Dorothy's Shot at the Geezer Games

“Child, you're talking to a man who's laughed in the face of death, sneered at doom, and chuckled at catastrophe... “ – Wizard of Oz, 1939

I am living with an Olympic star. I can’t really express how good it feels to be so close to fame. Like it somehow managed to grace me too, being adjacent to stardom. People say that fame is fleeting, transparent. These people have never felt it. It they did, they wouldn’t downplay its toxicity.

I’m on a cloud.

It started a couple of years ago. My husband Pants has always managed to squeeze into conversations that he was the greatest discus thrower there ever was (weren’t we all in our sport of choice? Mine was softball, and man, was I the best first baseman who ever set foot on the Livermore High School Cowboy baseball field, just ask me). Pants would throw out terms like, “All American” and “Top Seed” and “Buffed”, but I never paid too much attention because everyone had a story that was similar, including yours truly. I happened to win the Boosters award in high school for sportsmanship and best practice attendance. I do recall some years later that the winning had something to do with the fact that I raised the most money selling $1 dollar candy bars. (Leaving them in the fridge for my dad when he came home from work was a classic marketing strategy on my part, I must admit. After a month, I had submitted my twenty empty candy bar boxes along with a large $400 check payable to the Livermore Boosters, signed with regret from my dear old dad, add to that a $200 root canal and that was some expensive bankrolling back in the 80's.

When Pants began perusing the Internet for discs as a 49 year old, I became a little nervous. I smelled his mid life crisis from across the kitchen, as I glanced over his shoulder at the computer.

I asked politely, why he was pissing our money away, and on what.

“Oh, I thought I would pick up the sport again just for you know, a hobby.”

I imagined that at this point, Pants was grasping for a past that was too good to let go. Like the all star high school quarterback that just couldn’t get over the fact that he was balding and walked with a limp.

I worried for Pants. I worried for us.

Two weeks later, a large box arrived at our front door step which was too heavy for me to open. I left it on the porch for when Pants returned from work. He walked around it for a week.

When he finally lugged it inside, it was covered in dust.

He stared inside the open box.

I nudged him out of the way and pulled out the unexpectedly heavy discs and noticed at the bottom of the box a pair of bright red sparkly shoes staring back at me.

Uh, his order was a mistake. His track shoes were supposed to be black. (Yeah, right, the Internet is to blame for most of the world’s major hiccups.)

“Okay, Dorothy, let’s see what you got!” Yack and I were at the high school across from our house watching for the first time, our patriarch in all of his high school glory warming up for a big throw. I remember feeling slightly embarrassed, like I was watching Chevy Chase taking another run at stand up.

And then Pants flipped around in a full circle and changed our lives.

We found ourselves in Manteca last year with a bunch of old guys. There were runners and javlen throwers, and shot putters and high jumpers. And they were all old.

Except for Pants.

Technically, you have to be 50 years old to be a Senior Olympic competitor, and technically, Pants was 50 plus two months. Our family must have looked a little out of place with our young son yelling, “Go Daddy” through the chain link but I didn’t care. I was now a full fledged supporter of Dorothy. I wanted him to beat all of these old pot bellies who took this shit too seriously.

And did my Dorothy succeed that day. He came in first place, and was headed to greatness – he qualified for the state championships, “The Pasadena games”. But life got in the way of my man’s goals. His daughter was graduating from high school and we just couldn’t make it work. Besides, how could you justify that? “Great job on graduating, honey. We are so proud of you. Can’t make it to the ceremonies, though. Gotta go toss in the Geezer Games.”

Yeah, not good parenting on our part if we went for it. There would always be next year.

Cut to May 2010. Pants and I skirted out of a political fundraiser early so he could compete in the Manteca games yet again, hoping to qualify this time since no one that we knew of was graduating. And even though we probably should have stayed at the fundraiser as it was a work thing and all (playing golf is such a chore sometimes), we decided to make a run for it. And run we did. We were 45 minutes late, and Pants almost didn’t get to throw. But with a little pleading, and without any practice tosses, they let him compete.

Now you might be wondering how often Pants practiced between the years of 2009 and 2010. Well, let me put it this way – I can count on one hand, maybe.

“See that long haired gray guy with the hunch? That’s my competition. He took “state” last year.” Pants was whispering in my ear as he gripped a Dorothy shoe, stretching his thigh.

“This might be tough.” I could tell Pants was nervous, but I also know being married to him that stress kicks him into high gear and acts as a motivator for him to succeed. Warning: do not try to beat him at the following: ping pong, sprinting, thumb wrestles, or lobbying. He pretty much wins everytime.

Let me cut to the chase here. Pants kicked major boot. He didn’t come in first, thanks to Jeff Bridges, but he did qualify.

Pasadena here we come.

As I was packing a suitcase, Pants made the case that Yack and I should probably stay home since I was coming home from a conference in Vegas that evening (ugh!) and we would have to get a hotel room, and Yack is not really plane savvy, (sorry to those who were sitting in rows D, E and F, seats 30-36 on Hawaiian Airlines Flight 2733 to Maui last December), so we decided to stay home and send our good luck vibes to Dorothy via text and cell phone.

I received the following text exactly six hours after he pulled out of the drive way:

"Hi love, I just disqualified my third throw."

How was I supposed to respond to that? He only had four throwing opportunities and I was getting frustrated by his lack of focus. Was he a man or a mouse? This was the time where the mid life crisis juices were supposed to start flowing.

So, I didn’t respond to the text. I figured that I would shower him with unconditional love and affection when he got home and maybe make him a nice meal. I wondered what losers liked to eat.

An hour later, I received this text:

"How much is gold going for these days?"

I called immediately. He answered immediately. And then explained that his fourth throw beat out his competition, that he came in first place. We were headed for the big leagues – the Nationals.

We are all headed to Houston Texas next year, where the National Geezer Games will be heald, and where the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.

Annie Get Your Gun

Preamble: I am breaking two codes of blogging conduct. First, I am using real names here, because what better title for a cop named Annie, than Annie get your Gun? Second, I am going to be using some profanity to describe Annie. It’s the only way. You’ll see. I offer no apology.

I met Annie the Cop five years ago. It was love at first sight. During our initial meeting, she fed me copious amounts of red wine and told me about her “beat”. She’s a motorcycle cop in the bay area and has come across some of the meanest snakes around. But when they are confronted by Annie, they turn into crying little whistleblowers – mushy puddles of oatmeal ready to rat out their bosses. She scoffs, “Haven’t these turds ever seen The Band of Brothers?”

Annie and her husband, we will call him the Half Salvadorian have a cabin near ours in the foothills of Gold Country. Pants and the Half Salvadorian work together, although Pants isn’t a cop, he does the easy part – he speaks for them at the Capitol. We spend weekends with Annie and the Half Salvadorian up in the mountains letting the stresses of the week be diluted by the wine we drink. This is where I lean in towards Annie, both arms propping up my chin, hanging on every word. I even try to impress her with my tough girl ways. “I hit a guy in the head with a plastic bag carrying my gym shoes in seventh grade because he wouldn’t let me in the band room.” Annie acts impressed but I know she’s not. She has flattened men who have done worse with just one look. And we both know I don’t have nearly the cajones to do what she does. Although I talk a good game.

Annie the Cop is a badass. She’s got guns for arms and under the smile, she has a side winder stink-eye glance that could make any gang banger run for his mama. She also rides mountain bikes, and even though it’s my favorite sport, I am reluctant to join her knowing that I will not only be eating her dust, but trying to follow the bread crumbs back to the car.

One recent night, Annie shared that she had done several stints as an undercover. I pelted her with questions, teenage-girl-style.

“Tell me about your sting operation.”
“Did you have to pull your gun?”
“How did you not crack a smile?”
“Were you scared?”
“Did you have backup?”
“Did you catch the guys?”
“Were you wired?”
“Were you scared?”

Annie the Cop answered me pointedly: “I was a bit scared. I was busting up a drug-prostitution-bad-boy ring. If I cracked, I was likely dead. Yes, I had backup. Yes, I was wired. Yes, we caught the guys. And yes, I was a little scared. But the worst part about it was the high heels I had to wear. I don’t know how you do it.” She stared down at my feet, as my bread loaves stuffed in party hats throbbed for some relief. I slipped off my four inchers when Annie wasn't looking. Suddenly, those CFM shoes just didn't seem as cool in Annie's presence.

I began thinking about how scared I would be if I were undercover like Annie the Cop. I would probably need to wear a pair of Depends, along with a bullet proof vest, just to drown out the sound of my Tommie Lee drum beating heart. Oh, and truck loads of deodorant for my underarms, my knees, the inside of my thighs. (yeah, pathetic, I know). Ear plugs for the ringing, baby powder for the palm sweats, a hair brush for the massive follicle failure, a psychiatrist for the drugs to help me cope, a dog because I hear those are good for post pardom. In fact, it would be less money and heartache to keep those perps in working rotation instead of having someone like me do what Annie does.

Annie the Cop is rather tolerant of my obsessive curiosity into her profession. But it’s not just “being a cop” that fascinates me. It’s the fact that Annie is a cop. Imagine a woman who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Add a beautiful bod (sorry, but true) face, an infectious laugh, an inspiring marriage with the Half Salvadorian ball and chain, and a personality that almost forces you to try to impress her. And there you have what I call a fascination. Is that inappropriate? If so, I don’t care, because it’s true.

I consider Annie the Cop my friend. I have a goal to get to know her better – I hope she doesn’t think that’s too weird knowing that my mission is purely selfish. I like hearing about how she’s roughed up some a-hole who shoved his fist into his wife’s abdomen. I also like the fact that she packs heat. This somehow adds to her mystic.

I have never asked her if she has been packin’ during our weekend de-stressers when we are shootin’ the shit.. no pun intended. But maybe the next step in our relationship will be for me to ask her if I can see her gun and maybe touch it. I assume that my request is against some police protocol, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.

And can you imagine if she obliges, what that will do to my street cred? I can actually go around to my pansy ass non-cop friends and tell them, “hey bitches, I got to touch Annie’s gun.”

An Equitable Trade

Several months ago I received a letter from the State Controller’s Office who informed me that I have some type of unclaimed property in his possession and that I should do what I can to claim it. I thought this letter had something to do with my request to interview Mr. Controller for a magazine for which I am a guest writer. So I thought it was odd that the letter was sent to my home instead of my work. Quick flashes of needing to find another interview subject smattered my psyche’s to do list and I was instantly in a foul mood. Alas, as I opened the letter, I quickly determined that I was wrong…

Oh, looky here. What could this type of property be? A pony that my grandfather left for me before he died? An ocean side bungalow that was left for me by an admiring aunt I didn’t know existed? Not knowing how to really read official documents from the Government had my head spinning with possibilities. I folded the letter up and took it to work… where I forgot about it… for two months.

I decided to clean out my car about a month ago after my son had thrown goldfish at my head while I was driving. As I took the industrial vacuum at the car wash to floorboards where pennies, dirt, goldfish and paper were abundant, I noticed that the vacuum had snagged on a letter that had gotten lodged in between my seat and the console. It took a bit of force to pull that piece of paper out of the sucking force of the hose, but I did it. And I unfolded the letter. What’s this? It was stained with red wine (how did that happen in the car?) and was frayed at the edges. I wasn’t sure what this document was as I had forgotten the excitement it originally conjured up inside of me. Oh, right. I have a pony waiting for me. I have to remember to call this number on the letter. I wrote down a reminder on the letter and stuffed it back in between my seat and console.

Another month went by. This time, I had pulled over to the side of the road during a long road trip, attempting to appease my son as he lost a ping pong ball he was throwing at my head as I drove. The ball had managed to roll under my seat, and being the responsive (and guilty) mom that I am, I retrieved it so he could resume hitting me in the head as we drove down highway 4. Alas, that same stained Controller letter was under my seat. Same wine stain, same frayed edges, but this time it had dirt, juice and footprint stains to accompany everything else I put this letter through.

Ah yes, my pony. I read the reminder that I had written on the top right of the letter: CALL THIS GUY. And decided that I should probably put it in my purse because I take my purse everywhere, well everywhere if I am wearing a matching outfit. It not, the purse stays in the car. (Maybe that’s why my car has been broken in to four times in the past year. I need to match my outfits with my purse more regularly). Anyway, the purse, and letter, eventually made it to my office. That was a week ago. And since today was the day I had to find that business card of the guy I talked to a month ago about some work stuff, I cleaned out my purse, looking for that guy’s contact info. And as luck would have it, I found the Controller letter again.

Ah yes, my pony. I picked up the phone and dialed the barely legible number. It took me three tries. (Is that an 8 or a 6? Could be a 3.)

I was greeted by an automated message: If you are calling about unclaimed property, please include the letter that the Controller sent you in an email to blah blah blah at blah blah dot com. I had to call back to get the email right at least twice.

I put the letter in my inbox with a note: SCAN THIS DOC. Granted, my inbox is pretty sky high these days. Which reminds me, I have to review a couple of things for work before I get to scanning the Controller’s document, which I will eventually..

But I have been thinking about a different approach. Maybe I will write Mr. Controller a letter instead of going through all the trouble of getting my pony. Maybe I will conduct a little quid pro quo to save me time and him some effort and money in coming up with gifts for friends and family. Maybe my letter will read something like this:

Dear State Controller:
I received your letter on November 3, 2009 regarding some of my unclaimed property. Tell you what, you let me interview you for my magazine and I’ll let you keep the pony. Think about it: the pony would be a rockstar gift to a young son or daughter at Christmas. I imagine that you aren’t spending a lot of time at home with the fam due to your very demanding schedule. This is an ideal way to raise your approval rating with the brood. P.S. I will even include pictures of the pony in the interview piece.
I’m willing to talk.
-The Brown Knows.

Attack of the Clippers

I have some deficiencies when it comes to mothering. I fully admit this having “mothered” two step kids, albeit on a part time basis, and now my own bio child for almost two and a half years, also on a part time basis. Thank God for Nena, caregiver-God Mother extraordinaire. If it weren’t for her guidance, oversight and hand holding, my kid, Yack would be facing some serious therapy in his later years. That’s not to say he still may face life long challenges, considering the fact that I have full responsibility for him in the morning, evening, and weekends. There’s a lot of damage I can do within that limited time frame, and unfortunately, I have exhibited some bad parenting choices well beyond my allotted amount.

Take last Wednesday for example. It was just Yack and Mom for a night that included a dinner consisting of chickenless chicken nuggets, and alligator juice (this is a “pet” term for what I call the pea green vegetable juice – the only legitimate way to get those vitamins in his system). After dinner, we played hide and seek, indoor basketball and air guitar to his favorite song, La Bamba (that didn’t come from me). Pants was away at work on this particular evening and wasn’t going to get home until after Yack went to bed. I was left alone unsupervised with my boy. Some may look at this as eminent danger. I call it bonding.

Up to last Wednesday, Pants and I have made a concerted effort to cut back on frivolous expenses due to the economy being what it is. I now house keep, dog walk, pet groom and garden – chores I would rather pay someone else to do. Alas, this new found frugality has become a small obsession of mine with a few exceptions – organic food, cool art, and my kids’ “immediate needs”. For my step daughter this includes walking around money at Chico State, and for my step son, this includes tuxedo rentals for prom. And up to this point, this also included professional haircuts for Yack.

I had planned on taking Yack in to get a professional trim on that Friday, which would put me back around 25 bucks. This includes tip. This also includes a resentment I have for these strip mall shops that cater to kids with candy, and cartoons during the cut while these kids sit in seats that are made to look like cars or horses or if you’re really lucky a bucking bull. Granted, Yack’s crying is at a minimum as the Wiggles dance before him, but 25 bucks? I would rather pocket the money and take clippers to my kid’s head. In fact, that’s exactly what I did.

It was about 7:30 p.m. and bath time. Yack was getting undressed with my assistance, and his bangs were flopping in his face. I thought about two things as I brushed the mop out of his eyes. One, I can’t wait until Friday to take him in and two, there’s no way I am going to part with 25 bucks to minimize his whimpers. Pants would certainly applaud me for my cost cutting measures. Besides, I had seen Pants cut Yack’s hair on one other occasion with those easy to use clippers. How hard could this be, really?

I ran downstairs – Yack was in a diaper playing in his room totally oblivious to my little one time experiment. I grabbed the clipper box and whizzed back upstairs, singing, “Oh Yack, mommy is going to cut your hair. Do you want a jelly bean?” Candy is the perfect bribe to get kids to do just about everything – something I vowed never to do as a mother. I realized in short order that I am no good at reasoning with a two year old. He wins without the jelly beans. Every time.

He danced into the bathroom ready to be clipped and sat still on the toilet seat. I could go on to describe how he wouldn’t sit still, prohibiting me from keeping a straight edge, but that would be a lie.

Yack sat motionless as I fumbled around the clipper box. There were many different parts which confused me greatly. I didn’t want to waste my time trying to figure out what part went on the thingy that plugged into the wall. So, I picked up the “unguarded” clippers and went for the bangs. I have since learned what a clipper guard is, thanks to my irate husband after seeing the aftermath of my accident.

And yes, it was clearly an accident, which as one can tell by looking at him, that I stopped when I realized what I had done. I giggled in laughter after I butchered my poor son’s head. Nervous laughter. Laughter that royally ticked off Pants. “How could you do this to Yack? How could you think this is funny?” Well, dear husband, I don’t think it’s funny. I think I am an idiot who needs a quick lesson in clipper operation. No, wait. Forget that. I will never get near my son’s head with clippers in my hand, so no need to learn. I will freely pay the 25 smacks next time.

Some have asked why I don’t just take Yack in and shave off his entire head of hair. There are a couple of reasons why I have resisted, none of which have to do with money. First off, the “shave” is too close, as if one were shaving her (or his) legs. Because I did not have a guard on the clippers, the strip on the top of his head is like a baby’s bottom. He would be completely bald if I were to have his entire head shaved to match. And lastly, and most significantly, the comb over that he is sporting right now just might be the new fashion trend that puts Yack on the map in terms of cool. Mark my words.

Don't Speak For Me

I recently read an article in one of my favorite guilty pleasures. The magazine shall remain nameless not because I want to protect its bad choices in topics, or save it from tumbling into extinction, rather saving myself the embarrassment of admitting I read such crap. Oh, and by the way, I do read real books by real authors, but I will save my eclectic and sophisticated repoitoire for another time.

The article seeped under my skin. I have been quietly obsessing about it for two days. It was written by a famous actress who was giving advice to men about what we liked. “We” as if she were speaking on my behalf because we both have the same genitalia. (Not the same size necessarily, as she wears a bra size you can’t find in the full figured section of Target, and wears panties smaller than the petites you find in the little girl’s section on the other side of the store). So, this caricature of a woman believes that she’s of the authority to speak on behalf of all women. “This is what we expect out of you, boys, so listen up because I’m hot and on T.V. and if you fantasize about me, you need to know the ground rules." Yeah, whatever.

Do I sound bitter? It’s because I am – I strongly disagree with everything she proclaims in her advice column and the fact that she is drop dead gorgeous adds to my distain. Let’s dissect, shall we?

Her first assertion is that “WE” love your body – your potbelly, everything. Even if you’re insecure about something. She goes on to write that WE embrace everything because it’s you. That’s sweet and all, but I call B.S. If my dear husband were to find the 30 pounds that he lost eight years ago, I wouldn’t “love it because it’s you.” I would stick a SugerBusters book in his face and start feeding him tofu for breakfast. And I’m not the only one who feels this way. My mother is constantly hounding my father about the amount of food he shovels in his mouth, she subconciously picks his ear hair, and tells him he needs to shave if it’s been a couple of days. I know other women who feel the same way, but will keep them out of my thesis.

Boobylicious' second assertion is that WE remember forever what you say about the bodies of other women. In other words, comment on a pretty girl, we will remember what you said, how you said it and what you were wearing at the time. Now, this I can agree with. If Pants makes comments about women around town, I have been known to put that piece of vital information into a steel box, but Ms. Advice Columnist believes that we do so because it’s about learning what you think is sexy and how we might be able to convey it. “It’s about keeping our man by knowing what he likes.”

Wrong. We remember this tidbit of information should this woman’s name come up a second time. In which case we then conduct a name search on your email account when you are taking a nap, just to make sure that there are no indiscretions. Emulation has nothing to do with remembering these types of comments about other women. We have no desire to be like her. We do have a desire to cause her bodily harm if we find that you are cavorting with her via the Internet.

This famous knowitall, goes on to demand that you should never complain about our friends – even if we do. “You are not to pile on”. Well, I say that if you don’t agree with us and add a few “yeses” and “you’re right, she has been acting crazy lately”, we will draw the conclusion that you know something we don’t and your email will be checked again while you are napping. Always join in when we are frustrated. It brings us closer together as partners.

“Remember what we like”, she goes on. This one actually started off on the right foot but lost me towards the end. “Listen to us, do research and then surprise us with a gift that pertains to something we mentioned several months ago.” Okay, I don’t know about you, but I have a tendency to change my mind pretty frequently and if you don’t check in to see if I still think that new WII Fitness is the shizzle, you may be out $300. It sounded good at the time, but walking up the stairs to our office instead of taking the elevator is the only exercise we can fit in these days. In fact, we may not even be using the word, “shizzle” anymore to describe our glee.

Here’s a doozy: “We want you to order Scotch. It’s the most impressive drink order. It’s classic.” According to who, Ms. Double Dees? Last time I checked a good old fashioned Guinness worked just fine, and a Pacifico and a Margarita and a martini and a regular old diet Coke. Besides, why would I care what you drink as long as you drink enough to find me attractive at the end of the night. Also, Scotch smells bad on your breath and doesn’t really go well when you’re dancing the Humpty Hump.

The article wouldn’t have been true to its clichéd form if she had left out the passé advice of: “Stand up, open a door, offer a jacket.” I acknowledge that chivalry is an endangered species but let’s apply it across genders. I will gladly open a door for you if I see your hands are full. Rarely do I show up in the rain and snow without a jacket, and if you stand up in a meeting when I enter the room, it will only show that I am very late and will embarrass me further.

Here’s the one that had me bundling up the magazine for burning later: “No man should be on Facebook. I don't need to know what you're doing.” I’m sorry, 14 year old boy booty, but you are so far off the mark here. What’s wrong with being a male and being on Facebook? Frankly, I personally find status updates of my male friends to be enlightening and sweet and sometimes hilarious. Recently, Pants posted a status update that read: Love this quote of the day, "after ending his sixth marriage, rocker Greg Alman says that he's starting to think it might have something to do with him". Now that’s funny. So funny that I came home from work that night and asked him if he wanted me to make him dinner, because he deserved it because he’s so funny. It goes without mentioning that Faceboook is also a great way to spy on your significant other in order to fulfill the requirements outlined above.

This brainiac ended this stellar one-pager by writing: you don’t understand the power of your own smell. “We are with you partly because we love the way you smell.” While this can be true some of the time, I beg to differ after my husband eats a burrito or ice cream – he’s lactose intolerant. Then I don’t really like his smell and contrary to what this woman’s intent is, will not “suddenly get light headed over your smell.” It’s intoxicating, yes, but not the way this woman means it.

The next time these magazine editors want an honest assessment of how “WE” think about the world, and what advice or observations WE can give to men, here's a little advice: don’t go picking some cherry-eating trollop whose cleavage runs right up her nose and into her brain.

Happy Anniversary, Pants.

Is it totally goofy to be professing one’s love to their spouse on the world wide web? I could probably muster up the words and just tell him how I feel after four years of marriage and eight years of togetherness (absent those 3 months when I left to go look for my lost mind). But knowing how I operate, it would likely come out all garbled with a capper of “oh, and can you run the dishwasher before you come upstairs?” My expressions are more organized on paper.

So, dear Pants here goes my heart:

When I first found myself falling in love with you (30 el bees lighter and three years after I met you), I remember telling you in a downtown parking garage that you were my blue print. It was after one of those late sushi nights where you and I kept each other’s loneliness in check. I knew then that you were kind of into me too because you hated sushi. But you saw how the slippery slimy food made me dance in my chair and that was enough for you. Besides, there’s always teriyaki.

I recall thinking that night as our knees toughed under the sushi bar, that the gap between our ages was too much for me, along with your new divorce proceedings, oh and the fact that you already had children. All of it added up to mean one thing: that I will find someone just like you but without the strikes.

But the everyday pull to text you, email you, to call you, to make excuses to run into you was too overwhelming for me to ignore. But that’s exactly what I continued to do. If I just spend more time with him, I can learn more about him, and therefore be able to look for the perfect prototype.

Yeah, right. Who was I kidding? Certainly not my mother. Definitely not my friends. My incessant chatter about you, Pants – what you were doing, wearing, what you said that made me laugh, how we played golf together, went to the movies, how we went mountain biking at night, played tennis at 1 a.m., how you bought me that GPS so I would get lost when I went snow shoeing. All of these stories got on my friends’ and family’s last nerve.

Just admit it already, Brown.

I’m in love with you, Pants. And since those uncertain, self-deceptive days of being in your presence, my love for you has grown.

It’s little things that still get my attention: two weeks ago, you were outside an office building downtown. You were talking to a colleague and you were wearing a blue pin striped suit with a dark red tie. Your hands were animated. As I watched you from across the street, my stomach tightened with excitement. Pants is my husband. He’s coming home to me tonight. That hunk of burning love, that hot George Clooney look alike is going to fall asleep next to me. ME!

Or how about the other night when you were working late? Without even asking if I had eaten, you brought me home a plate of ahi, and a side of wasabi. You placed it on the counter, said you loved me and went to change out of your suit. I dusted off the ahi before you made it back downstairs.

Another little thing: You feed my secret addiction of trashy magazines. I will find a People or US Weekly tucked away in the groceries you brought home after work. I read it in hiding before company comes over. You allow me that small guilty pleasure.

The most recent “little thing” was when we had planned on having a romantic night to celebrate our four year anniversary. I was on day number two of a work crisis and instead of jumping on me to get off the phone and be present in the moment, you cancelled our evening, took Yack and me out to dinner and allowed me the opportunity to stress, emote, freak out and overindulge in one two many Saki’s. You even drove us home.

Pants, I am still head over heels in love with you for the little things you do for me, but also for everything that you are. You are the pinnacle of this happy family. And because of you and our children, I feel like I must have shoveled large piles of sheep dung in a past life to be so fortunate in this one.

What an amazing blue print you turned out to be.

The She Devil - Creating a Monster

I have been duped. It’s a hard pill to swallow by admitting it, but I have been duped. I was a little fish swimming along in my April Fool’s pond and got suckered by an enticing worm on the edge of a fishing line.. and I bit. I not only bit, I held on for dear life until my April Fool’s Day joy seeped out of me like fish guts.
And April Fools will never be the same for me again.
Up until April 1, 2010, the coveted day was a true favorite. I attribute my enjoyment to my successes. I was good at April Fools’ Day. I wasn’t only good, I was stellar. Being one step ahead of friends and family was an art, and I had mastered it.
My obsession for pulling off the perfect prank started very young. I remember my dad busting into my room at 6 a.m. on 4/1 telling me to get up because the garage was on fire and we needed to get out of the house asap. Or the time he had a friend call the house phone, and he pretended to be talking to the principal about my bad behavior. I even recall a time my parents told me that school was cancelled that day only to be startled into reality with the pair of them yelling, “APRIL FOOOOLLLLS” at my bedroom door.
This went on for years until I took over. It was my turn to take the torch and carry on the bounties of a family trait that had thrived in our household for decades.
And so in college, I set up a friend to call my mother and tell her that she was a rental car representative and that her 18 year old daughter rented a car with a fake ID and they had apprehended the vehicle at the Candadian border. That really burned my mother a new one. I would like to think she's still licking her wounds.
Or what about the time I pretended to be a guy on the other side of campus and called my slightly desperate friend for a blind date. This being prior to cell phones, my friend had a nice little three day phone relationship with several boys of College 8’s second story dorm who happened to answer the pay phone in the hallway at any given time. I still owe those gentlemen a big thank you.
My friend was finally ready to meet the man of her dreams. Unfortunately, when she appeared at the coffee shop, hair quaffed, perfume wafting in the wind, she realized that the guy sitting at the outside picnic table under the umbrella smoking a cigarette with his hat on backwards, shades on, was actually me. That was a goodie.
Another memorable experience can only be explained by a member of my most distinctive and proud posse. You can find her ode here:

http://www.theuniverseisconspiringinmyfavor.com/2010/04/enjoy-your-special-day-amy.html

I pulled off some of my best work last year – April 1, 2009. Pants got a vasectomy about six months prior after Yack turned one year. I was done with pregnancy, done with babies, I had my Yack and my step kids and I was happy – a working mother who felt that juggling the number of balls she had in the air was “just right”. One more ball (kid), and everything could crumble around me. So, I sent Pants in to get the snip. Well, my dear old husband never went back and got tested to see if there was change left in the coin purse, if you know what I mean. And with any married couple we continued to carpet bomb without fear.. I mean, really, how often don’t those snips work? Anyway, the week prior to the blessed day, I had been complaining of nausea and stomach cramps and fatigue.
Pants questioned whether or not the procedure worked and was I "late"?.. Yes I am late, but how in the heck am I supposed to know if your snip worked? Do I look like a penis doctor to you?
On April 1, 2009, I persuaded my very wonderful, very reluctant pregnant friend to pee on a stick. I then presented it to him while he sat in my office after responding to a phone conversation that ended, “I really can’t talk to you about this over the phone. This is something that has to happen in person”.
I didn’t say anything, just shuffled the stick across the table and waited for him to read it. He was in shock.. sweat, eff bombs, and pacing were all symptoms of his reaction. Then, he realized that I wasn’t reacting the same way, sat down and asked, “well, how do YOU feel about it?” I responded with, “I don’t know how I feel, I mean, obviously I am not as excited as when I was pregnant with Yack.” He then said, “no kidding. I had a vasectomy because we didn’t want any more children.” I let my sinister side take over and allowed him to sweat for about 10-15 minutes and then I let him have it, “you have known me for 6 years and this is the greatest day of the year.”
He returned the favor by having our accountant tell us we owed well over the amount that we anticipated in taxes which made my knees buckle for a good spell, but the coincidence in this is the amount he joked about last year is the same amount we owe this year.
Cut to April 1, 2010. Boy did I have my day planned. I was going to have our financial advisor who also happens to be my firm and his firm’s financial advisor as well as some close friends who took our advice, to phone Pants up and indicate that he was now filing for bankruptcy and that he was leaving the country… oh, and here’s a new cell phone number where he can reach him, but don't pass it on to any "authorities". I imagined it having the same effect as a Berney Madolf situation. My plan was hatched.
At 6:30 that morning, the house phone rang. Pants answered. I was still dead to the world. He proclaimed that the phone was dead, and minutes later my cell phone began to ring. I picked it up immediately as it was my step daughter. Getting a call from her at 6:30 in the morning is alarming from the get-go. You see, Mik is in college – a Freshman. It took moving mountains to get her there and keeping her there up to this point as been a breeze, knock on wood. As with any college student, any call before noon is one you don’t want to receive, so I picked up ready to put my game face on and facilitate the fixing.. roommate issues? Bad grade in Astronomy? Not sure how to get over a wicked hangover? Mik feels it necessary to call her step mother with such dilemmas in life.
I answered the phone to screaming, crying, and panting. The conversation, albeit foggy, went something like this:
“Oh, Amy, I am in such big trouble. I am outside my dorm room right now. They did a random search of my dorm room and found a bunch of alcohol under my bed.”
My immediate thought went straight to the handbook guidelines I had read prior to her attending: “there shall be a no-tolerance policy at this university. Any alcohol or illegal substances found in the dormitories will result in an automatic removal of the living facilities and possible expulsion from the university.”
I thought of how we were going to get her out of this one. I have been known to be pretty understanding during my step daughter’s high school career and her real-life curve balls she has thrown me in the middle of the night. Most of those issues were about breakups, parties, getting out of trouble. I had answers for everything.
I didn’t have an answer for her this time, so I started asking questions:
Me, the Sucker: “Where are you right now?”
She-Devil: “Sob sob, I am standing outside my room. The chancellor wants to see me in his office immediately. Amy, I don’t know what to say.”
Sucker: “Is the alcohol yours?”
She-Devil: “No, it’s my roommate’s stash, but she is in there telling them that its’ mine.”
I hardly believed her because my dear step daughter, similar in nature to her step mother, may have dabbled in bad behavior once or twice at the institute of higher learning. So, likely she has a 40 to 50 percent ownership of the "stash".
Sucker: “Okay, Mik. Calm down. The best thing you can do right now is calm down.”
I knew at this moment that I needed to kick up my game, that this type of response wasn't going to get her anywhere and may in fact backfire. I needed a shower.
I turned on the water and stood with the phone glued to my ear as I listened to her sob. Hopeless, defeated.
I figured that I would get dressed, hop in the car and drive to her. This requires a level head and adult intervention. We’ll pull through this.
As the fog lifted from my mind and the morning sun pierced my eyes, I internally began to construct a game plan, not only to get her out of this dilemma with school officials, but more importantly, to run interference with her inevitably pissed off father.
She-Devil stopped crying, as if a faucet was immediately turned off. And in a low voice, with a hint of malevolence, she calmly whispered, “April Fool”.
After several regrettable outbursts, I finally calmed down, and began thinking about what this all meant. I had created a monster.
The She Devil then turned into a laughing hyena, and reminded me as I am just about to hang up on her, “You only have yourself to blame, Amy. I would have never gone out of my way to put you through all of this if you hadn’t been the mentor of my wicked ways.

Next time I see the She Devil, I must remember to tighten the bolts behind her ears.