“When I was twelve, a fortune-teller told me that my one true love would die young and leave me all alone…” First line. Hooked.
Tiffanie Debartolo’s God Shaped Hole tells the story from Beatrice’s (Trixie’s) point of view as she answers this add in the weekly:
“If your intentions are pure, I’m seeking a friend for the end of the world.”
On the other side of the add sits Jacob Grace, artistic, poetic, mysterious, and potentially Trixie’s “one true love,” a Writer. He’s romantic and thoughtful but still a man, a man who doesn’t do everything exactly right all of the time…unlike so many heroes in romance novels. Jacob Grace seeks life and pulls Trixie, who’s cynical but quirky, along on his journey to both sell his book and move away from the god forsaken town of L.A. He’s charming and funny but real and not always likable, which made me like him even more.
Debartolo’s words covered me like a warm cashmere sweater. The story was well paced and well written. She developed her characters brilliantly. I could write quote after quote of her prose, but I’ll let you read for yourself. Here are a couple of my favorite lines:
“…his eyes. They were deep-set…a watery version of his hair color, like liquid leather.”
(Jacob) “‘It’s what life’s all about…A search. We’re all searching for something to fill up what I like to call that big, God-shaped hole in our souls.'”
Occasionally, a book comes along and sinks into me. I grow an affection for the characters, like they’re real people. I think about them. I tend to devour these books, to dive in and swim without coming up for air, but I chose not to do that with this one. I enjoyed it. I left it on my end table and only read one or two chapters at a time. I read with a glass of red. And I enjoyed every single word.
Five Giant Stars and one God Shaped Hole in my soul.
Laura over at History of a Woman nominated me for the Liebster, too, (This one was for real. I didn’t nominate myself) so it’s only fair that I answer her questions. (I am not procrastinating on The Evil Queen, Laura. It’s coming.)
1. What made you choose the title for your blog?
Well, I love the sun. A lot. I need my vitamin D, and my mood suffers if I don’t get enough of it. (It’s been a long winter, even here in Texas). Somebody asked me once why I like to be outside so much, and I said, “Well, cellulite looks better tan.” It’s true. Then I said for years that I was going to call my book (the one that I would eventually write) “Cellulite Looks Better Tan,” but then the book and that title didn’t work, so I created this blog instead.
2. What was your very first post about? Link it up!
I wrote my first blog post on the eve of Thanksgiving because I was reminded of a story that occurred many years before on that day. Thanks to Beth, I think 5 people read it. It’s about a time I accidentally peed in a stranger’s driveway. You asked….The Girl Who Peed in the Driveway
3. What do you think was the best post you ever wrote?
Hmmm….my favorite post is Sex Dreams and Shit Prints and not just because I was having sex with Adrian Grenier in it but also because it really happened, but the best post I’ve ever written would have to be the one I wrote about my mother, The Cycle. I’ve never been more honest on this blog.
4. You’re at your computer (where ever you blog most from)…What is sitting close to hand?
Coffee if it’s in the morning (which is when I read most of the blogs) and wine if it’s after 8 (which is when I write most of my blogs.) Always. I like to go with Ernest Hemingway’s advice: “Write drunk. Edit sober.” And I always sit in my reading chair to blog. It’s super comfy, *my special place*.
5. Do you always order the same thing when you go out or do you like to try new foods?
I’m fairly predictable in life, except for when it comes to ordering food. I love to try new things. If it has avocados or goat cheese, I pretty much order it every time. Yesterday I had lunch with one of my besties at a Mediterranean restaurant, and they had broiled cauliflower. My mouth is still watering. I LOVE food.
6. What was the first blog you found online that you fell in “blog love” with?
Writer B is Me. I love her in real life. I love her writing, and when she started her blog, I would squeal with delight every time I got an email notification of a new post. I feel like through blogging, we’re even becoming better friends, and to use her words, I lurve her hard.
7. What’s your most favorite piece of clothing you own?
Wow…I’m not into clothing, so I had to think really hard about this one. My favorite piece of clothing I own is the dress I wore to the 2007 Emmy awards. It’s a long story how I got to go, but that dress made me feel *stunning* like I belonged there.
8. If you were trapped on an island and could only have one book with you, what book would you bring?
Easy: Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. I can pick it up and read a page and immediately fall back into the story. Love love love.
9. What’s something new you have learned recently?
I recently learned that I don’t have to put two spaces after a period. When did this rule change? Am I that old? That is brand new information for me. And look, I can’t get out of the habit. I’m two spacing all over the place.
10. Who is your favorite author?
I am. Kidding. Diana Gabaldon. She’s brilliant. Her prose paint the most magnificent pictures. When I read her books, they envelope me, and they’re so real that it’s almost like I’m the one banging a hot redheaded Scottish warrior, and who wouldn’t want that?
11. What’s the corniest joke you know?
Knock knock
Who’s there?
Duane
Duane who?
Duane the tub I’m dwowning. Hey – my kids think it’s hilarious.
Herstory Lesson: Why does Ariel wear seashells? A’s and B’s were too small. Thank you. I’ll be here all week.
hahahah – I thought this was a real question. Shut up!!
I’m kind of a big deal. Actually it’s the exact opposite of that. I received a nomination for the “coveted” Liebster award (it doesn’t matter how) from this crazy lady/awesome blogger, Joy at Comfy Town Chronicles, who makes me spew wine (or coffee depending on the time of day) every time I read her blog, . Thanks, Joy. You rock! Go check her out. But swallow before you read unless you like to spit. Then by all means, spit.
She said she was too lazy to Google what the Liebster is all about, but I’m not, so I will. Hold on a sec. Ok, here’s what I found. These are the rules.
1. Post the award on your blog.
Ok – done.
2. Thank the blogger who presented this award and link back to their blog. Thanks, Joy, for letting me nominate myself.
3. Write 11 random facts about yourself. I’ll get to that.
4. Nominate 11 bloggers who you feel deserve this award and who have less than 200 followers. Hmmm.. How do I know if they have less than 200 followers? I have less than 200 followers, but I’m not normal. I’ll find as many as possible.
5. Answer 11 questions posted by the presenter and ask your nominees 11 questions.
11 Facts about Moi:
I keep hot tamales in my underwear drawer. I mean panty drawer. (Haha to those who squirm at that word.) Shut up. I don’t like to share.
I sound just like Katy Perry when I sing…in my car…or my shower.
This is more of a confession. I am addicted to the shows The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. I watch every season because I’m a sucker for true love. Pfft. I like to watch a good cat fight over a mediocre looking dude who wouldn’t snag these girls in real life, but they paw all over him because he is “The Bachelor.” A few season ago, I joined a Bachelor Pool, kind of like a Fantasy Football League or a bracket for March Madness. It is So.Much.Fun. I’m pretty sure Chris Harrison wants to hang out with us at our pool party. Every Tuesday, (because the show airs on Monday nights) I get an email/blog post from Hellabuzzed who writes a hilarious recap of the show from a straight dude’s point of view. If you watch the show, you need to read these recaps.
My blog is a secret from the majority of my real life people. I’ve only shared it with a hand full of my close friends. Is that weird?
When people say, “to be honest” or “honestly”, I immediately think that they’re lying.
My dishwasher quit working on Christmas day, and I still don’t have a new one because I absolutely HATE shopping. (It can’t be repaired. I tried that.) I finally broke down and ordered one online this weekend, but then they called and said it was out of stock. I’m officially screwed, and I have dish pan hands.
I hate the word facetious. Just say sarcastic, for crying out loud.
I have dyed my hair almost every color. I asked my hairdresser to put lilac low lights in my hair over a year ago, but he won’t do it. I keep bugging him, but I don’t think I’ll win. Once he died my bangs the color that we now refer to as “rainbow bright red.” It was fun. I’m keeping it blonde now though because I don’t want to confuse my mom since she has dementia.
I am addicted to sunglasses. I HAVE to wear them outside, even when it’s cloudy and not just because they hide my face. They are always on my eyes or pushed up on my head. All.Day.Long. I hate squinting. When I leave a theater, I feel like a vampire meeting the sun, so sunglasses are essential.
I listen to music all of the time. I play music when I get ready. Music is playing when I’m in my car. I listen to music when I clean and cook. I really only turn it off for important things like homework, dinner, and when I sit down to watch T.V., but I would be willing to bet a song is playing in my head. When I hear a really good song, I get obsessed with it and have to listen to it ALL THE TIME, but I
Never really listen to the words unless someone specifically tells me to listen to the words. I’m more interested in the different songs that each instrument plays. If you really listen, you can pick out each sound, and you might just find it as beautiful as I do.
Below is my current obsession. Listen to the different melody from each guitar. (12. The squeaking sound that is made by the movement of a guitarist’s fingers when he slides them over the neck to change chords makes my mouth water. Hubba hubba.)
Joy came up with some very interesting/funny questions. Here’s what I had to say:
1. What can I legally write off as a home daycare provider? KIDDING. (But not really if you know.)
Well if you work from home, you can write off a portion of almost everything. You take your square footage of your say “office” the portion of the house that you use the most for your work, and you divide that by the total square footage to determine the percentage of space you use, so if it’s like 20%, then you can write off 20% of utilities, gas, water, electricity, all of that. And then there are entertainment write offs…and food write offs. If you advertise your business anywhere on your vehicle, you can write off at least a portion of your payment. If you use Turbo Tax, it will walk you through it step by step. It’s a lot of leg work to get all of the totals, but my husband works from home, so we’ve been writing off shit for years.
2. What’s your favorite rock and why?
Rock & Roll. Because it’s much more interesting than river walks or lava rocks or granite or anything else. I took Geology in college. Ask me what I remember…not a damn thing. But I got an A!!
3. Number 2 was a joke, but I’m curious to see what answers I’ll get. Also to see if people read and answer, or read all the questions first. Plus, I could stand to learn a thing or 2. I don’t know any kind of rock other than “river” because they’re all over the Pinterest. They look smooth.
This is not a question, so I’ll just agree. River rocks do look smooth, and they feel smooth, too. I have some in my backyard. The people who lived here before us put them there.
4. If you could change the end of any movie or book, what would it be, how would you change it?
SPOILER ALERT!!!! Too many to name. Most recently, I’d change the end of The Fault in Our Stars b/c it made me cry, and I don’t cry. It was that good. Movie: I’d change the end of Drive Me Crazy, and instead of Sabrina the Teenage Witch waiting in the treehouse for my boyfriend, Adrian Grenier, I’d be waiting…naked.
5. Have you ever had to stifle a giggle at a funeral or other inappropriate place? How did you do it?
OMG – too many times to even try to name them all. Remember, I’m a preacher’s kid. My bestie’s dad was hilarious, and he would always make fun of these two women who would get up and sing every Sunday in church, so anytime they started walking up to the stage, I would do everything I could to avoid eye contact with him, but he was like a train wreck. I couldn’t look away. Most of the time, I was sitting at the piano, waiting to accompany the terrible that came from their vocal chords, knowing what was coming, and as soon as I would look at him, I’d do that laugh where you blow air out of your mouth in short breaths until you blow fart through your lips and eventually double over laughing while holding your belly.
Another time, same friend and I were at a different church, a Pentecostal church, you know the kind, holy rollers on speed. A really tiny lady stood up right next to my BFF and started speaking in tongues. I looked over at my friend and whispered, “Meka Leka Hi, Meka Hiney Ho, and the two of us burst out laughing, uncontrollably, hyperventilating laughter, and we could not stop. My dad never asked me to go back to that church again.
6.And do tell, in the previous question: What was SO FREAKING FUNNY?
When the fat lady sings, tongues, and Jambi.
7. Did your father or any other relative walk around the house in their underwear?
Walking around in one’s underwear was strictly prohibited in my home. My Dad was a complete psycho about it. Didn’t want baby girl to see his or my brothers’ junk. I’m not mad about it.
8. Am I the only person who didn’t have such a relative? My friend Jennifer’s father told her she had the “brains of a soda cracker” (yes he used the plural) for bringing friends over when he was walking around in his underwear. I see people talk about it in books and whatnot, but that was the only time I’d ever seen it. (He was wearing Walter Whiteys *patent pending on that phrase* and a white Tshirt if you’re wondering. I know I would be.)
My friend’s dad always sat in his Walter Whities and wife beater, cigarette hanging from his mouth, can of beer in his hand. Think Rodney Dangerfield in Natural Born Killers.
9. Do you kind of wish society was less uptight about things like walking around in underwear? Why or why not?
I totally do. I think Muricans are too uptight about nudity in general. I mean, it’s all so effing taboo. They’re boobs. Everyone has them. It’s a package. Nobody needs to look at it, but they mostly all look the same. Get a grip, people. I think this answers the question.
10.Why do I keep answering my own questions? In your professional opinion.
Well, since you asked for my professional opinion, you bring up some very interesting and thought provoking topics; therefore, you are justified in wanting to answer the questions after presenting them. It’s natural to ponder them yourself. Your answers are important. And maybe you’re a bit of a narcissist. I’m the pot, dude, so it’s ok if I say that.
11.What is your most irrational fear? Or pet peeve if you don’t have any fears.
Fear: Suffocating. I swear. The worst thing in the world would be to die because I CAN’T BREATH.
Pet peeve: It’s simple and a lesson in grammar. Your is the possessive form of you. You’re is a contraction for you are. Its is the possessive form of it. It’s is a contraction for it is. There is a place. Their is the possessive form for they. They’re is the contraction of they are. Lose means unable to find. Loose means it is not securely fastened. Where indicates a place. Were is the past tense for are. AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, A LOT IS TWO WORDS AND CANNOT IS ONE!!!!! But it’s really no big deal.
12. Have you ever had an epiphany? Or do you think that’s just a word people throw around to make the rest of feel like they’re smart or inspired?
My epiphany is that social media has brought out the stupid in most people. I am amazed at the inability of most to string two sentences together. Don’t even get me started on punctuation.
My nominees: Drum roll please…
1. Beth at Writer B is Me, hilarious, uncensored, thought provoking, and she wants to sleep with me. You win, Bethie. Come on over!!! (and I know you probably have more than 200 followers, but you’ll always be #1 for awards for me…no matter what the rules are.)
2. Hellabuzzed because haters gotta hate, and his hating makes me laugh.
3. Lizzi, at Considerings because she’s everything that is *sparklybeautifulgoodness*, and her guest post got me the most views I’ve ever had.
4. Laura who writes at History of a Woman and not just because she likes to fall asleep to the sound of gun shots. She’s a super cool chick, and I really enjoy her writing, and I may or may not have total blog envy with how beautiful her blog is.
5. Sharn at Spankalicious. She’s funny, hot, and you never know what to expect when you click on her posts. I love a good enigma.
6. Adrea in Wonderland who writes about online dating. She gives each guy a smurf name, and The Smurfs was my favorite cartoon growing up, so that’s how I relate to her.
7. Jana at Stop Me If I Told You who always has hilarious posts. Plus she’s a loyal reader, and when she comments, it usually has something interesting that she found from doing research on some little piece of what I wrote. I love her.
And these people probably have more than 200 followers and also have probably received the Liebster in the past.
8. Dana at Kiss My List because she always has something interesting to say, and she wants to take me on a vacation. Plus, her blog just got a nice makeover, and it looks fabulous!
9. Phil: The Regular Guy NYC because he says I’m hot, and flattery will get you everywhere with me…even awards.
10. Don at Don of All Trades. He can make me laugh one day and then sob into my sleeve the next. I’ve loved Don since that night we had a party at my blog.
11. Mike and Phoenix at Past My Curfew. What’s not to love about Mike? He is a great writer, makes me actually want to try and cook something, always supports me, and has this cutie little Golden Retriever that I love.
And I’m throwing in a bonus because I just love her so much: Sandy at Mother of Imperfection. Sandy Why yi yi Oh Sandy…she’s just golden and in my opinion all things *perfection*.
One more bonus even though she’s probably way too busy responding to the 900 comments she gets on each post to ever play along, but I just can’t leave out one of my absolute favorite bloggers who is feisty and hot and addicted to Nutella: Aussa, the infamous Hacker Ninja Hooker Spy
Thought provoking, prolific, questions to ponder and then answer.
1. Who is number one on your exemption list? (An exemption list is a list of people who are not in your every day life (celebrities, authors, sports figures) who you’re allowed to sleep with should the opportunity arise…no pun intended *snickering like a teenage boy*) Mine is Adrian Grenier. No surprise there. I have about 599 people on my list.
2. What is your favorite smell and why?
3. What book can you read over and over again. If you’re not into books, what movie never gets old?
4. What is the story behind your blog name?
5. What is your favorite song and why?
6. What is your least favorites song, the one that makes your put your fingers in your ears and say “lalalalala”?
7. What’s the best book you’ve read lately? (I’m reading God Shaped Hole, and it is brilliant.)
8. What did the last text you sent say? Word for word. (K does not count. If “K” was your last text, then I want to know what your second to last text said.)
9. What gives you the heebie jeebies? It doesn’t have to be scary. It can also be gross. I hate nose hair. That’s a heebie jeebie thing for me.
10. Do close talkers bother you as much as they do me? If so, why?
11. What are you wearing? I’m not even kidding.
Nominees: Do what you will with this award, but for the record, I really enjoyed reading Joy’s post and then writing this. I hope you have fun with it, too.
When I very humbly requested Lizzi of Considerings to guest post for me, and she immediately said, “Yes,” I jumped up and down, clapping my hands. I may have even performed a cartwheel. Excitement? No. Elation.
Lizzi has a way with words, to completely understate her talent. As my eyes travel through her stories, her fingers reach out from my screen and wrap themselves around my heart, yanking it, tugging it, and turning it to putty in her palm. She makes me laugh. She makes me think. She more often than not makes me cry, and I never cry. She is brilliant. A Writer. A wordsmith, and she’s here today with Part Deux to Shadows and Stardust. Make sure and click the link to read Part One, a beautiful story inspired by yours truly. To be called a muse by one of the most beautiful writers I’ve ever laid my eyes on, both humbled me and made my heart grow at least three sizes. So, please welcome my dear friend, Lizzi, whose words will sink into your soul. Then get ready to want more. She’s good like that.
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The town’s main street was thronged with people, huddled like penguins inside their winter coats; braced against the cold but determined in their quest to purchase. They were bedecked in bags, like peculiar woolly bumblebees, each surrounded by an ethereal cloud of their own steam – breath puffing words into visible clouds as they hurried past.
I was honeybagged myself, straining against the weight of New Things. The once-straight handles twisted and turned, cutting the circulation off in my fingers and combining with the chill air to freeze them into reddened claws – travesties of the hands that once were.
I navigated my way out of the main streams of people, cutting across others, ducking behind groups of chattering teenagers, taking big steps and little ones, my feet mindfully stepping the complex dance of Saturday At The Shops – avoiding dreamy couples, Stormtrooper mothers and cantankerous old women wielding their roll-along shopping trollies like tartan-coated weapons.
Seeking shelter in an eddy by a side-route off the main street, I found space to pause, down bags and rub some life back into my twisted hands. Leaning back against the building, I watched the crowds as they flowed past, marveling at their individuality and simultaneous mass-anonymity, wondering what their stories might be.
Hands warmer, I turned to gather up my bags once more when an alcove doorway caught my eye – fifty yards back from the river of humanity, it wasn’t so much the door which caught my attention as it was the small movement of a fabric-coated lump stuffed into the bottom of it – someone was there.
Like I’d been run through with a trident of guilt, compassion and the urge to DO something, a great pain welled up in me and I stood, transfixed, before moving towards the bundled person. I could see a pair of battered, tough boots poking out from under one end of what turned out to be a filthy camping blanket. A fluffy hat at the top end gave no clue as to what sort of person lay beneath.
Drawing by Lizzi Rogers
I crouched down and hoped that none of the expensive-shop shopping bags were on display as I reached out and gently patted the crusted edge of the blanket “Hey – are you alright? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yeah”, came back an obstinate, female voice “You can fuck the hell off.”
The blanket shook and the hat bobbled upwards as the owner’s face came into view in a fury of movement “Who even asked you to…”
Her voice trailed off, and the retort I had been about to utter froze on my lips and disappeared as though dropped off a cliff.
Our eyes locked, and the thrall of horror at seeing a homeless person trying to survive the inclement weather turned to raging, devastating pain as I realised that this homeless person was known to me. I recoiled, my hand flying to my mouth in dismay and her name bursting out with the same lack of control as the time I’d first spoken to her:
“Bravo!”- it had exploded, unbidden from my lips as the echoes of her last crescendo faded and the bar seemed to shimmer in delighted silence in recognition that a masterpiece had just been played within its walls. She had sworn at me then, too, and our eyes had met, sparkling with delight at the soul-thrilling music she’d been able to coax from the old piano. We’d talked and worked together, and later she had played again.
I had returned to that bar many times to hear her play – turning up near closing time as she volunteered to stay behind again and wipe the place down once the drunks and revelers had all been kicked out. We spent several glorious months in this way – her playing and me clearing the glasses and sweeping the floors, our souls dancing with the notes as she gave them life with her magical, talented hands.
Suddenly, one day, she was gone. No explanation. Just gone. It had been five years, and I still missed our evenings of splendour; never since had I experienced such exquisite playing as that which she had wrought for me…
“Anitra?!”
Her blonde hair, now freed from its cover in her thrashing, was lank and dull. Her skin was grey and marked with sores and scars, as though the moon had been stretched over her sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were still a gorgeous, clear hazel, though they looked like deep wells of pain, waiting to pour out in anger and shame at the slightest provocation.
The moment lengthened, eyes still holding, hundreds of unspoken, frantic conversations passing between us as my throat choked-up, and the weight of emotion made it hard to breathe.
Finally, sotto voce, I whispered, her name imbued with the hurt of every lost evening and all the unheard notes, mantled with grief at finding her this way: “Oh, Anitra…”
We crumbled together, oblivious to the slowly-gathering audience in the shadows. I pulled her stinking, bird-light frame into my arms and held tight, even as she clung to me, mumbling into my shoulder that it was so, SO good to see a friendly face.
We clambered to our feet and hugged properly then, smiles and tears mingling, when suddenly I felt her stiffen, and heard her intake of breath as she pulled back, her face a mask of revulsion.
A gravelly male voice from across the road struck at us through the air “Ohhhh Annie – look what you’ve pulled in. Good girl! She looks like a rich one. Make sure you give that posh bitch your best licking – she’s gotta be worth a few quid. Don’t take less than £50, will you? I’ll be back for mine later.”
Transformed once more into a hard-faced street-walker, Anitra’s chin jutted and her eyes blazed as she snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me around to face the man, whose oiled hair and dark, greedy eyes raked over us both. The two louts who stood behind him were nudging one another and grinning, one making lewd gestures at us, poking his lapping tongue between the V of his fingers, and rubbing together the fingertips of the other hand in the universal sign for money.
“Oh Dominic”, she trilled, her voice light and dripping with false honey “sweetheart, I’m going up in the world, and with that, my prices. If you want this” – she grabbed her crotch and tilted her hips towards him aggressively – “you gotta pay me more. As of now.”
The oily man’s face registered a sneer of disgust as he turned, motioning for his cat-calling henchmen to follow him. By my side, the bravado gone, Anitra sagged against me and then pulled away roughly, her face burning red, unwilling to meet my gaze.
Hair curtained again around her, reminding me of our first meeting, her voice was equal parts ashamed and horrified as she blundered through an incoherent string of apologies, ending with a declaration to make herself scarce and never bother me again, and that she was sorry for everything, and for running away without telling me, and that life had been so harsh to her, and that she couldn’t, she just couldn’t…
I cut across her, mid-sentence “Can we just go for coffee or something? Somewhere warm? I’m freezing. And confused. So my treat, okay, but please let’s not stay here any more.”
She glanced at me then, and the wells of her eyes had been covered over – shuttered with a closed look she wore like armour.
“No. I don’t think so.”
Her voice shimmered down from frantic to automaton. Her joints tightened and the corners of her eyes looked pinched. She stared into the mid-distance for a moment before stooping to gather up her blankets from the floor, rolling them into a grimy ball, which she stuffed into a giant, tattered backpack.
“It’s been good to see you again, babe. Sorry I turned out like this. I wish things were different. In another world, we’d go for coffee and everything would be made better and the music might come back into my life. But seeing you was like a symphony, and it’s just reminded me how much I miss it. So no, we can’t go.”
She twisted away from me, striding towards the end of the street, pausing as I cried her name out, anguished this time, and ran to her, emptying my purse of all its paper money and stuffing it into her hand, arguing that she didn’t need to leave; promising her things could be better, if only she’d let me help her – please, please let me help her…
She stuffed the notes into her pocket, but didn’t turn. And without further word or look, strode off, rapidly disappearing into the still-teeming currents of the main street.
As fresh tears fell, tracking warm runnels down my freezing face, I vowed to myself on that desolate street that I would find a way to somehow bring the music back to her.
I’m a deep thinker, truth-teller and seeker of Good Things. I’m also silly, irreverent and try to write as beautifully as possible. My thoughts are prolific and can be found at my blog, Considerings
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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….
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.
Cellulite Looks Better Tan 
