A little help for my friend...

My wonderful friend Jillian over at Sunny Little Raincloud is attempting something truly wonderful. It would be awesome if you could head on over to her website and consider contributing to a truly wonderful cause.

Thanks

The Sisterhood of the Patchwork Purse

Tonight I got a chance to hang out with Meredith, one of my favorite peeps in the world. Meredith and I grew up together, but I haven't seen her in years, so it was really nice to hang out and party like the rock stars we are. We talked about the upcoming Single Adult Conference I'm going to next week "Lay Hold Upon Every Good Gift" (subtitle: "But Don't Get Your Hopes Up, Lady"), went to Panda Express, Ate Frozen Yogurt, and because I'd so admired her brandy new purse, went shopping together:



We decided it was ok to be matchy matchy since we live about 2,000 miles away from each other



And $16.00 for a soft as buttah leatha purse? Fuggettaboutit



I know you're all jealous. And you should be.

Meredith, it was a blast! Let's not wait so long to get together next time!!

Do they call it a fireside because you're sitting right outside the gates of hell?

Just wonderin'.

Yesterday at church I was sitting, minding my own business when my friend Jen came up and asked me to go to a Single Adult fireside with her that evening.

Dilemma: I love Jen and I would like to get to know her better, but I HATE firesides. Scratch that. I generally like them once I get there, but it's the getting dressed in my Sunday duds again and driving across town to attend yet another meeting part I can't get behind.

I. Hate. Meetings. A feeling that's only gotten stronger in my two years as a master's student at UNLV.

I thought about getting out of it, making up some stupid excuse and staying home with my dog who loves me and who I don't have to impress, BUT..... I decided to climb out of my hobbit hole and go.

I told my sister right before I left for the fireside that I didn't know if Jen and I could ever be REALLY good friends 'cause she's just so darn positive about everything. Let me tell you something. I was wrong. Jen is hilarious and just a lil' bit dark about the whole "Single LDS woman past the age of 30" thing. I can get behind that. I feel that.

The topic for the fireside was on financial planning. It sounded like a kind of dry topic, but I thought, "Hey, I might learn something important." Instead of teaching us how to make wise investments, the speaker spent twenty minutes telling us not to be suckers and fall for bad investments. It was pretty depressing, but I thought that the next twenty minutes would be about how to make good ones.

The speaker went another direction with it, though. After the twenty minutes of doom and gloom he said, "Well, I'm going to stop there. Let's go eat some cookies and commiserate." Seriously. That is pretty much word for word.

I know what you (or at least my brother Matthew who likes to give me grief about my lack of a social life) are thinking, "It was a single adult fireside, were there any romantic possibilities there?"

Well, most of the guys (4 of the 5) that were there looked kinda like this:



or, even more frightening, like this:



The fifth guy was pretty good looking and because Jen and I were sitting by him I can also report that he was funny and a little sarcastic. Now, here's where I show what being single over the age of 30 for 4 years has done to me.

Did I look at this handsome, clean cut, guy who came to a single adult fireside by himself in order to learn something and think, "There's a handsome, clean cut, spiritual guy that I might possibly want to date."? Nope.

I thought, "Hmmmm. I wonder what's wrong with him." I know I know. Some of you right this second want to post comments about the fact that I need to be less negative, that I need to give this whole single adult activity thing a fighting chance. In theory, I agree with you.

In practice, however, I've found that if a guy looks too good to be true, you need to do your research. This involves the homegirl background check: call every single LDS woman you know and find out which of their friends have dated him in the past in order to find out if he's a commitment phobe, mama's boy, or garden variety freak show.

In practice, my last boyfriend is now the vice president of an organization for lesbian and gay professionals (I'm NOT lying about this).

In practice, I currently have a bad attitude.

I'm working on it.

Let me build a bridge...

When I went to college I had the great blessing of finding friends that were the perfect fit. One friend in particular, Melissa, and I were about as much alike as two girls who grew up on opposite sides of the country could be. The most amazing thing was the similarities between our music collections. We had MANY of the same albums, and when one of us hadn't heard of something the other one owned we ended up loving it (with the exception of Blind Melon editor's note: It has been brought to my attention that my memory decieves me. It was Molly, not Melissa that liked Blind Melon. However, I do know that we disagreed about some band/artist. Maybe it was Bryan Adams. and ABBA. I couldn't stand the former, it took a while for Melissa to warm up to the latter.)We both loved Crowded House, a band most people are mostly meh about, and discovered that both of us had rollerskated in the driveway to the Xanadu soundtrack as 10 year olds. One of the FIRST things we bonded about was our mutual love of Sting. We loved him with a pure and total love. We were so passionate about him that if the rest of our friends and roommates had originally held only lukewarm feelings for Sting, we soon indoctrinated them.



Our favorite song was "Fortress Around Your Heart" and as Melissa owned a videotape of Sting's videos we not only listened to the song repeatedly, but also watched the video so often that we had every action memorized, including his repeated fist punch indicating the beginning of the chorus, the swoon worthy arching of his brow, his intense gaze, and the subtle, yet wholly sexy licking of his lips. It got so that no matter what we were doing, when we heard a particular part of the chorus each of us would punch a fist in the air and go about our business. At first it was a joke, but eventually we started doing so unconsiously.

In the past few years I haven't listened to much Sting, but after my amazing experience at The Police concert last month I got out my old Sting and Police cd's and loaded them on my Ipod. "Fortress Around Your Heart" is still my favorite, although "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" runs a close second.

This morning I took my sister-in-law Emily to the airport in my jammies. I was really tired, and didn't even really pay attention to what music was playing when suddenly my fist flew up, punching the air on its own accord. I quickly focused on the music to find "Fortress Around Your Heart" playing on my Ipod.

Some things just stay with you.

I love this woman...

and this one for introducing her to me.

I had a dream. . .

High School Dream #1: See The Police in concert.

Really. This was the number one, seemingly impossible dream. My friends and I talked about it, included it in our yearbook messages to one another, and never believed it would ever happen.

You see, The Police broke up when we were way too young to have seen them.



Their last album Syncronicity came out when I was in the 3rd grade, and although I was aware of it (my sister owned the lp), I was too in love with Billy Joel and Kenny Rogers to be a fan. Also, their lyrics and videos confused and frightened me. It wasn't until years later, in high school that I realized the brilliance of their music and the absolute gorgeousness of Sting. By the time I'd begun my love affair, they'd been broken up for about six years.

And they didn't just break up, they hated each other. It got so bad at the end that Stewart Copeland set up his drum kit so that he couldn't see Sting while they performed, and once Sting performed an entire show with a broken collarbone from a brawl backstage.

So, even though we wanted it to happen more than anything, it was like dreaming about seeing the Beatles in concert. A nice wish, but nothing more.

Thanks to the members actually surviving into middle age without overdosing or losing their sanity, calmer tempers, the offer of obscene amounts of money, and nostalgia, The Police reunited at went on tour last year.

Helen and I decided to go see them here in Vegas a few months ago when she was in town with her baby and husband, and we've been looking forward to it ever since. The knowledge that I would be seeing The Police in concert got me through the last couple of VERY tough months, and I put it on my four page to-do list so that I had at least one happy item to check off.

Sadly, the Sunday before the concert Helen's little girl got sick and she had to cancel her trip. I called my friend Jill who was only too happy to buy Helen's ticket and drive to Vegas. You see she had Ohmygoodnessitismayandicannotworkthisfridayitis. A pretty bad case of it, actually. It's a known fact that a quick trip out of town is the only known cure, so she was relieved that I happened to have an extra ticket.

So, how was it, you may ask? Did the concert live up to my impossibly high expectations?



It actually did! It was AMAZING. Sting, Stewart, and Andy were brilliant, incredibly talented and looked like they were having a lot of fun on stage. Every song was wonderful, but "Wrapped Around Your Finger" was particularly fantastic, with Stewart Copeland kicking tail and taking names on two sets of percussion instruments. The encore consisted of "Roxanne" "Every Breath You Take" and a rendition of "So Lonely" that nearly blew the roof off the place. Have I mentioned that this whole experience was AMAZING!?!

In addition, Elvis Costello opened. Yes. Elvis Costello. Can you believe it? I couldn't either. He was really funny, sounded great, and when he sang "Alison" Sting came out and sang it with him. I just about died of happiness. I've been to a lot of concerts, and that song was one of my favorite live music moments ever.

Over the past couple of years I haven't listened to much of The Police or even Sting. I thought I might be over my love for them, thinking that maybe I'd been wrong about how good they were, how much this music moved me.

I was WRONG. The Police are legen (wait for it) dary for a reason. They outperform nearly everyone I've ever seen, and their music is still as complex and fun as ever. Then there's the Stingerhoffer himself. He is still INCREDIBLY sexy, fabulously talented, and when he performed his signature leap, so did my heart.



Boys, why can't I quit you?



Oh yeah. That's why.

*Disclaimer: the video's from the tour, but not my show.

Oprah is Not my Co-Pilot

A couple of years ago, in a fit of creativity, my brother and I designed a couple of shirts. The ideas were mine, the execution and design, his.

My favorite was a t-shirt that read "Oprah is my Co-pilot". I gave the shirts as gifts to two of my favorite people (I planned on giving them to two of my other favorite people as well, but they live 3,000 miles away from me and it would have required a trip to the post office. I don't do well with that. On a similar note: Meliss, your b-day present is sitting on my kitchen counter. Here's hoping you get it before we're 35!).

It was a joke, of course, but as with every good joke, it was based in reality. I love me some Oprah Winfrey.

Oprah and I have had a long and important friendship.

We've laughed.


We've cried:



We've learned.


She taught me how to avoid being killed by a rapist/killer (NEVER let them take you to a second location). She taught me how to fold fitted sheets (with Martha Stewart's help). She taught me that I like Faith Hill. She taught me how to find a good bra. She taught me that it's ok to want to kill your best friend sometimes when you're traveling cross country together and she insists on singing every song really loud in your ear. She taught me (through Dr. Oz) what my poo should look like.

She encouraged me to


And I'm tryin' O, I really am.

But here's the deal: I think I need a break. Today, I cancelled my Oprah.com membership.

Yes.

I know.

I can't believe it either.

I don't know if the straw that broke this camel's back was the Oprah dvds (which I own), the XM radio station, the Youtube channel, or the "life class" based on this book:


But I found myself groaning when I saw ads for "Oprah's Big Give" instead of planning to watch it with my sister-in-law Jena like I did for "Oprah's Legend's Ball". I haven't watched it at all.

I'm not saying I'm anti-Oprah, I love her too much for that, but I think we need some time apart. To think and regroup. I need to know who "I" am separate from O.

We've had some good times O, it's not you, it's me--Well, it's kinda you.

I'm piloting my own life now, and I like to think that's the way Oprah would want it.

Clearing the Air

I just wanted to go on record that I love my friend Melissa and do not blame or hold her responsible for any opinions shared by this woman, or this one, or even this one. I am, as many of you know, an extremely neurotic person. I react to things. I do not blame those who send me articles as food for thought. I love my friends. I want to keep them and hold them and pet them and love them and call their names George. So, if I've hurt any feelings, I'm sorry. It was unintentional.

It's my party and I'll get mushy if I want to..

It's my birthday today. Yep. I'm getting one step closer to really really old. I woke this morning and thought, "It's my birthday." and then I rolled over and went back to sleep for a little while. When I got out of bed later, I began thinking about birthdays past and how I used to feel when I woke up on my birthday. I used to positively tingle with anticipation when I awoke on my b-day, much like I did on Christmas or when my family was going to Disneyland.

My mom hated little kid birthday parties and, being the evil genius that she is, made a deal with us that if we would forego the birthday party with friends, she and Dad would take us out to dinner at any restaurant we wanted in Palm Springs. Just Mom, Dad, and you. I'm sure this doesn't sound like a huge deal to those of you NOT raised in a family of six or more children, but to have time all to your own with Mom and Dad was a big deal, as was getting to go out to a nice restaurant. I loved this tradition, and would plan for months beforehand which restaurant I would choose, and what I would wear.

A couple of times the roads to Palm Springs flooded on my birthday and we were trapped in YV. That was SUCH a dissappointment. All of that planning for naught! One of those years we ended up at a local Mexican restaurant and when my dad told them it was my birthday, they plopped an enormous sombrero on my head and the guys who wash dishes came out with maracas and sang, "Happy Birthday" WAAAAAAAAAAAY out of tune, and in broken English. I could have handled this in Palm Springs, miles away from all who knew me, but I was 17 and this was my VERY SMALL hometown! I was mortified as only a teenaged girl could be, and REEEEEEALLY hoped that A. J. (who I liked at the time) did NOT walk in at that moment. He didn't, and now that I look back on it, it was hilarious. If that happened now, I'd revel in the absolute kitschy wonder of it all. Such things are wasted on teenagers (and I say that with all of the warmth and tenderness I feel for teenagers.)

I managed to convince my mother when I was in the 5th grade that I NEEDED a slumber party. I had about 10 girls over, we laughed, we cried, we fought, Helen got upset and spent some time pouting on the deck, my sisters made fun of all of my friends unmercilessly (Helen was called "Hot Stuff" for years by Christy and Jamie 'cause of the super cool, hot pink 80's t-shirt she wore to my party that said, well, "HOT STUFF!" across her chest.), we made pizza, and in the morning I was thrilled to see them all leave, although, I'm sure my mother was MUCH more thrilled. Bless my mother, who HATES birthday parties, for allowing me to have 10 snotty, loud, and obnoxious 5th grade girls invade our home for the night. It is a testament to how much she loves me that she did, and I tear up almost twenty years later thinking about it.

When I went to college I had the best friends/roommates in the world. Seriously, we loved each other so much that we rarely left our apartment. Luckily it was an apartment with a bust of Elvis, a disco ball, and the COOLEST girls at BYU. Therefore, we were rarely alone, it's just that other people had to come to us, and they did. We met one guy 'cause he saw our disco ball through the window and said, "I just knew I had to come up here and dance with you." So he did. We spent pretty much every waking moment together and, more importantly we appreciated each other and were kind to each other. We rarely fought, and when we did, we made it right. I wish it were not true, but this is rare for a group of girls in college or any time, really. My sister Christy used to make fun of us, calling us The Borg, but I think it was mostly out of jealousy. :)(For those of you who don't know to what she's referring, first: pat yourselves on the back. You do not watch Star Trek. I'm proud of you. Second: The Borg is a collective where each member is only a part of the whole and has no distinct personality or thought. HA HA HA!)

Birthdays were a HUGE deal. As roommates we always went out of our way to make sure that the birthday girl felt loved and special.

My best friend during college was Melissa, and she always spearheaded my birthday celebrations. One year she went through the J. Crew catalogue,(which we as uber poor college students could afford next to nothing from. We looked at it purely for the beautiful men in it, chosing which models were our boyfriends, giving them names, making up our dates. . . Hey! We were young, I'd never do that now, and I don't have to. Toby loves me for me.)
cut out pictures of delicious models, and wrote a huge story about my true love, who's name was Erik if I remember correctly, searching for me and fighting off all of the other models (with the exception of her "boyfriend" "Evan") for my affections. Then she hung a poster on the wall for everyone to write what they loved about me.

Another year, my roommates created a timeline of my life in picture form that they hung all around the livingroom including a picture representing the moment when each of them met me.

Blame it on my middle child syndrome, but I'd never felt so important and loved as I did during those years at BYU with my silly, bizarre, beautiful, and utterly amazing tribe. I still miss them every birthday, and many other days in between. Thank you ladies, for loving me like you did and do. I'm still amazed that such incredible women want ME for a friend.

So, on my 34th birthday, Mom, Dad, and my dear sweet BYU friends, thank you for being some of my most treasured gifts.

News Flash: Jill is 29 years old. . .

Hey everyone,
I need to print (is that the appropriate term considering this is an entirely digital medium? I've thought about this more than you'd think and I couldn't come up with a better way to put it so there you go. You get the word print and a frightening little window into my thought processes.)a retraction.

I wrote in my entry entitled "Sarah Jessica Parker and me. . . Practically Twins" that my friend Jill was 30 and officially old. This was a joke on my part to see if she was reading my blog. Jill is in all actuality 29 years old which is a whole year younger than 30. I want that to go on record.

So now, I have to say, my friend Jill is only 29 and not yet officially old. She is still just kinda old. So there!!

Chubophobia: The fear of seeing friends when fat.

Hey everyone,
I get to fly cross country this coming Friday to attend the wedding of one of my most favorite people in the entire world. I couldn't be more excited to see old friends and be a part of my dear friend's wedding day, but I am really afraid. . . you see. . . in the past 2 years I've regained 35 of the 70 pounds I lost during the 2 years before that. I know that the people who I'm going to see love me and won't care if I don't look as cute as I wish I did, but I hate that I do. Really. I feel like such a failure and have reverted to many of my old fat habits: hiding from cameras and avoiding situations with new people. I hate that my current self image issues are clouding my excitement about seeing people that I love.

So, I'm getting over it, packing all my mumus and the big veil to hide my double chins and practicing the stop, drop, and roll Dick roll maneuver I'll need to avoid any and all cameras. It will be fun. . . I'm sure of it.