Married People. Pfft.

Today, I take you into a small slice of my Ski Patrol world… a man’s world, a world where you have 4 things to do. Go on a mission (usually involving bamboo sticks or a drill), take a run, patch someone back together, or sit in the shack. This particular day I was stuck in the shack longer than I had preferred, where we entertain ourselves the old fashioned way- talking.

“So your Husband stopped by.” Frank cocked his head to one side with a slightly evil grin.

Clearly he wasn’t talking to me, so I glanced back at the new girl as I shook the snow off my coat. A rookie, she was required to follow either Frank or I around the mountain to learn the ropes- known as our shadow. Of course, we made a polite effort to get to know her, and had heard all about her boyfriend during the course of the morning. I sat down and collected my lunch, a little sad I had somehow only managed to shove a granola bar and Robitussin in my pack. 

“So you’re married then?” Frank found this highly amusing, and leaned back in his chair, ready for an explanation. I sighed and nibbled on the Oats and Honey, wondering if I could escape to the cafeteria without getting caught.

“Uhm, well yeah, he’s my husband.” She mumbled, looking ready to dart back out the door. She had already confessed to me that Frank scared her a little.

“Husband then? So why have we been hearing about your boyfriend all morning?” Frank was clearly enjoying the interrogation.

“Well he is- I mean was- well it’s new- I don’t like to call him that.” She scrunched herself into the corner and squished her face to the window.

“Hmm. Well I told him. You know. That you’ve been running around all day calling him your boyfriend.” This was Frank’s punch line, and he could hardly be enjoying himself any more than if he was in waist deep powder.

“Oooooo! Someone’s in the dog house tonight!”

The other patroller in the room chimed in. Oh wait. That was me. I tend to get a little mean when I’m hungry. Frank started laughing and I turned back to my pack, hoping perhaps a forgotten sandwich was in the bottom.

“Oh so he knows then- that you call him that.” A rather boring day had left Frank unwilling to drop the subject.

Miraculously I discovered a squished protein bar in the bottom of my pack, and pulled it out triumphantly. Bjork blew back into the shack after a lengthy sled run, and plopped down next to me.

“So you did find some extra food! Sweet, thanks.” He snatched my protein bar and took an enormous bite. I glared at him, but he was too busy checking out the noobie chick meat to be bothered with my peeved state.

“Well yeah, he knows, sorta. I mean, I just don’t like it.” She looked ready to leap out the window.

“Why on God’s green earth would you marry a dude if you don’t want to call him your damn husband!” I jerked upright, alarmed at myself. Glancing around I realized that for once, this comment had managed to stay in my head.  

Dispatch came over the radio announcing a wreck, and we all silently gathered our things together, ready to fly out the door. The subject was dropped, but I was still dying to ask the question.

Isn’t “Husband” like the perfect excuse? One actual advantage to marriage? “I need to take a run with my Husband.” “Oh sorry, I can’t make it tonite, my husband is expecting me for dinner.” “Sorry to ask for time off so late, but my Husband planned this last minute surprise trip…” It seems ‘Husband’ carries a little more weight with it than boyfriend. A boyfriend you can avoid. A Husband you have to answer to. I’d abuse the hell outta that one.

I complained about her attitude on the way home with my carpool buddy, feeling more and more like an old fart trying to preserve the sanctity of marriage.

Back at Victoria’s Secret…

“What can I help you find?”

“Lingere. And lots of it. I’m going to Vegas with my lover!”

“Fantastic! Well we have this piece here, and this is lovely, really sexy…” I lead her around the store showing off some of my favorite outfits.

“Ha! Perfect! He’ll love that. My stupid husband has no idea.” She triumphantly grabs at a negligee.

Oh geeze. I didn’t want to know that. So now I’m helping a woman cheat on her husband? I shook the thought away. Not my business. I just sell the stuff. I don’t need to know what they do with it.

“Yeah. Complete asshole. Dumb asshole.” She smiles, holding up a lacie thong.

I realize I sell intimates. And this means sometimes people feel the need to share their intimates. But really? Her teenage daughter is following her around, texting, and acting for all the world that this is completely normal. I don’t even want to know what has driven her to be the worst mother of the year.

She happily carts off $200 dollars of cheating material, while I wonder what possesses people to sign a marriage certificate they don’t really mean.

For me, the marriage category lives in the Switzerland section of my brain. Neutral things I don’t really feel the need to have an opinion on. Then again, when it comes to people you know- everyone has an opinion. Several of my closest friends are married, and at their wedding I felt satisfied, happy and quite tipsy for them. At others, I’m taking bets at the bar on their divorce date. (Don’t act like you’ve never thought about it… I mean $700 ice sculptures? Yeah, that one will last as long as the ice stays frozen…)

I suppose what peeves me are the obvious elephants trotting through the bedroom. Marriage is serious, scary business, and you people taking it lightly are only scaring me further by parading your elephants through my day.  

Back at the Condo…

 

I had made a grave mistake. While relaxing, watching a movie with Calder on the bed, I had let my hand wander off the left side. Little did I know- that hand was being hunted, stalked, and considered for the past 15 minutes. Two white ears twitched in anticipation, two white paws shot out their claws and sunk into my finger.

“YEOW! Good God! What the-“ I snatched my hand back and stuck my finger in my mouth to relieve the sting.

Calder raised an eyebrow and stuck his head over my side of the bed to search out the culprit, who had quickly maneuvered herself to the opposite side- where his unsuspecting foot now dangled. Two razor sharp teeth sunk into the ankle, with a couple quick hind foot kicks for emphasis, before escaping back under the bed.

“OOOWW! EVIL!!! I FEED you! WHY?” Calder tucked his foot back under his thigh, and we both subconsciously scooted towards the center of the bed.

“Why is your cat soo mean?” he whined.

“MY cat? Why is it MY cat when it’s being a bitch?” I narrow my eyes at him.

A paw snakes through the footboard, furiously swiping at the air as we both grab pillows to fight off the attack.

“More importantly, how am I going to retrieve my wine? I left it on the bathroom counter.”

“Babe. It’s a 10 pound ball of fur.” My white knight swings his legs off the side and stands up to head towards the bathroom.

Chardonnay zips from under the bed and latches onto his foot for a quick bite, and zings off into the dark corner. Calder leaps back into the center of the bed.

“On second thought, I don’t think you need any wine tonight.”

“Pfft. No wine? Yeah, that situation would be worse.” I glance at the cat’s glowing eyes in the corner and make a valiant attempt to reach the bathroom. Within a blink her claws were deep in my calf, long enough for me to really feel it, before zipping underneath the bed to avoid consequences. I scrambled back to the Isle de Bed.

I sniff, miffed at my failure. “Yeah, well 2002 was a terrible year in Napa anyways.”

Thankfully, in this relationship there are no elephants in the room. Only one incredibly evil cat.

Here Fishy Fishy...

 

“Can I keep it?!” I gripped the beautiful rainbow trout with eagle enthusiasm, enthusiasm that was not lessened by the fact this was the 5^th such fish I had hauled into the boat.

“No. If everyone thinks they can keep a fish we’ll be packing home 28 fish.” Calder carefully released the hook from my prize’s mouth and set it back in the water.

I stuck out my lower lip. “But I wanna EAT it!” I frowned and watched my potential dinner happily swim away.

Calder laughed and cast his line over the opposite side of the boat. “You want to eat every fish you catch.”

“Yup. And look what I have? No fish.” I haughtily threw my line over the side, determined that he’d have to wrestle the next one out of my hands.

Years before, not too long after we had first met, he had taken me to this lake, hidden away on his family’s ranch, an emerald sunk deep in the Crazy Mountains. It was paradise, and on that trip I had somehow managed to pull a mammoth of a fish out of it while we lazily dozed in the summer sun. We took it home and shared it with our friends, a delicious lemon soaked 27-inch trout. Since then, fishing the lake on Calder’s birthday was always the highlight of the year for me, and since we were the only people who ever did, the fishing was easy to the point of being ridiculous. I probably could tie a shoelace to my finger with a marshmallow and still catch something. However, that didn’t lessen the excitement for me, and every fish was potentially delicious trout puffs. A specialty that one of the friends we had brought along this trip was superb at cooking up.

As much as I appreciated his sincere compassion for the fish- fish was one food I had no qualms about eating. I loved fish.  And a fish from an unspoiled and largely populated Montana paradise hardly seemed wrong. Admittedly, I was known to have eyes bigger than my stomach, and if he let me have my way I’d sink the boat under a mountain of fish.

“I GOT ONE!” I squealed in delight and set to the task of wearing out my 6^th treasure before I brought it in. I watched its pink and silver scales flash through the water, and it gave a mighty leap on the surface, splashing back down to continue the fight. It really was beautiful. Minutes later and finally clutching it to my chest, I looked up at Calder with a giant grin. “Can I keep it?!”

He sat back and studied his pipe with all the thoughtfulness of Sherlock, finally rolling his eyes. “Yeah, ok. ONE. You can keep one. But I better not find it stinking up the cooler 3 days from now.”

I shook my head with eyes wide in innocence, as if I’d never dream of leaving a fish uneaten… that I packed carefully away to take home… that I promptly forgot about… that I left in his Tahoe for a week before remembering it.  No. Never again. Not this girl. “Nope! I’ll have Swaz help me cook it up tonight.”

~

I gazed up at the glowing flecks of wood shimming away from the fire. The smell of cooking trout wafted up from Swaz’s pan, his pug Jezebel at his side, just daring anyone to mess with the process.  Selby’s voice rang out from the tailgate as he strummed Willie Nelson songs, the firelight playing under the brim of his Indiana Jones hat. Calder’s laughter rang out as he stood next to his father, Frankie. A tall and thin man, he had a mop of wild hair and a buckskin poncho outrageous enough that only he could wear it and command respect. Serena magically produced a fantastic bottle of red from somewhere in the darkness, a magic trick that I always appreciated. Kline was making jokes as usual from the comfort of his camp chair, a mind that was always 2 steps ahead of everyone else and left you gasping for breath or spitting out your drink. Saghatelian, DJ and Tanner had discovered a snowy hill where they could slide down like penguins, making everyone laugh at their antics. I shut my eyes halfway, letting the firelight dance across my eyelids, wondering why life couldn’t always be like this.

The sudden squawk of Price’s voice startled me from my reverie, and the next instant the world was down, my feet were up and Jezebel was unceremoniously licking wine off my face as I lay in a crumpled mess, staring up at the swaying fabric. Price was doubled over in laughter about something… and as I took a mental step back from the situation, I realized it must have been me. Apparently I had managed to fall asleep in the hammock, startled myself awake, forgot I was in a hammock and catapulted myself and my drink a good 5 feet away.  

Price helped brush off the pine needles and dirt as I gingerly made my way back to the group, making a mental note about the dangers of wine and hammocks. I shook my head in amazement at Nordy, who miraculously was still going strong and had not tumbled into the fire despite his wobbly dance moves, punctuated by a friendly swing or two in the direction of Fursty, who was twisting his mustache and shifting slightly to avoid Nordy. I settled myself on a log and joined into song with Selby about the Traveling Man, dreaming of the fish I’d catch in the morning.

The next day I stomped around the breakfast table in impatience, waiting for Price and Toad to wake up. I was counting on the fact that a Bloody Mary bar was residing in the back of their van. Price always thought of things like that- extra socks, snacks, dry bags… a trait I was thankful Calder also possessed, since I pretty much just lived off of whims and leaping first. However, whims occasionally required a Bloody Mary to be launched into action. An adventure in lock picking briefly crossed my mind, but I decided it might be rude to crawl over a sleeping couple to commandeer their alcohol at 8 am. At 9am I might be justified.

“…possessed you to run around the tent like a banshee, shouting ‘ca-caw!’ at THREE AM…” I heard Price’s voice around the corner, while Nordy looked completely bewildered, casting a glance over each shoulder to see for whom the lecture was intended. I sprinted out the door to obtain access to the van and finally, with Bloody Marys in hand, we headed for the lake.

Calder taught me how to gently remove the hook from the fish’s mouth without hurting it. A process that distracted me long enough to forget my immediate need to keep every fish that ran into my Jake spin. However, unaided, it also gave me the opportunity to sneak a fish or two into the basket while he was distracted.

The rest of the weekend continued on in its usual peaceful chaos- and the afternoon of the last day, as we all gathered for the traditional group picture, we’re already looking forward to next year’s trip.

~

“Ugh. I have gotta clean out the BroStop.” ‘BroStop being the longstanding name for Calder’s Tahoe, as it has been the adventure vehicle for all the homies over the years. It stops to pick up the bros. ‘Nuff said.

“Yeah, it’s getting a little, uh, spicy”. I wrinkled my nose at the smell that was somewhere between whiskey, campfire, and mud. We pulled up to the condo, and as I hopped out, Kline’s voice drifted out of the garage with some information about a rabbi and a bar, which was received by LB’s deep loud laugh. Calder cracked open the back hatch to investigate the mess as I began to wander inside.

“HonEEEEY!”

Uh oh. I know that tone, and it isn’t particularly one of endearment. I froze in my tracks and turned my head to see Calder holding up a soggy bag, with a limp fish tail hanging out the side. Shit. Did I really---

“Oh! Ha! Knew I forgot something.” Kline sauntered past me to claim his prize. “Fish at my place tonight? Any takers? Crazy sonsofbitches. This is a delicacy! Straight out of the streets of Hong Kong! Rolled on the thighs of Puerto Rican woman!” Calder looked at him in amused disgust and shouted a string of commands at LB that involved Lysol.  

I beat a hasty retreat into the house. Thank God for Kline.

Queen M

In high school, Madeline was the Blair Waldorf of our private school. She always wore fashionable clothes, with headbands, and had a taste for high school social politics that always left me slightly suspicious of her. The family was from New York City, and ironically moved to the tiny town of Manhattan Montana. Still, they managed to succeed in having a house large enough that I could never entirely find her bedroom without wandering for 20 minutes and hoping to God I didn’t stumble into a section I didn’t belong. The women of the family were all in great shape, with designer clothes and thick brunette hair. The men were well built football stars with perfect teeth. Her father was an instrumental part of Wall Street- a man who always wore suits, constantly had a cell phone in hand, and beautifully styled graying hair. My invitation to her 16^th birthday party sealed my selection into the “in” crowd, and I went half crazy trying to find something in my closet that wasn’t an ode to punk rock. I even managed to drive myself all the way to her house with a cast on my wrist, in a borrowed car, through a giant snowstorm.

Later in the year she discovered I had become completely twitter-painted with a good-looking rebellious boy, (who had a motorcycle, and a fast car, and played the guitar, and the drums, and was constantly in detention… gah, some things about girls never change…). She promptly weaseled herself into his car for a ride, (because of course, the most popular girl in school couldn’t find a ride), and asked him out. He later relayed this information to me in amusement, the typical high school boy that couldn’t see what was right in front of him… namely the brown haired girl named Ashley who was trying ridiculously hard to listen and not think about that shaggy blonde hair… the way it always got into his eyes… those incredibly blue eyes… that lopsided grin he had when something was really funny… those fingers that never stopped strumming the guitar while he was talking… and God I hope I don’t have something in my braces. Yup. First love is a killer. And the most popular girl in school asked him out 24 hours after I had finally admitted my crush to her. I could have strangled her during volleyball practice, and vividly imagined a fantastically worded closing statement after I kicked her ass, that ended in the entire high school applauding my ballsy move with sexy boy sweeping me off my feet while I spiked the ball into her cute little nose.    

Unfortunately, the most I could muster was a cool avoidance of Madeline for approximately a week, until I realized that my crush had in fact turned her down- and thus, I momentarily had the upper hand. Then she started telling me “I was just sooo cute”. [Note to Men: Girls do not want to be called cute unless over the age of 60, or caught doing something potentially embarrassing. Hot? Sure. Sexy? Yes. Beautiful? Even better.] ‘Cute’ was condescending. It implied I was somehow her minion with pigtails. But I choked down my rebellion, and smiled back. Because really, I was tired of not being noticed, and Madeline was my ticket to parties, and dates, and for once, feeling important.

By Senior Year I had decided that complete and utter anarchy was really the only way to live, screw Madeline and her minions. And much to my chagrin, they only liked me more. After high school and inevitable heartbreak, I tried my best to sink myself into the counter-culture- wearing boys clothes so people wouldn’t think I was cute, perfecting destruction, flying the middle finger to society. Fences that eventually separated me from everyone and everything, while I wandered aimlessly around Europe trying to find what Ashley Nettles was supposed to be.

I ran into Madeline at a wedding this Summer. She’s living back in New York, dating some Ivy League prince. And you know? I still like her. Because Madeline will always be Madeline, and there’s some comfort in that. I, of course, had ridiculous hair that stood 8 inches off my head, (for once, not my idea, but that of the bored hairdresser). But you know, that’s me. And thankfully, I’m okay with that. Today, I’m still good friends with the girls I met on a trampoline in 6^th grade- nasty perm and all. One of my closest friends is a girl I never really bothered much with in high school because she annoyed me. It’s funny how things change, and how people mature. There will always be Madelines and Blairs in this world. But they exist because they allowed themselves to be what they wanted to be, and others accepted it.

Today, the lady at the grocery store carded me for some wine.

“Oh- yeah! I recognize this ID, sorry- you just always look so different”. I wasn’t sure where to be offended, that she knew my ID, (I don’t buy that much wine! Right?), or that I look crappy some days and not others.

“Uhm yeah… some days I have time to shower, and do make-up… obviously not today” I muttered while I furiously swiped my credit card.

“Oh no- that’s not what I meant! I mean, like some days you’re in a suit wearing glasses with your hair pulled back, and some days in a flowy dress with long hair, and then you have that NOFX t-shirt…” Apparently I have a fan at the grocery store. Either that or I have got to start buying a larger quanity of groceries at a time.

So I’m a little quirky. But that’s ok. Because my friends accept it. It’s a good feeling to just be me, a me that evolves a little every day. Some days a bit less elegantly than others. Welcome to Life.  

Ah. Retail.

-->

I’ve always said that everyone in the world should be required to work retail for a week. One week is all it will take, and suddenly you find yourself trying to carefully put that shirt you were looking at back, perfectly folded. You start looking for a sales associate to help you, being more sympathetic to the credit card schpeal, and then- you find yourself harshly judging all other stores on their lack of customer service. I mean why can I never find anyone in Target to help me? I swear that every time I’m in, it’s nothing but red shirts and khaki’s running in the opposite direction like they have high stakes poker in the back. And then I’m left to my own devices trying to shove a futon into my cart.

I recently had a quarter-century crisis moment, and while waiting for a pedicure, wandered into Hot Topic. A serious episode of punk rock nostalgia ensued, and I ended up walking away with $30 worth of shiny diamonds to stick in my lip. Only to get home, come to my senses, and realize that there was no way to shove something back in a hole that has been closed for 2 years. So after work today I shamefacedly walked back in Hot Topic to return said lip-rings.

“Uhm. We don’t do that. Like, you know, take back BODY PIERCINGS?”

“Oh. Well yeah, guess that makes sense, I mean one would assume that they had been opened huh? Geeze, sorry, it’s just- well uhm, my hole closed.” Gah what an awkward thing to say…

Then blonde tater-tot pipes in, “Yeah? Take ‘em back? Ewww.”

Eww?EWW?! I stand up to my full height, in all my I-work-at-Victoria’s-Secret-and-look-professional-scariness. Child, if you only knew the 15 year-old bra I had to take back today. “Uh, yeah, totally- thanks guys.”

And I slunk away, even more embarrassed at my crisis moment. Yes. I pussed out. To a couple of teenbots. But really, I hate making a scene. My boyfriend, on the other hand, will let whatever waitress, sales associate, or bartender know exactly how he feels and then some. Half of me sinks down in my chair and shares a thin-lipped smile at whomever is receiving the onslaught for the luke-warm lobster bisque, as if to say ‘sorry about him, it really isn’t that bad!’. The other half is sitting in awe at his boldness and fist bumping the soup.

Confrontation? Not my thing. And while I understand that Hot Topic provides a certain, there’s-no-way-you-can-understand-my-angst-and-i-don’t-give-a-flying-f#$%, vibe- I still cannot believe I got ewwed. If I overheard my sales associate ewwing a customer, I would instantly take over the conversation and call the employee into the office. Happy to say I have never had to deal with that, even though we will take anything, and I mean anything- back (and no we don’t resell it, for those of you twisting your nose up). But seriously, customer first eh? Like don’t make them feel even worse for something they probably already feel awkward about.

Granted, sometimes things slip out of your mouth before you realize it. An adorable little woman came in to be resized, beaming at me and announced she just found out she was pregnant.

“Mmmm.” I grimaced, tightening the measuring tape around her chest, and going about business as usual. For those that know me, such a response is standard. Like the Queen in Chitty-chitty-bang-bang, the idea of a child catcher sounds like a good idea to me. I’m terrified of children, and horribly awkward around them. I looked up and realized her cheery expression had come apart, as I was clearly the first person to not gush ooey-gooey enthusiasm over the prospect of wrecking havoc on the female body.

“Uhm- I mean, when are you due? How exciting!” I force the biggest baby fever smile I can manage to recover from my unenthusiastic comment. And then she was back to her bubbly self, talking about baby showers and bottles. I throw back the miniscule knowledge I have about the joys of parenthood (much in thanks to my friend Hannah, equally baby terrified, but a champion of a mother, with infinite patience for her baby-handicapped friend).

Retail is a tricky business. With it comes a responsibility to read people, to understand what they need, even if they are nothing like you, and make sure they leave happy. And working for Vicky’s? Well, there’s a reason they call them intimates. I never want a customer to leave embarrassed, or feeling stupid. That’s my job. Now, what on earth to do with these lip rings?

Oh Food, how I love Thee

The story goes that my grandfather married my grandmother because he fell in love with her apple pie. Needless to say, every woman in my family can bake well enough to sweep the county fair, and leave men’s watering mouths in their wake. My mother and I once entered the same baking competition when I was 6. My cookies got grand prize, while her Angel Food cake got 1^st. The photo of me in my little dress, holding up the ribbon with a smile as big as Kansas has her angel food cake recipe on the back. It has been a moment of contention ever since.

While mother could bake anything without so much as glancing at a recipe, her cooking skills were, well, non-existent. Growing up, it was the running joke that if the fire department had to be called it was because mother was trying to make dinner. My childhood meals consisted of three items. Mac N’ Cheese, Lunchables, and hot dogs- the latter being disregarded after the heimlich incident of ’92.

So when I launched out into the world on my own at 15, my notion of what consisted of a meal was nothing if bizarre. That entire summer while in France, the home of many a fine cuisine, I lived off peanut butter. Literally. I ate a slice of bread with peanut butter for breakfast, a bowl of peanut butter for lunch, and another for dinner with a desert of Swiss chocolate. Don’t mistake me, I was by no means starving- I was happy as a clam, and about as clueless as one.

Entering my adulthood, I had breakfast for almost every meal. Breakfast was something I could do- after all, a pancake was a form of cake right? And coffeecake, and biscuits… My version of cooking involved putting a frozen pizza in the oven and hoping to God I didn’t burn it. Mac-n-Cheese and PB & J was about as advanced as I got. Like Carrie of Sex and the City I'd much rather use my oven for extra clothing and box storage. I did have a bread maker- but really only because it looked nice sitting in the corner covering the botched paint job. The microwave was my savior although I have yet to understand why such a thing requires settings. You nuke it on high- it's done. 'Nuf said.

It never occurred to me that such behavior was weird until I caught a boyfriend staring, mouth dragging on the floor, as I engulfed half a cheesecake for breakfast. “What?” I’d say. “Uhm. Uh. Well nothing, I’m just wondering where that goes” he’d mumble. “Whadddamean?” cheesecake filling my cheeks like a chipmunk. “Uhm nothing? You usually have cheesecake for breakfast?” “Sure. Why not? Yesterday I had PB&J- just hit the spot.” He looked at me completely bewildered and dropped the subject. Luckily, (and here every woman will hate me), I have never been a large girl, so the idea he was making some crack at my weight didn’t even occur to me. And then as I got older, I developed this thing called self-consciousness…

The Destruction of Self Esteem:

"Is this you when you were a freshmen?" My boyfriend's buddy Zeus flipped the college ID hanging from the rear-view mirror towards me. "Huh? Oh yeah. I was 18 in that picture." "Damn. You were hot!" I shot him a quizzical, slightly annoyed look from the corner of my eye for the inclusion of "were" in the statement. "Hey yo- check this out, look at what a hottie freshmen Ashley was! Ha ha!" Zeus flips the card towards the back seat where my other two guy friends examine and chuckle over the portrait. I purse my lips and throw my hand back for the ID, trying to look more embarrassed about them checking me out than the use of the past tense. "Dude, givit here. So where was your car parked?" The subject is dropped as they turn their attention to where their car had been abandoned during the bar hopping of last nite. The "were" rings in my head, and I quickly shove it down. They didn't mean it to sound like that, they're just a bunch of boys who don't realize what they're saying. Pfft. Whatevs...

~

A finger pokes into my upper thigh. "What's that?"

"Hmm? Whadda mean? You know I could really go for some ice cream right now," not deterring my eyes from the screen showing Travis Rice hurling off backcountry mountains.

"That. What your leg is doing there."

I glance down at the section my boyfriend is poking. Suddenly he has my full attention. Holy shit. My boyfriend is poking my cellulite. I tug my dress down and give him a scrunched up version of "careful-thin-ice" eyes.

"What? what?! Cellulite? Is that what it is?" He has his most innocent look on, as if he was six and just caught his first frog. My look molds into a one eyebrow "how-you-gunna-talk-yourself-outta-this-one?".

"Oh babe! I love you! More cushion for the pushing!"

Why in the hell do men fill the need to make an awful situation ten times worse by making a horribly timed joke? I glare into the TV now and squish myself into the corner of the couch, willing it to swallow me whole. He wraps his big arms around me and tucks his head into the crook of my neck. "Oh babe, don't be mad, you know you can handle it. Want some ice cream?"

Hell no I don't want ice cream. Not now anyways. Thanx bud. Some flowers might be nice. I'm gunna see how long I can stare at the tv to make this as uncomfortable as possible for you. I go to bed in a giant t-shirt, slightly hungry.

~

*Bleep*Bleep*. My cell phone alerts me to a new text for the 12th time in the past 30 minutes. Dammit Colin. Broken up for 6 months now he still felt the need to somehow win me back and/or yell at me via text message. I was inches away from changing my number. I decided I had better actually look at what he wrote, maybe then I could extinguish the onslaught of texts.

"U may have packed on a few pounds, but I will always luv u for who u r."

What. The. Hell. I jump to my feet, feeling as if some physical action was required to defend myself. I end up forwarding the text to my friend Hannah- my rock during our break-up.

"What!? U have not! And what a txt to win u back!" We conferred on the rudeness of such a message for a while and I went to work the next morning still fuming.

Our group at Victoria's Secret is pretty tight. We know about each other's exes, and current relationships, what our boyfriends liked to see us in, who was hung over at the meeting, and more often than not wound up all PMSing the same week. I can't say there is a single unattractive or really overweight girl working there, although along with everything else our exercise and bad eating struggles are discussed frequently. I stuck my head in the back room by the processing desk, "Dude, you're not gunna believe the most recent Colin text message..." Kelsi looked up from the shirts she was folding as I relayed my shock of the week. She shook her blonde head, "Whatever Ashley, you look about the same as you did when you started here... gah- dumb boys." We discussed the inferiority of the opposite sex for a minute and concluded that I was above retaliating with an angry text and a neon yellow bra was exactly what I needed. Our minds work in mysterious and slightly ADD ways. I left work vowing to renew my gym membership.

Day 1: Going Vegan

I was in need of dog food for Erik today, and decided while I was at the store I might as well stock up on some things for myself. Never one for gradual change I decided that Vegan would be the direction in which I’d leap. Not to mention I had annoyingly become lactose intolerant almost overnight. I didn't have a clue what to buy other than organic things that didn't involve an animal. As I swung into the organic section I stared at the packets of Boca burgers and some bizarre thing calling itself Tofurky. I decided the non-meat meat items were Toofunky, and that was a step I'd take later on. Searching down the aisles for a milk alternative I discovered to my dismay that none of them were refrigerated. Seriously? Milk that isn't refrigerated? I looked at the shelves warily, glancing around to see if anyone else felt this to be as strange as I did. The only other woman down the aisle was in a muumuu, looking at cereal and didn't seem to notice or care about my dismay- so I picked up a vanilla flavored Soy box. Mebbe something with flavoring will be less of a shock. I ended up leaving the store with a package of frozen peas, one of broccoli, my Soy milk , dog bones and Iams dog food. I hoed and hummed over the dog section- wondering that if veganism was a moral choice then should your dog leave the meat options alone too? I decided that was ridiculous since it was necessary for their survival. Even if I'm going to end up starving out of confusion there's no reason Erik couldn't eat well. He thanked me by squirreling around my feet until I tripped and spilt the precious cargo all over the floor. He's currently munching loudly on a bone, drowning out the sound of my churning stomach. We'll see how long this will last.

Shoe Envy

Ugh. Sasha. Of all my boyfriend’s exes, I really couldn’t stand that girl. Sometimes she came off as a bitch, but most of the time she seemed to be trying really hard to be nice. A small part of me reveled in the fact she would make a point to talk to me. Like maybe she was jealous of our relationship or something. Anywhere I can score a point on her, I’ll take it. Even if I have to stretch the imagination a little. Then again, it would be a lot easier to hate her if she wasn’t so damn nice.

She always looks so put together and stylish. I sometimes wonder if she magically woke up in Dior and Fendi without a single streak in her make-up. It made me a little nervous knowing my boyfriend used to love this girl, this clearly high- maintenance girl. Being so chill, (or lazy? rushed? what exactly is my problem here?), I tend to look more escaped Olsen twin than socialite. I hoped my boyfriend’s expectations in girlish looks wasn’t set this high and wouldn’t carry over to me. In reality I knew that inside, she was a mess of prescription pills, alcohol, and insecurities, but I couldn’t help but be a teensy bit jealous. On daddy’s dime she got to travel all over the world, like I wanted to, visiting exotic countries, eating exotic food, partying with exotic people, bringing her exotic-loving best friends with her- and good god, is she wearing Manolo Blanics?

Now I’m no label whore, but while my face is saying, “I love my practical Birkenstocks. No drunk stumbling in these. Good stuff.” Inside, I’m having a Carrie worthy reaction. “I.want.to.touch…. Just for a second…. or work more hours this summer, or- I should really open a credit card and immediately max it out.”

We swing over to the group she’s surrounded by, mutual friends and homies. She lightly kisses each cheek in the circle as if that’s normal behavior in Bozeman MT.  Another ex pops into the scene to say hi. It never fails to amaze me how my boyfriend’s exes seem to lurk around every corner. All of my exes, best girlfriends and otherwise blew the state years ago. I have a hard enough time wrangling up someone to go to the movies with. Yet 99.8% of his past flames all hung around to be friends. I’m not a particularly insecure person, and it’s lovely that everyone gets along so swimmingly, but personally, I daydream about a good blatant ignoring of past lovers while I swish by looking fabulous.

The practical part of me says that such behavior is ridiculous- and really, we’re all adults here. But the realistic side knows that even the most fabulous of women have an insecure moment here and there. And perhaps that doesn’t mean we’re weak, instead it makes us confront who we are, and be willing to accept that. So maybe Sasha has a fabulous wardrobe- but perhaps she wishes she had the balls to go out wearing an oversized poncho like me. Maybe not. But as long as I feel fantastic about myself I suppose it really doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m off to DSW.com to find some Manolo Blanics for the next time we run into each other. 

Ciao Bella.