Weeee Represent the Lollipop Guild

I'm what they call a robust gal. Hardy. Big boned. The word "petite" doesn't apply to any of the assets I embody. I'm broad of shoulder and sturdy in the hips and thanks to a mom who told me to stand up straight, I own every one of my five feet and almost eight inches.

I had to stand in the back row for class photos. I long ago gave over to the knowledge that with these thighs, corduroy was not an option.

Back in college, I danced with short cowboys and took many a brim of a cowboy hat to the bridge of my nose.

After I moved to California, I wore flat shoes for years because I dated a guy not much taller than me. He once cooed over a friend who is teeny tiny, "you're like a little doll!" he gushed. I never felt more elephantine than I did at that moment.

This is the hand I've got to play, dealt by my genetics. Honestly, I've become more sanguine about it over the years.

This brings us to the events of yesterday. I'd been invited to a status update meeting with a VP from my company and the CEO of a large multinational corporation.

In the morning, I dug around in my closet and put together a pretty nice outfit. A meeting like this is big doings, so I knew I had to up my game.

I got dressed and put on my favorite pair of three inch heels. The outfit looked great. Before leaving the house, I asked The Good Man if I was committing a work faux pas.

See...my boss is about 5'9" on a good day, and his boss is maybe 5'6" if the wind is right and he's on the uphill side of an incline.

Is it bad form to tower over the people who pay my paycheck? The Good Man considered the question and decided the outfit worked, and thus all would be ok.

Off I went to work feeling pretty good. The meeting time rolled around and I stepped into the conference room. As I was the only woman in a roomful of nine men, they all rose and walked over to greet me.

Ok, so flatfooted I'm 5'8" and now wearing three inch heels I'm 5'11"

There was only one person in the room who was taller than me. Just one. The rest of these #$%^ing Lilliputians scrambled around somewhere about my kneecaps.

*sigh*

At the end of the day, I was very glad to go home, kick off my tall shoes, stand on tippy toes, and kiss my 6'2" husband.

Because that's the best way to navigate through a day chock full of Oopma Loompa-ish men.

(I might also add that I was only one of two Americans in the room. We had a gent from Hong Kong, a Dutchman, an Aussie, a Swede, a Scotsman, a Russian, an Irishman, a Spaniard, an American from Phoenix...and me.)

I Left My Heart....

Wait. Where did I leave my heart?

If you are a Twitter type of person and you follow my tweets, you may have gotten some of-the-moment tweeting about what I'm about to describe.

There was an "incident" upon my departure from New Mexico about three weeks ago. I've tried to brush it off, but I find I cannot. I'm rather shaken to my core.

The executive summary is this: I got my heart broke by an eight year old girl.

And I may never recover properly.

I flew out to New Mexico for one of the annual "Chick's Trips" that my best friend and I love to put together.

I came in on a Thursday afternoon and my friend picked me up at the airport. Earlier that day, her husband had taken their two daughters, my goddaughters, on a camping trip. He was out spotting elk for an upcoming hunt His girls are avid outdoors women, so they are able to help.

Fabulous. That meant some one-on-one girl time with my best friend in the world.

There was cussing. There was discussing. There was a trip to the Ruidoso Downs.

Big fun!

We all got back my friend's house in Las Cruces on Sunday afternoon. I had to fly out Monday.

So Sunday evening I got to have some quality time with my little girls (who are not so little anymore).

I had a chance to chat with the older of the two, she's ten, and has had some troubles with another girl at school. I wanted to make sure that going into fifth grade, she was holding up ok.

I got to sit next to the younger of the two, she's eight, at dinner.

The next morning, the eight year old asked me to go on a walk with her out to look at her flowers in her yard. I told her I would be happy to.

As time will do, it went all slippery and got away from us. Nina Karen didn't get her walk in with the younger goddaughter.

This all came to a head at the El Paso airport. We arrived a bit early and my kids wanted to come inside the airport to see me off.

Without delay, my younger goddaughter began insisting to her mom that she needed to come with me on the plane.

Her mom told her that she couldn't come with me.

"But why!?!?" was the inevitable reply.

What followed was a long and persistent debate between mom and child about, logically, why she couldn't just get on the plane and come home with me.

Then the tears began in earnest. My younger goddaughter began sobbing.

And that's when the truth started pouring out....

"You and Nina Karen always go off somewhere and we never get to go!"

Early on, my friend laid down some age requirements for chick's trips. Plus, sometimes Mama just needs a break.

"We always have to go with dad and you get to go have fun!"

Which isn't very nice to the dad who is lots of fun. But he's a boy and boy fun is different.

"Nina Karen always comes out here and we never get to go to California."

Well, sure. Since I don't have little ones, and I get awful homesick, I do tend to fly that way a bit more often.

"Other than her name, I don't even know Nina Karen!"

Ok, that one hurt. That's so not true, and she later apologized for having said it. But in that moment, she broke my heart.

She wasn't done by a long shot.

I held my baby girl in my arms as she cried and cried, her tiny body racked with sobs. Of course, I started crying too. Then her mom was bawling. And her big sister was crying from the get go.

Four weepy girls all clutched together at the El Paso Airport.

I apologized to my girl and through tears she said she forgave me.

After a while, her sobs began to slow down. Then, time went and got us again. The long hand moved too quickly on the clock face, and it was time for me to leave.

I had to go home. But which home? My California home because The Good Man waited for me there. He is my heart.

But that little crying girl is also my heart.

I've never felt so torn between two places in all my life. It literally felt like being ripped in two.

I cried all the way through the security line, and the TSA man shooed me along.

Then I cried all the way through the terminal.

I used my phone to call my husband to tell him what happened, and started sobbing even harder.

With every tear, my heart broke a little bit more. Ground glass under a bootheel.

I'm not sure yet how I'm going to try to make this right.

My best friend is working on a road trip out here, maybe, to cut costs and make it easier for them all to come out here to California.

I'm working over in my mind a plan to go back to New Mexico. But when? Our weekends are booked through Labor Day.

I just know that I am as heartbroke today as I was three weeks ago.

The Hispanic culture embraces a concept called "Comadres". Co-Mothers. Best friends are like mothers to each others children.

I don't have kids of my own, but actually, I do. Those two girls are as dear to me as if I'd birthed them from my own body. I feel their pain, I revel in their joy. I would sacrifice for them with nary a thought.

Nina Karen has got to make things right.

I'll tell you this, I'll never again miss the chance to take a walk with my girls just to look at the flowers.

"Las Comadres," a painting by Juana Alicia.

Seeing myself in a new way

You know, looking at a photograph of myself is always an interesting and somewhat humbling experience.

In a photo, I never quite look the way that I imagine I look.

Where did those lines around the eyes come from? Do my hips really look like that?

Ah well.

The other day, I received an interesting photograph that surely has me pondering some things.

Here, I'll share the photo with you, my fabulous readers, so you can see what I'm talking about.

It is a fun photo of me driving! Isn't that neat! A perspective one doesn't often get.

Look at me...intense expression on my face. Hands firmly at ten and two. Or maybe more like eleven and one, but no matter.

That's a concentrated and skillful driver, no?

Yup, that photo was kindly mailed to me by the Superior Court of the county where I live.

Wasn't that sweet?

It appears they are of the belief that I didn't stop fully before making a right turn at a red light into a very busy intersection.

And so for the luxury of a faboo photo of me behind the wheel, I was charged $500.

I'm *ever* so pleased about that. Tickled pink. And other euphemisms I can't think of right now to sarcastically convey that I'm not very pleased AT ALL!

Next step: onward to driving school. Yay me.

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate red light cameras? Oh I really hate them.

Ouch. That stings.

Did they really have to use the theme song from my senior prom?

(47 second video on YouTube)

Forever Young

Management...hamburger style

Currently, at the building across the way, there are some gentlemen hard at work putting a new roof on the two-story structure.

Roofing has got to be some grueling, backbreaking work, and they've been toiling at this for a few days now.

About an hour ago, all work went quiet over there. I thought maybe they were on a break. They weren't on a break.

It appears they were having a little conference. What they'd call in the corporate world, a "root cause analysis".

I suspect they discovered what, or rather, whom was at the center of the mistake, because I could then hear the supervisor of this project having a one-on-one mentoring conversation, loudly, with his employee.

Let's keep this a family friendly post...for all the instances of the eff word, I will substitute a more appropriate word.

Oh let's have fun with it, let's use the word "hamburger."

Here we go, a faithful recounting of this clearly very hands on and empathetic manager as he guides his employee through a big error.

Remember: hamburger = eff word

"You hamburgered up. You hamburgered this whole thing up. I didn't hamburger up. All the rest of these hamburgering guys didn't hamburger this thing up. What in the hamburgering hell were you thinking? You weren't thinking and you hamburgered this hamburgering thing all to hell. What the hamburger, man?! What the hamburger happened?"

: sound of employee mumbling, trying to explain his reason for hamburgering everything up :

"You what? You what? Who the hamburger told you to do that? I sure as hell didn't hamburgering tell you to do that! Now this whole hamburgering project is running behind and that costs hamburgering money? Do you get that? Do get that you’ve cost every hamburgering one of us some hamburgering time and some hamburgering money?"

: more mumbling :

"Aw man, what the hamburger. Get back to work!"

And with that, all the machines started up again, the smell of tar once again filled the air, and the team of folks got back to roofing.

This, among the many reasons why I feel so fortunate to be able to work a white collar gig. I'm pretty hamburgering sure that if my boss ever talked to me that way, I'd have a pretty good hamburgering lawsuit I'd think about.

A love story

A journey through the soul, told in the chosen format of crappy iPhone photos.

Oh coffee. How I love you so. (Yes, I know the cup is empty. It didn't last long. I slurped that thing through that pretty blue straw and uttered an "aaaaah" when finished.)

Yes, I love you oh so much. Sadly, you don't love me in return. You leave my stomach acidy, my esophagus crying out for relief and my adrenals asking for a nice day off.

It is a star-crossed love affair. And a fairly one sided love.

Ice cream, oh ice cream! Rich, creamy, frosty, tasty ice cream. How I adore you as you caress my mouth with your sugary creamy goodness.

But as much as I love you, you don't love me back the same way. You leave me phlegmy. Also, all that sugar doesn't help my already acidy tummy.

And you always seem to take up residence on my already poochy belly and round hips.

Damn you ice cream, for being so tantalizing and so not good for me!

Cheese! My sweet longtime lover, cheese! You and I go back to the early years. Remember all the grilled cheese sandwiches we shared? Sprinkling you over enchiladas and broiling until bubbly? Remember when I'd just hack off a slice and eat you as you are, because you and I are so simpatico like that?

Truly, you aren't terrible for me when enjoyed in moderation, but how can I possibly enjoy your delicious goodness in moderation! No, I indulge too much in my love and you join ice cream on my hips.

It's cruel, cheese, just too cruel. I mean, after all we've shared!!

Ah full fat ranch. You tempting, tempting fella. You flirt with me. Wink your little bottled dressing eye and beg me to partake.

Much like cheese, a little occasionally, fine. But who can have a *little* and why occasionally?

But you mock me. You taste so yum and then you turn on me and do mean things!

It's not right! I love you so much, why can't you show me a little kindness?

What's this? Oh, hey lettuce. What are you doing here? Hmm, yeah, uh, nice to see you too.

I have what can certainly be described as kind regards for you. I'm sure you're a very nice comestible.

You just don't...turn me on.

But you seem to *adore* me. Oh sure, you treat me so nice, giving me nutrients and not settling on my hips. Providing energy and fiber and you are such a hair parted down the middle, church on Sunday, help little old ladies across the street nice sweet gentle food.

It's just...I don't *want* nice!

I want wild! And passionate! And fascinating and rich complex textures!

I want to run with the bad kids and cut class and down twinkies and potato chips and stick my tongue out at "health" experts!

I want....I want.....

Hey, hey good lookin'.....what's your name? Wanna run around with me and coffee?

Oh, wait, who is that over there? Well hellooooo handsome!

Wanna take a walk on the beach, hand in hand, and watch the sun set? Wouldn't that be a nice way to spend some time together?

I know I'm flirting...I can't help it!

Oh wait, what's this?

Oh crap. That's not playing fair...

Hellloooooo lover!

Time changes things

This morning when I arrived at work, the elevator doors slid open quietly, and from the car emerged a very pretty young girl wearing these *really* adorable gray Louboutin or Blahnik or some such with a very tall heel.

She lurched forward, took a step on the marble floor, her ankle gave way, she stumbled, got her balance back, and then galumphed with a clack clack sound the rest of the way out and into the foyer.

And I thought to myself: Rookie!

Terrible, I know. But really, if you are going to wear the heels, you oughta know how to walk in them.

In my mother's day, they wore three to four inch stilettos every single day! And those women could walk a mile in those things. Hell, many women of that era got to the point they couldn't even put their heels flat on the floor anymore, so used to wearing high heels were their legs and tendons.

Even that bastion of shoe goddessness, Carrie Bradshaw, knew how to walk in her way in overpriced but delicious shoes. C'mon girls! If ya gonna wear 'em, wear 'em well!

Then I realized that all these thoughts are all kind of ironic, because over the weekend, I was out shopping. I stopped at the shoe department for a look-see. I was drawn to the rack of comfy, padded, mostly flat shoes.

And I thought to myself: At what point did I migrate over to comfortable shoes only? Did I consent to this?

In defiance of myself, I tried on a really cute pair of heels. I walked around in them (no rookie, me), then was like "eh. Why?" Ripped them off, put my comfy shoes back on, and kept shopping. For something with a waistband that's not too binding.

edit: Good lord...I've had these thoughts before. Same outcome. Really, this whole shoe issue is plaguing me on a deep level. I need help. Retail therapy at least!

*sigh*

Oh Fair New Mexico...you may serve some of the finest food in the world, but damnit, you have no taste.

I can't even be surprised. I want to be, but I'm not.

(btw, if you don't know Las Cruces, Telshor and Lohman is a really prime location)

From the Las Cruces Sun News:

Olive Garden? Really?

Never too late

Went to have my teeth cleaned and checked yesterday. Been going to the same dentist for twelve years, so I've gotten to be somewhat friendly with my hygienist.

She is amazing. A force to be reckoned with. Very handy and kind with a dental tool.

Over the years, she and I have been through a lot together. For example, I recently got married, she recently got divorced.

She's has been seeing a new guy for about a year now. The first blush of love has worn off, and they have hit a rough patch.

Yesterday as she scraped at my teeth and gums with a metal pointy object, she caught me up on the latest.

"I'm not even staying over at his place anymore, I've been back at my apartment," she said, angrily.

"I do things for him! I know what he needs and I give it to him. Why can't he do the same for me!" she huffed. : scrape, scrape :

"He just makes me so MAD" she said, while jabbing the beejeezus out of my gums.

When she gave me a moment to rinse the blood out of my mouth, I said, "you know, my husband has told me that often enough men really appreciate it if you'll just *tell* them what you need. Give him a little guidance and I bet he'll be happy to provide what you want. He just wants to make you happy."

"But why doesn’t he just *know*?!?" she wailed.

"Because he doesn't. Don't be afraid to ask for what you need," I said, gently.

She thought about what I said, muttering aloud to herself with one foot on my forehead and both hands shoved in my face, jabbing at my teeth unmercifully.

"Maybe you are right, maybe I need to be willing to say what I need more. Maybe I'll go over to his place tonight to watch the hockey game and we can talk."

I grunted.

For some reason, people like to use me for therapy.

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Oh...

Did I mention?

My hygienist is 60 years old.

Never, NEVER too late!

Mandate

From the "When I am Queen of the World" Files.

The following two phrases will be eliminated from the vocabulary of denim jeans manufacturers:

"Low rise"

and

"skinny fit"

That is all.

Going cold turkey

You see, I have this little morning ritual. A morning check in, if you will. First I get on the scale. Then I check my investment account.

This had been going good for a while. One was going down, one was going up and that gave me a self-satisfied smirk to start the day.

Since, oh, about November, one is still going up and one is still going down, but not in that "isn't it great to me be" kind of way. More in that lurch of the stomach at the twist in the roller coaster kind of way.

The ubiquitous "they" say you shouldn't weigh yourself every day. "Too much fluctuation" they say.

I'm thinking that's true of my investment account too.

Or maybe I should just stop checking it at all........

And that scale. Ay yi yi!

Going cold turkey on both.

I have the power!!

[evil, maniacal laugh] bwa ha ha ha ha ha hee haw heee....*cough, sputter, cough*....ahem.

I'm back now.

Anyhow, I seem to have learned to use a fabulous power first taught to me in my youth.

The power of guilt.

Oh yes.

First example:

The center dial on my bathtub is broken, meaning that it will only shower, it won't bath. This is upsetting. I am a fan of the hot bath. Especially in the winter. Particularly when it's cold and stormy outside as it is today.

This has gone unfixed for quite some time, despite reporting it dutifully to my landlord. He said, "I need to find a new set of knobs...I'll get to it."

And he didn't.

The landlord's son lives a street over and came by our place about an electrical problem two weeks ago. So I bugged him to bug his dad about the bathtub. The son promised he'd fix it himself.

He didn't.

A couple weeks passed.

This weekend, the son was mowing our front lawn. I said, "sorry to ask, but I need to remind you about the bathtub."

This young man was *immediately* doused deeply in sheepish guilt, he apologized a bunch and promised to fix the bathtub, which he did on Sunday morning. And apologized some more.

Aaaah. Guilt is good.

Next example:

After my dental work yesterday, I woke up with a swollen face and a nifty bruise on my cheek. I'm thrilled to have to explain this to my coworkers.

My dentist, being the kind sort that he is, emailed me today to check to see how I was doing after the work. I emailed him back a photo of my bruised face and suggested he won't be getting any new referrals from my coworkers.

He called me right away and apologized profusely and told me this sometimes happens (nicked a blood vessel when he did the injections) and that he felt terrible this had happened.

A man who inflicts severe pain for a living feels *terrible*.

Heh.

This feels gooood. I'm learning what my mom has known for years...guilt is quite the propellant.

In case you are still in training wheels and need to learn how to properly give the guilt, here's a wikihow to get you over the hump.

Only downside? This power can be used on me, too.

Damn my Catholic upbringing!

Replacement Parts

Sorrowfully, I had occasion to visit with my dentist of twelve years today. He's a good guy and when you have that kind of trust with a dental professional, you don't take it lightly.

The reason for my visit today wasn't an easy peasy cleaning and check up, no. A couple weeks ago I bit down on something hard and felt pain shoot up the side of my face.

That *can't* be good.

So I was unsurprised when the good Doctor told me I had three cracks in my tooth. The same tooth that was home to not one but two fillings.

Feeling myself headed for "you need a crown"-ville, my dentist looked at my xrays and said, "good news, we can use the machine."

The Machine?

What the [insert dental-fear inspired curse word here] is "The Machine?"

I guess if you need something more than a drill and fill, but something less than a crown, they have this cool device that takes a scan of your scraped out tooth, then creates a puzzle piece-like filling that slips right in there.

It's milled out of a block of dental porcelain right there onsite, same day.

So the dentist drilled out my tooth, and then I read a magazine while the machine churned and groaned and soon enough, they showed me the little piece of tooth looking porcelain. Add a little dental glue and ta daa! New tooth!

As The Machine worked, my dentist talked about science's ability to make new body parts, like my homemade tooth. He said, "I laugh when people get up in arms over athletes using steroids to increase their body's capabilities. In ten to twenty years they will be making new joints, ligaments and tendons, you name it. Athletes can be created, and steroids will be looked on as quaint."

I replied, "That's weird, man. In a good way, but weird."

Oh well, in about an hour and a half all in, I was fixed up and sent on my way with a droopy drool-y smile and a bit of ache in my freshly manufactured body part.

Weird.

Image from The Searcher's Flickr Photostream.