The Inner Workings of a Functional Dumbass

-->After a jarring flight through a thunderstorm and the non-stop screaming of a 2-year-old reincarnation of Satan (let’s face it, there’s a big difference between just being a baby and being a gigantic, insufferable brat), I hauled my typically overstuffed suitcase up the cheese grater staircase of our complex. After retrieving the loose key from under the mat – an old school solution in case my flight was delayed and we needed a quick dog check in from a friend – I was greeted by two out of their mind excited pups, a clean apartment and an extremely noticeable lack of the future husband’s signature bear hug. Of course I started to feel the absence long before – as I got off the plane, throughout my ride from the airport, then as I struggled up the stairs with that ridiculous bag. See, I usually not only have help, but a particular welcoming presence that calms my high-strung mind, as well. After my extraordinary journey through dipshitville, I am the last person to take that for granted. It makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up in warm fuzzy gratitude. A recent pick up in work travel made our trips overlap with a week in between. Now, standing in the doorway with a Jack Russell leaping up to my chest and a Lab head butting my knees, I felt it heaviest of all mixed with the exhaustion from the bachelorette weekend in Nashville behind me. I missed my person something fierce.

Dragging my suitcase through the mob of dogs, I flung the key on the table, gathered myself a bit, then asked the question I always know the answer to… “Do you want to go outside?” Little doggie minds exploded as I leashed them up, slipped the key into the pocket of my sweatshirt and headed back outside.

These dogs are my children and I love them, but they drive me insane. Twelve-hour cabin fever along with the chill of a spring storm full of snow and tornados on its way still didn’t make them pick a spot to pee any faster. Finally drained, we headed back home. I slipped the key into the lock and wiggled it back and forth. It wouldn’t turn. The doorknob can be rather pissy, so I tried it again before my stomach lurched up into my throat in realization…I had grabbed the wrong key. The loose key from the house we just bought (a topic for a whole other post) had also been sitting on the table dulled with age compared to the shiny, less-than-a-year-old apartment key. You’d think I would have noticed a difference before I closed the door, but depression, a weekend of partying and my uncanny ability to do the stupidest shit will do that to a girl.

“Shit…fuck! Oh my gaaaaawwd…FUUUUCK!” I yelled out loud once the reality of the situation had caught up with me. I was locked out of my apartment at 10 o’clock on a chilly Sunday night, with both dogs and no phone with the future husband in Texas. Goddammit. Just as my eyes welled up with tears and I was about to drop to my knees in an overly dramatic, adult hissy fit – my typical reaction the split second after a dumbass moment has occurred - I snapped out of it, as I usually do, and said, no, I’m just going to see if one of the neighbors can help.

Scanning windows for signs of light and skipping the units with children who were surely already snoozing – the last thing I needed was to come face-to-face with a pissed off mother after waking up her baby with my dumbassery – I knocked on the door of a young couple with a dog downstairs. The woman was up late studying and very nicely handed over her phone, invited me and the obnoxious furry duo in after kenneling her dog, then helped me look up a locksmith.

I was so grateful that somebody was not only up, but answered the door, then was actually kind to me. As a Midwestern girl, being nice is a given. I hold doors for people, always say please and thank you, say hello to complete strangers and help others out when I can. It’s the right thing to do and I do it automatically without thinking. I only began noticing it when I would travel to other places. Expecting that kindness in return is a different story. Living in Denver, full of transplants from all over the world, you never know what you’re going to get. Generally, people are nice enough, but I just happened to knock on the door of a fellow Midwesterner that night, so I got really lucky.

After a few minutes, the dogs grew so agitated and annoying, with Maggie whining loudly and even barking once acting almost as badly as the demon toddler from the plane, that I decided to run them around the park for bit. Just as I was walking out the door, the phone rang. Within 15 minutes, a bald Hispanic guy named Alfredo armed with a headlamp and a toolbox showed up and got to work. When the traditional picking of the lock wouldn’t budge it, he basically broke into the apartment by popping open the door with a crowbar looking thing. I, of course, cheered and thanked him profusely. Then, when he wanted the last of my cash, which consisted of a $20 bill instead of the previous charge of $75 that I would have to pay by check, I thanked him profusely again and sent him on his way.

My phone was already flashing a missed call and text when I picked it up out of my purse. I called Pat back and said, “Guess what I did immediately after coming home?” Funny, he didn’t seem too surprised.

I’m what I like to call a functional dumbass:  A well-educated person with a common sense approach to life that can take care of herself in all areas, hold a great, meaningful conversation and would not be classified as an airhead, but is ultimately cursed with a clumsy demeanor and the ability to fall into the most idiotic of situations. I could get 40 master’s degrees and still do the dumbest, most absent-minded shit, whether its falling down in front of a crowd of people, hurting myself while performing the most mundane tasks or locking myself out of my apartment at 10 p.m. I used to be a ballerina and without the stage and the spandex, you’d never be able to tell. However, another element of that “functional” part is that I’m always able to dig my way out of those situations and in this case, I did it all for the low, low price of $20 cash. That is one functional dumbass if I do say so myself.

Add that to Urban Dictionary...wait, it's already there.

That House I'm Dating

First comes love, then comes marriage…except with us you squeeze buying a house in between there somewhere just to make yourself absolutely insane. I can’t really compare house hunting to apartment hunting because there hasn’t been any crying or tantrum throwing yet, but house hunting does strangely resemble my pre-Pat dating life…good on paper, shitty in person; great in so many ways except one glaring, deal breaker exception; it’s me, not you…except it’s 98 percent you; asking the same question over and over again in an incredulous tone, “why would you DO that? Disappointment after disappointment. Sigh.

At 35 houses in, like 35 homes we have physically walked, I’m a glazed over, bug eyed zombie. Each of the four tours with our realtor since January 31st (and three open houses on our own) began with a stack of papers featuring the home and all the exclamation point riddled realtor comments you can handle like, “Magnificent ranch!” “Newer, amazing teared deck (yes, spelled incorrectly)!” “Totally remodeled!” and my favorite, “This is the one!” Pat and I came to find out that these actually translate to, “Turd ridden rathole!” “Smaller than the first apartment you ever lived in!” “Cheap, shitty flip!” and “Go fuck yourself, sucka!” Our realtor is great and warned us, but wouldn’t it be nice to live in a perfect world where realtors were honest with each other?

After a jaunt through each house, Pat and I have been making notes on the corresponding homes’ sheet of paper to keep track of what we've seen that say things like, “Dirty,” and “Nice kitchen/living, but basement smells like butthole.” Mind you that when we say “butthole,” we really mean sewage, which translates into, “Hell no, we’re not buying this house.”

This experience has made me wonder about people’s mental state. It’s like accidently peeking into people’s fucked up personal lives when all you want to do is find a place to live. We’ve seen some of the most ghetto fabulous, jerry-rigged atrocities and structural horrors ever known to man like, what exactly is this half built room you’ve tried to construct off the back of your original house, sun porch FAIL. Or, I’m getting vertigo walking around in your slanty, funhouse of a home. Or, perhaps you should remove the broken, therapeutic walk in tub for geriatrics and put in a shower before you sell your house. Or, maybe you should find a tub that fits into the bathroom instead of slicing a notch into the wooden vanity next to it to make it fit. Or, why are there seven different kinds of filthy carpet in this 1,500 square foot, three-bedroom house? Or, update your goddamn home so we don’t flash back to 1958 when we walk into it! And, the list goes on.

Of course, those were just the giant projects we’re not willing nor can afford to take on right now.  Staging is now this huge, proven-to-help-you-sell, industry that you’d think people would pay attention to somewhat. I’d be willing to redo a bathroom, put some paint on the walls or even rip 1970s wooden paneling down if I could just look past things like this:

Oh, can we pleeeease write this into the contract? I’m not leaving this house until this terrifying, clown-like monkey creature is mine. Holy shit, why does this thing exist? Remember how I used to like monkeys before this horrid thing began haunting my dreams and now I fear they will all hack off my face in the middle of the night with banana shaped knives? I really just hope this person was trying to be funny and has that twisted sense of humor only people like me can appreciate, but I doubt it. Good thing we didn’t like that house anyway.

Of course, the monkey gave me only a fraction of the heebie jeebies that the next house gave me. I’m not religious, but I understand that those who are find it quite important and might like to place little nods to that religion around their home. I think a small, tasteful cross above the door or something is just fine. However, when I walked into this house, the first thing I saw was an enormous crucifix hanging above the couch in the living room. Like, the giant kind that hang above the altar in Catholic churches. Like, so huge that if you were sitting on the couch watching TV and it decided to wiggle off its flimsy nail, you would die immediately of blunt force trauma to the head…or just disintegrate into a pile of dust all together. It is Jesus, after all.  Smite, smite, yo.

Then, I turned around to see these on the wall:

Is it a little strange to have large photos of the last two Popes prominently displayed on your living room wall ever, let alone when you’re trying to sell your house, or am I just being a dick?

The theme continued throughout the house – Jesus, Mary and Joseph figurines in every lighted alcove in the basement and this odd laser Jesus that greeted us at the top of the stairs…and in literally EVERY other room of the house. Plastered everywhere…watching you.

BEHOLD LASER JESUS!

It was worse than going to your boyfriend’s parents’ house, walking into the room that you two were supposed to inhabit for the weekend and finding twin beds with a larger than life likeness of Jesus watching over the very clearly separated sleeping arrangements (true story, but not associated with my future husband). I felt like I was in one of those Catholic-laced exorcism horror movies and I was so deeply disturbed that I almost had a panic attack. I understand that these items would not come with the house and this wasn't the house for us anyway, but that first feeling you get when you walk into a house is a bitch – for buyer and seller. Staging people…perhaps slide the Pope in a drawer for a few weeks. He won’t mind.

Maybe the only thing more frightening than the houses we’ve seen is the Denver housing market. It’s batshit crazy. First of all, our budget buys us a modest sized home in the suburbs with the aforementioned crap attached, while it would buy a beautiful McMansion bigger than my parents’ house in Kansas City. Finding one that doesn’t require major work, but with enough space for us to live is like a needle in a haystack. One of the notes we put on a house said, “Chubby,” so obviously we liked that one. But, after talking about it, we realized we were just mesmerized by all the high end finishes. It was way out west and we’d be so isolated, but more importantly, there wasn’t enough space. That’s what happened to us with our apartment and we’re pissy about being on top of each other. We’re not making that mistake again. Another house we liked was beautiful and spacious, but was the most expensive house on the block smack in the middle of a neighborhood full of shitty little used car lots and pawn shops. Life wouldn’t be great there and neither would resale.

Second and third of all, people aren’t selling and when they do, houses are being snatched up the DAY they’re put on the market. There is no such thing as paying below asking price right now and some areas are so cutthroat with bitter bidding wars that the inventory is gone before we even see that it’s for sale. It’s difficult to be at the mercy of three different people’s schedules in this kind of situation and the raging insomnia coupled with bitten down nubs for nails is evidence that it’s all wearing on me.

The urgency is there as our apartment lease is up on April 30^th and factoring in the time it takes to close as well as our week vacation at the end of March gives us about three weeks to find a place to live. In fact it’s such a priority that on our last tour, which consisted of 14 houses on a Saturday morning, I battled through a migraine instead of staying in bed, crying in the fetal position like usual. The nausea eventually overwhelmed me and I christened the toilet of a stranger in their shitty, 80s-tastic house. We joked that it was a “sign” - yeah, a sign to get the hell out of that crappy house.

I think part of the uneasy feeling is that we’re just so close. In fact, we’re looking at a house tomorrow morning that has what we like in a great neighborhood that already has an offer on it. Somehow our realtor talked the other agent into letting us see it for a counter offer if we want. I’m prepared to take the ghetto hoops out of my ears, rip off my gold, sparkly Lee Press-ons and throw down if need be. But, hell, who knows? Maybe the basement smells like butthole and we won't want it anyway.

Like with all huge, life altering decisions in your life, people feel the need to chime in with advice as if every market, personality, need, want and experience is exactly the same across the board. Walk a mile in these threadbare, Denver house-hunting shoes and ye would sing a different tune. The one piece of advice that I really liked was from Pat’s dad, “Get what you want and don’t settle because if you do, you’ll regret it.” I threw up my hands and yelled, “THANK YOU!” Finally somebody sees it my way. We’re spending way too much money and time to settle. I never do anyway.

Our updated dream house of right now, sans killer monkey and laser Jesus, is out there, but just like dating, when you’re house hunting, you have to go through a bunch of duds before you find marriage material.

Happily Ever Old Balls

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I know what I want, I want what I want, and I want it now.

It's a phrase that's usually shortened to "I want what I want!" and yelled mockingly at my poor fiancee as he shields his head and ducks into the furthest corner of the room. It was pinpointed several months ago and we've been laughing about it ever since.

This is me summed up into one of the most condensed synopses I've ever heard and I've been like this to some degree since I came out of the womb. At a young age, my dad would smile and say things to me like, "You've got your own sense of style, kid," and a friend at high school graduation said in a letter, "I admire you because you never settle." These are things that I hold close and refer to when the thoughts race and I become my own worst enemy.

It's a personal philosophy. The decisions that affect my own future - career, family, health, big events, etc. - are ones that are made and moved towards (or away from) in this straightforward, tenacious way. Don't force it, but don't settle either. It's life a la carte.

Marriage is definitely one of those kinds of decisions. I always knew I’d be an “older” bride because my to do list is long and marriage has always been at the bottom of that list. I want my own life first – to be fully formed as a human being – before sharing it with somebody else…and the person had to be just right AND it would only happen if it was for the right reasons. It’s a laundry list that so many choose to ignore.

If you've read this blog back a few years, you'll see that I've had a couple shitload of bad dates. Like A LOT of BAAAAD dates. If it just faded away because of lack of interest or the thousand other mundane reasons people decide not to continue seeing each other and didn't end in some weird fiery fiasco, I felt relatively unscathed. Of course, then there was no hilarious story to tell at my (or his) expense on this blog. But, despite the dating disasters, I have had a handful of serious relationships and at least three of them where marriage became a hot topic. Now, I'm not saying, "I'm so awesome and desirable because three dudes wanted to marry me...beating them off with a stick and what not," because here's the deal:  They didn't want ME, they wanted marriage...or at least they thought they did. I was just a warm body with the right anatomy suited for a heterosexual male.

Marriage has become this "thing" instead of the feeling that it's supposed to be. It's beat into us from day one of our existence by society and "The Evil Wedding Industry." We "get married" on the playground with dandelions and tissue paper veils and everybody is in such a goddamn hurry to "begin their lives" that they never actually think about what they really want or take a look at who they're doing it with. It's just the thing you do and the settle factor is huge…why do you think divorce rates are so high? Get married and get married at all costs...mindlessly...just hurry up. And, if you don't, prepare to face the wrath of pity looks and whispers of "spinster" and "crazy cat lady."

It's all just so ridiculous and dangerous and I knew that early on. Instead of housewife, I played hotel mogul as a child and wanted to beat the boys at everything from spelling bees to tug of war instead of marry them by the swings. I might have responded fairly harshly to the trio that bombarded me with marriage, marriage, marriage at different points of my life with something like, "I want to go to college, I want a career, I want to have fun and run free, I WANT what I WANT, now get the hell out of my way!" It was basically borderline offensive to me that they would even bring up the subject. Instead, I could have just said, "No thank you, I'd rather be married to just me right now...and you just don't get it." But, you know, that's not really how I roll...plus it's hard to get through to a person hypnotized by the act of marriage without some force.

Let's just say I fought for my 20s. Those years are mine and mine alone. That's when you change and grow and have fun and run around wild being a dumbass and have bad dates and make decisions just for you and love every second of it. That's exactly what I wanted to do and that's exactly what I did. My life began a long time ago and it wasn't marked by marriage. I took that precious time just for me that so many people miss because they're in such a hurry. The way I looked at it, if I was going to get married, it was going to be when I was older and wiser...not in my 20s, not because of perceived pressure caused by onlookers or urgency presented by a ticking biological clock and not because I was dating some guy for an allotted amount of time like so many others do.

I was busy and happy with my lovely life when Pat showed up...extremely busy, in fact, working and going to graduate school in a brand new city. That combined with a touch of jaded from all those bad dates made me very nonchalant about the whole thing. I wasn't prepared for the easygoing, effortless relationship that came out of it. There were no grand gestures or phony bullshit - I liked him because he was a genuine person, he laughed at my quirks instead of shooting me scared looks and was open about who he was and what he thought. I knew I wanted to marry him…someday…after two weeks and when we decided to be exclusive, I laid it out on the table:  This relationship was going to be honest and mature - we were not going to lie to each other and we were going to treat each other with respect. There were no unrealistic "please-don't-break-my-heart" ultimatums, strangleholds or taming involved. Don't force it, just let it happen and along the way, let's be nice to each other. If not, I didn't want any part of it. Instead of being taken aback by my honesty, he gave a reassuring, "OK, that's how I want it to be, too." He just got it like nobody else ever did.

I like that we're two different people with different thoughts and interests that come together at just the right areas and moments to complement each other. He stands by my side, not smothering, but not distant and just lets me be me. He’s a calming source for my light-a-fire-under-your-ass mentality and I provide another way of looking at things for him. I created my own life; Pat enriches it and that's exactly the way I always wanted it to be.

And, now, after living together and a surprise engagement just shy of our two-year anniversary, we’re planning our wedding…or what will be something of the sort. It's been several weeks of traditional meets unconventional. Me reminding him that we don't have to conform to this meaningless mold placed in front of us and him saying that we don't need to be different for the sake of being different (Eh, call me entrepreneurial). But, what we do agree on is that we want it to be about us. Him, me and us. I'm sick of bouquet tosses and sweatshirts bedazzled with "BRIDE." I hate church pews and folding chairs lined up in neat little rows. I can't stand crunchy white tulle or "unity" anythings and all bridal gowns make me want to barf. Religion and the same old, same old can stay out of it and the unsolicited advice flying at my face from all corners of the world is obnoxious because it doesn't apply. It all means nothing to me and I'm not buying in to all that wedding industry or guilt-me-into-it crap. Maybe I'm missing some sort of bride gene, but I've always done things my own way and the only opinions I care about in this situation are the ones of the two people involved. We’re doing it our way.

So, on April 5, 2014, a few weeks before my 31st birthday and a few months after Pat's 37th birthday we'll be getting married in Kansas City in a ceremony that resembles a wedding, but will actually be meaningful to the both of us with every word and tiny detail a subtle to raging nod at who we are individually and together. We're a geriatric bride and groom, eating our dinner of prunes at 4:30 p.m. sharp, compared to the vast majority of couples at this stage and I love that. This is what the right reasons and not settling look like.

What can I say? I want what I want.

What a Proposal

I might have been bitchy and on the road to completely high as a kite when my boyfriend proposed to me on Christmas Eve. It’s so typically me. I spill red beverages on white clothing, fall up the stairs (and down them for that matter) and continue to wear ridiculous heels even though I roll my ankle in them on a regular basis. Of course my marriage proposal story would be silly. Why would it be romantic? Eh, I still love it though.

My body tends to go insane under extreme stress and the blow Pat and I and many others took right before Christmas with the death of our friend was anything but an exception. That, along with the dry, cold Colorado air made my face fall off in chunks, mainly my lips. I was like one of those disgusting little children with a flaming, peeling ring around their mouth – a more permanent and awful form of the fruit punch ‘stache. I had resorted to smearing baby butt cream on my face…yes on my face…and sleeping in awkward positions to get it to stay on…anything to make my face stop falling off. Of course then that made my neck twist into unbearable contortions, which provides the basis of our story.

On Christmas Eve at my parents’ house in Kansas City, I had taken a handful of ibuprofen with no neck relief in sight. In between whining and bitching about the possibility of my neck giving way and my head rolling to the floor, my parents, Pat and I moved furniture, cooked and generally prepared the house for the mass chaos that is Christmas as our house. Tired of hearing the bitching, my Mom remembered she had two muscle relaxers left over from months old back spasms and dug them out much to my relief. I popped one and continued my bitching while waiting for it to kick in.

I stood clutching my neck looking around for the next task when Pat walked up to me, put his arms around me and I retaliated by brushing him off, rolling my eyes and making one of those irritating, incoherent noises that women make when they want you to leave them alone. He persisted, locking me in a bear hug and saying, “you know I love you…” I reluctantly gave in and said, “yeah” while burying my face in his chest, still thinking about my neck.

“And recent events have brought us closer,” he said, backing me into the middle of the living room.

The next thing I know, he’s stepping back, pulling a ring out of his pocket – the exact one I picked out three and a half months ago – getting on one knee in the middle of my parents’ living room and saying something very formal like, “I’d like to ask for your hands in marriage.” I said, “Of course” and held out a shaky hand. I didn’t actually realize what had happened or that my parents witnessed the whole thing from opposite sides of the room until Pat stood up and gave one of his signature, all encompassing hugs – the best in the world – then I bawled. Holy shit. So, THAT just happened. He completely took me by surprise, which is no easy task.

On his way home from the gym that morning, Pat had picked up a couple of bottles of champagne, so we popped those, then I took a sip and was immediately hammered. Ah, yes, the muscle relaxer I had taken 10 minutes earlier.

“How does your neck feel now?” Pat asked.

“What neck?” I slurred.

The first person to notice when the family crew starting piling into the house a few hours later was my cousin Aaron, who said the ring blinded him from across the room. The rest of the night my head floated above my body partially because of the engagement and partially because I was cracked out on neck relieving drugs. For the first time, the children screamed, tackled each other and dove head first down the stairs and I didn’t care at all.

The wedding planning has already started, but that – along with my missing traditional bride gene - are for another post…or several. This should be a fun year for us all. 

Processing Pain

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I live in the shadow of new life and of death, mere feet from Rose Medical Center – a prominent hospital in the Denver metro area. A place where throngs of babies are born each day and dozens of others draw their last breath on this earth. It’s one of the first things I see, second only to the welcoming face of my perpetually happy boyfriend, Pat and maybe a few expectant, cold, wet doggie noses perched on the edge of the bed. That open, nothing-short-of-jolly spirit is something that first attracted me to him and it continues to make me thankful that it was matched up with my feisty, rough-around-the-edges one.

I walk out into the living room and there’s Rose out the windows, looming over our second floor apartment, cars zooming in and out of the parking lots. We see and hear ambulances throughout the day and into the night coming out of the ER, bleating out their warning sirens before heading into traffic. Pat and I often playfully mimic the sirens, “whoop, whoop!” then go about our day. Except on Tuesday, one of those ambulances picked up one of our friends and took him to Rose, where he drew his last breath. Never have I been so acutely aware of where I live and what goes on across the street until that day. Things are so different now.

I first met Kevin or “Donny” as we usually called him, and his then girlfriend Katie on my first real date with Pat just under two years ago, which also happened to be Donny’s 30^th birthday party. It was a minor oversight when Pat scheduled the date with me, but instead of cancelling, I just went with it and thought, I barely know Pat, but why not meet all of his close friends and some of his family on our first date? I think that decision was one that helped seal the deal for us.

Since then, Pat and I have made so many great memories with Donny and Katie. Many a night, the four of us had dinner at their house. Donny would grill very manly-like while Pat supervised and Katie, the hostess with the mostess as Donny called her, would run around lighting candles and making sure everybody’s drinks were topped off. The boys would compare girlfriend/wife meltdown stories while Katie and I drank too much wine, laughed and denied every word. Pat took many trips to Home Depot with Donny and spent hours working in the backyard with him. We helped them celebrate their wedding this past August and before that at bachelorette parties and wedding showers. They made it to our housewarming party even after a long day with the family. We drank too much after a DU hockey game last month and shared a pizza in the back seat of a cab on the way home. Just last week we had dinner and drinks with them to celebrate another friend’s 30^th birthday. A few weeks ago, their thank you card from their wedding came in the mail – a photo of them on the beach in Hawaii on their honeymoon. I commented that they looked like Ken and Barbie – a beautiful couple. And, warm, welcoming, loving people that are so special to us on top of that – just really great friends.

I came home from work as soon as I got the call from Pat and a few hours later we were on the doorstep of Donny and Katie’s house. Nobody was home yet, so we went to a nearby bar and on the way, Pat had the realization that he was with Donny at that same bar the night Donny asked Katie’s dad permission to marry her. Tears. A few beers, toasts to Donny and a mini therapy session later, we were back at the house where somebody had found a spare key. We hauled pizzas and beers through a crowd of about 30 somber faces, some I knew, some I didn’t. It definitely wasn’t the usual atmosphere of the gatherings we had at that house. It was strange; haunting. He was just there that morning and now he was gone. Just photos of him now in a house fully decorated for Christmas – a real tree trimmed with baby’s breath in the corner and children’s Christmas books on the coffee table.

Katie arrived a bit later, a little surprised and overwhelmed, I think, at the crowd of open arms that greeted her. She sobbed and said, “thank you so much for being here,” and we all followed suite. Her wails of pain echoed through the house - just a thick blanket of horrible, deep sadness that cut to the bone. However, she immediately said, “The Christmas lights need to be on, find the switch!” Then, she grabbed the remote for the TV. “I’m just going to turn on some music,” she said, changing it to a country music channel. Brief spurts of the real Katie came through the grief stricken woman standing in front of me despite being in the midst of the worst day of her life. It made me smile for just a second and I thought, hostess with the mostess.

She shuffled to each person, crying and hugging while wearing his watch dangling off her wrist and his wedding band on a chain around her neck. When she got to me, I said, “It’s going to be OK and we’re going to help you.” The thing is, it’s not going to be OK for a really long time, but one day it will be better. I would go to the ends of the Earth for that woman and the kindness she has shown me from day one and I’m sure many others share my sentiments. She’s so genuine, fun and cheerful and lights up a room – literally – when she walks in. I’ve never seen her sad. I just want her to be OK and for it to be better right now – right this second. I want to help her, but what else can I do besides show up, bring her lasagna, chat with her and make sure she knows I’m always here? I wish there was more that could be done. I feel crappy and helpless.

Throughout the night, waves of people came and went and with each wave came a renewed pit-of-your-stomach feeling of despair and uncontrollable weeping. This actually happened. We’re not going to wake up because this is real and we’re never going to see him again. At one point, Katie went into the bedroom, brought out Donny’s cowboy boots, set them on the coffee table in the living room with his hat and said, “That’s my boy.” She found a picture of the two of them on her iPad and propped it up next to the boots. I sat behind her and watched as she slumped down on the floor against the couch and just stared at the still life she had created while Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now” played in the background. I completely lost my shit for the 42^nd time that day.

Donny was only 31-years-old and from what can be gathered in this mess of emotions, whys and I don’t knows, it was a heart attack that took his life way too soon. How? How does a healthy, physically fit, non-smoking, happy 31-year-old man have a heart attack? How? I think that’s a question everyone is asking and maybe we’ll find the answer. But, the question I heard Katie asking that night is something we’ll never know the answer to…why? We’re good people. Why? Why does such a thing as a 28-year-old widow exist and why does she have to bury her newly wedded husband right before Christmas? Why? She said, “We were going to have such a wonderful life together.” They wanted babies and to grow old together and isn’t that what just about everybody wants and plans to do after they get married? It isn’t fair. It’s insane, it’s bullshit, it’s fucked up, it’s everybody’s worst nightmare. This isn’t real, is it? I will never understand life and why these things happen and the timing upon which they do.

I’ve been through some pretty horribly sad things in my life, but because of the circumstances, this might top them all. I haven’t been this pained and distraught since my Uncle Pete died. Death is funny like that. It can show up at any time and it can make you feel like nothing else can – a kind of misery that lingers relentlessly, hanging on you like an annoying, painful parasite. My mind is just blown…my heart is broken and my gut is wrenched.

This is a shit situation, but it did make me realize for the first time since moving to Denver that I belong to a group of people here that love and care very much about each other – and that group extends beyond the people that were there that night. It’s amazing and reassuring to see people come together and support each other like that. Kevin was a remarkable person…and a handsome man, too. A bit of a curmudgeon in such a way that it made you laugh when he’d grumble out a comment…then he’d smirk and laugh right along with you. He was somebody you could count on – somebody that would help you out in an instant no matter the circumstance. Katie was his everything – his one true love – and it showed. One time, he said to me, “Katie is so amazing. I don’t deserve her.” How beautiful. We will miss him so very much. My whole body aches for sweet Katie and the rest of his family.

Pat and I held tight to each other last night – arms and legs wrapped around each other, fingers intertwined, feeling the crushing weight of the what ifs and uncertainties of life. The thought of waking up and not seeing his smiling, bearded face in the flesh is just too much to bear and the thought of knowing that it could happen is even worse. I just love that man so much…and my mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, nieces, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, friends near and far, pups…and we are so happy. These kind of things make you dismiss the stupid annoyances that got under your skin yesterday – a stubbed toe, the co-worker that always seems to throw a wrench in your plans or the inconsiderate driver that cuts you off during rush hour. Who cares about that stuff? Life is a privilege we take for granted every day as we get wrapped up in the seemingly mundane routine of it all. Snap out of it and take the time to realize how lucky you are, and always cherish and breathe in the people and the things that you love because you never know what the next minute could bring.

Sinning in the City

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It’s the first year in my adult life that I’m not drunk in a costume right about now. With the weekend before filled with a concert and a wedding, I missed the annual Halloween party, got busy with work and just said the hell with it.

With my apparent boycott of Halloween 2012, the boyfriend off shooting birds out of the sky up north and no desire to go anywhere with anyone tonight, I’m just hugging a bottle of wine with my dogs and waiting for midnight when I will ceremoniously begin my first novel. Well, not exactly my first one. I’ve started dozens – just never finished one. November is National Novel Writing Month where you write furiously without editing in an attempt to get 50,000 words on the page – in other words, the first draft of a novel. I like the structure and the discipline of it in the midst of my frenzied life. As a published writer of all things short, this seems like a welcomed challenge for me, like running a marathon…or earning a Master’s degree. ; )

Until the stroke of midnight, I’ve decided to write the very overdue post about my trip to Vegas as a warm up. I hope you enjoy it because there probably won’t be another post for a month…and let’s face it, with my recent track record, probably several months.

*****

Did you know that the “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas,” tagline is one of the most successful branding campaigns in history? Not George Washington, nor Henry David Thoreau, nor Albert Einstein, nor Oprah nor even the Kardashians coined this pithy command, but a cleaver team of marketers that remain behind the scenes making it seem as if it has always been in place for all to follow. It’s all a big gimmick that just happened to catch on in a big way. It’s a beautiful thing…how’s that for an industry boost? You think you don’t need marketing? Think again.

So, why am I telling you this? Well, first because it’s fascinatingly awesome and second because being the devoted brand manager that I am, I’m going to bow down to the gimmick just like the masses. However, nobody ever said anything about it being against the rules to divulge what you SAW in Vegas, just what HAPPENED. One could argue that these are two different things. For example:

I saw a circus midget with an afro in Vegas.

Or…

I banged a circus midget with an afro in Vegas.

See the difference?

Well, here it is, almost six weeks since my trip and I’m just now getting over the casino lung I caught while there - even after a round of King Kong antibiotics. It’s just a little souvenir from my vacation that continually reminds me that I still need to write this post, which is why I had to mention it, *cough, hack*. It must have been all the old ladies rolling around on their rascal scooters chain smoking. The circus midget might have also played a role.

Anyway, I used to travel to Vegas for dance nationals all the time when I was younger and the last time I was here three years ago for Kate and Sam’s wedding was the first time I could enjoy it to its full extent. The two and a half days I spent there this time were full of best friends, a marriage proposal – not mine, unfortunately – a limo ride, pool side cabanas, blue haired crack heads, champagne, Beatles songs, a perverted cupid, lights and fun…as it should be.

Our journey began at the Fremont Street Experience, yet another genius branding strategy that revived the old, rundown part of Vegas and made it cool again with a semi enclosed pedestrian mall and a KISS themed laser and music light show on the ceiling. It’s the quirky side of Vegas that you miss on the strip full of old school walls of lights, cheap drinks, authentic coin operated slot machines that spit out nickels when you win your jackpot and a surprising array of ragamuffin performers that didn’t make the strip cut like the showgirls and porn peddlers…but are welcomed with open arms in this odd little place.

While we were too late to zipline down the length of the mall, we were right on time for dirty Santa and his old man jig, a gyrating latino boy in a bikini and a wig and of course, perverted cupid. While Santa was too drunk to put in the effort and bikini boy seemed to be a little ashamed of his night job, cupid was proud of his daisy dukes, homemade crop top, sparkly heart pasties, shiny head with hair halo and most of all, his ability to entertain and completely gross out a large group of people all at the same time.

As he sashayed to the music in the middle of the circle of spectators, showing off his perfectly placed pasties and hiking his shorts up his ass to make sure the observers on the balcony above didn’t miss even a glimpse of extra skin, a few brave souls decided to join him, mostly at his request. He’d hump their leg for 30 seconds then skip to the other side of circle to turn a few gimpy cartwheels, his furry bulge of a belly jiggling. Before long, he was selecting his next willing…or unwilling victim as we heard one lady exclaim, “Get the fuck away from me!” while running frantically in the other direction. I’m fairly sure this is something he hears on a regular basis as it didn’t faze him in the least. Once the laser light show came on, the cupid shuffle really began and while I was fairly certain an old man sack was going to come tumbling out of his tiny shorts at any moment, I just couldn’t look away.

We all eventually lost interest once our drinks ran dry. You really just can’t watch something like that without a steady stream of alcohol entering your system. Plus, none of us wanted to become his next dance partner. I just wasn’t ready to get close enough to know what Mr. Cupid smelled like either…

The next day we played high roller and got a cabana at the Flamingo pool. Drinking vodka and beer all day in a bikini in and by the pool with the sun beating down on you is always a great idea until about 6 p.m. hits and you not only feel like ass on a stick, but also really, freaking old…almost too old for Vegas…almost.

While enjoying our cabana day, we noticed a strange, blue haired creature in a leopard print dress slinking around on the other side of the pool deck. She seemed harmless, but definitely something to keep an eye on for future entertainment. Within a few minutes of flirting with a group of guys by the waterfall, she was in the pool – dress and all.

After a few more drinks and an over priced chicken wrap in our humble poolside hut, some of the others brought word that blue hair was acting up again. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to hot tub in attire that is not exactly meant for the water in the privacy of a residence, but never an ill fitting turquoise bra and white with black polka dot panties at a crowded public pool. The leopard printed modesty gown was long gone and the first thing I saw when I reclaimed my spot in the pool was blue hair’s ass crack through her underoos.

She flashed a sleepy smile, eyes caked with black mascara as she bobbed up and down in the water with a Miller Lite aluminum bottle dangling from her fingers. The lighter blue streak in her bangs nearly matched her makeshift bikini top. I couldn’t tell if the people she kept talking to were actually her friends, or just people that felt sorry for her…or were as high on ecstasy as she was.

The behavior got more bizarre as the day went on. If she wasn’t clumsily singing and dancing to the bumping music by herself in the middle of the pool, she was wrestling with a black haired man who looked shocked when she tackled him, but still receptive of the attention. She was in to making new friends, slowly bouncing from group to group laughing lazily, her eyes squinted into slits. I could only hope she didn’t make her way over to our group. While I’m not against meeting new people, I just prefer to gaze at train wrecks from afar rather than up close and personal. Of course, the minute the thought fell out of my mind, here she came floating over in slow motion. She suddenly grew a dorsal fin and sharp teeth as the Jaws theme music played in my head. I fought the urge to casually abandon my pool perch at the last minute, but decided to stay for what was sure to be an experience – hopefully sans bite marks.

She went down the line introducing herself and while I was expecting her name to be something like “Rain” or “Moonbeam,” when she got to me she said,

“Hi, I’m Bethany,” extending her hand upward out of the water.

That’s it? Good ‘ole crazy, blue haired Beth? I think I’ll stick with Moonbeam.

“I don’t usually wear stuff like this, I feel so fat!” She said, grabbing her smaller than normal rib cage right above her flat stomach.

Crazypants then asked where we were from – most from Kansas and Pat and I currently living in Colorado – we answered with one word to avoid any confusion caused by my tendency to explain my journey through life one city and state at a time.

“What?! KANSAS?” Moonbeam exclaimed. “That’s like…the prairie ‘n stuff…whoa.”

“Yep, people live there,” I said, annoyed.

“What do you guys do in Kansas?” She asked right after we told her we lived in Colorado. Of course, I couldn’t tell if she was asking what we did for work or what we did for play. Before I could answer with, “raves and club drugs,” Pat reminded her that we lived in Colorado.

“Kansas, Colorado, same thing!” She said, cocking her head to the side in blissful ignorance.

“And, where are you from?” I said, predicting the answer to my own question silently.

“L.AAAAAAAAAAAA.” She said, stretching out the “A” to emphasize the city’s perceived coolness.

Yep, just as I suspected as this encounter seemed eerily similar with people that had the same answer. How fun for L.A. to breed so many quality citizens. She was sweet as sugar, but too high and clueless to be a functioning human being. I immediately pictured her as the daughter of a washed up 80s hair band star. At that point, my interest waned and she eventually scurried off. That is, of course, until our bladders synchronized.

A bit later, as I made my way towards the stairs to start my journey towards the potty, a flash of blue appeared in front of my face and there was Moonbeam again out of nowhere wanting an escort to the bathroom. She held onto my shoulder part of the way and exclaimed at how young the crowd was at the Flamingo as we traipsed through the other side of the complex, home of the family pool full of skirted one pieces and gray haired chests.

“I usually stay at the Bellaaaaaaaaaaaaagio, where everyone is really old,” she said, stretching out that “A” again.

When two different people plus me had to point her in the right direction for the bathroom that was right in front of her face and she scampered through the door barefoot in her see through skivvies, I jumped in the next stall, peed as fast as I could and ran the hell out of there. I was actually kind of proud of her for not pissing in the pool.

Just when we all thought Moonbeam had retired to her room, head in the toilet in her wet undies, half an hour later, we saw three people wrestling with what looked like a leopard standing on its hind legs.  Nope, just Moonbeam unable to re-robe as easily as she was able to disrobe. Why she didn’t just wander through the casino naked is beyond me. At least I got away with the measly job of bathroom usher instead of redress team.

Well, thanks for an entertaining afternoon, Moonbeam. You almost made me miss all the other people in inappropriate swimwear…almost.

That night we headed to the show “LOVE,” which was amazing and the next day we hit up Margaritaville where we enjoyed free food since Pat’s uncle is the COO. Love it. After that, we dressed up, piled into a limo, hit a few spots, drank way too much free champagne and by the end of the night all I know is that I had a tear in my expensive dress as well as an entire Dr. Pepper all over it.

The details? Wouldn’t you like to know…and wouldn’t I as well. However, I did manage to learn a few things:

1.  Don’t stay at the Flamingo unless you are guaranteed to stay in the remodeled tower that has updated the bathrooms within the last 30 years and is away from the construction that rattles your hungover ass awake every morning at 8 a.m.

2.  Go to Hyde at the Bellagio, but not Pure at Caesar’s.

3.  Don’t miss Fremont Street.

4.  Spring for a poolside cabana with friends – Smurf headed visitors are extra.

5.  Report only what you saw in detail, not what you did because…

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas…or something like that. Always know the rules, especially how to bend them.

Restless in Colorado

It took me four minutes to unpack from a trip to KC that was about four seconds long. Even when I decided to go on a weekend when there was nothing going on - no milestone birthdays, extended family making a visit or holiday hoopla - it still turned into this hurried frenzy of activity leaving me to sort it out and digest it after the fact...but mostly just leaving me wondering what the hell happened. Being pulled in 40 different directions isn't as glamorous as is sounds.

After mining the flashes in my brain that made up the weekend, the little quirks of home began to surface. I really can't get over how much my parents' house has turned into Mema's wonderland full of kid friendly adaptations of adult products and little trinkets hidden in closets and cabinets. While I'm no longer removing the tiny red Mickey Mouse potty seat from the toilet to pee, then washing my hands with pink, foaming Disney Princess soap, at least for a couple more years, I was bombarded with The Biebs and Slutty Cat Face Barbie.

I'm not sure why I found the Justin Bieber doll chilling barefoot on the kitchen counter so funny:

However, far more hilarious was when my oldest niece, Remi provided me with a choice of playing Barbies or bonker balloons and when I chose the obvious Barbies, she pulled a normal brunette Barbie out of the cabinet for herself then handed me the tard-faced blond one.

She explained that she had given Barbie a "cat face," while I thought it looked like she had just passed out in frat house...but that was mainly because she was naked. The choice of outfits wasn't much better as you can see. I exclaimed at how slutty Barbie's wardrobe had become, then I remembered that I was fairly sure I had something similar from 2003 lingering in my closet and I shut up.

Slutty Cat Face's alias was Elizabeth and after a short identity crisis typical of five-year-olds, the brunette became known as Grace. Elizabeth and Grace went to a prom and at the request of Grace, went straight to the bar where a puppy bartender served them up a dirty martini and a beer. When I told my sister about her daughter's advanced Barbie playing skills, she laughed and said, "In our house the women drink beer and the guys drink foo foo drinks!" A jab at my bro-in-law's anti-beer-ism. It reminded me of my friend Shaunna's Facebook update a while back that said something along the lines of, "my child can't say please, but she can say fart...#goodparenting." She did report to me on this trip that the child can now in fact say please, but quite frankly this is the stuff we all wish mommy blogs were made of. Brilliant children with a sense of humor - I can't think of anything better, except for maybe my friends amusing themselves with Slutty Cat Face after a few glasses of wine:

 Our first morning, Pat and I got a visit from Wolfgang, the little dog that goes ape shit on such things as a plunger, the hand held vacuum and Remi's bonker balloons. I just laughed out loud thinking about his attack on our balloon party during my visit causing screaming followed by uncontrollable little girl giggling and Remi's relief to get away from that "bastard dog." Shocking? Appalling? No, just a five-year-old sharing her feelings with her aunt. It's called being socially savvy - understanding things like subtle humor, witty banter and what she should and should not say in certain company - things that a lot of adults never pick up, unfortunately.

Did you hear that ole Woof? The little one called you a bastard, but you're totally not...neurosis just runs in the family.

After our morning snuggle, Wolfie and I wandered into the backyard to carry out a tradition that makes my mother cherish each one of my visits:

I don't think I can take credit for allowing the garden turtle statues to become better acquainted because I'm going to blame it on my cousin, Jake who totally started it years ago. When him and I are not quoting the South Park movie or saving each other from the fat, clumsy opposite sex at the bars (pre significant others, of course), we're providing humor the entire neighborhood can see and understand...but maybe not appreciate the way that we do.

Soon after, the remnants of Hurricane Issac soaked the city for two days and promptly flooded my sister and brother-in-law's basement. The first thing they saved were all my old dance costumes that Remi now uses to perform routines in the basement with her neighbor friends. Signs that instruct visitors not to enter if music is playing because dance is in progress are taped to the door along with faux awards for best smile and best choreography. I provided some award ideas to my sister a few weeks ago over the phone that were clearly a hit. I pawed through all the costumes that were now hanging over backs of chairs in the dining room from a night of drying out and Febreezing and 18 years of my life plus thousands of my parents' dollars flashed through my head. One year, I wore 16 different costumes if that gives you an idea of how many there were. I'm glad they're getting some use.

Remi and I postponed the dance moves until "the studio" had dried up and settled on building a fort in the living room. The big sister was gracious enough to allow her little sister to join us:

I must say that this little pumpkin:

Is quite the scene stealer. I asked Remi if she liked her and she said, "Yeah, but she doesn't share Mommy." She also made a request to her Mom that Auntie Harn only, "spend a minute or two with Kailer." I had to divide my time carefully. Kai is a head strong, yet nonchalant tank that loves to grab, eat and squeal and thinks Remi is hilarious. She's jolly like Remi was, but her personality is much different. She's way more chill and slightly less ornery. I saw Remi nearly every day from birth to age three, but this time I just have to rely on Skype, updates and occasional visits. It's something I'm having a very hard time with, but by the end of the visit Kai was smiling and reaching for me, so I feel my magical auntie powers still have the same effect from 600 miles away.

Sometime during the three days of crazy, we went to a soccer game for Kate's birthday. The Kansas City Sporting team has exploded since I left KC to the point where I'm now pretty sure my friends have joined a cult with all the drums and the chanting and the flag waving and the me saying I need 12 more beers before I can relate to this. Having somebody sit next to me that actually understood soccer probably would have helped too...though still an interesting experience.

My favorite part of my four second visit was combining my loves on a Sunday night with good friends, family, Mom's BBQ ribs, ample amounts of wine and dirty humor. Pat and I finished the clean up well after midnight and long after the parents had retired to bed. I used everything short of tackling to convince the heavy handed helper not to empty the dishwasher because it would wake up my mom. There are some things you never forget even when you move away. Of course, there are things that change too, like the size of my mother's glasses. Those tiny little slivers of spectacles that perch on the end of grannies' noses the world over are now in her possession as we discovered during our clean up. If she gets one of those beaded chains that hold them around her neck alla Sophia Petrillo of the Golden Girls, I'll have to intervene. This is what my mom will do when she reads this:

But, good thing for me, she can take a joke. Love you mama!

Before we went to bed ourselves, I shifted some things around in a drawer to make room for the extra paper plates and ran across another gem unique to my household:

 

Ketchup, soy sauce - same thing. This is surely something my dad ripped off his daily calendar and slipped into the drawer secretly in hopes my mom would find it and crack up. It's just short of a slapstick comedy routine that they've done all my life. My favorite was when a mechanical, stuffed kung fu hampster kept showing up in various places around the house to rouse a chuckle - in the office, on the bed, in the refrigerator...only a homesick Kansan would get sentimental over a redneck joke.

Then, it was time to go and half a second later I was washing and putting away clothes I had just worn as if I had never left. I tend to wallow around depressed for a few days after my visits home, but this time has been much worse. It probably didn't help that as I was grudging putting away the clothes I didn't wear out of my over packed suitcase in my typical fashion, I literally just leaned on the bathroom counter and it snapped like a twig.

Mother...fucker.

Either I have reverse anorexia and that thin person I see in the mirror is actually a fat ass, or I really need to lay off the 'roids. Pat has compared me to Bruce Banner when I yell at my uncooperative hair...

Or perhaps the seemingly beautiful, cool apartment we moved into is really a piece of shit in disguise. Dammit. At least the leasing office didn't threaten to take away our deposit or our souls when I called them about it today.

Mishaps aside, Colorado has been so good to me and I often walk out of a store or drive down the street, see the mountains and feel lucky to live in such a beautiful place. But, I can't tell you how many people have taken it upon themselves to assume I don't miss Kansas because the superficial content of where you live is apparently the only thing that matters. I have to stifle the inner Bruce Banner when that happens and turn it into pity for those people. It's about the company you keep and the experiences you seek out that make your life interesting, not the scenery and sunny days. I moved to Colorado because I wanted an adventure and a kick in the ass and I got that. Been there, done that. Now it's time to reevaluate where I'm planted and what's important to me now that I've gotten to this point. It's amazing what a quick trip and a cracked counter can do for a restless mind.