To Me, You Are Perfect

When I was younger, I used to dream about my Prince Charming, my Mr. Darcy, my one true love. I knew there had to be the perfect man out there that would, swoon, love me just as I am. Romanticized visions of marriage and partnership danced in my head. Even doing the dishes together would be foreplay, I dreamt. Sweet wedded bliss meant a best friend and a lover all at once, no need for anyone else.

And it happened. I have an incredible husband. He loves me for me. Yes, yes, yes. It's everything I thought it could be. (Except for the dishes thing, obviously.) But now, as I get older, I'm understanding something that I didn't before. There is absolutely a need for others. All that time I spent seeking Mr. Right may well have been better spent fostering the relationships that I, stupidly, took for granted. Because who else offers us unconditional acceptance & companionship? Who else loves us just as we are?

Exactly. Our girlfriends. Our friend family. Our urban tribe.

Yes, of course, it makes sense that our focus is usually inward, on our own families, on the partnership that we've created within our own homes. But I will argue that nurturing those female friendships that we've come to depend on is also important. (And this isn't just a way for me to get my husband to agree that I need more Girls Nights Out. I mean, not completely.) They keep us sane, they keep us grounded, they keep us going.

And so today, let's raise a glass to all of the ladies in our lives that make it that much more sparkly. Here's to your hilarity and your drive and your swagger and your beauty and your brilliance. To the way you light up a room as you enter. To your unconditional support even when you disagree with us. Here's to your ability to admit fear & insecurity. Here's to your always knowing the right thing to say. To your bad dancing and mistake-making. To your amazing achievements and unbelievable fortitude. To your companionship and always spot-on advice. To your differing opinions and showing us that there is more than one right way. To your quiet strength and the way you speak up for what you know is right. Here's to always being there for each other. Here's to enduring both sun and rain.

Here's to you, you beautiful sparkling amazing you.

"This Didn't Play Like It Did In My Mind...."

This is how I picture it.
It feels like a short skirt/long jacket, 4 inch heel kind of day.  I do not wobble as I walk into the conference room. I am confident, holding my head high.  I command attention and respect from the start.  My presentation is perfect.  I am articulate.  I am the picture of professionalism.  I answer every question without missing a beat.  I convey my ideas and thoughts accurately. I react calmly to every differing opinion, collaborating effectively and productively.  I deserve a glass of champagne. 

This is how it happens.
It feels like a short skirt/long jacket, 4 inch heel kind of day.  Except it's raining and muddy so jeans and a hoodie are really more practical.  I trip over my rain boots as I walk into conference room, throwing off my confidence as well as my glasses.  My awkwardness commands attention.  My presentation is serviceable.  My face, of course, turns bright red as I begin speaking.  I stumble a bit.  I am the picture of nerves.  I answer every question in a long-winded way, confusing those who asked them further. I attempt to react calmly to differing opinions, but the redness of my face, neck and chest tell a different story.  I need a glass of water. 

This is how I picture it.
I walk into the event like I own it, wearing a little black dress and ass-lifting high heels.  Obviously, my legs look incredible.  I have a glass of wine in my hand, and I'm laughing along with others to the most hilarious story I just told.  He sees me before I see him.  I knew he'd be here, of course, and I'm ready to pick up our light banter, just slightly inappropriate flirting from our last meeting.  He sees me before I see him, and I turn & notice him.  A slow, super sexy smile moves over my red lips, and we begin a conversation that seems to last for days.  Captivating and charming, I am completely in control. 

This is how it happens.
I walk into the event cautiously because my dress is too short and my heels are too high.  Obviously, my legs look a little bit pasty.  I see him before he sees me, and I haven't even had time to have a sip of wine yet.  My face immediately turns red.  Totally & completely red.  He greets me, and I say hello, but I can't quite make eye contact.  I turn to talk to others instead, but the story I begin completely misses.  I laugh nervously and avoid looking at him because there's nothing else to do.  He asks me a question, and I slowly turn my red face toward him.  We begin a conversation that seems to last for 3 minutes.  Nervous and awkward, I am blowing my cover.

This is how I picture it.
I am running and running and running, light on my feet, barely breaking a sweat.  I've got the eye of the tiger and I'm running the world and I'm your teenage dream.  5, 6, 7, 8 miles, this is easy for me. Na na na na na, you can't catch me, fear!

This is how it happens.
I am running and walking and jogging and walking, red-faced and sweaty.  I'm bootylicious and I'm all about that bass and I'm making the rockin' world go round.  1, 2, 3, 4 miles, this isn't easy, nothing will ever be easy again.  Fear and self-doubt, catch me if you can!  Oh, shit.

And yet, and yet, and yet, I'm surprised every time.

The Scariest Halloween Tale You'll Ever Read

Quiet now, Gentle Reader, and I'll tell you the tale of the scariest Halloween ever.  Consider yourself warned.   

It was Halloween 2010, and it was dark & stormy night in Seattle.  While usually this is a quiet night amongst ghouls and goblins (they consider it "amateur hour"), this year was a little different.  This year, the wickedness in all of them couldn't be contained.  And so, the witches & the warlocks, the ghoulies and the ghosts, and one Pilot and his Stewardess, in search of tricks and treats and mini-bottles of alcohol, stormed the streets of Ballard wreaking havoc on the bars and restaurants, but mostly on themselves. Please ensure that your seatbelts are fastened for takeoff.  Smoking is allowed on this flight.

Like so many fallen horror film friends before them, this Pilot and his Stewardess went ahead and broke every rule out there.  Everything from the Bad Idea In Order To Survive Playbook was put into action.  Every mistake was made.  Everyone knew danger was lurking, but no one listened. Instead, they drank, smoked, had unprotected sex Just This One Time, and drank and smoked some more.  They basically called out to the unknown monsters awaiting them, "Here we are! Come and get us!  We can't do anything to stop you!"

(Cue distant scream from an undisclosed location.)  They looked around, wondering who was crying out.  Seeing nothing, they went back to their wicked ways, unaware of the danger that was just on the horizon.

And then....9 months later....they finally realized where that scream was coming from.  And there were no Emergency Exits in sight. 

BOO!

Be safe out there, kids.  There is no turning back. 

Happy Halloween!

Smoke It If You Got It!

In honor of the opening of Seattle's first legalized pot shop a few weeks ago, I have decided to share with you some of my finer moments under the influence of this now-legal herb.  So sit back, relax, and have plenty of snacks ready to go.

Paranoia Sets In
The first time I got stoned, I was sitting on the back patio of my Mom's house in Plymouth with my girl friend who I will call Sally just in case she doesn't want to be associated with this story.  I had smoked before, but it's likely that I didn't inhale properly because that summer evening was definitely the first time I felt it.  Yep, as we sat on the peach-colored patio chairs, Michigan summer sun setting slowly, toking off our borrowed bowl because we clearly did not have our own paraphernalia, we got stoned.  We laughed our asses off too.  Until we heard the police sirens.  Sally thought it would be funny to tell me that the police were on to us, and they were probably coming to arrest us that minute.  Being the insane rule follower that I am & unable to correctly identify tone in my altered state, I totally freaked out.  My paranoia & freaking out then caused Sally to forget that she had, in the first place, been joking, and now SHE was also freaking out that the cops were after us for the tiny bag of shake we managed to procure - probably from one of our younger brothers.  We decided our best option was to head inside and HIDE under some blankets in the family room from the inevitable sting that was about to occur.  Forty-five minutes later, we were beginning to sober up.  In the world's first true A-HA moment, Sally remembered that, oh crap, she had actually just been joking around about the cops from the start!
Disaster averted, we went back to the patio to regain our buzz & then watched reruns of Quantum Leap for the rest of the night.

It's Jamaica, Mon
A few years later, I went to Jamaica on Spring Break with some of my sorority sisters.  I would like to clarify that we were not in the semi-nice part of Jamaica.  In fact, we were in the total not-nice part of Jamaica.  However, it was to our benefit that marijuana smugglers from my neighboring hometown of Livonia, Michigan also enjoy staying in the not-nice part of Jamaica.  Yes, Gentle Reader, it's true.  I met a real life drug smuggler from Michigan in the bar of our hotel.  And - surprise, surprise - he didn't mind sharing his stash with some college girls.  As long as we didn't mind sharing our fifth of banana rum.  (We didn't.)  Wisely, four of us girls went to his hotel room where he proceeded to roll joint after joint.  He would take a couple of tokes, decide that it was not smoking properly and would promptly throw it off the balcony.  This happened six or seven times before he finally rolled one that he felt good about.  Before leaving, he gave me a handful of pot to take with me.  "What should I do with it?" I asked.  "Put it in your pocket, mon!" he replied.   Aside:  you can bet your bottle of banana rum that we went back the next day and collected those joints he threw off the balcony.  Interestingly enough, they smoked fine for us.

We Should Start AAA In New Zealand
And a few years after that, I was living in New Zealand.  My girl friend, Casey (yeah, I changed her name too), and I were on a month-long road trip in the South Island.  If you have been to New Zealand, you will know that one simply does not go on a road trip without a lot of dak.  (Aside: the word "dak" is slang for pot Down Under.  If someone offers you "dak cake", it is not something you should eat 2 or 3 pieces of because you think it's just delicious chocolate cake.  End of aside.) While visiting Mt Cook National Park, we were staying at the Mt Cook YHA.  Gentle Reader, this is basically a youth hostel in the middle of freaking Mordor.  It is, how shall we say, isolated. After an awesome day of hiking, we decide to go out to the car to relax & toke up a bit.  We were listening to music, talking, laughing, being ridiculous.  We got out of the car, locked it up because, you know, we're in the middle of nowhere, when we turned back to realize that the car, in fact, was still running.  We had smoked so much dak that we locked the car with the keys in the ignition still running.  Except that we had also smoked so much dak that it was so hysterical that we couldn't stop laughing or do anything about it.  A locksmith made the trek through Mordor the next day.  He also, wisely, brought us a tank of gas.  We had to give him the ring (My Preciousssss) in exchange.  Seemed fair.

Happy Toking, Seattle!

One Time At A Party...

Introducing a new weekly feature on Baby In A Bar, it's....

One Time At A Party....

Yes, folks, each week I will regale you with a hilarious, weird, heart-warming, wild, or just plain sloppy story that occurred - you guessed it - one time at a party!  Some names may be changed to protect the guilty.  (But you'll probably know who they are anyway.)  And, by all means, if you've got a great memory of us one time at a party, email me about it!  Some of those party scenes are a bit, ahem, blurry.

Let's start with an oldie, but an oh-so-goodie, shall we?  I believe the statute of limitations has run out on this one, so I'm naming names.

It was our Freshman year of college.  Katie & Christine went to UM in Ann Arbor, I was at Albion, and Rene was at UM Dearborn.  Although we'd only been away from each other for a few weeks, after that Summer of '94, it felt kind of like the umbilical cord had been cut.  The girls picked me up, and we headed west to Kalamazoo to hit up a party at Katie's ex's house at Western.

We were 18 years old, and there was beer.  In kegs.  Unlimited beer in kegs.  One time at a party, we were 4 best friends, and we were 18 years old, and there was beer in kegs.

After enjoying a bit of that keg beer, Katie went looking for her ex, James.* Where was James?  No one knew.  Obviously, she employed me to help her look for him.  We ended up outside, and still, he was nowhere to be found.

"I know where he is," says Katie with a wild look in her eye.  "He's in his room, hooking up with another girl!"

She sounds almost triumphant about it.

"C'mon!" she yells.  She leads me to the garage over which James' bedroom is conveniently located.  She hops up on the stairs, then the banister, and she stomachs her way onto the roof of the garage, ready to catch him mid-hook-up.

I am waiting safely on the ground, red Solo cup in hand.

She's completely on the roof now, and she stomps her way over the window.  She peers in, ready to...ready to....

"Oh", she says, turning around.  "He's not in there. Hmm."

Nope, he wasn't in there.  However, Katie is still, in fact, on the roof.  She walks to the edge, gets back down on her stomach and shimmies to the end trying to reach the banister with her foot.  It doesn't reach.

"It's okay!" I yell.  "Don't worry!  Just jump!  I'm going to catch you!  Don't worry!"

I don't even put my red Solo cup down.  Possibly, it's time to worry.

I stand on the stairs, reaching out, (beer in hand), waiting for Katie to fall gracefully backwards into my arms.  Yes, Gentle Reader, Katie did fall.  But not into my arms.  She fell on the banister.  Then she fell on to the top stair.  Then she fell down each stair individually.  Then she fell on to the ground.

I look down at her from the top stair where I stand and say, "You missed."

One time at a party, my best friend, Katie, missed.

*Yes, I've changed his name.  I don't know why.  It seems like the thing to do.  I'm calling him James cause he was the first person to introduce me to the band James.  I still really like them too.

"In Wine, There's Truth." (And also awesome hilarity & insight)

Yikes, it's been a month since I last posted.  What in the world have I been doing with my time?

I had someone ask me the other day about my "process" for writing or blogging.  I had to think about it.  I don't really have a process.  (Yes, Gentle Reader, that may be the reason why I only blog once a month. You are right.  Now knock it off.)

Well, I might have a process.  It kind of goes like this.

• 545am:  Wake up.  No, I'm not Michelle Obama.  I have an 18-month old, yo.  
• 546am - 8am:  Tend to said child.  Check emails.  Watch Yo Gabba Gabba and wonder how Jack Black can wear that outfit without being self-conscious.
• 8am:  Wake up Tim so he can take over parenting duties.
• 830am - whatever time I am done:  Work.  Think to myself a variety of times throughout this time frame, "Oh, that would make a great blog post" while immediately forgetting what that might be.
• Whatever time I am done - 4pm:  Grocery, clean, laundry, work out (possibly), catch up on gossip news, continue to be inspired to write something awesomely hilarious or insightful which I then, once again, forget.
• 4pm - 7pm:  Pick my child up and begin my other job where my title is "Mommy, Mom, Mama, Mommy, Mo, Mo, Mo".  Have complete creative brain freeze involving anything besides making up awesomely hilarious songs and games to keep my child calm and amused.  
• 7pm:  Make dinner.  Think about nothing except that I forgot to eat all day.
• 8pm:  Finally time for a glass of wine!  Drink 3 1.5 glasses while watching TV.  Repeatedly think to myself, "Oh yes! I'm definitely writing about [insert awesomely hilarious or insightful topic here] tomorrow.  I definitely don't need to write it down because clearly I will remember this amazing idea."  No, really, I *actually* think that.
• 11pm:  Go to bed without recording any of said ideas.  Remember nothing the next morning except that I had an awesomely hilarious or insightful idea last night.

Is it a process?  Yes.  I never said it was a good one.  Imagine what an awesomely hilarious & insightful blog this would be if I just drank wine while writing.

Hey....I might be on to something here.