I Wonder Why People Hibernate?

This wonder is fairly easy for me. When I'm sick, or angry, or upset, or feeling sorry for myself, I just don't want to go anywhere or do anything. I don't want to see people or be bright, shiny Wicked M. I just want to curl up in my pajama pants on the couch. I want to snuggle into my comfy pillow and cuddle up with my cozy blanket. I want to watch bad daytime t.v. or sleep for hours on end. I pretty much want to turn my brain off.

I think it it this way for most people. I mean, when you've just puked for five hours due to the flu, do you really want to put on make-up and go to work? Do you really want to have to smile when the boss asks you for the same print-out for the eleventeenth time? When you've just had your heart ripped out of your chest, stomped on and crushed, do you really want to go out with your friends to the club? Do you really want to shove your biscuit into those tight blue jeans and put on sparkly eyeshadow? The answer, my friends, is NO.

Everyone needs time to heal. We all heal in different ways, but I think one of the greatest ways to heal yourself -- whether you are sick or tired or cranky or heartbroken, etc. -- is to just be by yourself and be quiet. Be still. Be quiet. Marinate. Hibernate.

I Wonder Why People Hibernate

So. This wonder is a day late b/c I was home with a sore throat yesterday and we don’t have the Internet at home. I’m feeling better today, but it was just one of those days where I knew I’d be miserable no matter where I was, so I decided to be miserable from my couch in my pajamas, watching horrible sitcoms on TBS (I couldn’t be bothered to get up and walk over to the DVD player).

I wonder if it’s our animal instincts that make us want to curl up and hide when we don’t feel well. I know it’s at least a cat instinct b/c whenever a meow-meow of mine is ill, first he yarfs in the most high-profile carpeted spot in the house, and then he caves it under our bed for hours. I’ve never been so sick I’ve gotten under the bed, but I’ve been in the bed on many a hungover morning or chest-cold-rattled day.

It’s not even that I have to be under the covers … just curled up into the smallest ball possible. Maybe it’s my attempt to keep all the misery sucked in tight. Being swaddled in a blanket, huddling around a cup of tea (which I only drink when I’m sick) so it steams up my glasses makes me feel better, even if only for a moment.

The same is true for emotional illness, too. My friend W said she spend the better part of a day this weekend curled up on her couch, wrapped in her grandma’s quilt, having a good cry. Everybody deserves a mental-health day, and some people choose to spend it celebrating good health and some people choose to spend it getting some not-so-good stuff out of their systems. But we all seem to do it similarly when we feel bad … hunker down and seek creature comforts until we feel normal-enough to unfold ourselves from our hidey-hole and stretch in the sun.

The worse my body (or heart or whatever) aches, the less human I feel, so I guess it’s only right to revert to one’s base nature when under the weather. What are your feeling-crappy rituals? Are the cerebral or physical? Why do you do what you do?

an 'i wonder' letter

dear fellow employee,
i wonder what possesses you to slather on so much perfume each morning. really, what gives?

is it a fear or insecurity about body odor? is it that you don't shower every morning and feel the need to cover up a stench? come on now, you can tell me. don't be shy.

i'm sure that you have felt that burning sensation in your own nose before. you know what i'm talking about...that stinging feeling that your nose hairs are being singed? yeah, i get to experience that unpleasant sensation each and every time i encounter you. i try not to breathe through my nose sometimes while we interact, but then i find my throat beginning to tighten up. and as i leave, i can taste your perfume in my mouth. and i don't necessarily like the taste of roses.

please. one squirt of your rosey scent is plenty. no need to wear 1/4 of a bottle each day.
sincerely,
your disgruntled, anti-rose colleague

i *heart* jack malone.

boy, this is really a hard one for me. it seems like anymore, i hardly ever have time to watch tv. i used to *love* 'antm.' i was addicted to 'the bachelor' back in the good ole bachelor days. my worst addiction ever though was to 'temptation island.' does anyone remember this show? it only lasted for 3 seasons, but it rocked! i'm embarrased to admit it that i thought this show was AWESOME! plus, the guys on there were incredibly hot. you can never go wrong with a show that has good looking guys in it. am i right, ladies?

there are 2 shows nowadays that i cannot live without. 1) amazing race (season 12 begins on november 4!) and 2) without a trace.

1) this show is the best show ever created (imo). and sometimes when i'm in the city or on vacation or traveling about, i imagine that i'm on the show just to see how well i do. like when super jas and i spent 2 weeks in europe with some friends. we ventured out by ourselves one night and suprisingly, we made it back to the hotel in one piece. we joked that we would rock on 'amazing race' and we still plan to audition one of these days. i mean who wouldn't want to cast us on the show? an adorable wife, a husband with a brain tumor, and 2 pretty sharp personalities? we're a shoo-in, i tell ya, a shoo-in.

2) i got addicted to 'without a trace' last year. apparently, it's been on for several years (in fact, it started right after leah was born in '02), but it never made an impact on me. it's a great show, but what i love most about it is jack. call me crazy, but this guy just does something for me. he's smooth, he's gruff, and he takes no crap from anyone. i know he's old enough to be my dad, but i don't care. yum. i love him anyway.

and those are my guilty tv pleasures. like i said, i don't get the chance to watch a lot of tv, but my world stops for these two fantastic shows.

ps. have i mentioned that jack malone is my boyfriend?

DUM dumdum DUM dumdum

**The Wonder Women discovered today that they lost a sorority sister this week. Too young, too soon. Send uplifting thoughts to a small wee family in Lynchburg, Virginia that lost a mommy, wife, and daughter. If you will.**

Sing along with me now:

Wicky wicky wicky wicky wicky wick bam
Wicky wicky wicky wicky wicky wick bee bam
DUM dumdum
DUM dumdum
Who are you. Who who who who I really wanna know
Who are you. Who who who who?

Anybody with me?

Schmuppy dog absolutely loves this theme tune. Whenever it plays, he perks up his absolutely enormous ears, cocks his head in a classic look of "what the heck is that crazy noise??" and stares riveted at the screen until the wicky wicky part of the song stops. I tried to describe this puppy fascination in person to my husband and sister one time, and when I sang out the wicky wicky part, they both collapsed on the ground in hysterical laughter. I think it's an accurate vocal representation of a really weird noise. Sniff.

So, I'm talking here about the opening credits to CSI. I believe this stands for Crime Scene Investigation. It's a show that Darlin' refuses to watch on the basis that it is "stupid" and also "a waste of time." Hellooo, ten hours of baseball anyone? So, I make sure to time my Netflix rental for a night that he is not around - which anybody who knows the postal service can tell you, is not an easy thing to do.

CSI is a silly, silly show, but it would be a very boring show if it were at all true to life. And even though sometimes the whole situation of explaining stuff to the dumb person on the screen so the dumb people watching can follow complicated scientific techniques - is a little clumsy. Much like that sentence. (I believe in literature they call these dumb people that give us a window into complexity, the "expositionals.") Some of the stuff that happens is ridiculous, and not everybody in Las Vegas is sexy, and the children of the working parents in the show only come in once in a blue moon when they further the story but are conveniently absent when, say, Catherine has to suddenly run out real quick and do something important and investigative. But I say, so what? Who wants to watch real life??

This show does not edify me, like, say, a documentary about the children of Calcutta prostitutes. It does not make me think for hours afterward about the beauty and artistry, like some entertainment can. It does not make me swoon over the character actors, costumes, and writing, like a certain cancelled HBO series does. Maybe watching it is a waste of time, like Darlin' says.

Too bad. I like it. Wikki on, Catherine, Grissom, and Co. Wikki on.

Peace Out, DUM DUM - G

I Wonder Why I Watch That?

Okay, so this entry could easily be 400 paragraphs long. I watch so much bad-for-me television that it is embarrassing. Truly, truly embarrassing. For the sake of full disclosure, I'll list what you can find on my television weekly. I religiously DVR or watch Dancing with the Stars, The Biggest Loser, America's Next Top Model, Gossip Girl, The Hills, The Real World, The Office, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, Grey's Anatomy, The Amazing Race, and Making the Team: The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. *blush* You know what, I'm actually not even embarrassed. I love my television shows and I'm not ashamed -- except for maybe the part about Gossip Girl and The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.

I guess each show could incite me to want to try something new or to change something about myself. Mostly though, I watch television to escape. I love to settle in with a DVR of The Office and just laugh my biscuit off. It helps me forget that rude thing my boss said or the fact that one of my friends hasn't called me in more months than I can count.

Dancing with the Stars makes me want to be a dancer, The Biggest Loser makes me want to become an inspirational personal trainer and America's Next Top Model makes me want to chop all of my hair off. Gossip Girl makes me want to grow my hair out long and flowy, The Hills makes me want to go shopping and The Real World makes me thankful that I've never been on a reality show. The Office just makes me laugh (and makes me very thankful that my boss isn't Michael Scott!). Extreme Makeover: Home Edition proves to me that there is still good in the world. Grey's Anatomy makes me happy that I'm not so serious all the time, The Amazing Race makes me want to travel the world and discover new places, and Making the Team: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders makes me want to be more flexible and to be skinny enough to fit into one of those minuscule uniforms.

Television is an escape for me. It can be a supreme time suck, but I also think that it can be inspirational and motivational. I also like that television shows mean cuddle time on the couch with Superman. We can laugh and/or cry together. We bond. MSO Rin and I bond at least once a week over a television show that we've both seen and can't wait to talk about. I love my television and I'm not giving it up anytime soon. Oh no.

I Wonder Why I Did That?

**Out of respect for the WonderWomen who don’t watch “ANTM,” this week’s topic can be about wondering why one has taped/DVRed/rented what they know to be a very bad program.**

I taped the most recent episode of “America’s Next Top Model.” Actually, it wasn’t even the original Wednesday-night episode … I taped the Sunday-night encore airing.

What is wrong with me? I’m addicted!

Maybe it’s Tyra’s fierceness—or fierce forehead. Maybe it’s the leftover dreams I have of becoming a Seventeen model/writer/editor (yes, I planned to do all three simultaneously). Maybe it’s that the show isn’t edited to be manipulative at all, the interactions among the modellettes are real, and the modeling is HARD, y’all!

OK, not that last one. But I wonder, as a recently-young woman, just how much sway the makeover episode of each cycle has over me. I’m currently almost through a very arduous hair-growing project that will result in a donation to Locks of Love and I think I’m slightly obsessed with makeovers/haircuts/submitting to the will of a very trendy stylist who has no regard for my lack of personal-grooming talent. It’s a dream that most girls have, I assume … being transformed into someone that mostly resembles you, but better. It obviously therefore transforms your life.

So I wonder if, as I sit on the couch allowing myself to care for and be manipulated by these sometimes silly and often totally vapid modellettes, I’m wishing I had a Fairy Tyramodel who would sweep me away, off the couch and onto the catwalk. And then my real cat jumps onto the couch to sit in my lap and I’m glad I don’t have to hear my name not called, return to the house, pack my belongings, and leave.

But I’m still really looking forward to my haircut. Only an inch and a half to go.

a ffaf for everyone!

okay folks, it's time to boldly come out of lurkdom for a little audience participation.

it's been a rough week for all of us, so let's vent about it! share your pet peeves, your puzzlements over bad behavior, and your wonderful wonderings.

it's a free-for-everyone friday!

the annoyance of nail grooming habits

the sound of someone clipping their fingernails makes me want to vomit; therefore, i get incredibly annoyed (and nauseous) when i hear someone clipping his or her fingernails in public. don't get me wrong - i know that one needs to clip his fingernails in order to maintain good hygiene. i just don't understand why it can't be done in the privacy of one's own home...or car...or anywhere other than where i can hear him?

when i worked in another office here on campus, we would occasionally have luncheons and invite faculty from various departments on campus. during these luncheons, the faculty would update us on new things in their programs and other 'bragging' material we could use when speaking with prospective students. during one such luncheon, i was seated next to a well-respected faculty member on campus. after we had finished eating, we turned our attention towards the front of the room and began listening to another professor talk about her program. not 3 minutes into her presentation, the faculty member beside me pulls out a pocket sized nail clipper attached to his key chain. i sat horrified and disgusted as he got to work clipping and grooming his fingernails. not only was he being incredibly rude by doing this while another faculty member tried to speak, his nail clippings were flying here, there, and everywhere...AT THE TABLE!!! thank goodness i was done eating, because after seeing his pinky nail flip onto the plate beside me, i nearly hurled. and i wish i could say that i am kidding or even exaggerating, but sadly enough, i'm not.

the dude in the office next to me likes to clip his nails at his desk. and while it's a million times better than clipping them onto my lunch plate, i can still hear it. and that brisk, 'click clip' sound seriously annoys me.

i guess what i'm trying to say is that if you enjoy clipping and grooming your nails, more power to you. just please don't do it where i can see you...or hear you...or accidentally ingest one of your discarded clippings.

thankyouandhaveaniceday.

I Wonder Why Misplaced Apostrophes Trouble Me So?

OK. Originally this was going to be a rant about how a couple of ladies who frequent the gym I go to never wash their hands after they tinkle. This. Peeves. Me. Off. But then I thought – nobody’s gonna wonder why I feel this way. Everybody would feel this way. And really, what more can I say besides – Ew? Germs? This is not medieval times, folks.

So that was a no-go idea. And then I thought about how annoyed I get when my clock watching coworkers comment on how much OT they work, and that peeves the hell out of me. People, if you can’t do your job in your allotted 45 hours, then you suck, ok? Customer service ladies, we have 5 customers. There are 2 of you. That is 2.5 customers per customer service admin. I don’t think you’re too thinly spread. And oh, I’m sorry, because here comes another peeve – we must call them customer support technicians, not customer service admins. Because, see, there’s a big difference to the title when you add an extra syllable. BIG. DIFFERENCE. Say it aloud. Can you hear the difference?

So finally I settled on something particular perhaps to English majors, or (since I’m not actually an English major), people who took a lot of English classes. And absorbed a lot of grammar rules.

My peeve is the poor, misused apostrophe.

The its versus it’s dilemma is something I can totally forgive. I often make the mistake myself – which one is possessive? Which one is a contraction? Even if you know, sometimes the speed of typing and the lack of total concentration can throw your apostrophe placement off kilter. Don’t worry about it, it’s cool - or its cool? Never mind. What I meant to say was, don’t sweat it.

The Jones’s versus Jones’ conundrum is equally confusing. I give props to anyone who attempts that tricky construction. I prefer to re-word so as to avoid having to decide whether I went to the Jones’s house, or the Jones’ house, or even the Joneses house. Instead, I go to the house of Jones. Call me an apostrophic coward, but there you go.

However. Certain people tend to throw an apostrophe any old place in a word, just because they see an “s” in there – or perhaps they just think it needs a little something extra. When I go to pick up “apple’s” at the grocery . . . when I step into the “Ladie’s” room at the gym . . . when I get a note home from my little tutee’s teacher that says “spelling word’s should be practiced” . . . I swallow my fist and my hair frizzes. Especially the teacher making such a basic mistake. Honey, it’s your job to get this right. Work on it a little harder, ok?

My favorite example of apostrophe abuse was on a t-shirt hanging in the Australian coffee bar where I used to work. Some semi-famous athlete, maybe a rugby player, had signed the shirt in huge black Sharpie, and it was hung by the owner with pride, there above the bar. It said this: Marios place is “alway’s” Great Food. Thank’s mate!

He even threw in some misplaced quotation marks. It was great. It made my skin crawl.

And that’s my peeve.

G Love love's "all" of you precious reader's. Thank's!

I Wonder Why Lateness Bothers Me?

This topic was a tough one for me. I'm having one of those days where everything is bothering me, so I could have easily written this entry about 100 different things. Rudeness? People who just have to get in front of you in traffic? People who don't follow the rules? Coworkers who don't wash their hands? People who tell me to lighten up? -sigh-


I suppose that lateness has long been a pet peeve of mine because I’m almost always early. I hate having to wait on other people to show up. I hate feeling like I wasted my time and that I could have been doing something more fun than standing there waiting for them while they dawdled. Being late occasionally is understandable. It does happen to everyone and sometimes circumstances are beyond your control. However, when you are perpetually late, it drives me bonkers.

I have a friend who is always late. When I say always, I mean always. And she isn’t late by five minutes. She is consistently late by at least thirty minutes. I have tried tricking her by giving her a different time, but she still manages to meander in thirty minutes late and apologizes all over the place. I’ve always smiled and accepted her apologies, but inside I’m seething.

I think what bugs me most about people being late is that it makes me feel like my time isn’t valuable to them. It’s almost as if they think I have an extra thirty minutes built into my day to just sit around and wait for them to show up and grace me with their presence. It’s beyond irritating to me that these people think the world will wait for them.

I mean, what’s so darn difficult about planning ahead and being sure you have ample time to get somewhere? What’s so hard about knowing when you need to leave and actually leaving at that time? I just don’t get it.

A close second in my world of pet peeves is people who don’t pay attention while walking in public places. You don’t just stop in the middle of the walkway! Move to the side and then you can stop. So annoying.

*FYI: I give people with kids or health issues a pass on this pet peeve. There's no predicting when your toddler will have a meltdown that causes you to be ten minutes late or when you will be feeling so sick that you couldn't get up off the couch for another twenty minutes. I won't be peeved at you at all. I will be sympathetic.

I Wonder Why _____ Is Such a Pet Peeve of Mine?

I can’t stand it when people hover. Or lurk, or loiter, or dawdle. Near my office, over my shoulder in the kitchen, in a line at Target. You’d think it wouldn’t bother me—I love attention much more than the next gal, and hovering implies an interest in me and/or my current project. You’d. Be. Wrong.

There are all kinds of hovering, but they each irritate me equally. There’s the kind of hovering where someone will walk up to my office without coming in. Then he/she starts talking to me through the crack in my open door where the hinges are! Unbelievable. There’s the kind of hovering where someone will halfway walk into my office—but not far enough in for me to see him/her because my desk is parallel to the open door so there’s a sightline—and start talking to whomever is sitting in my office, usually without even acknowledging me. I can’t see this person, remember, and if it’s a student, I often don’t recognize him/her by voice alone. Then if the person leaves, I’ve been non-visited by a total stranger and I have no idea who it was! Supremely rude. There’s the kind of hovering that The Boy likes to do when I won’t let him help in the kitchen (cooking or cleaning) but he is smart enough to know that he’s not allowed to go away. That kind of hovering isn’t too bad, but it still makes my skin crawl when he stands two feet behind me, watching to see what I’m adding that’s not in the recipe. He always likes it when I add a little extra to our nachos or quiche or whatever, so calm down, dude! This is the type of hovering that is easily solved if I tell him to get a beer. Then he sits at the table and we chat and all is well—no stepping on his feet or accidentally elbowing him in the stomach. Everybody wins! Then there’s the worst kind of hovering: the kind a person does at the grocery store or another retail location. He/she will refuse to leave the checkout lane until the credit card is back in the wallet, the wallet is back in the pocket/purse, and the receipt is folded in eighths. Oops, the wallet comes back out so the receipt can go in the wallet, the wallet goes back in the pocket/purse, and then the customer in front of me has to check through every bag to make sure none of the items somehow escaped and are going to try to go home with me instead. Come on, lady! Move it along. Your shopping high isn’t going to last unless you leave this store and go to another one and spend money and exasperate other customers there!

This last one always happens when I’m only in line to get some contraband chocolate to take across the street to the movies and I’m running late.

Which, I’m sure, is a pet peeve of the manager of the movie theatre.

I Wonder . . . When I'll Get to Meet Him

Most Wonder Women readers will already know that G Love is about to become Mama G. In about 6 months or so, the evil creature that has been wreaking havoc on her system for the past couple of months will eject her body in a horrifying way (it's natural, women have been doing it for years, um yeah does this ever make anybody feel better?) And she and Darlin'll get to meet their kid.

For the moment, we call the kid a him. We don't know what he is. I mean, he's obviously a human, unless my dream of giving birth to a martini glass comes true (pregnancy = dreams like you wouldn't believe). But it will be a few more weeks before we can know whether he's a Stephen Hawking or an Eleanor Roosevelt, so in the meantime we call him a him. And so far, he's just an abstract idea, a thrice nightly trip to the potty, the morning wretch-and-gag tango with the bowl. On Monday morning, I'll hear his heart beat for the first time, and that's when they say the fireworks begin. That's when I start to feel like a mother.

I'm hoping that that's when I stop having a panic moment and thinking - oh my god, did I make this all up? Did I make a mistake? Has it really been since July that I had my last visit from the red demon? Or was it really last week and I just forgot? Of all the other weird stuff that early pregnancy has done to me, that is definitely the weirdest. This terrifying idea that I am MAKING ALL OF THIS UP, trying to get lots of attention and get out of helping build the backyard fence, using this lie as an excuse to be late to work. Call me gross, but I keep my positive First Response tests (with a cap on the pee part) in my gym bag, so I can check them once in a while and reassure myself. Yes yes. Two pink lines. Positive. Both of them. You're good, G.

There are no tiny little hands pressing against the flesh of my belly yet, no soccer kicks to my ribs, no bladder bouncing - that all comes later. For now, there's just a little more flesh on my frame. Aversions to once-loved foods. A heightened sense of smell, extra oily hair, nails that are growing at the speed of light. None of these things scream "baby" to me - just "hygiene alert!" So after I hear that super fast kathunk kathunk kathunk come out of my abdomen on Monday, I think I'll finally be convinced that I'm having a baby. I'll have heard another person's heart beating from inside my self. Then I'll know there's really another person in there. Whoa.

And then we'll start dreaming of the day when we get to meet our child. I can't believe I have six more months to wait. I wonder when he'll come - when will his birthday be? I wonder what he'll look like - will he have hair? Be a baldie? Have my dad's crooked pinkies? Patrick's hazel-green eyes? My thin straight nose? Freckles like his paternal grandmother? I can't wait to find out. I just can't wait to meet my first born child.

Peace and maternal love wafting out to everyone on this FFAS (Friday was a busy day for Mama) - G

my life with fiji t.

i have been dreading this topic since the ww began. i knew it was coming, but i'm not sure i'm still prepared to talk about it. i guess what makes my situation a little more unique is that both fiji t and my super jas were in my life at the same time. super jas did not follow after fiji t, but rather, their paths crossed with mine at the same time...nearly down to the same 24 hour period. i battled myself when their worlds collided with mine. my heart battled my head and this struggle continued for 4 years. in fact, it continued up until the month before i marreid my sweet super jas.

i'll spare you the 4 year struggle and simply reveal what happened on that final day of battle: my college graduation day (which happened to be 5 weeks before my wedding day). fiji t approached me that day and as i stood in line, prepared to walk into the gymnasium with my fellow classmates, he made me an ultimatum. he told me that i should leave super jas. he asked me to walk away from it all and make a life with him. but, he said, if i said no to him at that very moment, he would walk out of my life and never return. throughout those 4 years, he consistently questioned me as to why i wouldn't leave super jas. the only answer i came up with and the only answer that still rings true is this: because i just knew it wouldn't work with fiji t. i told him that on my graduation day. i told him that i wasn't leaving super jas and he simply walked away. i haven't heard from him since.

i also know that my life with fiji t would be drastically different. when we last spoke, he was working for a law firm and starting the process of attending law school. no doubt, he has since acheived that goal. but unlike the other ww's past boys, fiji t is probably living a very fast life. he's not a down home kind of a guy, so i feel confident that had we married, we would be living in some downtown high rise in a large city. he would be a top attorney (he is one of the smartest people i've ever met) at a law firm and i would work my usual job. we would attend black tie benefits on the weekends and hang out with tons of friends throughout the week. we'd listen to pink floyd all the time and drink dark ale with our dinner.

for vacations, we would escape to the ocean somewhere so that he could surf. or perhaps we'd go camping and hiking for a get away. no bother with vacations though, as we would most likely not be able to squeeze them into our fast paced life together. i'd long to slow down and he'd long to acheive more, to keep racing to the top.

we would NOT have kids, i'm almost certain of that and we'd likely have little contact with family. he didn't have the 'cleaver' family like i did and while i think the circumstances made him wiser, it did distance him a bit from family life. my family is very wholesome and i know he'd be uncomfortable with our relationship; with our phone calls; with our hugs and kisses.

i think about him a lot and super jas knows that. but, super jas also knows that my heart is with him and not with fiji t. i listened to my heart and have settled down with the love of my life. others may question my ultimate decision, but not me. i have a list of reasons why i love the man of my dreams, but the main reason is because it just feels good. he's a wonderful man with wonderful qualities, but most importantly, my heart is happiest when i'm with him. no big fancy reason, just a fact that's plain and simple. i know i'm supposed to be with him and that's all i truly need to know.

To Be Mrs. C.

He was a 23 year old Australian surfer, working as Aquatics Director at the outdoor center where I also worked. We met, became friends, wooed, loved. When he sat next to me at Bahama Breeze (BIG CLUE) and asked me to be his wife, I said yes, and from that day on I was an engaged woman - in my own mind. We picked baby names, we started a business plan for our own future business, we made some rough wedding plans, and I was totally settled. He, it would seem, was not so sure, and a year later, he freaked, dumped me for a close friend (snort), and that was the end of that.

So I sometimes wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t freaked at that point. If we had eventually made it to the altar, how would my life be different?

A portrait of G Love as Mrs. C –

Hi. My name is G.C. I am an American living in Australia with my husband, A. I miss my family, I only get to see them every other year. But I do love this country, even though the town we live in is pretty small and there aren’t a lot of opportunities for me. We moved here after we were married, because my husband doesn’t have much education and the only place he could get a job was in the town where his dad is mayor. I work as a secretary for my father-in-law’s real estate business, which is fine work, though not really in my field. They don’t have much theatre out here in the boonies.

A. has a great sister in law, and I like her a lot, but she’s really my only friend here. Like I said, this is a small town, and most of these people are pretty suspicious of outsiders. A.’s 3 older brothers really try, but since they are all so different from me, it can be really hard to find common ground. A. and I have two kids, and I love them like nothing else. Watching them grow up and go to school in a totally different environment from me sometimes makes me feel really alienated from them, but it’s also fun to learn about a new world through their eyes.

My husband isn’t home much. He works nights and weekends as manager in a hotel bar about 60 hours a week – every weekend night he’s working until 2 or 3 in the morning. When he’s not working he’s usually out surfing, or with the guys at a local bar. He loves our two kids, and plays with them a lot, when he’s home during the day and I’m working. But he and I don’t spend a lot of time alone together. Sometimes, when I’m really blue, I think we got married too young, and he wasn’t ready to let go. Like the nights when it’s late and he isn’t home yet, and I call to check when he’s coming, and I can tell he’s been off duty for a while and other bartenders are covering for him. Or that time when a hysterical girl showed up on our porch, and A. just steered her right back out to her car, telling me she was upset because his friend dumped her. I’m not stupid, I know what these things mean. But I love him so, and I’m so far from home, I feel like if I can just put up with it for a few more years, he’ll get this wild streak out of him, and remember why he married me. Because he did marry me, and not one of these girls he meets at the bar, and that counts for something, right?

We used to talk about opening our own business. I want to do it back home in America, but A. says he won't leave Australia. I'm really motivated to get this business going, so I've looked into some small business plans. A. just says he'll read over my ideas later, and treks out the door with his surfboard. He' s always been a hard worker, and he does long hours at the bar to take care of me and the kids, but sometimes I feel like this life is good enough for him, whereas I want something more. I want to do a job I love, spend more time with the man I love, and make enough money to go home a little more often. He just wants to be who he is, where he is, and never change for the better.

So, I save a few dollars here and there, and keep it in my own bank account. Just in case one day I need to move up to Sydney, or better yet, fly with the kids home to America and make him chase us down, remember how important we are to him. And if he doesn't chase us . . . I don't even want to think about it. But all I'll say is I am NOT living here my whole life. I will have something better for myself and my kids. And my husband, if only he'll come with me.

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Phew, that was a depressing exercise. Thank you, A.C., for saving me from this fate. Even if the way you did it was lowdown and dirty - still, I escaped an unhappy life because you figured out that I wasn't the girl for you BEFORE we got married. I cannot imagine a life wedded to someone who didn't want me there, isolated from everyone and everything I knew, with no way to escape. This couldn't be more different from the life I have now. I couldn't be happier that things worked out how they did. I wish A.C. well (I last spoke with him 2 years ago, and at that point he was still single, still managing a hotel bar, still home). Dating him brought me a lot of good things, and marrying him would have ruined them all. P.J.W.E. is the one for me, now, and always.

I Wonder What Life Would Be Like If I Were Mrs. A.?

There used to be days when I would dream of nothing but becoming Mrs. A. Mr. A. was the boy I dated from my sophomore year of college until the middle of my senior year of college. He was a star baseball and football player and he was built like a Mack truck. I have no recollection of how I met him or what it was about him that made me fall for him, but I do know that our relationship was one of those relationships. In the beginning, we were giddy with being "in lurve" and getting to know each other. After about a year, things started to head south. Mr. A. was a year ahead of me in school and about mid-way through his senior year, he had what I call the "I'm graduating from college and I'm freaking out" experience. He was panicked about working in the real world (if he didn't get drafted by a pro team) and about what it meant for our relationship. Ultimately, he dumped me the spring of his senior year and I had to watch him hook up with random girls until the school year ended. Bru-tal. We did the whole get back together, break up, get back together, break up thing for the entire summer and the first semester of my senior year. Finally, I told him to get lost and that if he ever called me again, he would be parting with the parts of him that make him a boy. I didn't hear from him again. Ever.

What's funny about this whole thing is that I know exactly where I would be if I were Mrs. A. I'd be living in northern Indiana and I would be the wife of a teacher/football coach. I would have at least two children and I would be raising them mostly by myself. Mr. A. would be off coaching quite often and then would be doing schoolwork at home most evenings. I would be expected to have dinner on the table every night and I would be expected to spend time with my in-laws who would probably live next door. We'd have a smallish home, I'd have small town friends, and I wouldn't get to leave town very often.

In short, I'd be miserable. In the paragraph above, I've basically outlined a life of misery for me and a life that is full of compromising myself for someone else. Mr. A. was not open to even discussing living somewhere other than Indiana and he was not willing to see that my career might be just as important as his. Even after all of the compromising I would have done, I would still spend most of my time alone and I would have several children to tend to as well. And I would have been talked into having those kids. It would not have been the life I truly wanted.

Truthfully, Mr. A. really is a pretty decent guy. I can't fault him for knowing exactly what he wanted and for going after it. He was also always honest about what he wanted. And so was I. When he did his whole senior year freakout thing, he was honest about that too. Looking back, he was a fun guy to have in my life for a while. We laughed a lot and had quite a bit in common. But I do know that we would never have ended up together. Even if he had proposed and I had been dumb enough to accept, we would never have walked down the aisle. Ultimately, it would have compromised us both and we would have been miserable. I think we saved ourselves quite a bit of heartache by figuring things out sooner rather than later.

And Mr. A. now? He's married to an elementary school teacher and has at least one child that I know of. I'm sure he's living the life of his dreams and I couldn't be happier for him. I'm happy for the times we shared, but I'm happier without him now. And I think my husband would agree.

*I feel that it is worth mentioning that like MSO Rin, I really wanted a candlelight. Desperately. Mr. A. had all the chances in the world to lavaliere me, pin me, etc. and he never did. It was a big bone of contention in our relationship for a while and, looking back, I realized that in that his resisting these things so much, it was clear he wasn't in this thing for the long haul.

I Wonder What Life Would Be Like if I Were ... Mrs. P?

Master P and I were not really together for that long, unless you’re thinking “in college years.” We dated for one year and four months. We were introduced by my roommate at the time and weren’t friends first (as he pointed out to me once when I wanted to “stay friends” after the relationship was over). We were in looooove. I wanted to lavaliere him and he expected to propose to me. (I was always a little upset that our timetable wouldn’t let that happen while I was still living in the sorority house so I could have a candlelight.)

Then I was dumped three days before my 21st birthday. I had started to develop a crush on someone else during the previous six weeks; I stupidly told him about it. Master P seemed surprisingly unaffected by my confession … until he broke up with me. I was devastated. We flirted with getting back together about a month after our breakup. Even then, I could recognize that what had broken should just stay broken. Thank goodness.

Because, little by little, I began to realize that maybe it wasn’t all so bad—maybe I would survive. Sorority sisters commented that I had changed quite a bit when I was w/Master P—he was (and I’m sure he still is) really devout, so he challenged me about lots of things: drinking to excess, accepting roles in departmental theatre productions as characters of questionable/low morals, being a member of a sorority, cursing, etc. And as a young, only slightly mature woman who adored being liked, I let his beliefs become mine. Still, we argued a lot after we hit the one-year mark, and I recognized once I was single again just how much of my freedoms and personal credos I had gotten back through the breakup.

So. What would my life be like if I’d never had that crush (or admitted it, at least) and we’d stayed a couple and gotten married like we both talked around? I’d be a Midwesterner, for starters, and probably a church secretary. I’d have a big family of in-laws and live a half-day’s drive from my parents. I might be a mother, and wouldn’t be involved in theatre beyond possibly casting the Nativity play every December. I’d be a cook and a housekeeper and a card-game-player. I think my closest friendships would be with different women: Master P didn’t necessarily approve of my inner circle my junior year, and he definitely didn’t approve of the crowd I ran with after I wasn’t his girlfriend anymore. I don’t think I was rebelling … I was just back to being me.

I wonder if I’d be miserable right now? Or just oblivious to how fun this life—my real, now life—would have been? I might have been fine, though, b/c who really knows to miss what she never had? But somehow, I hope that something would have been not-quite-right with my life as Mrs. P. This life is way better and I’d hate not to be living it!

I Wonder Why He's So Nice?

This is something that I've been thinking about since the day I met Superman. Honestly, it astounds me and I have no idea where his niceness comes from. From the first moment I met him, he's always been so gosh darn nice. Everyone loves him, everyone fawns over him, everyone gushes over just how nice he is. Quite frankly, it's starting to honk me off. See? I'm not so nice. The thing is that I know just how nice he is and just how nice everyone else thinks he is too. I hear it all the time.

A perfect example of just how nice Superman is can be found from an open house we attended last Friday night. One of his bosses had a rather large group of people over and had a fancy-dancy catered dinner with lots of wine. It was really fun. However, it was also exhausting. Here is why:

Superman and I enter the party and are met by a large group of people who immediately rush over to say hello. They all trample each other to meet the "famous Wicked M" that they are always hearing about (See he's nice. He talks glowingly about me when I'm not around.) and they immediately start in on the questions. Most of the questions were things like, "Is he as nice at home as he is at work?" and "He's just the nicest guy ever. Do you know how lucky you are to have such a nice husband?" and "Oh we just love him! He's so nice! I have no doubt that you are just as nice. Aren't you?". The thing was that they were all so very serious about how nice he is. My usual well-placed sarcasm would not have served me well in this situation.

So I had to gush over him too. Which is typically easy because he is so dang nice and I love to make him blush when I talk about how wonderful and sweet and nice he is. When we left that party, I was exhausted. I mean, how long can one person be expected to live without sarcasm? I slumped down into my seat in the car and the minute that Superman was in the car next to me, I exclaimed, "Oh. My. God. They love you! And you're so nice! And WTF? Could you not be a little bit mean, like, ever?? It's annoying! I mean, you make things so hard for me!"

I know, I know. I'm a doll. And a great wife!

He replied with something sarcastic and I felt vindicated. See? He isn't nice 100% of the time. Only 99.99%. And that .01% of snot, snark, and sarcasm is a beautiful thing.

i'm not a myspace kind-of-a-gal.

i know that myspace and facebook are all the rage right now, but i'm just not into it. i do enjoy looking up folks on myspace to see where they're living and if they're married and if they have kids, but i don't want to put my info out there. okay, i know i have a blog outside of this one that shows pictures of my girls and gives more details about my life. anyone can stumble across it, i suppose, but people can't purposefully look me up. i give the link to my personal blog to those i don't mind reading up on my life and that's it. sure you can find me in a round about way, but i'm not sticking myself out there for all to see.

i work at a university and so i think i worry about my colleagues and students finding me more so than i do my former classmates. i would love to get caught up with my old high school buddies whom i haven't spoken with in ages, but in creating a myspace page, i've allowed every faculty member on campus access to my golden years. besides, who knows what some of my old college gals might say on my comments page!

i know you're thinking, 'well, you can make your page private and pick and choose who sees your page.' i'm fully aware of this option, but just having a page out there would cause ridicule and snooty glances from university employees to fall my way. it's just not a chance i'm willing to take.

so instead of putting myself out there for all the world to see, i'll continue to blog in semi-anonymity. that is, until this blog hits the big time and blows my cover.

Why Aren't I Into . . .

. . . reality t.v.

My husband and I do not have live t.v. stations. We do have rabbit ears, but our 3 stations alternate between sort of fuzzy and so fuzzy you can’t see anything, so we haven’t watched a commercial-laden television show (at home) in probably 3 years. This whole no t.v. experiment began out of financial necessity and has continued because we’re just used to it. Though sometimes I miss being “in on” the stuff that everyone else is talking about – I have never watched a full episode of American Idol beginning to end, and so frequently talk around the water cooler excludes me – it’s not enough to make me change. We are devout members of Netflix, and the bulk of our Netflix queue is great t.v. series, so we still enjoy a lot of television shows. I think a lot of well-written t.v. is a high art form, to be admired and absorbed just like a fine night of theatre or a stirring painting or sculpture. And a lot of bad t.v. is just a great way to completely veg out if you’re tired, or sick, or just had ONE OF THOSE DAYS and need to escape from life for a half hour or so.

OK, so here’s the point. I am just absolutely not into reality t.v. I never have been. I realize that I am writing to an audience of devout DWTS watchers, and American Idol devotees, and I promise again this is not a personal attack against you. Just against your beloved shows. I know you watch it tongue in cheek. I know you watch it because it’s kitschy and ridiculous. But I just can’t do it. When it comes on, I want to throw my shoe at the set. I scream at the stupidity of some of the people. I curse the networks that presume I am emotionally retarded, and cannot see the editing and the soul-stirring music for the emotional manipulation that it is. I roll my eyes at the hosts, who are rarely very articulate and who take themselves way the heck too seriously. I berate the writing, which doesn’t demand the smallest iota of intelligence from its viewers and spends much more time selling products to me than entertaining me. I get angry at some of the misogyny and racism that I see, sometimes subtle, sometimes casual, and often exploited for the point of ratings. I get wayyy too excited about this stuff.

I don’t see these shows very often - maybe at the gym. At friend’s houses. I have had enough exposure to know that I don’t want any more. DWTS and shows like it I don’t think are so bad – they are flash and color, pretty to look at, fun. The ones I truly truly hate are ones like Rock of Love, or the Ultimate Coyote Ugly, or any where women compete for the attention of men. I watched a beautiful, vibrant, smart, 180 pound woman (who unaccountably went on tv to try to become a Coyote Ugly bartender) do her exit speech thing after she got eliminated from the competition for “not preparing her body”. Her eyes grew bright, and her smile became a twisted grimace as she tried valiantly to hold it together, and she said “When 60 pounds comes between you and what you want, then you lose the 60 pounds.” I nearly cried with her. I do not want to watch this. This is real pain, twisted into melodrama, and I don’t know which annoys me more – that this lovely woman is taking this so seriously, or that the network is capitalizing on her sadness in such a cheap and tawdry way. Or, that they expect me to buy it. I don’t know.

So. That’s my rant. Call me a grump, or snooty, but I am what I am. And yes, I realize the irony of someone who blogs daily about her life being annoyed by reality t.v. Too bad.

Peace and Grumpy No TV Watching Love to you – G Love

Aaaak!

I wrote my post at work, on MS Word (like I always do so it looks like I'm really working, then cut and paste when I'm done). And then got interrupted by an IT guy, and never got a chance to upload it. And now I'm home, where the post is NOT, and not in a position to retype the thing. So, first thing Thursday morning, I'll post that baby, and then ya'll can get a twofer. :) Don't hate me because I'm absentminded!

I Wonder Why I'm Not Into...

This entry was a tough one for me. We all know I'm a little strange; I don't use a snooze button and I have a desperate love affair with Cheetos. I could have taken the easy way out and written about why I'm not into porn, but that post could have certainly gone down the wrong road very quickly. [Insert your own joke(s) here] I thought about writing about scrapbooking because I'm not really into it, but then I realized that I do have a couple of scrapbooks. I made them only under duress and out of guilt, but I didn't enjoy it. At all. Yard work? Scuba diving? Karaoke? Ehhh.

Finally, this morning it came to me. I was standing in the kitchen at work and was filling my huge thermos with water from the cooler. In the time it took me to fill my thermos, three different people came in and got coffee. Two more people walked by with Starbucks cups. It occurred to me that I'm just not into coffee. Horror!

My mother loves good coffee and has one cup every morning before she leaves for work. She usually takes about ten minutes to read while she savors the flavor of her steaming cup of joe. As a child, I recall how our house smelled every morning as the coffee percolated. It smelled heavenly and I always thought it smelled like it should taste so yummy. But it didn't.

I asked my mom for a sip once as a child and as soon as that hot coffee hit my tongue, my dream of it tasting yummy was dashed. Ick. I gave coffee several chances throughout my college days and throughout my early twenties -- I was overjoyed when I heard about flavored coffees -- I thought for sure that I would enjoy something with a name like 'Hazelnut Supreme' or 'Mint Chocolate Bean'. Alas, I was wrong. My tongue just rejects it and it makes my stomach feel sour.

I do love the smell of coffee and it will always remind me of my mother and of the cozy house I grew up in. But I'm not drinking coffee and you can't make me.

*In order to make myself feel like less of a freak show, I have to disclose that Superman does not drink coffee either. We don't have a coffee pot and we don't have any instant coffee either. Neither of us like the taste and are glad to have not started the habit of coffee every morning. More power to those that love their coffee though!
**Why do I always feel the need to end my posts with things like: "Please don't stone me," or "Please don't hate me for not loving x."? I noticed this the other day as I was reading back through archives. Call me a people pleaser, but I want everyone to like me! Despite my hatred of the snooze alarm and of coffee! Love me! As of now, I'm suggesting a week of WW Therapy in which we each write about something like this and others can offer comments or suggestions. Mmmmkay?

I wonder why I'm not into ...

… football. It really holds no fascination for me. I’m usually stifling a yawn by the time sports comes on the news anyway b/c it’s my bedtime, but if the sportscaster starts talking pigskin, I’m out.

I wonder if it’s b/c I never had anyone teach me football. It seems like this totally foreign, unfathomable beast of a game that I don’t have the mental capacity to decipher. I mean, I understand that there’s this ball, and these two teams that each want to take it to the other end of the field, and sometimes they knock each other down to stop each other from doing so, and sometimes someone kicks the ball instead of throwing it or running with it. But what’s a first down? What’s a cornerback?

I can barely pretend to care about the teams my friends & family like—this weekend was Homecoming at our U and there were literally hundreds of people who couldn’t get tickets to the game. Or so I hear … The Boy and I stayed on the other side of town from the revelry. And the teams I used to feign to follow when we lived back East aren’t even mentioned out here, so I’ve forgotten all about them.

I get the excitement and pageantry of a football game. I went to every home game when I was in high school and had lots of friends on the team and on the cheerleading squad and in the band. But I didn’t really know what I was yelling about unless I was sure I’d just seen our school score. Mostly I was flirting and drinking hot chocolate and gossiping.

I wonder if it would help if I started watching “Friday Night Lights?” Or had my brother give me a play-by-play tutorial on the phone while we watched the same NFL broadcast. Somehow I doubt it. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think football is stupid or a waste of a fine fall afternoon/evening, and I totally respect and appreciate those whose loyalty to a team verges on the insane. I just wonder what happened to me—what gene I’m missing—that renders me instantly bored when people start talking about the Super Bowl.

Unless they’re talking about a Super Bowl party and therefore party snacks. Then I’m all ears.

**Programming Note!**

It's been another quarter, and as such, a new WonderWoman takes over the Monday spot. Here, for your viewing pleasure, is MSO Rin's first attempt at deciding the wonder for the week. Enjoy.