Those bitches, Lisa and Laura

Ok, so this goes against everything I believe in, but I love Lisa and Laura and will make an exception. They have finally started to fight in the comments section of their own blog and it is about the tiara Laura won't take off, so I guess it is time I give in and provide them with a commercial. Anyone who makes me visualize someone I've never met giving birth with prom hair deserves a little recognition.

Well played, ladies. Well played.

Here goes:

They got a book deal. I'm jealous. They are the most popular kids in our high school and are vying for world domination so they're giving away a Kindle in celebration.

How saccharine, how adorable, they make you love them even when you're seeing green.

So, click this lovely little link and read the contest rules. It closes midnight on Friday the 13th, which is just so sickeningly cute that I just can't stand it.

Congratulations, bitches.

Barista Adored

The Barista has a boyfriend and it is not The Attorney.

I knew she was crushing on one boy more than the others, but I didn't think it was the one that was flirting with her last week while I waited for my latte. I watched him try to reel her in, feel her out and encourage her about some sort of exam or test she was taking. I rolled my eyes. I was sure he was older than me and I was boring holes into the back of his aged head while I could see her beautiful twenty year old face over his shoulder. Pedophile, I thought. He didn't leave once he had his drink, instead lurking at the creamer station while I tried to speak to her with my eyes. She nodded to let me know that he was, in fact, one of them. I smiled, winked and told her to have a good weekend while she mouthed, "We'll talk later."

A few days later I walked in and asked if he was the "Meh, maybe" one.

"No, that was The Guy. I like him so much. He is the nicest guy I've ever dated." I tried to hide my surprise and keep from shaking the image of his disheveled look from my head.

"How old is he?"

"Thirty-one." I swore he looked older than me, but then again I was the one whose ID was not confiscated for scanning amongst the gaggle of six girls that went a-clubbin' on Halloween.

"What does he do?"

"He's a probation officer."

Good God. This is worse than I thought. He should know better.

She almost chirped as she told me how wonderful he was, how thoughtful, how he opens her doors and calls her to say hi. She stopped dating the other boys for this one, this probation officer that I was sure told someone in his life, "She's mature for her age," after they gave him a dirty look when they saw her lithe frame flit like a ethereal angel next to him.

It wasn't until the elevators opened and deposited me to my office did I realize why The Barista's boyfriend was not sitting well with me. He did make her his girlfriend. I'll give him that. The Attorney just wanted to sleep with her. I am not in love with the age difference, but we all need to date the older man. No, it wasn't any of those things.

She could do better. She just doesn't know it yet.

I hemmed and hawed over this idea in my brain. She's so pretty. He's so... hairy. She deserves someone different. A young entrepreneur, a budding architect. Someone who manscapes.

And, then I realized I was being silly.

Mr. J has often asked, "Why were you dating such a troll?" when he'd see pictures of my Exes. I'd look over the faces and remember the things that made me smile, "Well, Christian was the funniest guy I ever met and Sam was very charismatic. Jace was smart and Dylan was easy to hang out with. They were all silent killers. You never saw them coming, but one funny story or a day of movies and laughs and they would suddenly become more handsome to me." Mr. J thought that was sweet, "I like that you saw a person's worth and not their looks." I smiled, "Oh, I dated some lookers. Oddly, I have no pictures of them."

I never dated a devastatingly handsome man for very long. There wasn't much substance, no real connection, no glue to make me grab my camera to load a picture to my Myspace page.

Justin?

Well, the one time we ran into him Mr. J gawked, "Dude, that guy is good looking!"

I smiled, "He is." I looked at his perfect facial structure, his deep blue eyes, the square jaw that always makes me want to procreate. I realized Mr. J was used to seeing my ugly boyfriends and feeling superior and here he was being faced with the idea that I'd had hot sex with a guy who looked like hot sex.

"What happened?"

"We had the best first date I've ever had. Sushi, a little twilight mini golf at a golf course and I thought he could've been special. He's actually really smart. After a few dates we had sex and that was it."

"It was bad?" I could tell this thought made Mr. J very happy. He started to smile in a way I'd deem snarky.

"No, it was great. He just couldn't seem to find my phone number once he left my apartment. Or his fingers were broken. Not really sure."

"Oh."

Then there was Matthew McConaughey. He was a cross between the actor, an Abercrombie model and sex on a stick. I wish I had a picture of him to wave in front of Mr. J when he poses in a mirror and reminds me how lucky I am to have, and I quote, "A hot piece of ass," like him.

Yes, Matthew was tongue-tyingly gorgeous.

And, he was dumb as a box of rocks.

After I realized I couldn't answer his questions regarding a three page business plan he had me review, I thought it was time we should end our tryst. It wasn't that I couldn't answer the questions because they were too complicated. It was simply that using smaller words wasn't working and I was crossing over to condescending. He was looking sullen, I wondered if he knew how to spell his name on paper and the jack rabbit sex detracted from his full lips and blonde curls.

I will always wonder if his air freshener business ever really took off.

Justin and Matthew McConaughey would've been trophy boyfriends, husbands, what-have-you, but who really wants a trophy when your connection is dim? I just happened to trip over Mr. J and found both an ex-Abercrombie employee and active brain waves. How lucky am I?

And, how lucky is My Barista?

She has found a boy that escorted her to LA this weekend so that she can check out the law fair at Loyola. He thinks she will be a wonderful attorney and winked at her that day when I was staring at him in disdain. Something I will never do again. She shrugged her shoulders while she drizzled caramel on someone's whipped concoction and said that the entrance exams are tough. He smiled and shook his head, eyes sincere, "You'll get in. I know you will."

I know she will too.

The Probation Officer and I may not be there with her, but we already imagine her in power suits, freckled nose staring up at a judge. She will click click down hallways of justice in peep toe pumps. We're simply people she will meet on her way to become the version of herself she imagines while she steams milk and tells me that the pumpkin scone is a vegetable and therefore nutritious. She will have many other boyfriends, some that look like Abercrombie models, some that make her laugh and others that make her cry. She has many faces to meet, many stories to collect.

And, many hearts to break.

Things I Need To Get Off My Chest

Hookerween = Success

I have decided that I am now too old to drink margaritas one after the next and feeling your kidneys is not a good thing. Dressing up with your girlfriends and affixing fake lashes and rhinestones to your sister in law's face (the one with the three kids and the dirty look when you mention slut heels) is pure bliss. Seeing your sister in law's flawless abs in her slutty costume six months after giving birth to her third child, however, is pure hell. Not one stretch mark. Not a one. Granted, I don't have children, but my stomach doesn't look like hers now and I do Bikram yoga.

Bitch.

Snarkiness = Adoration

I received an email today with the following gems that basically comprise my faith:

I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

There is great need for a sarcasm font.

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.

Bad decisions make good stories.

And Amen.

Mr. J = Love and Giggles

He's reading Young Adult and he doesn't even know it. He just finished The Hunger Games and was hooked. I haven't finished, but in true Mr. J style he tried to give away the ending. The ending in which Katniss gives Peeta "the butt love." I didn't have the heart to stop him between my fits of laughter, "Well, that's impossible since the book is written for teens. Fooled you!" I'll wait until after he reads the sequel that he is itching to get his hands on, "They have to make this into a movie!"

LiLa = Jealousy

I love LiLa. Really I do. They're my favorite sister writers and I adore them. I had the opportunity to talk to Lisa one night after we'd both had a few drinks and I loved her and her Cleveland Rocks accent even more that the day before. This is where the affirmations begin - They are my friends. They deserve happiness. They work hard. They are wonderful people.

What am I yammering on about, you ask?

The annoyingly beautiful girls with attitude, sass and a penchant for wrapping Us Weekly into a rhyme once a month have sold their book and will see their names in print come Spring 2011.

They're up there with my sister in law and her ridiculous Brooke Burke abs right now.

Gah.

Oh, I know! LiLa, let me dress you for your author photo! I have some rhinestone studded fake lashes and some fishnets with your name on them!

Give them a hand, kids. They are amazing and I can't wait for them to shout me out on Oprah.

And scene.

Man Eater

With the exception of Mr. J I am relatively ambivalent about other men. I see the husbands in the mall that check out girls while their wives are standing beside them; the sideways glance, the quick smile. It makes me a little ill and I immediately feel sorry for the woman that has no idea that her man is a pig. Don't get me wrong, I do notice a good looking man, but it is simply a passing observation, a He's handsome. Now, do I want a latte or an iced green tea? How many calories have I consumed today? Definitely the latte. God, I forgot to drop of the dry cleaning. I guess I'll have to stop by Banana Republic to pick up an outfit for tomorrow. I'll just sneak it in the house in my gym bag. Mr. J will never notice.

I've truly come full circle.

Let's see.. there was birth. I was a toddler and boys were just in between me and my desire to poop and nap. Then I turned three and fell madly in love with a fourteen year old. I was often professing my love for older men children (my version of man child), decreeing our impending nuptials and staring at them googly eyed while their mothers giggled about how adorable my crush was to them.

I hated those bitches.

I sneered, sighed internally and thought to myself that they just didn't get me. I've always been mature for my age and those moms just didn't understand that I had grown up feelings and a grown up libido to match. By five I was playing Show Me Yours behind the cubbies at nap time. When Jason Sussman told me he wanted to fuck me I got the gist and then convinced the cutest girl in class, Kelly Parker, to join in the fun. There was a lot of grinding, some sweating and while we didn't really get the mechanics of this fucking Jason had heard about I am sure that both of my playtime partners somehow remember those first days of carnal bliss.

I still don't know why Kelly's parents pulled her out of school and moved her to Lake Magdalene Elementary, but whatever.

They didn't get me either.

Kindergarten relived itself over and over again in my twenties. It was fun, it was dramatic, it was fraught with angry text messages, a little self-loathing and before long I realized it was time to find one wonderful man and settle down, be a grown up, get me some stretch marks and a pair of Crocs. Ok, not really the last part, but it is such a great visual, isn't it? I found Mr. J, I grew up and the girl I left behind seemed as though she was just someone I once knew. I sometimes forget about kindergarten and My Slut Phase (Decade, whatever).

Until a photo like the one above reminds me that there is a little beast in me and she's been with me since I was three. She's the little girl that looks at a boy and wants to eat him. Not like a delicious snack, either. To put it in terms that my YA readers can understand - I am like Edward for a few seconds every now and then. There are few boys that do it to me and if we were to lay our cards on the table I could assure you that Gerard Butler in 300 made my face burn. It only lasts a few seconds and when I'm done with my carnivorous thoughts I remind myself that after I eat the boys I get indigestion. You see, boys like to talk. They don't stay pretty like Patrick with his perfect bone structure and lithe frame. No, sometimes they have opinions, sometimes they fart and most of the time they have a friend that makes your stomach churn.

Even Patrick Dempsey. He probably clips his toenails in bed.

Mr. J clips them over our leather ottoman, sweeps them into a nice pile and then tries to feed them to the dog. At least it is cleaner.

Mr. J - 1.

Patrick Dempsey - 0.

Trick or Treat, Sluts

"Halloween has pagan origins."

That's how I began my Toastmasters speech when I was a high school senior in 1993. The local chapter didn't expect that I would turn on Halloween when they had me select a little scrap of paper from a hat. I had won something every week when they came to our class, "Best Table Topics," "Best Speech," "Best Evaluator," but as I watched their faces contort from expectation to shock I told them about God versus the devil in a classroom full of typewriters.

You see, I didn't celebrate Halloween back then. I didn't celebrate Christmas or my birthday either and I was prepared when someone asked why. I could tell them the origin of the holiday, what faithful man died on those days and which ancient religions were combined to create a jolly old man named Saint Nick.

I had it down pat.

And then I became faithless sometime in my twenties and hopped up and down as my first Christmas tree was put up in my house. I blew out the candles on my cake before the song was over and when Mr. J called me the other day I was confused.

"Are we going to carve pumpkins with the kids this year?"

I knew he was taking our niece and nephews Trick or Treating since their dad is stationed in Kuwait, but this whole carving of the pumpkins threw me for a loop.

"We didn't last year."

"They were too young last year. They're old enough now."

I paused, "Is this like a Halloween tradition or something?"

He laughed, "Yes, you take kids to a Pumpkin Patch and they pick out their pumpkins and then you carve them."

"Oh. Ok, cool."

I'd only experienced Halloween as an adult and when you're childless, that simply means thigh baring frocks and fishnets. It isn't the first time that the holiday traditions have thrown me, but oh, how I love the holidays. I love the costumes, I love the candy and the kids, the smell of Christmas coming, the Birthday Extravaganza I throw for myself every year and more than anything I like to dress up like a slut on October 31st.

Mr. J was with me my first Halloween. We were newly dating and I'd dressed as a Wood Nymph. I had leaves through my hair and a tiny orange top and skirt atop copper colored stilettos. It was the night he was to meet Amie and her husband for their official "Thumbs Up." We'd only kissed and I was falling madly into like. I knew he was too when I heard his mom ask about me while he held his cell phone to his driver-side ear, "Mom, I can't talk now."

He passed the test and about an hour later I was covered in hives. Big, red allergic type - I need an oatmeal bath, some Benadryl and Calamine Lotion kind of hives.

As Mr. J kissed me goodnight and ran his hands seductively over my neck, trying to entice me to join him in his bachelor bed, the only thing I could think of was, "Scratch me, scratch me, scratch me!" I ran from him, flung myself into my car and proceeded to scratch violently for the next three days.

So much for buying strategically placed leaves at a Halloween Outlet. It would be stripper stores from then on out.

I have to figure out what kind of slut I will be on Saturday.

Slutty nurse?

Slutty race car driver?

Slutty cowgirl?

It is all up to the Adult Store and the trip I shall take this week.

Oh, how I wish the Toastmasters would find me today.

What I story I would tell.

Beatrice, Why Have You Forsaken Me?

I have finally broken up with AARP.

The email didn't work, the one in which I said, "Please remove me from your mailing list. I'm 32 and your articles about my calcium deficiency and the importance of estate planning are really depressing. I just got a crow's foot and I can't even deal with that right now."

I thought someone in Subscriptions would get a chuckle, but Beatrice probably pulled the bounce backs that day and she apparently has no sense of humor. Do you know how I know so much about Beatrice? Because of the next Bulletin I received.

"Jeanette, End of Life Counseling - The Myths, Facts and Questions You Want Answered."

Damn Beatrice.

The crow's feet? They're not so bad. The laugh lines? Well earned. My forehead, on the other hand?

A mess.

I am an expressive person. My face tells no lies, I wear my heart in my eyes and Mags is often pushing down my right eyebrow, "Can't you keep that thing down?" I tried. I practiced looking normal in the mirror, but what can I say? My face has a mind of it's own.

Hence the Botox.

Did you know it makes a crunchy sound when they inject it into your forehead? It sounds like someone is walking over a floor covered in corn flakes. I thought about emailing Beatrice and asking if she could forward me a Bulletin on The Wonders of Botox, but she was already so ticked off by my last email. I'd hate it if she was personally acquainted with the Harbinger of Death or could be shortly. I do not need a old crabby lady haunting my ass and forcing more expressions to keep me aging against my will, so I did what any other self-absorbed woman would do. I went on a mission to a day spa that employs their own nurses and stared as my girlfriend was injected full of poison.

"Ooooh... I can hear your corn flakes."

"Weird, isn't it?"

The nurse smiled, "Its just a little pinch. Want to do it? We'll start off really slow and if you like it we'll just maintain."

I knew I would be filling my face with injectables when I arrived. I'd already done the research. I just wanted to try it once, just the tip, just for a second, just to see how it feels (and looks). And, Mr. J always tells me to do my research. I needed to know for my future facial health.

And, I went on my lunch break so the little marks would heal before I got home.

I waited two weeks to tell him. It was the, "Are you kidding me? You can do Botox when you're 37, but not at 32," that made me hesitate. It also made my 37 year old girlfriend lunge toward my husband in a violent manner.

Well, Mr. J confessed something to me one night. I've asked him if I can blog about it and he refuses. It was something that made him very embarrassed and which brought me great joy. Something he decided to do for his own vanity that made him a girl for a second. I want to tell you so bad, but I promised I wouldn't. After he refused to make eye contact with me for a good five minutes I finally smiled slyly.

"I have a confession too."

His head swung around, "What?"

"I got Botox."

"Are you serious?"

"Just my forehead. I hate my little wrinkles so I just wanted to see what it was like. I was with Mags and it was so easy that I decided to try it."

"How much."

"$130."

"That's it?"

"Yep. Are you mad?"

"No. Move your forehead."

I tried to wrinkle my nose and raise my eyebrows while he called me a freak show.

And then I texted Mags, "I told Mr. J it was only $130 so if he brings it up don't say anything."

I don't know if I'll do the Botox again. I liked the results, but two weeks later I met a beautiful blonde at a charity event. Her face was as smooth as a stone washed ashore and as we spoke I realized that she always looked surprised. I also had no idea how old she was when a friend leaned over, "She has a thirteen year old?" I smiled through my Veneer-less teeth, "I think she's older than you think she is," to which he responded, "Holy shit."

Holy shit, indeed.

What if I couldn't talk with my face anymore? What if I told you a story and when I delivered the punch line I looked like I just told you that the corn on my foot finally came off in the medicated bandage?

I'm still not ready to join Beatrice, bless her cranky heart.

And, my forehead?

It doesn't make me happy.

But, sometimes, just sometimes - the expression it helps create when accompanied by a funny story will make someone else laugh.

And, I'll take that sound over crunchy corn flakes any day.

Love Him

I knew that today would be a tough day.

Mr. J brought his scientific calculator and I had a Google map. We were quiet as we pulled up to Salina's house, hearts heavy. I walked up the sidewalk to her door and smiled at the cherubs in the little garden.

Salina would always be Salina.

The first time I met her we were campaigning for the same community cause. I remember sitting in her office and looking at the smiling faces behind her; the children she loved, the homeless teens she supported and the pictures they drew. There were awards she'd received for outreach and commendations from the Mayor. There were the tchotchkes too; angels, expressions of faith and scribbled poems wishing strength upon all those that entered her world. I loved the passion of her Hispanic heritage, something familiar to me as my best friend growing up was Puerto Rican. I was invited every Sunday to their family dinners and every Hispanic friend I knew honored their family members as if the thread that held them together was forged with iron.

When Salina opened the door I took a deep breath.

I could see the arrangements left over from her husband's memorial service and the flag that had been folded into a triangle and laid into her hands just a few days before. There were photo collages on stands and a cross fashioned from white roses.

Salina wanted us to grieve with her and we did. We looked at her wedding pictures from the ceremony that took place just a short eleven months ago. She showed us the vase that her children and her step-children filled with grains of sand when they united their two families, "We chose different colors of sand because once they mix you can never separate them again."

She knew he was sick when they married, but he was the love of her life and a monster as big as cancer could not keep them from building something beautiful.

And it was beautiful.

Salina's house was filled with love, her teenage daughters hugging me, tears in everyone's eyes. Pictures of laughing children, loving parents and a sense of family hung from the walls. She had asked us to come over to help her with some paperwork and we did. We asked her the hard questions, Mr. J used his calculator and the three of us cried when she said, "I will never see him again. Never again. I don't like it when people tell me he is in a better place. What if this was a better place? He was happy, we were happy. I will never see him again."

We were prepared. When we talked on the phone Friday she told me she would cry. I interrupted her, "Then cry. You feel what you feel. If you need to cry, do it. Please just don't think I'm being rude if I laugh. I don't laugh to be a jerk. I just get nervous, Salina, and I don't know what to say and I'll say something silly. You cry, I'll sound like a hyena and we'll just be ok, ok?"

"Don't worry. My fourteen year old is doing the same thing and she hates it. She worries people will think she isn't grieving or that she's a mean person. We have a joke. When she sees me cry I roll my eyes and say, 'Allergies,' and she laughs. And then at night she cries when she's alone."

We let Salina reminisce, she needed to talk. She told me about her husband's humor and laughed as she told us about his son's dream girl at school. She talked about their family meetings on Sunday night and how the four year old would draw pictures of what was being said. When she broke down I shared Kleenex with her while Mr. J let the tears well in his eyes. He leaned over and put his hand on her shoulder, a lot for a man with few words.

When I hugged her daughter goodbye she whispered in my ear, "Thank you for making my mom laugh. I heard her. Thank you."

I smiled.

And, then I got in my car and I told Mr. J that I loved him.

As much as your husband may drive you crazy, as much as you may argue and that stupid pair of boxers on the floor makes you cringe - please love him.

Every inch, every flaw, every annoyance.

Because, someone is lying in bed tonight crying alone while she faces the fact that she'll never see her love again.