Our Great Big World

March 13, 2014 ~ Mandi

She woke early that day to make sure she packed everything. A weekend away with the husband was just what she needed after an exasperating week alone with the kids having to taxi them to school, sports, practices, and lessons. She couldn’t wait for her mother-in-law to arrive so that she could start her peaceful journey. She loaded up her eReader with several of the top Indie books of the week and sat on the couch patiently waiting.

As soon as she heard the doorbell, she gathered her bags and sunglasses. She kissed her son and her daughter, gave her mother-in-law an aggressive thankful hug and was on her way. She drove to the airport with the sunroof open enjoying the warm spring air and the sunshine spraying in from the cloudless sky singing along with Bruno Mars about Young Wild Girls.

She made it through security seamlessly, heading straight for the bar near her departing gate. She ordered a Bombay Sapphire and tonic and sipped it quietly anticipating seeing her husband after a week of his absence. He was in California for a meeting at his corporate office and suggested she meet up with him for the weekend so that they could have a little much needed together time. His work travelling had picked up speed the first quarter of the year, which resulted in their spending a lot of time apart.

She finished her drink, paid her tab, and headed to the gate just before the plane began boarding. She boarded the plane along with the other people in the First Class group. Having a traveling husband had its benefits, one being automatic upgrades. She settled into her seat and sipped champagne, hoping that the seat next to hers would remain empty and buried her nose in her book, ignoring the crowds as each passenger made his way to his assigned seat. Out of the corner of her eye, a passenger stopped on her row and started struggling with the overhead bin. Her eyes traveled up, taking stock of her potential flight mate, clearly a man, youngish in Levi’s and a hooded sweatshirt. She couldn’t see his face but noticed that he had his ear buds in and would probably be unlikely to try to make the obligatory small talk fellow passengers always tend to make with one another. She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to her book when she felt rather than saw him sit down in the seat next to hers.

“First class is the only way to travel.” He said as he typed something on his phone. Her ears perked at the familiar voice.

“Hey,” she said and turned her attention to him.

He studied her face for a minute as a wide smile took over his. “What are you doing here?” He asked.

“What are you doing here?” She matched his tone.

They both jumped from their seats and gave each other a quick hello hug and laughed at the coincidence that brought them not only to the same flight but to neighboring seats. The flight attendant asked them to sit back down as the plane began preparing for takeoff.

They spent the entire flight talking, laughing, drinking the complimentary drinks, and getting to know each other in person after a year of being online buddies. She asked him what he was listening to, which prompted a very lengthy game of “guess this tune.” When one guessed an incorrect answer, they both had to drink. They kept the flight attendants busy for the three hour flight, which seemed to go by in just 20 minutes.

When the plane finally landed, they departed at the gate, exchanged hugs and promised to actually get together again some time. Just as he was walking away, she called out, “See. It’s not such a big world after all.”

)

Warning: This story is FICTION

Caught in a Landslide

March 9, 2014 ~ Mandi

Huz was watching something on the History channel or the National Geographic, something to which, I was paying no attention when he started asking me questions about my dad and his beliefs. For those who don’t know, my dad is a retired minister.

“Do you ever talk to your dad about this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

He started talking saying something about Genesis and creation versus evolution. I resumed ignoring him again. True story, I was reading iamthemilk but outwardly, I said the obligatory, “mmm hmmm. Oh?” and “Really?” nodding my head. I rock fake listening. I’m a preacher’s kid, remember?

“Do you know who said that?” I snapped out of my blog trance and wondered wtf he was talking about.

In my head, I tried to decide if I should even ask or if I could fake it. I thought back on the conversation. What did he ask me? Something about the bible. Oh that’s right…do I know who said that? Pfft. Easy.

“Jesus,” I said with conviction because “Jesus” is a pretty good guess when we’re talking bible, right? Just think about all of the red colored text.

“Dude, can you please put your computer away and listen to me?” Huz said, completely exasperated by my sore attempt at faking it.

I closed my laptop and rolled my eyes. “Fine. Who said what? I’m listening now.”

“’The bible tells us how to go to Heaven not how the Heavens go.’ That is a quote from Galileo.”

To which, I replied, “(Galileo) Galileo. (Galileo) Galileo. (Galileo) Figaro. Magnifico,” which made me laugh. But not my husband.

That’s just a typical conversation in our house. What’s it like in yours?

Aside

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

March 5, 2014 ~ Mandi

She paces back and forth in her bathroom in nothing but a sexy bra and panty set, heart pounding in her chest. Just do it. She tells herself, taking a quick peek at her reflection in the mirror. Not bad. She adjusts her bra for the 27th time. Just do it. She silently says again, taking a deep breath. She walks into her bedroom, picks it up off her nightstand and holds it out in front of her at arms length.

Click. She looks at the photo. Ick no. She shakes her head and ruffles her hair, pulling it over her near naked shoulder. Blonde hair splays across her chest. She stretches her arm out again, holding it a little bit higher than the last time.

Click. She tilts her head. Click. She looks up. Click. She looks down. Click. She looks to the side. Click. This time straight at the camera, pouty lips.

She holds her phone close to her face and goes through the camera roll. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.

She growls and throws her phone on her bed. Why is this so hard? He’s your husband. He’s seen it ALL before.

Deep breaths, back to the phone. Click Click Click Click Click.

Camera roll. Sigh. Okay, that one’s not so bad. She bites her lip and stares at the photo for few more minutes finding every single possible flaw, anxiety billowing deep in her belly.

Ding dong…ding dong…ding dong. She drops the phone when she hears her best friend, Kimberly’s, signature ring. Then she laughs and picks it up answering with a chuckle.

“Hello.”

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Taking sexy selfies of myself, ” she says holding the phone with her shoulder as she pulls on her jeans.

Kimberly lets out a breathy laugh. “Why?”

“To send to Huz.” She puts her arms through her shirt and pulls it over her head.

“Send it to me.”

“Dude, no way. I can’t even look at them. I’ve taken at least 30 pictures. One is just okay. ”

They talk for 30 minutes about 247 different subjects, their typical daily chat that takes place every day during Kimberly’s commute home from work.

“Okay, I’m here at the daycare. Talk to you tomorrow. Oh, and send me that picture. I’ll tell you if you should send it.”

“Okay, whatever. Bye.”

She waits the 20 minutes it should take Kimberly to get home before she hits “Send” along with the message, “You better fuggin delete this.”

Nothing.

Another text.

No response.

Then she paces back and forth, stomach twisted in knots, and waits for her alleged “best friend” to respond with…anything.

She convinces herself it’s terrible and decides not to send it.

Then she hears the ding on her phone.

She responds with a sigh of relief. Huz leaves for the store, so she decides it’s the perfect time to send it to him.

Send. Sigh. Done. Wait.

Tic toc. Tic toc. Tic toc.

Huz comes home, says nothing. She waits until the kids are in bed and says, “Did you get my text?” He smiles a half smile “Yeah. Why did you send that?”

“Really?”

She looks at him, rolls her eyes, and walks into her room. If he only knew. Later he says, “I like it.” Too little. Too late. Not good enough. She grabs his phone and deletes it after already deleting it from her phone and vows to never ever take a sexy selfie again.

Remember children, “Naked selfies almost always work.”

But almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Aside

Rear Ends and Flats

March 1, 2014 ~ Mandi

Have you ever been sitting at a red light, comfortably minding your own business, having funny chatter with your three year old daughter in the back seat when BAM someone smacks into the back of your car? So that happened to me this week. It’s the third time I’ve been rear ended in 6 months. Cue rear end jokes.

I was driving home from the gym talking with (10) my sweet little girl who gives the best hugs in the whole world and makes me laugh almost as much as (9) Joel McHale when some lady smashed into my car. Hard. Leaving me with a scratched bumper and an annoyingly sore back. You should see her car though.

Dealing with the insurance company has proved to be quite an ordeal. I’ve spent hours of my life on the phone with different people reporting the damage, giving my recorded statement (in which, he asked if there was anything in my car distracting me from my driving, and I replied “the only thing distracting me was the red light at which I was legally stopped minding my own business when someone who was distracted slammed into me.”), and then trying to schedule a doctors visit. Apparently, doctors do not so much care for seeing people after car accidents because there’s this little thing called “money,” and they want it, but car insurance companies don’t care to freely give it, so Monday I got hit by a car, and Saturday I’m still not scheduled to be seen by anyone. Maybe I need to call The Texas Hammer or something, but all I want is to be able to go to the gym and take my favorite (8) cardio core class, which I’ve attended three times a week for over a year now, and I’m certain is the reason why my injury is not so severe, especially considering that just last week I fell down the stairs really hard and still managed to make it to the gym three times without buckling over in pain. I’m sure everything will work out, but good grief. Could they not make it a little easier for the….victim?

My week started off bad, but then 7) my dear sweet mother-in-law who is one of my absolute favorite people in the entire world and the most shiny sparkly beautiful woman I know called me on Thursday and asked if she could come and (6) pick up my kids from my house on Friday to (5) spend the entire weekend at her house with her and my (4) father-in-law. We learned this week that she has stage 4 cancer and will start aggressive chemotherapy treatments this month, so she wanted a weekend alone with my children before she gets sick.

Cancer. Stage 4. Chemo. Cue explicit horrible words.

We strapped our kids into my father-in-law’s SUV, and as I kissed my little boy goodbye and (3) his smile spread across his rosy cheeks, I squeezed him a little bit harder and whispered in his ear, “Have so much fun, sweet boy,” because what he doesn’t know and can’t possibly fathom but lingers in the back of my mind is that his grandmother who adores him and has picked him up on so many Fridays might never be able to again.

But then she might. Light thoughts replace dark thoughts, which offers (2) hope.

My husband and I watched them drive away, walked into our house holding hands, and then realized we had the entire house to ourselves for the entire weekend. I jumped in the shower and got ready so that we could go to happy hour (something we never get to enjoy since having kids). We decided to go to this cute little village that offers both shopping (blek) and lots of dining and drinking. In another attempt to woo my husband, I chose an outfit that could only be accessorized by my favorite chocolate colored suede knee high boots. He whistled when I walked in the room. Score! Only, when I started walking around the house, grabbing my jacket and my purse, the four inch heels shot pain straight to that annoying spot in my back that’s been there since Monday. I sunk on the couch and started to pout because once a girl chooses her outfit, having to choose another one just sucks all of the air right out of her, and he whistled, so there’s that. Husband disappeared (which I could only assume was an effort to avoid anything that is me when I’m trying to figure out what to wear) but reappeared in the room holding my new favorite and very comfortable flats.

Skull Shoe Selfie (pouty duck lips)

“Just wear these,” he said and flashed me my favorite look in the entire world, the one that only he can do with just half of his lips smiling. Of course, I whined about wanting to look nice and always wearing flats and wanting him to notice me, etc. But in end, he won. I wore flats, took some Advil before we left, and drank some gin, which all helped to numb the pain, and we had a wonderful night….(1) just the two of us.

Naked Selfies: The New Little Black Dress

February 24, 2014 ~ Mandi

I met my husband back in 1998 before Social Media ruled the world…even before Bob Dole invented the internet, or was that Dan Quail? Or maybe Obama? Okay, okay. Maybe the internet existed, but nobody used it…really. Back before Twitter and Match.com, how did we snag our mates when we couldn’t text them and get an immediate response, when we couldn’t stalk their Facebook page for pictures of their exes, before they could “check in” and we could just “pop in” where we knew they were? Well, I for one did it the old fashioned way. I put on make-up and donned that short little black dress that showed off my legs for days (shut up I’m not short) and my 19 year old perfect ass. And it worked. Every. Single. Time. But things have changed. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the new little black dress: Naked Selfies.

Her mom is very supportive.

I recently learned that it’s fairly common practice for girls to send guys naked, (or half naked) selfies. Wait, what? Isn’t this along those lines of milk and cows and giving things up for free? Not leaving anything to the imagination? Right, mom would not approve.

Don’t even get me started on the demise of society through selfies. I can go on and on about my antipathy for them. In fact, I’m president of the club: MAS.

But curiosity always kills the cat right? My follow up question was, “Does this actually work?”

His response, “Naked selfies almost always work.”

He said almost: Click here…do it! Do it! Do it!

Hmmmm…. So I started to ponder how this could affect my own life. Being that I’m extremely self-centered, I asked myself: How often do I pull out my “little black dress?” Truth…almost never. My daily uniform consists of yoga pants, a tank top, and sneakers…always sneakers. I wear my hair in a pony-tail bun about 85% of the time. Make-up gets used on weekends and when I have to volunteer at my son’s school, but most of the time, I’m simple, plain, and boring…a dun dun dun…housewife.

Back when I worked, I wore tailored business suits, pretty silk blouses, and even high heels. My hair was always down, lipstick on, and I never left the house without accessories. The only jewelry I ever wear now is my Ironman watch…sexy, right? Back off, boys.

The truth is: there are girls out there sending naked selfies to guys in order to get laid. Maybe I need to try harder.

Don’t get me wrong. I take really good care of myself. I work out a minimum of 3 times a week. I eat healthy and avoid all of the junk foods, etc. But the buck stops there. I don’t spend a lot of time on my appearance or getting “pretty” even though behind my workout clothes and my pony tail, I’m quite sure a pretty girl still exists.

Yesterday I thought it might be fun to try an experiment. The same dude who said naked selfies always work also said that hair is a big deal to guys, so after I dropped my daughter off at school, I decided to actually spend some time on my hair. I got on Pinterest and found a tutorial on blow drying my hair. I know…those are out there. I could have also gone on to learn how to apply false eyelashes, but let’s get real. So after I showered, I spent (and I’m not exaggerating) 30 minutes blow drying my hair. Then I “put on my face” as my mom used to say, careful to apply blush and bronzer. I even wore lip gloss. I chose a cute, fitted shirt and my skinny jeans, and I pranced around the house all day, wondering if my husband would notice.

This just in, he didn’t.

Finally, after the kids were comfortably tucked into bed, I said, “Hey, man, I spent 30 minutes fixing my hair for you today.”

He said, “Why?” Then he smirked at me with his “I’m about to be an asshole” grin and said, “I fixed my hair for you, too, dude.”

I rolled my eyes and went to my bedroom where I changed from my skinny jeans to my much more comfortable pajamas and fell asleep on the couch.

I guess what I was hoping for was a spark….a little strike to a flame that often gets extinguished with the stress of everything on our plates: sick parents, kids, work, life, etc. I’m always looking for something, something that catches him off guard, something that makes him look twice, something so that I can, you know…get some. Up next I guess is naked selfies. Didn’t someone say that they “almost always work?”

Stay tuned….this could be good. Or really really bad.

Now, I’m off to find a Pinterest tutorial on the art of taking ~~naked~~ sexy selfies. Right after I blow dry my hair.

What do you do to keep the spark afire? Are you guilty of letting it get burned out? Do you try new things to keep the magic alive? Anyone else want to join me in a naked selfie challenge?

You’re My Huckleberry

February 23, 2014 ~ Mandi

You are my Huckleberry. Let’s define that, shall we? According to the Urban Dictionary, (that’s a legit source, people) it means “I’m the man you’re looking for.” (That’s a direct quote. Anyone who knows me knows I would never end a sentence in a preposition, so there’s that.)

So in keeping true to my whole Friendship theme, I’m jumping onto the Ten Things of Thankful train, but I’m doing it my way. I’m going to give you a list, a version of what my best friend and I created years ago… (Hopefully she won’t kill me for sharing this.)

A Top Ten List

My Top Ten Thankfuls for This Weird Funky Week

(We work our way to #1, so let’s start at 10.)

#10: Lizzi because you are so full of love and light and encouragement and help, and you send me music (which speaks straight to my heart, my love language for sure.) And every time I see the little chat bubble with your smiley face, I smile back. I’m so glad I found you, Lizzi. Oozing thankfuls all over you.

#9. The rest of my blogger buddies: Don, Aussa, Phil, Dana, Sandy, Nicole, Kate, Mike (and Phoneix), and so many more. You are all so so so very awesome. I love peeking into your worlds and reading your stories which make me feel like I *know* you, like I’m a part of you. I’ve been in a funk this week, but your words were a step in the ladder that pulled me out of that funk, and today the sun shines bright in the sky, I’m well rested, and I’m no longer blue.

#8. Also in the running for pulling me out of my funk: my new cyber-besties, Hella Buzzed and Magpie. What in the world did I do with my day before I met you? I can somehow spend an entire day chatting away with you guys about anything and still be hungry for more. My cheeks hurt from smiling, and my belly hurts from laughing, and my heart is so very grateful that Michelle ignited this flame.

My girls: you know who you are. (in no particular order)

#7. a) You coined the name “Mandicap” which still haunts me. You pushed me to class in my wheel chair. You introduced me to my forever. You stood by me when I married him. I’ll never forget the day we walked around Manhattan together and the walk through Central Park….sigh. That was one of my favorite days of all time. Soon you’ll become a mom and welcome your baby girl, and I hope she has even a spark of your humor, your love, and your beauty.

b) You’ve been my mommy go to, the one who always tells me that I’m not crazy. You wait for me in Carl’s Corner with a scented candle and a smile. You can sell me anything just by saying, “You love it. You do.” Even if it’s tofu. And when I hear Dave Matthews Band or Sublime, I imagine your little red eclipse and spending hours driving around our college town in it. Without our talks, I’m not sure I’d still be sane. Oh wait – I’m not.

#6. We didn’t hit it off right off that bat, which had nothing to do with who your ex-boyfriend is. Very few people get me on the level that you do. You are almost as funny as I. Ok, ok. You’re as funny. I will always admire your eyebrows, and when you asked me to stand up next to you as your matron of honor because I “represented a happy marriage,” you stole more of my heart than you know. You’re a great mom, a great friend, and a trivia wiz. I’m so glad I met you, even if you hated me that day.

#5. Mi amor, you will always be….esta es siempre en mi corazon. You bring me wine and other stuff and sit outside with me until our lips are stained purple while we talk through every inappropriate topic and piece of gossip until the wee hours of the morning. Squelched laughter, rule-breaking chat sessions, and Freaks of the Industry will always remind me of mi amor.

#4. You are my wingman (you can totally have a vagina and be a wingman). You helped me make the rules to Drunk Around the World. You’re my Dust in the Wind, my synchronized swimming partner. Our friendship began as a seed planted by our husbands to get to spend more time together, but it’s taken root and bloomed into something so much more. I adore you, but this you know, and the friendship between our children makes my heart swell.

#3. Beth…where do I begin? I still can’t believe how many play-dates we wasted being polite. I love the weird bond our sons share and the fact that they brought us together. I don’t know where it finally happened, but we sparked, and I’m so very grateful that we did. I truly cherish this friendship. I love our Big Truck Tuesdays, that we share a sick dirty mind, and the pictures we send back and forth…le’ sigh. I love your humor and your brain, and I cannot even comprehend your talent. I believe in your book, and I sit on the edge of my seat and wait for the rest of the world to get to read it. #threechapterthursday is my favorite day of the week. How lucky am I that you trusted me with it first? And now I love beards, and trees, and tattoos, and tattoos of trees. (But I love you even more than all of that.) What have you done to me?

#2. Nikki, my kindred, my soul mate, my fellow lover of books. You are beautiful and funny and smart, and so very talented. (She’s published two books. Rebound & Resilient) The fact that you’re about to publish a third book amazes me to no end, and I squeal with delight every time you post a new teaser. You have become so much more to me than a friend. I look forward to our Thursdays and relish the memories of sitting for hours in a bookstore on the floor talking about these fictional characters as if they’re real people. You win best hugs ever, which says a lot since you know I’m not a hugger. You are so dear to me, so very special. You make my heart smile.

And the Number One Friend for whom I say thanks each and every day:

Kimberly (yes I’m using your name. Suck it.) 30 years ago as I sat outside in my backyard literally eating mudpies, my mom called for me and made me come inside, wash up and change out of my mismatched “boy” clothes and go introduce myself to the three little girls who moved in next door. I huffed and argued, but she urged and insisted and finally shooed me out the door. She had no idea what an impact that introduction would be to her little girl’s life and the inseparable friendship that would result from her insistence. Kimberly, words cannot describe you. You’re brilliant and brave and funny and weird like me and so opinionated and full of red headed stubbornness. You’re a wonderful mom, an amazing principal, a devoted wife, and the absolute “dearest” friend, my full moon. I have to stop, or I’ll cry, and you know. I. Never. Cry.

So there – my weird attempt at TToT. You can join, too. Just grab the button and follow the rules. We’ll see if I get kicked off of this one, too.

I’m Your Huckleberry

February 21, 2014 ~ Mandi

Your BFF, your bestie, your confidant, your wingman, your amigo, and most often, I’m your best friend. I wear that badge proudly, with a smile and my chin slightly tilted upward, my half of the golden broken heart charm dangling on my chest. You know the necklace.

Best friend…that’s not just any term…BEST. That’s a big deal, and I don’t take it lightly. One of my hidden talents is my ability to climb right up the friendship ladder to the top…the BEST spot, and I. LOVE. IT!!!

I surround myself with a huge circle of friends, one that continues to grow now that I’ve joined this world of blogging, and I love each of them/you dearly. I do. That’s part of it. When I’m your friend, I truly love you. I think about you. I remember things that you say you like, your favorites, the kind of music you listen to, the little things that fill your world with light, even if it’s yoda undies, and I pull out little pieces of my secret stash whenever any of my friends needs a little sparkle. I love to make people laugh and smile and just be happy, so people tend to gravitate to me. I’m good with this.

I make myself available, whether it’s via phone call, which anyone who really knows me knows I absolutely loathe talking on the phone. After years of sales and being on the phone all day long, it pains me when it rings…seriously, but I will pick it up and put it to my ear, and I will discuss what an asshole your husband is or whether or not you should start working out (yes, always yes), and what to say to your teenage daughter who may or may not be having sex, or simply talk about the news. I will answer. And sometimes, an hour will slip by, and I’ll still be there, listening, and talking with you because you need me, so I’m available. Period. When you’ve had a shitty day at work, I’ll chat with you online and try to make you feel better, even if it’s just to say, “that really sucks, man.” I return annoyed texts with snarky remarks, or sometimes, I just send you half naked photos of a hot guy or a weird whacky video that made me laugh, just to let you know you crossed my dirty little mind. Because I’m your friend, and that’s a big deal.

I’m your biggest fan. When you need someone to cheer you on, I’m there, doing my best herkiewith my pom poms out , shaking them and screaming: You can do it!!! I encourage. I motivate. I rally.

When someone wrongs you, I hate them with you, with passion. I will rant with you about what a bitch she is and how much more awesome you are than she because I am always on your side. Always. I will help you come up with ways to get back at your boss when he’s being an asshole, even if it’s just lowering his office chair every morning before he comes in, and I’ll stay on the phone with you and laugh when he plops down and looks around to see if anyone noticed. When a man or woman breaks your heart, I go with you to the voodoo lady to make the doll, and together we stick it full of pins and laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

I run to you when you’re sick. I cry with you when you’re sad. I celebrate with your happiness, and I pick you up from the floor when the world sucks out your steam. Because I’m your friend, and that’s a big deal.

People always say, “You can’t choose your family.” But my friends choose me, and I don’t ignore that, and when he or she uses the term “best”, I commit to the title. I tackle it, and I make it my bitch. One of my hidden talents is being a best friend, and I’m really good at it.

I’m hopping on the “finish the sentence Friday train”. You can, too. I don’t really know the rules. Copy that cute little pic below and see what the other talents are out there. We’ll see if I get kicked out….

Lovepocalypse Take 2

February 10, 2014 ~ Mandi

That phone call set my heart to flight. Brendon, who I had a huge high school girl crush on, just called me at my mom’s house and asked me on a date. It was Friday. He suggested that we go to dinner on Saturday night, but I had to waitress at the piano bar, so I begrudgingly said “no.” He thought for a second and then told me that he already had plans that night with some friends to meet at Blues, the bar next to the hospital. He invited me to join them. He didn’t know my age. 18. He offered to pick me up, but I told him I would meet him there. I was nervous and socially awkward, and I wanted my own car in case I needed to bolt if my anxiety got out of hand.

I drove to my apartment giddy with excitement about our impending date. I appealed to my best friend/roommate to find me the perfect outfit since I had/have zero fashion sense, and Brendon had never seen me in anything but my hospital uniform: Green polo shirt and khaki Dickies. She found something she said was perfect “first date at a bar” attire that most definitely would make him swoon. I looked at the outfit, bit my lip, and shrugged my shoulders. I had only been on a few dates and had very little experience with men, and Brendon was a man. A beautiful Latin man. So I took her advice and donned something other than my usual t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

I walked into the bar feeling out of place without my normal gang of hospital friends, tugging at my shorts that I was certain were at least 2 inches too short and pulling at the shirt that hugged me a little too tightly. Then I saw him. He was sitting at the bar, drinking a Bud Light wearing a white Nike baseball cap, a perfect contrast to his tawny skin. He turned around and noticed me standing in the doorway. His smile reached all the way to his dark eyes as he walked over to greet me. He pulled me into his chest in a surprisingly comfortable hug. “Wow. You’re here,” he said offering me that killer smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” What? He wasn’t sure I would come.

He guided me to the bar, his hand barely grazing my lower back. He ordered me a Bud Light and another for himself, and we sat side by side sharing familiar and easy conversation. We talked about college and classes. He told me he was 23 and almost finished. I hesitated but told him I was only 18, that I had just completed my second semester. He looked at me and said, “You’re just a puppy, Kiddo.” “Kiddo” would become his pet name for me, a name that I would grow to love being called.

He introduced me to his friends and his brother who met up with us later, and we all talked and laughed, and I found myself floating in his attention. He was smart and funny and unbelievably sexy. We closed down the bar. He insisted that I let him drive me home…in his jeep…with the top off, which took his hotness D&B to a whole new level. On the drive home, we learned that we shared a passion for music of all kinds. When we got to my apartment, we sat in his jeep in the parking lot, listening to Fleetwood Mac. When the last song ended, I reluctantly said, “I better go in.” He walked me to my door where he planted a soft, sweet kiss on my lips and said, “Goodnight, Kiddo.” He pulled me into him in a warm embrace and let out a quiet sigh that went straight to my…ahem. I wanted to invite him in, but I didn’t know how. I was young and dumb, and incredibly naïve. I opened the door and walked into my apartment, trying to summon the words to tell him that I didn’t want the night to end, but the words never came. Instead, I just said, “Goodnight.” He winked and turned to walk to his jeep. I went to bed smiling, with his scent still lingering on my skin.

The next morning, my roommate drove me to my car. I started to pull out of the parking spot when I noticed something on my windshield. A note. From him.

Can’t wait to see you again. –B

Just like that, he hooked me even more, and I was in my first “grown up” relationship. We took advantage of every free opportunity we had to spend together. It was challenging since I worked most nights, but we made it work. We didn’t see each other often, but when we did, we cherished the time. We shared a twisted sense of humor and spent most of our time together laughing. He had the best laugh, and anytime I said something funny, he would grab me either by my arm or my hand, and hold me while he shook with laughter at something witty that I said.

His touch ignited my skin.

He told me I was way too funny to be a girl, which was even better than all of the times he told me I was pretty and smart and perfect.

He took me to his childhood home, introduced me to his mom, and called me his “girlfriend.” She made us jalapeno muffins and told Brendon to be nice to me when he made fun of something that I said. After she went to bed, we cuddled on the couch and watched some old movies on her big screen TV.

Another night, he took me to an abandoned mansion rumored to be haunted. We crawled through the window and crept through the dark empty rooms, waiting for a ghost to jump out at us, my heart pounding in my chest. But nothing made my heart stutter more than when he pushed me up against the grimy wall, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed me.

We spent countless hours at our favorite music store, standing side by side at the listening stations, ears covered with huge plastic headphones, smiles plastered on our lips discovering new music together…all before iTunes and immediate internet downloads. Our love of music became our bond, another pull to my heart.

He often surprised me and showed up at the piano bar to listen to me play, which was a huge adjustment for me since I preferred to play for strangers. That first night, he sat at a table by himself. He didn’t order anything to eat or drink, just sat there. Listening to me. I forced myself not to look in his direction. I didn’t even notice that he left before I finished. I was hugely disappointed when I discovered his empty chair until realized later as I counted my tips that he snuck a comment card in my tip jar that said:

I didn’t think it was possible for you to be more beautiful, until I heard you play. ~B

That night, when I left the bar, he was waiting by my car.

“I got you this,” he said and handed me a CD. George Winston: December. “It’s really a Christmas album, but I think you’ll like it.”

I suggested that we hop in his jeep and go for a drive to listen to it. As we drove through our West Texas town, the sound of George Winston’s piano mingled with the warm summer breeze. Then I heard a familiar song, Variations of Johann Pachelbel’s Canon. He said that he loved this version and that it was his favorite song to hear on the piano. We drove for hours that night until he took me back to my car. He gave me a simple kiss, and said, “Goodnight, Kiddo,” handing me the CD.

I drove home listening to my new album and made it my mission to learn his song. I listened to it incessantly, always playing it in my head. I spent hours at my parents’ house practicing it over and over. When they went to bed, I went to the one place that I knew never closed, the hospital chapel, and I banged my way through it until it was…perfect.

The next time he came to listen to me play, I surprised him and played it for him.

That night, I didn’t have to invite him into my apartment. He practically pushed me through the door.

I’m So Fly – I’m OG Baby Like Grape Koolaid

January 31, 2014 ~ Mandi

The sun beat down on the hot pavement as my sandaled feet walked briskly, matching the pace of the other walkers on 5^th Avenue. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Mind over Matter, I thought to myself. I twisted out of my sweater, trying to keep up with my friends and shoved it in my bag, madly searching for my sunglasses to no avail. After retracing my steps in my mind, I furiously cursed myself for leaving them on the subway. Who does that in August? Water like mirages littered the road ahead. I squinted trying to make out where we were going. We turned a couple corners and headed down 6^th Avenue. And what did we find? A street fair.

The smell of Gyro’s mixed with empanadas teased my nose. Tents lined both sides of the street. Among them were vendors of all kinds: food, drinks (even the frozen kind), clothing, shoes, hats, and yes…sunglasses. I dismissed myself from my entourage and headed straight for the shaded sunglasses booth.

Being my first time in NYC, I didn’t want to look like a dumb blonde from Texas who didn’t know what I was doing and probably road a horse to the airport, so I squared my shoulders and tried to look coy, like I Ain’t New Ta This. I walked around the booth, eye shopping until I found a pair of gorgeous light brown Dior knock offs. I reached down to pick them up at the exact time a tan hand with long red fingernails reached for the same pair. She giggled. My eyes travelled from her cherry nails up to her…ahem…to her boobs. The biggest boobs I had ever seen, and they were out and proud. Two bronzed melons squished together under a tight, white very deep v-neck tank. She giggled again and said, “You have good taste.” I may have said, “Well, that’s because you’ve got big jugs. I mean your boobs are huge. I mean, I wanna squeeze ’em. Mama!” Or something like that.

Finally, she broke my boob trance and said, “Try them on. They’ll look great on you.” So I did, and she was right. The fake Dior glasses were made for my face. She said, “You have to buy them.” And I said, “No, you get them. You saw them first.” I really wanted those glasses, but I’m from the South, and I’m polite, so I did the polite thing and handed them to her. She looked at me. I shot her my best, “I’m really sweet, and I want these effing glasses” smiles. She bit her lip for a minute while I checked out the rest of her attire. Which didn’t take long. Then she handed them to me and insisted I get them. My Lethal Weapon, my Texas charm, always works.

Just as I started to leave, she motioned me back and pointed to a duplicate pair and said something about us being sunglasses twins. I thought to myself that we couldn’t be further from twins, but I humored her, and we both tried on the shades admiring our reflections in the hand mirror that she held out for us. I watched her go buy her glasses, and then I headed to the same guy to buy mine.

He had I’m Your Pusher written all over him mainly because he had a huge wad of cash in his hands and was wearing sunglasses and a smile on his face when Boobs Mctits exchanged cash with him.

I started walking over and realized I only had credit, and I was pretty certain this was a cash only kind of place. By this time, my husband (who was fiancé at the time) and the rest of our crew had purchased drinks and made their way to the sunglasses tent. I asked him for the money to buy the shades, and he happily obliged. I walked over to the sunglasses vendor, pulled the cash from my purse and started to hand it to him when I felt fingers grip my bicep and yank me back. My fiancé whispered, “What are you doing?” Pulling me away from the vender.

I whispered back, “Buying sunglasses. What are you doing?” And pulled my arm from his grip.

He laughed. Then he said with a big shit-eating grin, “From him?” Gesturing with a nod toward the vendor holding the cash.

“Yes,” I said turning back toward the guy with the cash.

He pulled me back again, got super close to my ear, and whispered, “Do you not know who that is?” I furrowed my brow and shook my head. He bit his lip, stifling a laugh, “That’s Ice T.”

I stood there, mouth agape, and watched as Ice T and Coco walked to a different tent together, his hand comfortably resting at the top curve of her perfectly round ass.

We had a good laugh and told everyone for the rest of the trip how I tried to buy sunglasses from Ice T. I often wonder though what would have happened if he hadn’t yanked my hand back. I’m pretty sure Ice T would have gotten a kick out of it, or we might have had to Escape From the Killing Fields.

photo credit: factmag.com

***If you’re not an Ice T fan, you may not have caught my bold italic references to a few of his songs. Disclaimer: You may or may not get offended by some of the lyrics. You also may or may not understand my confusion.

The Cycle

January 27, 2014 ~ Mandi

It starts again. The cycle. The never ending punch in the gut, jolt to the heart, baffling cycle.

The first stage:

Denial

“Have you talked to mom?” The question I hate to hear when one of my four brothers calls.

“Yes.” I close my eyes before I ask, “Why?”

“She just seems,” sigh, “Out of it.”

“No. I haven’t noticed.” I lie.

Then I end the call and pretend it never happened. I go about my day. I play with my children. We do homework. I cook dinner for my family, a mediocre, limp mess that we call a meal. I sit in my chair at the kitchen table, fork some food into my mouth, chew, and swallow, all the while trying to push her illness away from my reality. I smile at my son as he tells me something really important about one of his Lego Star Wars characters and nod my head feigning undying interest. I wipe my daughter’s mouth and ask her to use her fork and listen to her hum a song she learned at preschool. We all sit and eat, and I pretend it’s not happening. Again.

It’s not happening again.

And so on until she reaches the next stage … everyone’s favorite.

I’m back!!!

My phone rings. I look at the name. “Mom” lights up. I want so badly to hit the red Decline button, but I can’t. I cannot ignore her call. I long to hear her voice, to feel her, to hold on to just a little bit of her normal, so I answer.

“Hi, mom,” I say and hold my breath.

“You’re coming to see me Spring Break, right?” She says, rapidly, faster than her usual Southern drawl.

“Um. I haven’t thought about…”

“I’m cleaning out my closet,” she interrupts, “Do you want that brown suit that I bought with you at Dillard’s? You could use it for work.” Flight of ideas. Keep up. It’s not always easy.

“No, mom. I don’t work anymore.” I haven’t worked in 7 years.

“Oh.” She pauses, trying to make sense of that in her head but only briefly.Onto the next thought. “I’m so alive right now. I’ve never been better. Did I tell you? I’m back. I’m back, and I’m better than I ever was. I have so much energy. I stayed up until 6:00 this morning, organizing my closet. Organizing my cabinets. Organizing the laundry room.”

I picture my childhood home always tidy and neat, immaculate actually, and then I picture her organizing, her new way of organizing. Her clothes drape over her bed and litter the floor next to her closet. The plates I ate so many meals from stack on top of each other on the kitchen counter next to the silverware and her cast iron skillet, the one that she used to make me fried okra and French fries anytime I requested. Her prized teapot collection no longer collects dust in her antique display cabinet. Pieces of it scatter all over the house, unmatched. She uncharacteristically went on a catalog shopping spree and spent almost a thousand dollars on junk. My parents’ formal living room couples as an advertisement for the As Seen on TV store. I imagine my dad rubbing his lips together, kneading the soft wrinkled skin on his forehead back and forth with his fingers, trying to ignore the mess … the clutter … the illness.

“I’m glad you’re feeling well.” I lie. She’s not well. We all know it, but she feels great. Some synapse in her brain rapidly fires over and over and sends her on a temporary high. A high that she feeds on, that she enjoys, that makes her look “crazy” to the outside world, but just fragile, porcelain plunging to tile about to shatter in a million pieces, to me. She will break. Soon. So I brace myself. And I hold onto her happy, to her synthetic high with all of my force from behind my phone.

“I love you, mom.” I say, swallowing the huge lump in my throat.

“I love you, too.”

“I know.”

I know.

And I do, which is why I can handle the next stage:

Anger

Her name lights up on my phone for the eighth time today. I sigh. I can’t do it. I can’t pick up and hear what I know she is going to say. I can’t, but I do. Every time. Because I can’t ignore my mom.

“Hi, mom.”

“I don’t know what your problem is.” She spits at me.

“I don’t have a problem.” I say, grinding my teeth.

“You and your dad are assholes. Do you think I’m a child?” Says the preacher’s wife who rarely uses profanity. Sick Mom has no filter. Sick Mom uses words Well Mom would never, ever say.

She heard a conversation that took place between my dad and me, one where we were trying to decide what to do with her. She’s abused my dad to the point where he can’t stand it anymore. She hates him, hates the way he smells, the way he looks, the way he breathes, the way he walks, the way he sleeps, and she tells him this. Every minute of every day. I fear for him. I know that she would never hurt him, the well she, but the sick she hates him, and the sick she often references things like butcher knives and frying pans, so I speak to my father every morning when I first wake up to make sure that he’s still alive.

That’s what sickness does to a family. It makes it doubt the legs on which it stands. It makes it doubt the heart that makes it beat. It makes us doubt our mom. And it’s terrible.

“No, mom. I don’t think you’re a child.” Even though we sort of treat her like one. My dad unplugged the stove to keep her from catching their house on fire. He disconnected her car battery so that she can’t drive away when he isn’t watching. We whisper behind her back and tiptoe around her, not wanting to strike her ever ready match. We make plans for her without her approval. But we don’t think she is a child.

“Mom. Please stop being mad at me.”

“You know what?”

“What mom?”

“Your husband should leave you. He should take your kids and leave and never look back. Those kids deserve better than you. And so does your husband. You don’t appreciate him at all.”

“I know, mom.” Because agreeing makes the conversation shorter, and I’ve heard this at least four times today. She’s also told me that I’m a whore and a piece of shit and the worst mother on the planet.

She’s angry with me because last time this happened, I made the decision to put her in the hospital, the one she calls “the loony bin,” the one she refuses to go back to, the one that did nothing but make her worse. I hate myself for making that decision, but we didn’t have a lot of choices. My brothers weren’t brave enough to do it, and she became too much for my elderly father to control, and frankly, I didn’t want her to kill him in his sleep, but that I don’t tell anyone.

She also does not understand why I cannot visit her, why I won’t allow my children to see her this way. She can’t understand. They need to remember the well Nana. The Nana who always kept candy in her pocket and secretly handed them a piece each time I turned my back, the Nana who sang “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” off key but with joy and giggled every time the song ended, the Nana who would sit and hold them on her lap, rocking in her chair, reading them books, content to have the chatter of children all around her, who played hide and go seek, who threw the baseball in the back yard. The Nana whose laugh was contagious and the best sound on earth.

“I’m sorry that you’re mad at me, mom.”

“Sure you are. You don’t care about me.” And with that, she abruptly ends the call. I put down my phone. And I cry. Because my mom is sick, and nobody can answer the question: “Why?”

She’ll call me at least twenty more times this day, and I’ll answer every time. And I’ll listen to her assault of words because she’s my mom, and I know she doesn’t mean it.

I know she doesn’t mean it.

And I brace myself for the next stage. The worst stage of all.

The lights are on but nobody’s home

“Mom” hasn’t flashed on my phone screen in days. Yesterday, on her birthday, I called her, and we spoke. A simple, “happy birthday, mom,” conversation. I said, “I love you,” and she said, “I love you, too,” and we ended the call. That was yesterday.

Today is my birthday. On normal birthdays, my mom calls me and recounts my birth. She tells me for at least the 35^th time that she went into labor with me at her birthday dinner, two days late. They rushed to the hospital where she continued to labor with me over night. “Everyone from the church was there, and all I wanted was to be left alone,” I hear her voice in my imagination, her normal well voice, tell me, “My room was full of people,” and she goes on to tell me who was there. She labored all night and then finally, with no aid of medication, she delivered me at 9:35 the next morning. The doctor announced, “It’s a girl,” and the room fell silent. A girl after four boys. “If you would have been another boy, I think I would have told them to put you back in,” her normal well voice tells me with a chuckle, normally. Normally, on my birthday, my mom and I talk about her going into labor on her birthday with me, “the best birthday gift she ever got.” Normally, but not this year. And not last year. Because my mother forgot my birthday. Again. It’s not her fault. It’s because of the illness. It’s because of the sickness in her brain that we cannot explain.

But it doesn’t hurt any less. Because it’s our thing. Our birthdays … our birthdays are … special. I’m the best birthday gift she ever got. Remember, mom?

Remember?

But she doesn’t. Her brain has checked out. And she doesn’t remember. She doesn’t even know if she brushed her teeth this morning. She stands at the sink and pours herself a glass of water, forgetting to turn off the faucet as water pours over the side of her glass and splashes her hand …and she doesn’t know it.

I’ll check my phone a thousand times today, and her name won’t appear. She forgot. It’s okay, I tell myself.

It’s okay.

She’ll get better. She’ll come back. She always does.

Until then, I’ll ferociously go through my card box and try to find one from my mom. A card with her voice, where I can hear her, the real her, the well her. And I’ll read every card she’s ever given me. And then I’ll find a little gem in the box, a note that she put in a pile of mail she sent me when I first moved to Dallas thirteen years ago. And there she is. Just like that. Two simple sentences.

“Here’s your mail, sweetie. Sure do miss you so much. Love, Mom”

I miss you, too, Mom.

So much.