On a break from dating my adorable manfriend several months ago (you might remember this not-so-made-in-Hollywood girls’ trip), I found myself out at a bar. I know. Quite the shocking turn of events.
My mom happened to also be in town this particular weekend, and we were enjoying standing around catching up with the girls when two bold young men approached the group. As only moms typically pick up on, these boys seemed to have bee-lined over to us as soon as they walked in the door—forsaking the 12 other people they had come in with—to talk to us. Obviously, the only conclusion here is that we were looking SUPER hot. Duh.
The boys were good sports, taking quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from our feisty bunch—much of which focused on one of the guys' calculator watch. Yes. He was wearing a calculator watch. Like from the ‘80’s. We made quite a few jokes about when a calculator on one’s arm might come in handy. Calculating tips. Spelling BOOBLESS… Calculating when two trains might meet in the middle of the country if one left San Francisco travelling at 68 mph and one left New York City travelling at 95 mph…
At some point during the course of the night, the one guy was looking at me and said, “I like your necklace. It’s very… Umm… Colorful.”
Now, I’ve worn this necklace a thousand times. And, I do get numerous compliments on it. It’s several strands of colorful, wooden beads. Often people ask if I got it on vacation in Mexico or tell me it looks very exotic, interesting, fun.
So, I said to the guy, “You just thought about that for a good thirty seconds, and all you could come up with was ‘colorful?!’ That was some deep thinking! Very creative.”
When all the girls pitched in on the taunting, he started laughing and said, “Ok fine! I was staring at your boobs and thought I had just been caught looking, so I had to come up with something!”
The whole group burst out laughing then, and it continued when my friend Amy said, “I love that! I love it for so many reasons. First of all, I appreciate you noticing them. They are pretty fantastic, aren’t they?!” (I swear she really said that!) “Second, I love that you just admitted to it. And third, I love that you admitted to checking out KB’s boobs in front of her mom!”
And, after all that, later in the night he still asked me out. My coworkers really wanted me to go on the date and bring back the calculator watch as a trophy, much like a hunter would return from a big hunt with the head of a lion he had just killed.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Friday, October 1, 2010
I am going camping tomorrow
Yeah, I know. WHAT?!?!
I don’t know if you’ve been able to glean from past blog posts that I am not exactly what you would call “outdoorsy.” I’m obsessed with make-up and sometimes-absurd beauty tricks. I wear heels almost all the time. I really like washing my hands. A lot. I hate to be dirty. I could go on and on, but you get the idea. I’m prissy. At least I will admit it, right?
I have a friend who throws a huge party every year at her farm house, about an hour and a half away. It always sounds like such a blast! Delicious barbecue spread, a bluegrass band, the rolling hills and Blue Ridge Mountains in the background, a fire pit and, of course, plenty of booze make this party seem like a grand, old, country good time! This has been the first year I’ve been able to go, and I was looking forward to kicking up my heels! (Yes, I am picturing myself as an adorable, freckle-faced cowgirl cartoon jumping up in the air and clicking my heels together.)
When I read “pass the livestock exchange and Slaughter Road” in the directions to the farm, I realized I may be a bit out of my element. When the guy I’ve been dating said we should stay over and camp out, I realized this fun foray into the country was quickly spiraling out of control!
Manfriend: We should stay over and camp out!
KB: What?!
Manfriend: Yeah, let’s just stay over so we don’t have to drive back that night.
KB: Wait, so you mean, like, camping? Sleeping outside??
MF: We’d be in a tent.
KB: Yeah! Exactly!!
MF: It will be fun.
KB: Have you been camping?!
MF: Uh… I was an eagle scout, so yeah. I’ve done my fair share of camping.
(Editor’s note, I know he said he’s an eagle scout, but he is cool—now, at least. I’m guessing his high school days were pretty different than mine were, as he went to debate team meets and I went to parties. He’s pretty cute now, though, and we’ve all got “sordid” pasts we’d rather forget, right?)
KB: Right, right… Well, can you really see me camping?!
MF: Ha! You’re right. That is funny. We could come home instead of staying over.
KB: No, no. It’ll be an adventure. Just a few things I need to get straight before I agree to this, though:
- I really like to wash my hands a lot, and I will not go to the bathroom in a hole in the ground. We will need to confirm that our tent door can open directly into the door to the house with proper bathrooms.
- What about bears and coyotes? Let’s face it, by the time I go to bed, I will be pretty beer-marinated and tasty. What are we going to do to make sure I don’t get eaten?
- Speaking of bears, are we going to have to tie our stuff up in a tree? I’ve heard you should do that.
- What should I bring? A mess kit? We always had to take those when we went girl scout camping… in a cabin… Actually, I only did that maybe twice, I hated it so much. A Swiss army knife? What about a switch blade? I don’t have a Swiss army knife, but my grandpa did give me a switch blade for “protection” for Christmas one year. What about a bandana? I’m not sure what I’d do with that, but people camping in movies always have bandanas. And, all the Survivor castaways are always wearing bandanas. So, good idea?
MF: What?! You are crazy (side note, I’d like to think he means that adorable type of crazy, not “I’m slowly backing away now” type of crazy. Jury’s still out). All you need is a sleeping bag, and we’ll borrow a tent.
KB: A sleeping bag?!?! Do you have a sleeping bag!?
MF: Of course I have a sleeping bag! Don’t you have one?
KB: Why would I have a sleeping bag??
MF: For things like camping!
KB: …
MF: Right.
So. I’m going camping. People keep telling me that it’s not REAL camping, but I will be sleeping outside, in a tent in bear country. What more does it take to be REAL camping?? (Ok, the manfriend did send me multiple maps of where “bear country” actually is, and none of them overlapped with where I’ll be. Still. You never know. I’ve seen the news reports about bears coming closer and closer to civilization.)
The Lady of the Farm House has assured me that I may have full access to the bathrooms and, while she won’t be sleeping outside, she may not be sleeping at all, rather sitting beside the fire drinking much of the night. Now, THAT’S the type of camping I can get behind!
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Six months to land a man
About a month ago, I was diagnosed with a tumor on my optic nerve. I don’t know what it’s called or what kind it is because as soon as I heard “tumor,” my mind zeroed in on only that word, much like my vision may tunnel in on itself one day, apparently.
Well, maybe. I’m not sure what might happen, since the doctor was trying very hard to downplay the diagnosis until we know more about it. He didn’t laugh at my jokes that the receptionists thought were hysterical, though, so I didn’t take that as an especially good sign. His not thinking I was funny (me! The height of humor!) may have actually been worse than hearing the word "tumor." I mean, let's keep perspective here!
We won’t know more about it until they can measure the pictures of the thing, which were excruciating to have taken, against what it looks like in six months. The pictures were SUPER painful, but the ophthalmology residents milling around took pity and gave me candy. I’m pretty sure I ended up on top of that endeavor—like a toddler given a lollypop to make up for a shot.
There’s no reason to freak out until we know there’s a reason to freak out, right? Well, that’s what the doctor said, or a paraphrasing of what the doctor humorlessly said, at least.
The way I see it, however, I have the next five months to land a man and get him to fall madly in love with me. Let me tell you why: if the tumor is dangerous, treatment is definitely not going to make me more beautiful, at least not on a short-term basis.
Unless they’ve got a peg leg, guys in the bars, at least the ones I like to go to, are probably not going to flock to the girl with the eye patch. You can count on it, though, that if I do have to wear an eye patch, I will certainly play it up! I will go out with a parrot on my shoulder (stuffed, obviously, let’s not get crazy!) and a red bandana around my waist. I’ll also only pay for drinks with gold coins that I take out of a treasure box rather than a purse. And, I’m going to start working now on developing an affinity to rum drinks.
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!” Right?!
I’m not sure I’ll have to wear an eye patch. It might come down to chemo. Of course, I’m hypothesizing based mostly on my hypochondria, which I think the downplaying doctor would entirely endorse. Chemo, though, could result in some really excellent wigs. I think I’d try out red. Or! A different color every night! A guy will meet me as a blonde, ask me out, and a redhead would show up for the date. I'd convince him that he was confused about what color my hair was. It could be very, very amusing and produce a few good blog entries, which in itself would make the entire thing overwhelmingly worth it.
Maybe, though, my tumor will create a boyfriend hallucination for me. I mean, I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Izzy’s boyfriend hallucination made her very, very happy for a while!
All in all, I did catch that this type of tumor is very rare. And, it’s even rarer that it’s found to be cancerous or otherwise dangerous. The specialist I met with had only ever seen five of these, and none of them turned out to be anything to worry about. I’m seeing an even more specialized specialist in January to get the real deal of the thing, so I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted out then. No use getting nervous before that time. I’ve even resisted my usual urge to obsessively online diagnose. Sometimes that’s meant actually sitting on my hands.
In the meantime, my coworkers have taken to calling it my Apple iTumor. And, we’re hoping to develop some pretty awesome apps.
Well, maybe. I’m not sure what might happen, since the doctor was trying very hard to downplay the diagnosis until we know more about it. He didn’t laugh at my jokes that the receptionists thought were hysterical, though, so I didn’t take that as an especially good sign. His not thinking I was funny (me! The height of humor!) may have actually been worse than hearing the word "tumor." I mean, let's keep perspective here!
We won’t know more about it until they can measure the pictures of the thing, which were excruciating to have taken, against what it looks like in six months. The pictures were SUPER painful, but the ophthalmology residents milling around took pity and gave me candy. I’m pretty sure I ended up on top of that endeavor—like a toddler given a lollypop to make up for a shot.
There’s no reason to freak out until we know there’s a reason to freak out, right? Well, that’s what the doctor said, or a paraphrasing of what the doctor humorlessly said, at least.
The way I see it, however, I have the next five months to land a man and get him to fall madly in love with me. Let me tell you why: if the tumor is dangerous, treatment is definitely not going to make me more beautiful, at least not on a short-term basis.
Unless they’ve got a peg leg, guys in the bars, at least the ones I like to go to, are probably not going to flock to the girl with the eye patch. You can count on it, though, that if I do have to wear an eye patch, I will certainly play it up! I will go out with a parrot on my shoulder (stuffed, obviously, let’s not get crazy!) and a red bandana around my waist. I’ll also only pay for drinks with gold coins that I take out of a treasure box rather than a purse. And, I’m going to start working now on developing an affinity to rum drinks.
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!” Right?!
I’m not sure I’ll have to wear an eye patch. It might come down to chemo. Of course, I’m hypothesizing based mostly on my hypochondria, which I think the downplaying doctor would entirely endorse. Chemo, though, could result in some really excellent wigs. I think I’d try out red. Or! A different color every night! A guy will meet me as a blonde, ask me out, and a redhead would show up for the date. I'd convince him that he was confused about what color my hair was. It could be very, very amusing and produce a few good blog entries, which in itself would make the entire thing overwhelmingly worth it.
Maybe, though, my tumor will create a boyfriend hallucination for me. I mean, I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Izzy’s boyfriend hallucination made her very, very happy for a while!
All in all, I did catch that this type of tumor is very rare. And, it’s even rarer that it’s found to be cancerous or otherwise dangerous. The specialist I met with had only ever seen five of these, and none of them turned out to be anything to worry about. I’m seeing an even more specialized specialist in January to get the real deal of the thing, so I’m sure we’ll have it all sorted out then. No use getting nervous before that time. I’ve even resisted my usual urge to obsessively online diagnose. Sometimes that’s meant actually sitting on my hands.
In the meantime, my coworkers have taken to calling it my Apple iTumor. And, we’re hoping to develop some pretty awesome apps.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
It's a funny life, Charlie Brown
I once dated a guy named Charlie for a while. (Well, I dated him for a while. I’m pretty sure his name is probably still Charlie.) His last name, unfortunately, did not play well into my favorite name game.
But, if we had gotten married, I would have insisted that he take my name because then he would have been…
Yes.
CHARLIE BROWN!!
It was too good. One day, a bunch of friends and I were sitting around in fits of giggles fantasizing about what the wedding would be like:
The bridesmaids would wear yellow, tea-length, A-line dresses with big, black zigzags around the bottom.
I’d be walked down the aisle by a beagle.
The music would be played by someone on a tiny, tiny piano.
One of the groomsmen would carry around a threadbare blanket.
The minister would say much of the ceremony like this, “Mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah.”
Instead of those popular picture booths at the reception, there would be a “Doctor is IN” stand!
In place of flowers, there would be sad, little Christmas trees.
The altar would be a giant pumpkin!
Rather than shoving cake in each other’s mouths, he’d hold it, I’d pretend to go in for a bite and then not, and he’d fall flat on his face! (You know, like Lucy and the football.)
We’d ride away from the reception on a flying doghouse piloted by a little, yellow bird. No wait, that wouldn’t work.
Our kids would have had to be named Linus and Lucy.
Ha! It’s almost a shame it didn’t work out with Charlie Brown! Well, for the sake of the wedding, almost.
But, if we had gotten married, I would have insisted that he take my name because then he would have been…
Yes.
CHARLIE BROWN!!
It was too good. One day, a bunch of friends and I were sitting around in fits of giggles fantasizing about what the wedding would be like:
The bridesmaids would wear yellow, tea-length, A-line dresses with big, black zigzags around the bottom.
I’d be walked down the aisle by a beagle.
The music would be played by someone on a tiny, tiny piano.
One of the groomsmen would carry around a threadbare blanket.
The minister would say much of the ceremony like this, “Mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah.”
Instead of those popular picture booths at the reception, there would be a “Doctor is IN” stand!
In place of flowers, there would be sad, little Christmas trees.
The altar would be a giant pumpkin!
Rather than shoving cake in each other’s mouths, he’d hold it, I’d pretend to go in for a bite and then not, and he’d fall flat on his face! (You know, like Lucy and the football.)
We’d ride away from the reception on a flying doghouse piloted by a little, yellow bird. No wait, that wouldn’t work.
Our kids would have had to be named Linus and Lucy.
Ha! It’s almost a shame it didn’t work out with Charlie Brown! Well, for the sake of the wedding, almost.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I live in a romantic comedy, I’m sure of it!
A few weeks ago, I was in a blissful relationship—so delightful that I scheduled a romantic weekend away at a beautiful resort for myself and my adoring paramour. What fun! What romance! What love!
So, of course, the week before we were to leave for the glorious mini-vacation, he remembered a boys’ trip to a depravity-riddled, hard-partying, beach town. Apparently, this was a trip he preferred to my sun-soaked, love-filled, spa/beach/pool romantic getaway. And, that was the end of that.
Embracing the storyline of so many chick-lit books and romantic comedies, I gathered a couple really great girlfriends, who came with vital reinforcements like chocolate and champagne cocktails (which is, of course, part of what makes them so great!), and headed out for a delectable girls' weekend. Men be damned!
I should naturally have stumbled unwittingly onto the absolute love of my life, right? I mean, I’ve watched all the movies. That’s how it works. Of course, at first we probably wouldn’t get along; I’d be annoyed he stole the best pool chair as he taunted me from it, try to trip him as he cut in front of me at the bar or “accidently” knock him out of his flowering lotus pose as he tormented me from his strategically-placed-behind-mine yoga mat.
Alas, let me regale you with the types of guys I met instead. Please, if you see some romantic comedy-happy ending potential in any of them that I may have missed, feel free point it out! I’m certainly one to learn from missed opportunities!
• The guy who whispered in my ear what kind of talent he predicted I had in bed and received a swift knee to the groin (ok, the knee in the groin may have only happened in my head and was, in reality, actually a biting remark as I walked away)
• The guy who brought his own drinks to the bar in travel mugs and insisted he wanted to take me back to his friend’s boat—where his 14 year-old son was waiting—and who then moved on from me to hit on the girl not much older than his son who passed too nearby (like 20 feet) to have not caught his attention (he didn’t get far with her before her dad swooped in for the rescue. Good move, Dad.)
• The very talented keyboard player in the musical duo performing at the bar who was so stoned he almost missed the second set, wandering around the resort property
• The guy who got “knifed” outside of a respectable pizza place, who seemed to be leaving out several details of the incident and couldn’t keep the story straight in relaying it to us
• A few guys with two kids each, two of whom adored their wives (sweet, but not helpful to finding my romantic comedy costar) and one who indicated he did not adore his wife as much through his advances on us (skeezy, and no thank you)
It looks like my only hope is to cause a huge scene at a family function (my family’s or someone else’s; let’s not be picky!) a la Bridget Jones, 27 Dresses, My Best Friend’s Wedding (although that didn’t really work out romantically for her either), Sweet Home Alabama, Love Actually… The list goes on and on, and who am I to ignore such divine inspiration?!
Surely it’s only a matter of time before Paramount Pictures comes a-calling! I think I’d like Reese Witherspoon to play me.
So, of course, the week before we were to leave for the glorious mini-vacation, he remembered a boys’ trip to a depravity-riddled, hard-partying, beach town. Apparently, this was a trip he preferred to my sun-soaked, love-filled, spa/beach/pool romantic getaway. And, that was the end of that.
Embracing the storyline of so many chick-lit books and romantic comedies, I gathered a couple really great girlfriends, who came with vital reinforcements like chocolate and champagne cocktails (which is, of course, part of what makes them so great!), and headed out for a delectable girls' weekend. Men be damned!
I should naturally have stumbled unwittingly onto the absolute love of my life, right? I mean, I’ve watched all the movies. That’s how it works. Of course, at first we probably wouldn’t get along; I’d be annoyed he stole the best pool chair as he taunted me from it, try to trip him as he cut in front of me at the bar or “accidently” knock him out of his flowering lotus pose as he tormented me from his strategically-placed-behind-mine yoga mat.
Alas, let me regale you with the types of guys I met instead. Please, if you see some romantic comedy-happy ending potential in any of them that I may have missed, feel free point it out! I’m certainly one to learn from missed opportunities!
• The guy who whispered in my ear what kind of talent he predicted I had in bed and received a swift knee to the groin (ok, the knee in the groin may have only happened in my head and was, in reality, actually a biting remark as I walked away)
• The guy who brought his own drinks to the bar in travel mugs and insisted he wanted to take me back to his friend’s boat—where his 14 year-old son was waiting—and who then moved on from me to hit on the girl not much older than his son who passed too nearby (like 20 feet) to have not caught his attention (he didn’t get far with her before her dad swooped in for the rescue. Good move, Dad.)
• The very talented keyboard player in the musical duo performing at the bar who was so stoned he almost missed the second set, wandering around the resort property
• The guy who got “knifed” outside of a respectable pizza place, who seemed to be leaving out several details of the incident and couldn’t keep the story straight in relaying it to us
• A few guys with two kids each, two of whom adored their wives (sweet, but not helpful to finding my romantic comedy costar) and one who indicated he did not adore his wife as much through his advances on us (skeezy, and no thank you)
It looks like my only hope is to cause a huge scene at a family function (my family’s or someone else’s; let’s not be picky!) a la Bridget Jones, 27 Dresses, My Best Friend’s Wedding (although that didn’t really work out romantically for her either), Sweet Home Alabama, Love Actually… The list goes on and on, and who am I to ignore such divine inspiration?!
Surely it’s only a matter of time before Paramount Pictures comes a-calling! I think I’d like Reese Witherspoon to play me.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Carbon monoxide poisoning is NOT the way I’m going to go
I have seen enough of those videos of gas stations blowing up to know that cell phones and gas do not mix. Before you point out that those videos are likely not real, let me in turn remind you that rational deduction has rarely made an appearance on this blog.
So, of course, one night when I was pretty sure my apartment was quickly filling up with carbon monoxide I was desperately torn between a need to use my cell to call emergency rescue personnel and visions of blowing up my apartment like all those gas stations.
It was 4:00 in the morning and my gas-powered water heater snapped into action. When I say “snapped into action,” it doesn’t fully convey what the water heater powering on sounded like. It actually sounded like a 350 pound linebacker (I think? Is that the position?) lowering his shoulder and running full speed into the thing. You can imagine my alarm when I was awoken out of a deep sleep by such an explosion!
After the explosion, as I will forever continue to call it, I began to smell gas. We all know they infuse that smell into gas so that people can be alerted to its presence. Gas is DEADLY!! Panic set in as I imagined my death by asphyxiation. So, I called the emergency maintenance number. The person who answered said they would call the maintenance guy on call, who would call me to let me know he was on his way. No!! Don’t call me back! That could be disastrous!
Of course fearing the aforementioned fireball my apartment would certainly turn into when the static electricity spark of my cell phone ringing ignited the gas in the air, I had a shining moment of brilliance! If I continuously rubbed myself, my phone and my bed down with dryer sheets, it would eliminate the static!
I. Am. A. Genius!
So that you can truly visualize the scene the maintenance guy—the hero come to rescue me from probable incineration or fatal carbon monoxide poisoning—walked into, I should probably admit that I was wearing red flannel pajamas that had crabs wearing Santa hats all over them with the phrase “Sandy Claws” repeated over and over (and it was nowhere near Christmas). So, there I was sitting in bed, wearing crazy-ridiculous pajamas, dryer sheets in both hands furiously running them all over myself.
The guy looked at me, stifled a laugh, checked the water heater, turned around, looked at me like an idiot and explained that the water heater works much like a gas stove.
“You can smell gas when you turn on a gas stove, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Even if there isn’t a gas leak?”
A more sheepish, “Yes.”
“So… I’m going to go.”
“O… K...”
I went out the next day and bought a carbon monoxide detector and slept with the windows open for a month, in the dead of winter, just to be safe.
So, of course, one night when I was pretty sure my apartment was quickly filling up with carbon monoxide I was desperately torn between a need to use my cell to call emergency rescue personnel and visions of blowing up my apartment like all those gas stations.
It was 4:00 in the morning and my gas-powered water heater snapped into action. When I say “snapped into action,” it doesn’t fully convey what the water heater powering on sounded like. It actually sounded like a 350 pound linebacker (I think? Is that the position?) lowering his shoulder and running full speed into the thing. You can imagine my alarm when I was awoken out of a deep sleep by such an explosion!
After the explosion, as I will forever continue to call it, I began to smell gas. We all know they infuse that smell into gas so that people can be alerted to its presence. Gas is DEADLY!! Panic set in as I imagined my death by asphyxiation. So, I called the emergency maintenance number. The person who answered said they would call the maintenance guy on call, who would call me to let me know he was on his way. No!! Don’t call me back! That could be disastrous!
Of course fearing the aforementioned fireball my apartment would certainly turn into when the static electricity spark of my cell phone ringing ignited the gas in the air, I had a shining moment of brilliance! If I continuously rubbed myself, my phone and my bed down with dryer sheets, it would eliminate the static!
I. Am. A. Genius!
So that you can truly visualize the scene the maintenance guy—the hero come to rescue me from probable incineration or fatal carbon monoxide poisoning—walked into, I should probably admit that I was wearing red flannel pajamas that had crabs wearing Santa hats all over them with the phrase “Sandy Claws” repeated over and over (and it was nowhere near Christmas). So, there I was sitting in bed, wearing crazy-ridiculous pajamas, dryer sheets in both hands furiously running them all over myself.
The guy looked at me, stifled a laugh, checked the water heater, turned around, looked at me like an idiot and explained that the water heater works much like a gas stove.
“You can smell gas when you turn on a gas stove, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Even if there isn’t a gas leak?”
A more sheepish, “Yes.”
“So… I’m going to go.”
“O… K...”
I went out the next day and bought a carbon monoxide detector and slept with the windows open for a month, in the dead of winter, just to be safe.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Take that!
I found a gray hair the other day so as an F' you to Father Time and aging I went out without wearing a bra. No one could tell. Take that, age!!
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