I have been working on, the case with over 11,000 exhibits, was near settlement with all parties — all THIRTY parties. I began high-fiving every man, woman and child around me and then promptly called to change my flight to a later time on Sunday evening.
That’s why I slumped in my chair and started hyperventilating when I read the email explaining we would still need to appear in court Monday morning. Miquel and I finished our lunches before anyone could kick us out and drove from Kiawah Island to Charlotte where I caught my flight back to Denver and drove straight home to start preparing for a day in Court on Monday.
The drama was short-lived. I woke up around 5:30, got dressed to appear in court, and then received the final email, the one that is still ringing a celebratory song in my ears, “Trial vacated.”
A little while later I drove to my parents house to see Nora for the first time since I left for the wedding. And I think I would do it all over again — the late nights, stress, anxiety, pressure — to re-live that moment where I pulled into the driveway and she ran outside squealing my name, jumping up and down, clapping her hands, and smiling her dimpled smile, the only smile in the world that has the power to take any mood I am in and flip it entirely on its back.
It’s good to be home.
Introducing Miquel, my date for the wedding last weekend. She performed a dance at the wedding reception that made Beyonce look like a hobo. I didn’t ask her if I could use this photo on my blog because A) I haven’t yet told her about my idea where I pimp her out at weddings so she can perform that routine for $$$ and B) every time I show her a photo of herself she gags. And then I gag. Because SHUT UP MIQUEL. People may have questioned my heterosexuality this weekend because I photographed her so much. But when you’re five feet tall it’s simply magical to see a woman with legs like this.
OK, now I’m questioning my heterosexuality.
(I began writing this post from 30k feet on an airplane as I made my way from Denver to Kiawah Island for my best friends’ wedding — Jennifer and Ian. The destination wedding had its usual last minute chaos and I ended up not toasting them at the reception. It works out well like this, though, because a) I’m sober now and b) No time constraints. Here we go.)
It was 1998 and we were cruising the strip of Myrtle Beach in her mom’s Mercedes during our high school spring break. The base of Aaliyah’s “Are You That Somebody” was rattling the speakers for the 87th time. I was probably wearing my older sister’s clothes “illegally” and Jennifer was likely in something Express. Our egos were big, my boobs were small, and we owned the world. I’m not sure if it was the Mercedes or our batting eyelashes, but we picked up a small group of guys on the pier. One of them looked like Matt Damon and his name was conveniently Matt. Another looked like a hybrid of Mario Lopez and Danny DeVito and his name was Clebber. Yes, I spelled that right — C-L-E-B-B-E-R, Clebber. It sounds more like a bodily function than a name, doesn’t it? It stinks in here, baby, did you just Clebber?
Guess which one picked me? Jennifer and Matt Damon were planning their wedding, holding hands on a barefoot walk on the cool beach and along side them Danny DeVito, Jr. was darting his tongue in and out of my ear like a cracked out lizard. Or not unlike a dog licking its butt in awkward stretches and contortions, he leaned into me in a race to penetrate my ear drum. Meanwhile, Jennifer and Matt Damon had stopped to admire their love reflected by the moon’s light. She lied like an immortal goddess in a white dress in the sand while Matt Damon stroked her Pantene hair. I lied next to her, Danny DeVito Jr. still sucking my ear lobe like a wet pasta noodle. My eyes were like ping pong balls hoping she’d see my distress call and the disintegration of my soul right there on the beach.
She didn’t.
By the way, I want Ian to know this beach scene was not only rated G (minus the raping of my left ear), but it was the beginning of the end for Matt Damon.
Even then, Jennifer respectably knew what she wanted, and that she was worth it. She couldn’t be won over by a Matt Damon look alike with cheesy lines. (Pretty sure he quoted lines from Titanic a few times.)
She needed someone more mysterious, harder to crack, smarter and romantic, but not predictable. She needed someone who says things like “Hey butthead, I think you’re pretty,” someone who has the sense of humor of a 9-year-old boy and the mind of Mark Zuckerburg.
Enter Ian.
But no one could have predicted this match, especially given the way it started.
I dated Ian in high school. And by “dated” I mean Ian stood me up at a debutant ball in the 11th grade. I acted like I didn’t care, but Jennifer knew me better. So naturally, she hated him.
“He thinks he is so cool in his old blue truck with his stupid jokes. Forget him.”
It’s not that he was a jerk. He was just scattered; his own person in his own world. A good guy who lived in the moment even if that moment didn’t include a dance he already agreed to attend. (Ian, we can discuss our payment arrangement later.)
This was the nature of their relationship [hate/resent/apathy] until college. Ian and I had maintained our connection but it was becoming more and more evident we were not intended to be together. My people pleasing and passive aggressive tendencies combined with Ian’s creative but (at the time) flakey personality made for disastrous communications and buttloads of awkward.
Jennifer and Ian had really nothing in common at this point other than me and their alma mater. It wasn’t until a car ride home that we started connecting some dots. We were driving to Greensboro where I went to school after hanging out at Appalachian over the weekend for a party at Ian’s place when it dawned on me:
“Jennifer, there is something about you and Ian…”
She looked confused. “You mean the fact that we hate each other?”
“No, you don’t hate each other. You just haven’t given each other a chance. And I’m just putting it out there — that if you two find yourselves eyeing each other at Appalachian, or at all curious, don’t NOT get together because of me.”
“You’re crazy,” she said, her eyes darkening in thought.
The story gets obvious from here. I wasn’t so crazy. Not this time.
What IS crazy is how long ago this all transpired . They began dating 10 years ago and I have to say I found myself a little numb at their wedding last weekend, because it was too overwhelming to take in.
Since they began dating, I dated numbers 3 through 6. I’ve given birth to a daughter. I’ve cried more than I would have imagined, I’ve laughed more than I could have hoped. Through this all, Jennifer and Ian have been the voices of reason on then other end of the phone:
“Soooooo, Jennifer, I called him 9 times but I was thinking I would follow up by text since he hasn’t answered yet. What do you think?”
“I think no.”
“Ok. But what if I drove by to –”
“No.”
“Yeah, ok, I thought you would say that so then what if I called his mom –”
“Katie…”
“What about email?”
“Still no.”
“Will you ask Ian?”
“Yes. You’re on speaker. And he says no.”
I make almost no decisions without running it by these two, even when I already know the answer.
Likewise, I’ve seen their good and bad. It was seeing their love endure long distance, insecurities, bad timing, career challenges, and personality differences that I realized a relationship is not perfect before entering marriage. It has been their example of hard work and compromise that I have come to love and admire them not only as best friends but mentors. Love doctors, if you will. Except I’m still single and lonely so we will be having a big talk about their job security.
At their wedding reception, I watched them dance from the perimeter of the dance floor when an older gentleman, a friend of Ian’s family, introduced himself to me.
“They look so happy,” he said.
I smiled. “They really do.”
“And they’ve been together for how long?”
“Ten years,” I replied, looking for the surprise in his eyes.
He shook his head. “They look so in love, like they’ve only just met.”
I was tempted to tell him that when they first met they hated each other. But I didn’t want to spoil the moment. Instead I laughed to myself and we stood together quietly, two strangers brought together by their love, a really sassy, passionate, determined, hard-working love that will continue to make everyone in their lives hope for the same thing.
To Jennifer and Ian.
It wasn’t until I was 29 and a half that I realized skin ages.
And I’ll go ahead and break it down for those of you who have trouble doing Math like me. Over sun exposure + tanning beds + cheap makeup + never washing your face + poor hydration + all 4 years of college = I don’t need to check your ID, honey, you can put it away now.
I think it took longer to register that my skin would age because I grew up with girls whose mothers sold Mary Kay facial products and my family thought it was unnecessary clown makeup. So you want me to spend $15 on something to potentially help my skin 30 years into the future? Something with SPF? Better idea: Let’s get hot dogs and sit by the pool.
My late Italian grandmother would even yell at me and my friends if we took sunscreen to the beach.
“Katie, what does your friend think she is doing?”
“She is packing her sunscreen, grandma.”
“Why?”
“Well, some people think it decreases your chances of skin cancer.”
“Ahbullshit.”
Then there’s my mother who has never washed her face before getting in bed a day in her life and only washes it in the morning if she takes a shower, but her skin is in better shape than mine and she’s almost 60. I didn’t get her genes.
I got my dad’s Irish skin which means I freckle when I say the word “sunshine.” In particular, there is a sunspot to the left of my eye that’s bleeding through my skin like a magic marker blot through a thin piece of paper and the thought that it’s only going to get bigger and darker along with the other ones is discouraging because hey, I’d prefer my face not look like a dirty white shirt under a black light. Is that so wrong? I even have freckles above my upper lip that are creating what looks to some as a subtle mustache. So often I get this:
“Hey Kate, it’s time to wax.”
And I have to say, “Oh, thanks, but that’s just what my skin looks like.”
Hang on, I’ll BRB.
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OK, I’m back. [Had to barricade the door from the men knocking it down.]
I suppose this sunspot isn’t going anywhere any time soon so I need to get comfortable with her. I want to name her.
Here she is. I am relying on you for suggestions so I don’t have to refer to her as “an indiscretion from my youth,” which is what my doctor called it when he told me to hide under a rock for the next 50 years because the sun will kill us all.
I’m channeling my grandma on that one and calling bullshit.
(Write your suggestions in the comment section below. Winner will be announced next week.)
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