Colby in Sin

The one in which I offend as a means of seduction

2011-07-12T20:14:00.000-07:00

So I was texting with my brother's fiance about the First Love who recently resurfaced and the current Match.com candidate - we'll call him Construction Guy.

Brother's Fiance: Construction Guy sounds a bit rough for you, Colby. You like 'em more refined, don't you?

Me: Yeah, but he's like 6'3. I like 'em tall more. Except he canceled our date, so I'm wondering if he's just a text attention whore.

Minutes pass as I juggle texts between Construction Guy and Brother's Fiance.

(Angry Bell: I know. You warned me.)

Me: Maybe I should just give First Love a real chance. He's consistent. He doesn't cancel dates. He's totally wooing me, AND he drives a BMW, so he matches me - lifestyle wise.

Guess who that last one went to?

Yeah. Not Brother's Fiance.

Construction Guy: ..........

I'm so good at this dating thing.

The one in which he offends as a means of seduction

2011-07-09T07:33:00.000-07:00

Him: So does ignoring men work for you?

Me: I'm assuming that means you winked or e-mailed me and I didn't respond???? Um. I don't know. Does being rude work for you?

Him: Why did I have to be rude to get you to respond to me? Let's move past this. Make nice. Make friends.

Me: No thanks. You're done.

Him: That's ok cause you're totally too angry for me.

The End

Match.com is awesome!

And then there was one

2011-07-07T19:21:00.000-07:00

I believe I just decided that I was ready to start dating again. Didn’t I? Hmmm. So the first love came into town this weekend with his boys, on a boys trip, a poker trip.

We haven’t seen each other in 15 years. Since the night he devastatingly ended things, and I walked out the door forever - or I thought it was forever.

He came into town. We had drinks. He decided after spending three hours with me that fifteen years ago he made the biggest mistake of his life in letting me go.

(Insert “Of course he did.” here.)

Good readers!

Three hours turned into an all-nighter at the casino, nightclubs, etc.

When he walked me to my car at 6am, he asked if he could spend more time with me.

So anyway - it’s a bit overwhelming, but I’m willing to entertain his quest to see if we're supposed to be together. He’s already booked a flight to come visit in two weeks. Strong work.

I decided of course that I can’t stop the online dating thing as this thing with the first love is not a done deal. So, here are the latest from the other truly awesome men in my life.

From Repetitive-Use-Of-Pronoun Guy:

“I am looking for a woman who has a high level of self respect for herself and that can respect me for the level of respect I have for her and myself.”

What?!

I mean, I know what he’s trying to say, but wtf.

Username: Exquisite Celica.

Enough said.

It puts the lotion on its skin

2011-06-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

It’s been a long time no talk, my friends. What was supposed to have been a brief hiatus turned into a lengthy sabbatical and this last year has flown by.

So here’s the update.

Let’s get the sadness out of the way first. My mom is still with us, still in the group home for seniors with memory disorders, still disappearing day by day as her brain is consumed by the disease that began to rob us of her six years ago. She is peaceful. Content. She doesn’t know any better anymore. Some days I think she might still know us, other days we are just people who drop by and visit. Bastard of a disease.

In the area of my life, um . . . . life is great.

I’m back in fighting shape, unrelated to my past foray into karate. I tested for, passed and obtained my yellow belt, but that was pretty much the end of it. It went something like this.

In class. Sparring.

Sensai aka Captain Awesome: “Hit her harder. She can take it.”

Me: “Um. Yeah. No she can’t.”

I just couldn’t reconcile myself to being punched, kicked, hit, pinned to the floor and otherwise knocked around. Weird. I know.

So that’s done, and I’m on to other adventures which include a new job, tennis and golf lessons and online dating.

What?

The heck you say.

Yes friends. I’m coming off the self-imposed exile on which I placed myself and am joining the superficial, I’m told horrifyingly scary, dating scene in Las Vegas. Online and otherwise. It's been awesome. And by awesome, I mean not at all.

The first guy who responded to my profile wrote the following:

“I think you are everything I am looking for, and we will make a wonderful couple.”

So, I guess that’s it. I’m engaged. We’re engaged?

Holy crap! Don’t they typically ask to meet for coffee or a cocktail or a quick once-over before they decide you’re the one?

Or there was the guy whose username was “kill4head.”

Um.

I know I’m new to this, but was he really suggesting that he would kill for a blowjob?

Sold!!!!

Or how about the guy whose username is “buffalobill” and cites his favorite song as “Goodbye Horses?”

No thanks, Bill. I like my skin just where it is, and I’m not a size 14, so I guess I’m not really your type anyway.

But for reals, what kind of woman is he looking for? The kind that falls in love with Charles Manson or Scott Petersen? A woman who will write him love letters while he's in prison and marry him through the bars?

While he's in prison!

Ugh.

George Clooney has still not called by the way since my recent overture.

Rude.

George: “I’m only going to wait one more week. I’ve got options, you know? See above.”

So, I’m back. There is much more to tell about my fabulous new job (it really, really is great - totally not like work and by that I mean I‘m going to a private party for Louis Vuitton this week - for work). Then there‘s my crazy, lonely desperate-for-friends, verbal diarrhea of the mouth, tennis instructor, a new puppy playmate for Lola and of course my continued adventures in dating.

Perhaps some redecorating as this corner of the interweb is a bit dusty.

I’m happy to be back.

Talk soon,
C

An open letter

2011-06-25T16:41:00.000-07:00

Dear George Clooney:

Totally do not need to marry you. A year or two is just fine.

Call me.

Colby

Editor's Note: I might be coming back. For real this time.

A break from my break

2010-10-06T07:05:00.000-07:00

It's been almost 4 months since I began this hiatus, and I'm starting to feel like I may want to come back. I think my brain is a bit atrophied. Despite the fact that I've felt like I had nothing to say, I've missed writing.

I thought I'd cheat a bit to get myself back into the groove and re-publish some posts of the past. This post is from June of 2009.

This was not well planned

After Mom’s knee-replacement surgery last year, she bought herself a bike. This bike did not make the move with her from Oregon to California. Which is really the right thing, because she would never have been able to balance on it. Her legs just aren’t strong enough.

She’s been asking about it a lot lately, though, so I decided to compromise and buy her an adult tricycle. 2 wheels on the back – great for rehabbing a knee. No balance required.

The kind boys at WalMart put it together for me, and since their store is about 10 miles from my house, and I don’t have a truck, and no one else I know has a truck, the only logical conclusion was to ride it home.

I decided to be careful and meticulously plan the ride. I went on Mapquest to map the route, as clearly I need to avoid highways or main drags that either don’t have a bike lane, or don’t have a sidewalk.

I found a safe route.

A smarter person than I would have then perhaps driven the route once in their car in order to identify any major obstacles like scary, desolate rural areas alongside serial killer-attracted reservoirs or even just the simple stuff – like steep, 90 degree inclines.

I didn’t do that.

The first mile. Downhill. Smooth.

The next three miles? Up.

Up.

And then up some more, with Mom’s new shiny, pretty, 100lb rehab bike. There were points where it was so steep, I had to get off and walk it up the hills (pretty much those entire 3 miles.)

9.9 miles later, I was sweaty. My hair was dripping. I was a hot mess. Scratch that. Not so hot, but definitely a mess.

I ran into some yummy fireman at a stoplight. I looked up and just looked right back down.

I stopped at Mom’s facility on the way home to give her a peek (read: rest and prevent a heart attack).

She hasn’t ridden a bike in 43 years – since the tumor – now with the knee-replacement surgery, her leg bends, and this bike is a real option for her.

Mom smiled like I haven’t seen in years. She was grinning from ear to ear as she rode the bike down the sidewalk and back. It was a moment.

I rode the bike the rest of the way home, and now everything hurts. I don’t know how I made it up the stairs to my place, but I did.

I collapsed.

I’m glad now that I never planned to have children because I’m pretty sure I’ve caused permanent, physical damage to my special place, and I will never again judge anyone for wearing those padded bike shorts.

And now as I'm lying on the sofa writing this, muscles tightening and stiffening, I think to myself, seeing her smile and ride that bike is well worth the pain I’m sure I’ll be in through 2010.

Editor's Note: 2010 is almost over and I've found that while I've physically recovered from this experience, I'm quite sure that children are still not possible.

I’ve got all my life to live

2010-06-16T10:26:00.000-07:00

Have you ever gone someplace and once you’re there, looked around and wondered how on earth you made it to this place?

I blame my brother.

Brother (via text): “Hey Sister. You’re going out tomorrow night -- downtown for drinks and music. K? K. Good.”

I thought to myself what a good guy he can be. He’s thinking of me. He knows I’m still new here and don’t have a network of friends, so he’s sent me an invitation. Or a direct order, I guess. But an invitation out none-the-less.

My first instinct was to text his gf and ask about wardrobe. But then I dialed back in my head. I know the places we go to. We go to nice places. There’s no need to ask questions. Dark jeans, 3 inch peep-toes, charcoal grey-vintagey top. Black patent Chloe handbag. The uniform.

Oh how horribly wrong I was.

Upon arrival to my brother’s house, he greeted me wearing a Yankees jersey, plaid shorts and flip flops.

Hmmmm. Something wrong here.

His gf arrives, and while undeniably cutely dressed, she’s equally as casual in shorts.

I’m getting scared at this point.

And then I was handed this.

In case the pic isn’t clear enough.

That would be a VIP pass.

To.

Gloria Gaynor.

You’re jealous. I know.

I completely understand that.

And so we traveled to the Fremont Street Experience for D-list Vegas and Gloria Gaynor.

Fremont is basically a cobblestone walk-street that connects the old casinos like Binions and The Golden Nugget. It’s old, dirty, downtown Vegas. It rather feels like you’re walking through a traveling carnival. Both the attendants and the staff. Creepy. Carnie vibe.

But, we were VIPs.

We had red carpet treatment.

With our VIP passes around our necks.

And by VIP, I mean I got to stand next to the speaker that vibrated me through my core, and not in a good way. And I got to stand next to a lady, who had a 16 month old baby in her arms. And she danced. Next to the speaker. With the baby. Who I’m quite sure now suffers from both permanent hearing loss and shaken baby syndrome. I actually read that it’s on the rise here in Vegas. The economy being so bad here. People are stressed and they’re shaking their babies. I’m wondering if they considered the Gloria Gaynor and the Fremont St Experience factor in the statistics. I’m thinking no.

The place was jammed with the banjo set, the gays, and 40ish divorcees looking to make their contribution the moment the anthem began.

I will survive.

I will survive.

I will survive.

The irony of the song was not lost on me. There appears to be a conspiracy to invite me to music events even though we're all clear on my music disability.

Anyway . . . . people were staring at us in the VIP section. The banjo folk were staring at us. Staring at our misperceived privilege.

I wondered if they were thinking: “Those people probably think they’re so cool. VIP passes at Gloria Gaynor. They think they’re cool, but they’re really just dorks.”

I saw those looks on their faces, and I wanted to shout - “Oh no, sir. We are under no illusions that being here. On the red carpet. At Gloria Gaynor. Makes us cool.”

No illusions at all.

I looked down at my high heels and my Chloe handbag, and I looked at my brother and his flip flops, and I thought to myself, you really could have skipped me on this one, bro.

Call me the next time your opening vintage Dom or 99 Penfolds. I’m on board for that. Consider this my advanced RSVPs.

In closing, I will say that I’ve been in a funk. A writing funk. My life is good. But my writing is not. I began this blog during one of the worst times in my life. My mom was just diagnosed, I was going through mergers, being unfulfilled professionally, depressed even - a little bit. I think.

I think I started this blog to vent. To scream when I was angry. To laugh when I was inspired. To connect with people who were experiencing what I was.

But I’m in a good place now. Since the aunts stepped in, I feel like I got a second chance at life, and dare I say - I’m even happy.

I haven’t said that in a long time. But the interesting thing with me - happiness seems to mean a serious case of writer’s block. I mean - I’m even starting to genuinely like my karate instructor, so you know something must be up.

So, I’m putting away the keyboard for a bit. To enjoy my life. To get back out there and live. And in the words of Gloria Gaynor - kind of.

I will survive (to write another day).

It’s truly been a pleasure reading your hilarious comments and receiving your internet-love. Because I love you all so much, you’ll still see me dropping your corners and leaving my usual inane comments because even though I may not have a lot to say these days, I still need hear what you do.

Love to all,
C

I'll take mine by Diane Von Furstenberg (DVF)

2010-05-18T10:22:00.000-07:00

I am the Stay Puff Marshmallow girl, or that's how I felt when I put on my karate uniform last night. I'm sure it has a proper name, and I'm probably being totally blasphemous by not using it.

I mean it.

These dojo fools are much profesh and take themselves super seriously.

I'm probably completely missing the whole BS respect and honor for the discipline part of studying martial arts by blogging and mocking it, but whatev.

I look like a giant, puffy cloud in my new, over starched, white ensemble which reminds me of an unruly bathrobe with matching pants.

So, the pants are drawstring with cut-outs at the hip on each side. Like vents, I guess. But why? I do not know. They remind me a bit of wrap-around shorts that we wore in the 80s when were young girls, when we could because we had not an ounce of body fat.

Remember these?

We actually wore those, and I think they might even be in style again. At least the romper aspect.

But I digress.

The pants.

They gape open when you do any type of movement, so I guess I'm going to have to invest in some granny panties so I don't flash the room.

Those should work, no?

I know.

So hot.

It can't be helped.

Another irritant about the uniform is the fit. The pants hit at your natural waist. Which after a decade of wearing low-rise, or lower-rise pants, really feels like they hit your neckline. Strangling you. Uncomfortable. Awkward. Mom pants.

They totally blow.

The bathrobe, or the top, is much like a DVF wrapdress.

Or a bathrobe. Same diff.

It has that inner tie to keep the top from opening and exposing, and then it has the outer tie for the top layer. Then the belt.

Something occurred to me last night though about Captain Awesome. His bathrobe always gapes open. I remembered thinking to myself, why does his gape? No one else's gapes.

And of course - it then occured to me. We are constantly being shown (and probably supposed to be admiring and drooling over) his pecs and his abs - the first row of his 50ish year old 6 pack. Only a little ab. But a lot of man boob.

Captain Awesome is not tying his inner bathrobe tie!

He's deliberately and purposefully showing us his awesomeness in full, proud glory!

Or past glory.

Anyway, DVF? If you're free? I'd like my pants a little lower on the rise, and my bathrobe tailored with I'm thinking a nice jersey knit. For movement. Kthxbye.

Note: The brilliant LiLu suggested that I put my Sensai's name online via Pig Latin so as to prevent him from getting a Google Alert on himself. I soooo know he has one set. So anyway, here it is. Check him out via his IMDB, straight to DVD, d-list martial arts movie career. Feel free to join me in making fun of him, or if you've heard of him and are a fan of his movies, I'd like an explanation.

Update (I did it wrong the first time): Effjay Peakmansay

Here's a link to a translator if you need it. They even have iPhone app for this. Crazy!

I'm sure at some point, I'll write more about the actual karate activities, but he made me do push-ups last night. For like the first time since high school PE, and I can barely lift my arms to type this.

Wax on, wax off.

Show me sand the floor

2010-05-13T14:31:00.000-07:00

I was invited recently by new friend T to take part in a free women’s self-defense class at this new dojo in Las Vegas, and since I’m killing myself to do all things active lately and get myself back to fighting shape (metaphorically speaking at the time), I decided to go.

The gym and the class is hosted/owned by this Steven Seagal type, but not. You’ve heard of Steven Seagal. You justhaven’t heard of this guy. I’d even make fun of him for copying Steven’s all black style, but alas, he gets to have that one because apparently he’s like a 17th degree black belt in a million different disciplines, and when you’re that awesome, you get to wear all black.

So Captain Awesome, while obviously a total badass, really really really wants to talk up his non-existent movie career. Meaning, I guess he’s done a bunch of movies, they’re just not movies you’ve ever heard of, but that doesn’t stop him from all throughout the class, dropping the titles and gesturing to all of his movie posters that line the walls.

Captain Awesome: “I don’t make money from my martial arts studios. I don’t invite women to these free self-defense classes because I’m hoping to eventually make money off of them.”

Captain Awesome: “I make my money from my movies.”

Me: Snicker. Sure you do, Jean Claude.

When class was over, he showered T and I with attention, gave us calendars, brochures and a DVD with a compilation of clips from his movies that he aptly titled “The Nutcracker.”

Because, get it? He busts balls!

When I got home from my first class, I went on IMDB and while checking him out, found what I’m pretty sure is a D-list, straight-to-dvd, martial arts movie career.

Star.

None the less, T and I have decided to start training with him. Seems like a good thing to add to the regimen, and if nothing else, he’s entertainingly full of himself which presents me with a significant number of eye-rolling/smirking opportunities.

Is that wrong? That I’m now paying for the opportunity to mock someone?

I’m thinking no. Not as long as I at least advance to my yellow belt.

Last night was our second class, and I decided to count the number of times in a hour that he used his favorite phrase, “in my movies.”

Seventeen.

I kid you not.

In closing, I’ll say this will be a new series here at Colby in Sin. I’m thinking it should be tagged as “Tales from the Dojo.”

And so my friends, I invite you to follow me on a ridiculous quest while I wear a white jumpsuit and seek to obtain colored belts.

PS - I’d love to tell you his name so you can fully internet-vet him and join me in my mocking, but his ego’s so big, I imagine he has himself set up in Google Alerts. I can just see him reading his email now, “Captain Awesome mentioned on Colby in Sin blog.”

Since T and I are like the only girls in his class, I’d be outed, and we just can’t have that.

Wax on, wax off.

Lost and found in Las Vegas

2010-04-28T15:40:00.000-07:00

I was innocently out walking with the puppies when I saw something in the road today.

No.

It can't be.

Can it?

As I got closer, it became more clear.

Someone lost their ummmm . . . . . toy.

Did you lose yours?

If this is yours, you must kind of be walking a little off because this thing is freakin huu-uge. And it's a bit dirty. Do you have some fireplace/ash/chimney sort of game going that you'd care to share with the group? I'm sure you know how most people love fireplaces.

Anyway, if you want it back, call me. I'll return it to you for the cost of shipping and handling.

Kidding.

It's still in the road.

But if you want it back, I'd be happy to Mapquest it for you. Perhaps it's even visible on Google Earth. I mean really. Considering the size, it has to be.

Welcome to Vegas.

You're welcome.

Editor's Note: I think the thing I loved best about this experience was snapping the pic on my iPhone, then clicking the action button and being offered the opportunity to set this image as my wallpaper.

Um. No.

The most expensive vacation that wasn't

2010-04-27T14:02:00.000-07:00

I think we’re all probably clear now that my trip to Scotland was foiled by Iceland’s volcano.

Since I’ve been back, I’ve been thinking about the costs involved in this vacation that wasn’t.

First, the puppies. Meet Cash and Lola.

Lola’s my girl, rescued and adopted a year ago. She’s 6 lbs, a delicate mix of Italian Greyhound and Chihuahua. Cash is our new boyfriend. He’s 2, and he’s my aunt’s puppy. I’m serving as foster mommy while she returns to Iraq/Afghanistan for a year. I didn’t know that he was 112 lbs when I offered to take him in, but we have fallen in love with him. He’s a rescue as well, a German Shepherd, Lab and Chow mix. I catch them lounging together in the sun all the time. Lola was sleeping against him but quickly sat up as I approached to snap the pic. I love her dreamy sleepy eyes.

I digress.

Gift cards. The vacation that wasn’t required friends to take in the puppies, and for their gracious hosting of the puppies, I have $75 in Starbucks gift cards with which to thank them.

$75 down.

Let’s also note the British pound conversion process. For my travels to the UK, I asked my friends at the bank to convert $1000 US into the pound. It became 620.

Our economy blows.

There were also conversion fees to pay, but the bottom line is my $1000 became 620. Because I never got to the UK, I then had to convert the pounds back. And so I visited my friends at the bank again, handed them my un-used, still sealed in the bank envelope 620 pounds.

After converting it back, can you guess the deposit amount into my bank account??

$898.

We are worth less now than we were a week ago.

$1000 became $898.

Another $102 down for the vacation that wasn’t.

I had no luggage, so I bought a darling set of Liz Claiborne.

Vintage-y. Pretty. The set was a couple of hundred dollars.

I didn’t have a passport. I paid rush fees. It was about $100.

I didn’t have a camera. Best Buy now has a couple hundred dollars.

But hey, at least I now have a passport, luggage and a camera.

And just so I’m not a total Negative Nelly with this post, I will say that we very much enjoyed our brief stay in New York City while we held out hope that the skies would clear. We did not so much enjoy the cost of our hotel, but we had amazing views of midtown. I saw a hilarious play on Broadway.

God of Carnage. Despite the title sounding so, it was not Biblical. Hilarity.

We got drunk on margaritas at Rosa Mexicano in Lincoln Center.

We got more drunk after that at Smith & Wollensky’s.

When the volcano continued to spew ash and our hope was finally gone, we boarded a flight home to Vegas.

Now, since you don’t get a refund when your flights are cancelled due to a natural disaster, you get a credit, I now have $3000 banked with United.

Where should I go?

I have a passport, new luggage and a new camera.

I have to go somewhere.

This is definitely not Scotland

2010-04-17T06:37:00.000-07:00

It’s official. Of course you’d have to be in Siberia not to know this.

But wait!

That’s right.

You can’t get to Siberia either!! So, you have no excuse.

The UK is shut down as is quite a bit of Northern Continental Europe due to the bitch whose name I can’t begin to pronounce (nor can I be bothered to look up the proper spelling of the volcano in Iceland that has brought air travel to a halt in Europe and the UK).

After sitting on the New Jersey tarmac for close to two hours last night, at the order of the captain we de-planed and hung in the terminal, holding out hope, that somehow Scotland was spared and our vacation would come to fruition after all.

No such luck.

So, Brother and I bailed on our Jersey Shore friends and headed to NYC for the night, to rest, re-group and re-plan.

That pic above is the view from our midtown hotel room.

Pretty.

I love the city.

So as the world of Europe has seemed to have shut down for at least a week to 10 days, and I will no longer have the opportunity to regale you with tales of the Loch Ness Monster and my tours of ancient castles, let me leave you with a story, along the lines of the battle of the sexes, and you tell me.

Am I right? Or is he wrong?

Both of those answers point to me, but anyway here goes.

Me: “What time are you picking me up to go to the airport?”

Brother: “645ish (am).”

645am arrives and my brother and his gf arrive to take us the airport. Brother grabs my bags and loads the car while I brush my teeth. Maybe 5 minutes have passed.

20 minute drive to the airport and we arrive at 715ish.

Flight Check-In Guy: “I’m sorry there is a 45 minute window to check bags before your flight, we can’t take your bags.”

I think to myself, what time is our flight? I hear 7:59 am.

Brother (to me with snark): “Well if you hadn’t been late.”

WTF?

Me: “You’re making this my fault?”

Brother: “You weren’t ready to go when we got there.”

Me: “I was 5 minutes. And by the way, I didn’t even know what time our flight left. It was your decision to pick me up an hour before our flight.”

Silence.

Who does that? On an international flight, when you need to check bags, who cuts it that close?

So you tell me.

My fault that we missed the first flight or his?

Now since I’m alone in an NYC hotel room, and my brother ditched me to go play Bethpage Black, I’d better hear that I’m right.

But I am anyway, right?

This volcano has some seriously bad timing

2010-04-16T18:44:00.001-07:00

Fuck you, Iceland!

My brother and I are supposed to be in Scotland this weekend. We're close, though. Sitting in the plane on the Newark tarmack, waiting for the powers that be to approve the last stop. The only stop that matters. The stop in Edinburgh, Scotland.

We missed our first flight that was Vegas to Denver. Depending on who you ask, that may or may not be my fault. I say it's not. I assure you there differing opinions.

Despite our first mishap, we are where we're supposed to be.

Newark international airport.

On our plane.

Waiting to go to Edinburgh.

But not anymore. We've been removed from the plane and are back in the terminal. Loopy on ambien because we were supposed to be asleep right now.

I plan to blog my Scottish adventures if I ever freaking get there and I will definite clear up my brother's misperception that I caused us toiss the first flight. I'm totally not at fault here and am expecting righteous indignantion
on my behalf. And maybe some more ambien cause this shite's going to wear off before I'm allowed back on that damn plane.

Iceland - you and your volcano and your glacier will rue the day. Rue I say!

Colby in Newark
Out

Sent from my iPhone

The one about my flaw

2010-04-11T20:51:00.000-07:00

Today, you should remember I have an innocuous disability.

Music.

I am musically challenged.

It’s my fatal flaw like the heroes of literature.

Music is my Achilles Heel.

No.

No. Wrong analogy.

Music can’t be my Achilles Heel because music isn’t my weakness.

Music simply alludes me.

Music does nothing to me.

I’ve had people try to fix me. Boyfriends have taken me to concerts and were sure they’d turn me.

Friends have bought me CDs and thought they would change my world.

A friend one night, kept me up, playing various songs, for hours, trying to illicit some response from me.

But she couldn’t.

I can’t help it. I’ve tried.

Tragically, music is my flaw.

I don’t hear it.

It’s noise to me.

On the very rare occasion, I will hear the chorus of a song, and it will get under my skin and I will decide that I like it, them, the band, whatever, I don’t understand the draw. I just would choose to listen to that song again.

You might say I’m handicapped in some way. You might even say it’s just plain sad that I don’t get what you get out of A, B, C and D musician.

I say, you don’t miss what you never had.

It’s like asking a person who can’t see, how would you describe that?

Ok. Maybe not the best analogy since hearing with the blind is amplified.

That’s me with music.

So, anyway my point –

I saw Muse at Mandalay Bay in Vegas last night.

I was asked by FOB (Friend of Brother who is my Vegas Non-Date) to go.

I saw Muse.

Good show considering attending a concert is like asking me to lay brick.

It is.

No offense to the person who ever asks, but it is.

He told me the night before they played 19 songs.

Total.

So, I counted.

The beginnings and ends of 19 songs.

For someone who doesn't get music, sitting in a chair at a concert is like asking a person to sit in an uninhabited forest in a chair and ask him to chart the growth of trees.

That's me.

Do you know anyone like me?

Another ray of sunshine in my world

2010-03-23T13:20:00.000-07:00

I got an award from the fabulous Claire Montgomery MD. It's the Sunshine Award. Claire wrote: "she gets me, and i get her and someday i'm going to make myself at home in her guest room." And to her I say, consider this an open-ended invitation.

So after I got my recent good news, Claire brought in a little more light and made me smile. Again. For like the second time in 2 days. Amaaazing. Thanks, friend!

And of course with the acceptance of this award of sunshine, I accept the responsibility of spreading it on. Listed below are the people who bring light to my day:

Cheddar @ Hold the Weak Sauce - she hasn't been posting as often as she used to but you'll never find a better read for the morning-after-drink-fests. She's awesome sauce.
Daisy @ Daisy, JD (Just Daisy) - she likes wine, and typically that would be enough to bond us (I'm easy like that), but after finding her blog, we came to find out we had an actual, in-real-life connection. It's a small world and I think probably better because she blogs in it.
Mar @ Getting Buff in Buffalo - for the best internet dating stories ever! I love Mar and she's the only blogger I've actually met in real life.
Insomniac @ Liberal Insomniac - I just see her as someone who is one of those genuinely nice people. That and I think she might possibly have the best boyfriend ever (rivals LiLu's B) and of course
LiLu @ Live it, Love it - there are no words. She makes me laugh more than anyone I think I've ever read, and she cares about blogging and bloggers. You can see that in everything she writes and in the time she devotes to lifting up others.
Angry Bell @ Wandering Bell - I internet-love this man and his wife Mrs. AngryBell, and their kid BabyAngryBell. I count on the Family Bell to keep me informed and provide me the Cliff Notes version of all things current event. And a special thanks to the Mrs. for her keen insight on many things but especially Dancing with the Stars.
Buffy Charlet @ Hip Hop Hippie - I'm not sure how Buffy found me, but one day this Hip Hop person was commenting on my blog, and with me being musically challenged I naturally gravitated toward her. I know Claire already gave her this award, but since Buffy and I were twins separated at birth, I'm claiming her, too. Not only have Buffy and I discovered that we've lived parallel lives, but each Friday, she has a new booze recipe. Mmmmm. Booze.
DJ at Dysfunction Junction - The day she de-lurked on my blog, I found that the the lurking had been mutual. Her first comment was righteous indignation on my behalf, and I was sold. I love her writing and her brutal and inspiring honesty.
Grace @ Law With Grace - the fabulous Grace is the first blog I found, and she actually inspired me to begin my own. She had me at The Dog and Me: A dialogue, but she's kept me with her wicked sense of humor, undeniable strength and her love of wine. (This could be a theme.)

To the award winners, please pass this on to your favorite bloggers! Here are the rules:

put the logo on your blog or within your post
pass the award on to twelve bloggers (I know. I know. I didn't make it to 12, but I'll be back. I have an appointment to find Mom a new home and I gotta roll. Peace is coming.)
link the nominees within your post
let the nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blog
Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.

PS: I think I still owe Claire Montgomery MD for the Your Blog is Fucking Awesome award from a while back. That's coming to. Soon. I swear.

Sometimes people can really surprise you

2010-03-20T18:08:00.000-07:00

So, again I’ve fallen behind here in my world. There has been a lot going on, some good, some bad. And I come to you today with both.

Let’s start with the bad - since that has precipitated the good.

You all know the story of my mom. For new readers, here is the short version. Mom was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia (FTD) in December of 2008. This disease is an incredibly rare form that dementia can take, and it strikes young and it strikes the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. This is where behavior and personality are housed. With FTD you see crazy first. You see behavioral changes that are so beyond out-of-character that you believe your loved one has lost their mind. Typically they say a diagnosis of this disease comes when the person is 3 years in. So, you see 3 years of crazy before like me - I forced my mom to commit herself to a mental ward in order to figure out what was wrong. My brother and I had been begging her to get help for a year, and we had to threaten her with losing us, losing her relationships with her children, if she did not get help.

So after a week in the mental ward, we got her diagnosis in the December of 2008. All of the year 2009, my mom stayed in an assisted living facility until the money ran out. Then in the fall of 2009, I made the decision to relocate to Nevada, where my brother lives, and bring mom with. Las Vegas was chosen for 2 reasons, my brother was here, and the property values are cheap, so I could buy a house big enough to give us both room.

So the last week in November 2010, I moved Mom in with me. The plan was to have her stay with me as long as I was able. When her coastal property in Oregon sold, we would then have the capital to place her back into the care of professionals.

My mom moved in with me 4 months ago, and oddly and suddenly in the last 2 weeks, we watched a downward spiral occur. Her memory is slipping, and she is forgetting to eat unless I’m there to force her. There are other issues I could mention, but they are much more suited to a TMI Thursday post, and so I will spare you. But the big thing is, Mom’s brain is intermittently no longer communicating with her body.

The other night, I followed her into her bedroom to give her nighttime meds and to say goodnight. In the middle of the room, she froze. It was as if she was paralyzed. She stood motionless and would not take the last 2 steps to reach her bed. I physically tried to move her but was rather unsuccessful. After a couple of attempts, I had her leaned against her bed, but her brain wouldn’t tell her legs to push herself onto her bed. And she slowly slid down towards the floor. I waited with her until she “came back.” She got into bed, and I left to allow her to sleep.

This was a reality check.

I can no longer take care of her. Physically, I can’t lift her, I simply can no longer be the person she needs me to be.

I had no clue as to what we were going to do. While I make a great living, I absolutely cannot afford the $5000 per month that an assisted living facility costs. Who can for that matter?

I shared these experiences with my brother, and I worried what his reaction would be. He simply said to me, “You can’t take care of her anymore.”

I guess it would be an understatement to say I felt relief. I was validated for one thing, but what mattered was I had his support. Not that he hasn’t been supportive, because he’s been amazing, but I had my big brother, who never wanted me to have to do this in the first place say, “You can’t do this anymore.”

So, we discussed our options. We thought about getting a loan against Mom’s house, which would be a legal nightmare in and of itself and would probably never be approved. We thought about a loan from a friend who we know wouldn’t even flinch at the thought. We just sat there and thought, how do you ask for that?

In the meantime, I’ve been keeping in touch with my mom’s sisters. They have been worried about me, worried that I’ve taken on too much. Disapproving even that I made this choice to move Mom in with me. All the while offering no solutions. I think I even wrote a post about them. Both are rather wealthy, and both seem soooooo worried about me and so averse to the idea of me at such a young age taking on this challenge, yet both so unwilling to offer a solution or help. It’s made me angry. They are able, yet have been unwilling to help their sister.

The e-mails over the last 4 months have flown back and forth. No sugar coating. When they ask how I am, how she’s been, how hard things have been for me, I’ve told them. I haven’t wanted to let them off the hook.

Now, I know that in this life, no one owes you anything. Even family doesn’t owe you anything. But, I’m different.

I think that if life presents with you an opportunity to do something nice or kind for someone, you should take it. Without question. You take it.

I know that if it was me, and it was my brother who was suffering from this horrible, wretched disease, I would move mountains to take care of him. Especially if I was financially able.

So, yes. I’ve been bitter. I’ve had really bitter feelings toward my aunts.

Last week when asked by them, I told them the story of Mom’s temporary paralysis.

Enough of the dreary?

Ok. Here’s the good news.

The Aunts called and said, “We can’t save your Mom, but we can save you.”

*Tears

The Aunts have stepped up and have offered to loan us the money to place Mom back into an assisted living facility. No questions asked. No time limit. When Mom’s house sells, we pay them back.

Just like that.

A light in what has been a progressively, proverbial dark world.

Sometimes people surprise you.

When I got this phone call, I broke down and cried and finally admitted that this whole thing has been hard. I finally admitted to myself that as good of a front I was putting on, I must not have been as ok as I thought I was, because suddenly I had this overwhelming feeling of peace.

I have this horrible dichotomy of good and bad.

Bad that my mom’s disease is progressing - which of course we knew it would as there is no cure.

Good that she can get the professional care that she desperately needs, and good that I will have help and I will get my life back.

Sometimes people surprise you.

Tacos, Navy Seals and short shorts

2010-03-11T15:48:00.000-08:00

I had my first dinner party at the Vegas house last weekend. Taco night. Margaritas. Cervesas. And tacos.

I was a bit ambitious and planned four different kinds. Fish. Chicken. Pork. Carne Asada. The menu also included slow-cook pinto beans and Spanish rice. All made from scratch. All of the marinades were made from scratch. Everything but the pico de gallo was made from scractch.

Scratch is an evil, evil word.

It was.

A lot.

Of.

Work.

The slow-cook pinto beans actually took 2 days, and so on day 2 of prep and coincidentally the day of the party, I decided to chill for a moment on the sofa and channel surf.

I came across Demi Moore and G.I.Jane.

And Viggo Mortensen.

Yum.

Except.

He was wearing these.

Wow.

Short-shorts. On a Navy Seal.

So, of course I had to look up the year the movie was made and found it to be 1996.

Seriously?

Manly men like Navy Seals not only wore those at some point in history, but wore them only as far back as 1996? And maybe 1997? And maybe still?

Tell me any of my readers who are in the Navy? Do the Seal Boys - or for that matter - any of you still wear those shorts?

Wow.

Just wow.

So as I was thinking about Navy Seals I flashed back to a trip to Hawaii I took 5 years ago with the girls.

We were sipping cocktails at Duke’s on the beach when in walked the Crew Cut Mafia.

Clearly they were military. Just what branch, we weren’t sure.

They sat down at the bar. Across from us. Bartender between us, but there was a lot of direct contact eye-fucking.

Eventually they came over to introduce themselves.

CCM: "Ladies, can we buy you drinks?"

Duh.

Us: "Sure. Join us."

CCM: "What brings you ladies to Hawaii?"

Us: "Vacation. You boys?"

CCM: "We’re Navy Seals. We’re racked here at Pearl (Pearl Harbor) briefly on our way back from a mission."

Me (snark): "Sure you are."

Silence.

Fake Navy Seal: "What? You don’t believe we’re Seals"

Me: "Nope. But you can still buy us drinks."

Fake Navy Seal: "Seriously?"

Me: "Seriously. I lived here when I was 18-20. I’ve seen your act before. It’s a good one though. Don’t feel bad. We just don’t need it. Join us anyway."

They all looked at me completely dumbfounded, and my girlfriends’ and I locked eyes for a moment. We didn’t get it. They were getting a free pass to join us, no game required, but they seemed really committed.

So I dropped it and let them regale us with their stories, all the while thinking, if you’re a Navy Seal, you don’t freaking tell people. But they were funny. And hot. And even the little Fake Seal had his charm. It’s not that he was little. He was chubby.

No.

Not really chubby either.

He was maybe 5’5 and just as wide. Solid, though. Solid muscle mass with a round baby face. Such a dichotomy. When you think Navy Seal, you don’t see Semi-Chubby Seal. And his nickname was Chubs. They called him Chubs, so I’m not being a size-ist here in this post.

Anyway, Chubs had apparently been filmed by the Discovery Channel for a documentary on Seal try-outs.

I remember whispering a snarky comment that he was really, really, really committed to his game.

Despite our disbelief in them, we partied with them for the next 2 days and eventually parted ways.

Maybe a week or so after we got home, I randomly searched The Discovery Channel On Demand, and would you believe it – they were running a documentary on Navy Seal Try-Outs.

No.

Freakin.

Way.

So I watched.

And there was Chubs. Hard-core. In the rain. Carrying his share of the lifeboat over his head.

Damn.

It.

Unbelievable.

There was Chubs.

I think I have pics of that trip.

Of course.

I'm sure they're classified.

Does vodka count as a food group?

2010-02-25T18:42:00.000-08:00

I am still employed.

My boss has continued to neglect me, and yet I am still employed, still receiving a paycheck funded by your TARP dollars. It’s awesome. And by awesome, I mean that it totally blows.

I work for a bank, but I hate customers. I hate them. I think they are stupid, ignorant, hatefully annoying miscreants who unfortunately are the reason for doing business.

Whatever.

I hate them. That’s why I’m corporate. I don’t have to deal with them; I’m behind the scenes. I help define strategies on how to deal with the assholes who walk into branches. I wasn’t always this way. Well, I always hated customers, but I wasn’t always insulated from them.

I used to be a Branch Manager for the bank I work for, and the problem with that was I just don’t like people enough. Or I don’t like customers. Or customer service.

Especially when I’m in a position where I have to listen to them complain, and I can’t ignore them or mock them. I just have to take it, and not only take it, but try to fix it.

I recall being yelled at because I (and by I, I mean the bank, but of course customers blame who’s in front of them) bounced 20 of a customer’s checks. While he verbally assaulted me, I had to apologize to him. I had to pretend to empathize with this jackass who made the decision to write and mail 20 checks before he got paid. Totally my fault. I should’ve called him, and warned him that if he wrote checks before his paycheck was deposited, things would be bad. His words. Yeah. I totally dropped the ball on that one.

I failed at other things as well.

A customer once walked in with 2 years of checking account statements and cancelled checks (I know I’m dating myself here) stuffed into 2 large Hefty sacks and asked me to shred them. Personally. Because I was the Branch Manager and therefore deemed trustworthy. I declined, again totally my fault. I brought it on myself. It was just so inconsiderate of me to think that I couldn’t dedicate 8 hours of my workday to her trash, and she yelled at me. Loudly. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t consider her request reasonable, and I had to stand there with a smile, allow her to berate me for my selfishness, my unwillingness to do what clearly should’ve been a part of my job description, and so I fake-smiled and I pretended to be sorry.

Bitch.

I’m still traumatized by these episodes 7 years later. 7 years after going corporate and becoming insulated.

Only to come full circle . . . because what am I doing now?

I’m running a pilot. A test.

I’m calling customers to talk to them about the service they receive when they visit our branches.

It’s my boss’s new epiphany. He wants to see if we can do it in-house rather than contract out to one of those big survey companies, and I’m a Senior Manager, I’m a Communications Manager, I write customer scripting that the employees in the branches use to talk to customers. I’m perfect for it.

He says.

Except that I fucking hate customers.

And now, I’m purposely, pro-actively, reaching out to people and inviting them to verbally assault me.

12 years with the bank, and I’m doing exactly what I ran away from.

Dude. I live with my Mom. Don’t I have good karma like built up indefinitely? What’s with this shiz?

I work for one of the biggest banks in the country. I might be calling you. Be nice to me.

Living in the land of sex

2010-02-21T11:36:00.001-08:00

I guess it’s appropriate that I share with you what I’m about to.

When you buy a new construction home like I did here in Vegas and for that matter in any city. You have a lot of choices to make. Granite. Tile. Hardwood. Crown molding. And if you want crown, what upgrade? Upgrade 1, upgrade 2 which would include the ceilings, or upgrade 3 which pretty much means your house will be all about the crown, etc.

One of the options to upgrade was lighting. Chandeliers? Pendants. Track. Bathroom fixtures, recessed and the like.

Now, I opted out on this one because I have eclectic, antique style tastes for my lighting. I like simple, vintage chandeliers, tinted glass pendants, and I like everything to be slightly unique from each other. So, I opted out and accepted the “standard” lighting with the intent to replace as I found treasures at vintage shops or Lamps Plus. Whatever.

Anyhoo, as I’ve now been here for about 3 months, I’ve grown accustomed to and slightly amused by the sexual paraphernalia that is the “standard” lighting.

I can’t help but wonder if the design consultant who chose the “standard” package was a gay male or a pre-menopausal woman with raging hormones.

You tell me.

“Um. Excuse but has anyone seen my vibrator or otherwise phallic instrument? No?”

Well, don’t worry because I have 5 in the dining room. Yes friends, below is the chandelier in my formal dining room.

It has 5 penile substitutes.

Awesome.

Now, if you don’t need the penile substitute because you’re actually dating a man, you perhaps might be looking for the added protection of a condom with a reservoir tip.

Good news. I’ve got one.

Here is the pendant in my foyer.

Just roomy enough for those with a lot of . . . . um . . . . yeah. No need to worry about breakage, spillage or overflow.

And moving though the house to the breakfast nook, if you’ve lost your diaphragm, you needn’t worry, because I’ve got one.

Classy.

My electrician comes on Monday to switch them out with the cool, vintagey, less sexually-explicit lighting I’ve found, but I thought I’d share with you before they’re gone.

You’re welcome.

An open letter to the branches of our government

2010-02-04T17:21:00.000-08:00

I try to stay away from politics here in my corner of the interwebs. Mostly because I just can’t stand the game. Typically, I choose to just opt out.

But I’m feeling the need.

And the need is health care reform.

The current administration has been dancing with this, of course with no real leadership (and please don’t start the hate just because I’m not a fan Obama’s spending spree), but anyway for a man who espouses health care reform, he doesn’t really have a plan. I hear a lot of “the way things ought to be, the things we should have,” but I don’t hear a lot of direction. I don’t hear a plan.

Why does this matter?

In my corner of the world, my mom doesn’t have health insurance. She is uninsurable now that she has dementia. I’ve even tried to pay ridiculously high premiums to get her covered, but alas insurance companies won’t touch her. Bastards.

She falls into a unique window being under 65.

Typically when a person becomes disabled, they qualify for Social Security Disability. You have to have been disabled for 6 months before they begin cutting your checks. Which I guess I can understand. They don’t want you to just be casually, temporarily, fake disabled. You’ve got to be really fucked-up disabled before the money gets shared.

Even with dementia and other memory disorders like Alzheimer's, you still have to wait. Even though there is no possibility that dementia or Alzheimer's can resolve themselves in 6 months, you have to wait - despite the fact that it's well documented that these diseases just get worse.

Back to me. We had to have mom officially declared demented for 6 months before we could get the Social Security Disability income that she‘s been paying into for 50 years.

Genius system.

So after you’ve demonstrated that you really are in fact fucked up, incapable of holding a job and you're receiving your disability income, you find yourself without health insurace because why? Right. You're not working. You're disabled.

Here’s where our fabulous system takes another cheap shot. You have to be officially declared disabled for 2 years before you can qualify for Medicare health insurance.

That’s right. You lose the first 6 months, drowning in a waiting period before you get income. Then another 2 years must pass as you slowly rot away, further proving that you are in fact truly, seriously fucked up. Then you can get health insurance.

Again, it’s our government trying to make sure that money isn’t doled out frivolously for temporary disability, which again I get. But seriously.

Seriously.

If you had dementia during the 6-month waiting period, you’re still going to have it in 2 years. So, what’s the point of withholding health insurance for 2 years when you’re diagnosed with a fatal, degenerative brain disease?

So Mr. Obama please.

Please.

Fix this.

Please ask your stooges Reid and Pelosi, or shocker, maybe even you could fix this. It’s not rocket science.

If a person is disabled with a fatal disease, maybe it’s not necessary to force them to slowly die just a little bit more for 2 years (all the while allowing them to rack up medical debt that's never going to get paid) as a qualification for obtaining Medicare health insurance.

This isn’t even complicated. It’s not like I’m asking you to fix the entire freakin health care system (on the contrary I‘d prefer that you didn‘t with the direction the House/Senate are going but anyway), I’m just saying change one little phrase in the Social Security code.

"If you’re disabled with dementia (or any other incurable disease), the 2 year waiting period is waived."

That’s it.

Just that simple.

Just common sense. Which I know.

I know what you're thinking.

In Politics, that’s an oxymoron.

Just sayin.

Interestingly though, Mom’s 2 ½ year disability anniversary is her 65th birthday - upon which she qualifies for health insurance just because she’s old, not because after 2 1/2 years our system finally thinks she's proved herself disabled enough.

So, Mom's EEG that I have to pay for next week is $456. What kind of a timeline do you think you can commit to?

Just let me know.

Thanks,
Colby

The differences between boys and girls

2010-01-27T08:28:00.000-08:00

Have you ever thought about the things girls do that guys don’t?

For example. Run out of gas. We do that. They don’t. The first week I was in Vegas, I was sleeping at my brother’s house while awaited the finishing of mine. I awoke at 5am one morning, collected the puppy and went out to my car. Upon my exit from the front door, the alarm sounded. I woke everyone up, but that couldn’t be helped. The puppy and I got in the car, I turned the key and I got nothing. I looked at the gage, and it was empty.

Immediately I began flashing back to the last couple of days and the warning indicator light that also makes an intermittent ping sound to drive the point home. I flashed back to the times I said in my head, “Oh right. I need to get gas.” I flashed to all the times I kept driving and didn’t.

It was 38 degrees outside. We were freezing. I debated in my head whether or not I was just going to call AAA or go wake up the house again and ask for help.

Two things.

Do I wake them up again?

Do I wake them up again and admit I ran out of gas?

It was 38 degrees outside, so I decided to knock on the front door. Of course I was locked out.

Knock.

Nothing.

So the puppy and I went back to the car, no power, no heat and waited for AAA.

It was cold. I put the puppy inside my sweatshirt against my bare skin to keep her warm. So, she was good. It was just me that frozen.

What would you have done? Would you have pounded on the front door until someone woke up and helped you? Or would you have suffered the cold and kept your dignity, hidden from the mocking that you knew would come?

I told this story recently with a group of my brother’s friends. The girls were totally with me. The boys couldn’t even listen. The boys couldn’t fathom the concept of running out of gas. They couldn’t listen to the piece about how I saw the warning light and ignored it. The girls were nodding, sympathetic. They totally got me. They, too, would have stayed in the car in the cold to avoid the abuse. The boys shook their heads, looked at us girls as if we’d completely lost our minds.

My brother and I are planning a trip to Scotland in April. He’s going to golf, and I’m going to explore. With everything that has happened with our mom in the last few years, we decided it was time to start living our lives. So, he’s going to golf in Scotland, and I’m going to explore castles, the Loch Ness monster and perhaps hop a train to England.

This will be my first trip to Europe, and I need a passport.

With the trip fast approaching in April, my brother is constantly on me to go get my pic taken, go to the post office and get the damn passport thing done. His new girl recommended the best post office for me in Vegas, so I have no excuse.

Except.

I need to go on a day that I do my hair.

Right?

Not just a ponytail day. Not just a wash and let it dry by itself day, but a day when I wash, blow dry and flat iron. A day when my hair will look glorious in the passport photo.

Right?

Yeah. He doesn't get it.

I guess it’s another girl thing.

More than just a little un-cool

2010-01-25T15:57:00.000-08:00

I've been having flashbacks to my youth lately. I blame Buffy over at Hip Hop Hippie. She started it with the school photo contest - which by the way you totally must check out. Not because my photo's in the mix, but because you'll see some that make even my unfortunate 10 year old braceface look kind of hot. Well maybe not hot. That's kind of creepy and aiming a little too high, but at least a little less unfortunate. Deliverance comes to mind.

While digging through the family photos to find her that awesomely bad pic, I inevitably found myself strolling through memory lane.

I was awkward as a kid. My brother and I were sent to a tiny, private Christian school in rural Central California. To say we were sheltered wouldn't remotely do it justice. It was a small school. We had classes with maybe 10-15 kids, and we attended this K through 8 school with same kids each year. And did I mention it was Christian? Hormones checked at the door.

When we finished 6th grade, Mom decided that perhaps it was time to introduce us to the real world, and by real world I mean public junior high school. In town.

I imagine it's quite like taking a child from a rain forest tribe and dropping her in New York City. Without a guide.

On my first day, I saw kids making out.

I saw girls whose bras actually had boobs. I had none. To say that I had none would be inaccurate, I was practically concave except for rather perky tips.

I saw stoners. They all looked like Bon Jovi. I had to be told what a stoner was.

I saw that my denim jacket and matching denim jeans, red leather Sperry top siders and collared shirt were the definition of a Canadian Tuxedo. (Sorry, Canada!)

I saw the 8th grade cheerleaders in their crisp uniforms, and on that day my dreams took hold. I knew that my key to rise the social echelons was to become a cheerleader. And maybe class president. I was ambitious.

At the end of my 7th grade year, cheer tryouts came, and my mom took me shopping for a cute new outfit for tryouts. I bought some crazy print shorts (it was 1986), an off-the-shoulder sweater (you're totally seeing Flashdance in your head) with a colored tank underneath.

Cute? 80s cute.

Practical? Not remotely, but then what did I know? About fashion, about cheering, about anything. I was 11 years old.

When it was my turn to audition, I did one cheer and the sweater dipped further down my shoulders, distracting and inhibiting arm movement. And as if I were in the naked dream, the judges asked me to take my sweater off for the final cheer and the dance routine. In that moment, my junior high life flashed before my eyes.

Two things.

I had not shaved my underarms that morning.

I wasn't wearing a bra.

(The right way. Groomed and probably wearing bras. Sports bras even.)

Instead of bolting from the stage, preserving my dignity and saving my reputation and 8th grade year, I continued my tryout and I. Took. The. Sweater. Off.

It was cold in the gym.

There were a lot of arm movements in both the cheer and the dance portion of the tryout.

I was mortified, but I continued. I didn't quit the tryout.

I made the squad, but as I look back now, I can't help but wonder if this was why 8th grade didn't go so well for me.

I come to you today with a list and some pics

2010-01-18T11:17:00.000-08:00

My posts are fewer and farther in between these days, but there are some things that have happened. Probably completely unnecessary to write them down, but whatev.

There was an incident with a box cutter, and I am now acutely aware of how important and oft-used my left thumb is.

My new treadmill arrived, but after lugging it upstairs and putting it together – rather watching my brother put it together – and me helping slightly, I’m so broken I can’t use it.

I know I’ve written about this before, but television in HD is just really revealing. It’s actually making me self-conscious about my own skin. Which was already an issue since the moisturizer I’ve used since I was 18 was just discontinued and I live in freakin Las Vegas now. Maybe it's just the people I'm seeing on Hoarders, but wow. Bad skin.

I am completely and oddly obsessed with Hoarders. During the episode I saw today, 4000 lbs of poo, human poo, were removed from a woman's house. WTF? No really. What. The. Fuck?! Well, you might say, "Colby it's because she let her water get turned off two years ago, and so she couldn't use a toilet." And to that I'd still say wtf.

On the subject of poo. I was reminded today how totally un-cool I was as a child. Moog at Mental Poo published several of his own versions of a family comic strip. I loved that family as a child. I actually hunted for books of the comic strips in the public library.

And in keeping with the un-cool thing, Buffy published an awe-inspiring childhood photo and encouraged, I mean dared us to join in.

I accomplished this awesome look with perm curlers (minus the solution). I somehow thought it would be a good idea to try this the night before 6th grade class pictures. The early 80s were not kind to me.

Buffy’s having a contest. So, send her your best worst childhood school pics.

And because I can't let that be the last thing you think of when you think of me, with puberty and 5-6 years, I became this.

I still had the late 80s hair, but I think it’s a much less unfortunate look. And by that I mean at least my teeth had grown into my gums. Or maybe it was just the photographer who took this senior class picture. She kept telling me to smile less.

“Smaller smile, Colby.”

“Don’t smile that much, Colby.”

Ahhh memories.

TMI Thursday - That was just so much more than I needed to see in the morning

2010-01-14T07:00:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've joined the TMI Thursday bit, but here goes. As the fabulous LiLu always says . . . . .

Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

I moved to Vegas, and I moved my Mom with me. She has a rare form of early-onset dementia. One of the side effects of dementia is incontinence. Fortunately for both of us, it’s only number one at this point.

So I’ve had to buy Depends from Costco in bulk. They sell them in packs of 72.

Another side effect of Mom’s dementia is the decrease of inhibitions/modesty. So she might at random, lift up her t shirt completely to fix her bra, and I get a shot of old lady boob. Those are the easy moments.

One morning I was plugged in on the sofa, watching TV, minding my own business when along comes Mom, black socks, t shirt and that’s it. No pants.

She walked through the living room and into the kitchen. I got full frontal of untamed secret garden (thanks Claire Montgomery MD for the metaphor) and then she passed me, so I got a shot of 64 year old lady ass. She passed me into the kitchen. Apparently looking for scissors so she could cut open a new pack of depends.

Awesome.

I love my life.

If it weren't for the random text messages

2010-01-12T15:14:00.000-08:00

I would probably have completely forgotten it's my birthday. It is. I celebrated my 21st birthday in Vegas - 15 years ago. Ouch. Um yeah. Anyway, it seems appropriate that on the 15th anniversary of my 21st birthday, I am in Vegas again. I like that. It's the 15th anniversary of my 21st birthday. That's what I'm going to go with.

My new bedroom furniture arrived today, so I'm going to pretend like it was my present. It's seems as good an opportunity as any to share pics of the new house, so here goes.

This is the master bedroom and sitting room. There's no paint and no pictures hung so it looks a little boring, but it's coming along.

This is the big guest room and also my home office. It's very flowery. I'm not really flowery, and I hate the color red, so I really have no understanding why I own this stuff. I wonder what my shrink would say about that.

This is the small guest room. My brother's new girl says it looks like a hotel room which I guess means it's lacking in personality. I know that. Paint. Pictures. The room has needs.

This is the loft. It looks really boring but the sofa and loveseat are a chocolate brown corduroy fabric. They are soft and fluffy and you just kind of melt into them. This is supposed to be my TV area - mom gets downstairs, but we know that isn't working out very well. It looks lonely. It needs stuff. Stuff is on the list.

So that was the upstairs. Slowly but surely, it's coming together. I'm ditching it tonight for a little birthday gambling with FOB (Friend of Brother). Would it be wrong if I slipped Mom some extra sleep meds to knock her out a little early? I've never done that before, but lately I'm beginning to understand the inclination. Lol. No. I wouldn't.

Would I?

I probably had my best day yet in Vegas today, but it’s probably not what you think

2010-01-08T00:47:00.001-08:00

I know.

Despite the Dom Perignon Christmas, despite the Reggie Bush Veuve Clicquot . . . . .

It’s small. But it’s huge.

So I’ve been writing a bit since the big move to Vegas, but I haven’t really addressed the Mom issue. For those of you who are regulars, you know what I’m talking about. For those of you who are new, my Mom has frontotemporal dementia (that's a Mayo Clinic link for a description), and I just moved her into the new home I bought for us. (I've written about this disease here.)

The jist of it is, we’re both way too young to be going though this.

Anyway, I’ve written a bit about the move and my first Christmas in Vegas and probably not much else, despite the new name of my blog.

“Colby in Sin” would lead you to believe that there’s somethings saucy happening here these days.

Not so much. I’m trying, though (that's for you AngryBell!).

But I’m overdue writing about my Mom. So, here goes.

Briefly.

It’s been hard. A lot harder than I thought.

Naïve = me

She’s sweet, though, and docile and manageable, but she’s a 64 year-old 5 year old child. Did that make sense? She’s 64, but with early-onset dementia, she’s really 5 in her mind.

I thought the house I bought was big enough to give us both space. The economy here in Las Vegas has been hit so hard that it’s the perfect opportunity to buy, and so I did. I bought a 3100 square foot house with a private bedroom and bath on the first floor. The kitchen, the formal dining room, the breakfast nook, the formal living room and the family room is all on the first floor with Mom's room.

Mom gets the first floor, and I get the second.

Or that was how it was supposed to go.

How is it actually going?

Well, Mom is a 5 year old child in her mind, so she has to be everywhere that her parent is. She follows me around constantly, and while I accept that, I find myself trying to re-train her. With no expectations mind you. I’m just trying to see if she can be trained.

She gets the first floor.

I get the second.

It’s not working. She just wants to be where I am, and so I have to accept that.

One of the side effects of dementia is fixations. And so while I could barely get my mom to agree to leave the assisted living facility I pulled her from, now that she’s in the new house, she somehow has the expectation that I will take her on an errand (or six) every day. Her current fixation though is the dog park. Could be worse.

So today - as we do most days - we went to the dog park with the puppy.

Here she is.

Upon our exit from the dog park today, I got a phone call from my Brother. He was at my house dropping by for a visit. He has a key, but he’s super respectful about just letting himself in (not that it would occur to me to mind), and so he asked if he could.

Well, of course.

15 minutes later, Mom and I turned down our street to meet up with my Brother at home.

Today was trash pick-up day. I’ve lived in an apartment/condo for like 10 years, so managing trash cans is a new thing.

When I approached the driveway, I saw that my trash/recycling cans had been returned to the garage, and I smiled to myself. What a nice thing to do. He brought them back into the garage for me.

When we entered the house, we found him knee deep, rubber gloves, cleaning.

I wanted to cry.

It’s not that my house is not clean. Actually, it’s quite funny how much cleaning I do. A big house like this is a lot of work. I dust daily. And with the flooring being tile, there are dust bunnies, so I sweep every day. I try to catch the window sills. I try to sweep the crown molding. Freaking beautiful Bastard that is crown - whose goal in life is to collect dust - yes the crown has a goal - but whatevs, it’s a constant battle.

I tragically do 3 loads of laundry a day because dementia also brings another unpleasant side effect. Think Depends.

TMI Thursday almost? It’s 1:13am on Friday as I’m writing this, so this could be a totally different post. Be grateful.

Anyway, my house. It’s just too much for one person to manage.

My best girlfriends have often asked, “Now that you’re close to your brother, are you getting some help?”

I think this qualifies, yes?

I came home from the dog park, and I found my brother cleaning my house.

This totally qualifies.

So thank you, Brother. For making my day. My week. My move.

To top things off, I had dinner planned with a friend of my brother’s tonight. A guy I’ve known since our college days.

We explored the new Las Vegas City Center and we had dinner at Julian Serrano. Spanish-style Tapas.

Good wine.

Good food.

Good company.

And then there was the reminder that the entire reason my brother dropped by tonight was so that I could have some time to shower, wash, blow dry, flat-iron my hair. I could pull out my Chloe handbag and switch out my stuff, and I could peacefully and quietly get ready to go out. And he could sit with Mom to give me that time.

He knew I had plans, and he surprised me with the help I needed to ensure I felt good when I went out. And he cleaned while he was here!

Julian Serrano restaurant at City Center - good.

My brother’s kindness - priceless.

Blech! That just sounds so much more clever on a MasterCard commercial.

I spent Christmas with Reggie Bush

2010-01-04T17:00:00.000-08:00

My brother is in the booze and wine business in Vegas, as are all of his friends. So, my Christmas was spent with this.

Yes, friends. That would be remnants of a case of Dom Perignon. Life’s rough I know.

Interestingly, the guys also brought out this bottle of Veuve.

Apparently Reggie Bush was planning to spend a recent birthday in Vegas. His “people” called in advance and asked the wine guys to have a bottle of Veuve specially engraved for Reggie’s birthday. They called in the morning. Reggie was to arrive that afternoon.

Must be nice.

So the wine guys worked their magic and got the bottle done only to have Reggie cancel his trip at the last minute.

The bottle sat in an office.

Then it found it’s way to my Christmas.

Happy Birthday, Reggie!

And thanks!

Christmas in Vegas - and this is an appropriate title

2009-12-22T17:00:00.000-08:00

Because apparently, I live next door to the Griswolds.

In case my dreadful photography skills have not made it clear, that is a Mickey and Minnie Mouse Santa and Mrs. Claus there under the porch lights. Frosty the Snowman is just a regular Frosty, but he's waving at us, or at Mr. and Mrs. Claus. There is also a sleigh and reindeer made of Christmas lights. I could go on, but I won't. I'll be sure to post when I meet Clark and Ellen.

A couple of things have been going on that I'm feeling the need to document. So here goes.

I bought my first big tv. A big house requires a big tv. So, I got the 52in Sony Bravia HD LCD tv. It's big. And what I've learned is that the people on TV aren't all that pretty. With HD you can see every pore, every blemish - every single flaw. I love it. Is that wrong?

I got the food poisoning diet that we all secretly hope for.

Inadvertently swallowing a glob of toothpaste is not a good idea and had the same effect as the food poisoning. My stomach might be raw, but it's been a great kick start to the diet

There is no such thing as too much moisturizer in Las Vegas.

Christmas morning began with Bloody Marys and will end with more booze. Save me a stool at Binions. I'll be there later, or at least at a friend's house with some more booze.

Merry Christmas everyone, Happy Hanukkah to all!

Just of a couple of quick things on the shopping list

2009-12-14T19:36:00.001-08:00

The guy who's fixing my granite (they put in the wrong granite) is hot. And he owns the granite business, and he's a fireman. So, that's like double points. It's like a scene in a porno where he's in my house to install his granite, and I ask him if he'd like to install something else. I mean. I haven't. Asked him that is, but I swear I hear bow, chicka bow bow in my head.

And.

Ive been frustrated with this monster Excel file that I've been working on for work (yes, I'm oddly still employed), and my co-worker from San Francisco Veronica is doing the other half of this evil, evil project. Anyway we were venting over IM yesterday morning early as she and I typically sign in around 6:30am. The following exchange took place.

Me: I hate this project.

Veronica: Me too. Is it too early to start drinking.

Me: Not in Vegas.

And with that, we discovered the best part of my new locale. It's really never too early to start drinking here.

I've found nirvana.

PS: This is my second post noticing a hot guy and my desire to flirt.

Noted.

I must be coming out of my self-imposed exile.

The Fates can be just plain rude

2009-12-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

He was good looking. Really good looking. And tall. And he sat next to me on the plane.

We talked non-stop during the flight. He was charming. Funny. Hot. And tall. And I started to remember what it felt like. Flirting. That initial spark. That first spark that makes you do a double-take. That’s the best moment.

We landed in Las Vegas, and he pressed a speed dial on his cell phone. He left a voicemail.

“Hi honey. I just landed. Be there soon. Love you. Bye.”

Damn.

Rude.

Colby in Sin

2009-12-04T19:16:00.000-08:00

The move to Vegas is complete and as such, I have been prompted by my interweb friend Angry Bell to change the name of my blog.

At his suggestion (thanks, Angry Bell!) I am now "Colby in Sin" where what happens in Vegas does not stay.

I need to become salacious so I can live up to my new blog title.

I will try to find the deviant within.

Let's call a spade a spade

2009-12-03T20:57:00.000-08:00

So I’ve still been gone. A lot. I know.

The move is complete and there is much to tell, but I’m so tired that I’m only going to ask a question of the universe (or any climatologist who happens to read me).

Yesterday was the last official day of the move, or it was supposed to be. I was to fly to San Francisco, collect my Mom and fly her back with me to Vegas.

My flight out of Vegas to San Francisco was delayed 3 hours due to fog in San Francisco.

Wait. What?

It’s foggy in San Francisco?

The hell you say!

A funny thing happened at the dog park

2009-11-19T18:01:00.000-08:00

I’ve been absent a lot lately.

I know.

I’ve been buried in the move. There have been Property Management companies pitching their services to manage my condo, moving company estimates, new appliance deliveries to schedule, flights to book for closing escrow on the new house, painting and packing. A lot of packing.

One constant has been my daily visit to the dog park with the puppy. I might be losing my mind, but she still deserves her play time.

There’s this crowd of seniors who meet there every day with their dogs. They kind of rule the dog park. They’ve sort of adopted me as their collective granddaughter and graciously allow me to sit in their group and listen to their stories. One of my favorite guys is 82, Italian, kind of Tony Soprano-like but only in San Francisco. He’s a storyteller. I could listen to him all day.

And so as I have in fact lost my mind with the move, and I have only craziness to write about, I will instead leave you with a story from Old Italian Guy, told from his perspective.

Old Italian Guy: “So I had a some new mattresses delivered today, and I remembered a time when I was 18 and my father got some new mattresses for our house. (That was 64 years ago.) I had plans to meet my friends at the beach that night. We were having this huge cookout to celebrate the end of summer, but my Dad stopped me as I was leaving the house to tell me I had to take the old mattress with me.”

Random Old Lady at the Dog Park: “What were you going to do with the mattress?”

Old Italian Guy: “I was going to leave it at the beach.”

Me: Gasp.

Old Italian Guy: “You could do that back then. People did that. It was 1945. So, anyway . . . we strapped the mattress to the roof of my vintage Ford, and I drove off to pick up my girl. I got to her house, and her father took one look at the mattress on the roof of my car, and he wouldn’t let me take her!”

Old Italian Guy: “I tried to explain that the mattress on the roof of my car was unrelated to my intentions toward his daughter, but he didn’t believe me.”

He sighed heavily.

Old Italian Guy: “I was the only guy at the beach without a girl.”

End scene.

Sometimes you get thrown an unexpected life raft

2009-11-06T12:09:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life presents you with an opportunity to do something nice for someone else. It could be for family, or people you know, or people you don't know, or even just a stranger that you encounter for a moment in your day. Sometimes life presents you an opportunity to do something nice for someone, and you can take the opportunity or you can let it pass unnoticed, as if insignificant.

I like to think of myself as one of those people who takes the opportunities, but today - today I was the recipient.

Below is a video my brother filmed of my new house, construction in progress. As the house is in Vegas, and I'm in San Francisco, I don't get the opportunity to see the progress often. Today my brother surprised me with this video, just something nice that he did, that he thought of, no prompting, just something nice.

I like that he's one of those people. He's a guy who takes the opportunities.

I was just having an average day, and now it feels like the lights just came on. I wonder if we do this often enough for others.

Anyway - enough with the fluffy, silly serious existential stuff. Check out my house so far!!

Living with Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD) Volume VII

2009-11-03T21:49:00.000-08:00

Note: I am beyond overdue for this post. I left off with writing about the year 2008 which was the escalation of my mom’s disease. I will properly write about this time eventually, when I'm not buried with the move.

I think I keep avoiding writing about it because it was a rough year - 2008 was a ROUGH year. That doesn’t mean I don’t recognize the importance of my brother and I telling our story. Each time I tell a piece of it, I receive e-mails from caregivers who are facing this disease, and they seem to gain insight from the crazy that is my family, and I learn from them too. Anyway, here’s the full story thus far and here is a brief, current moment into what it means to live with FTD.

Recap of conflict November 3, 2009:

Everyone: We keep saying, you’re taking on too much.

Colby: Really?

Everyone: Yes. You’re sacrificing too much of yourself.

Colby: You think so? Ok. Where’s your check?

Everyone: What do you mean?

Colby: I mean you’re telling me that I’m taking on too much, and so with you’re opinion that I’m clearly sacrificing too much, where’s your check?

Everyone: What? What check?

Colby: Well our mom’s assisted living facility costs us almost $8000 per month, so if you’re so sure that me taking her into my home is the wrong solution, then please . . . .. tell me where the check is?

No answer.

Colby: You’ve got no answer for me?

Colby: So, stop telling me you have the answer.

Excuse me sir, but do you offer a happy ending here?

2009-10-29T17:10:00.000-07:00

So Rachel and I were having dinner at this casual Greek restaurant in a local shopping center. When we first drove in, we noticed a couple of police vehicles parked around the area where the restaurant is. Hmmm. . . . we thought. Must be some action happening here, and so we looked around to locate where the officers were. Saw nothing and so we entered the restaurant and made sure we had a window seat.

Moments later we saw the cops mingling around the entrance to the massage place.

We thought it was maybe one of *those* massage places and we began joking about the possibility of a raid.

A few minutes later, we saw the police bring out a well-dressed woman in handcuffs. She was wearing a DVF style wrap dress, knee-high boots and of course the handcuffs. She looked respectable enough and so we speculated that she must be the madame, right?

It’s a classy neighborhood, or so we thought, so she must be the classy madame.

Had to be.

Our waiter went outside and got the scoop from the Mall cops, came back in dropped by our table.

What’s the scoop we asked? She’s the madame, right?

Hmmmm . . . . yeah. Not so much.

Our waiter informed us that she was the one looking for the happy ending.

Wait. What?

Seriously?

No.

Women don’t do that.

Do they?

Apparently yes. Women do.

This woman went in and during her massage asked if she could get a happy ending.

How does that go?

“Excuse me sir, but while you’re down there . . . . “

Do women really do this?

Geesh.

I’m sheltered.

So I did a little research and apparently this is a new cottage industry. Or is it not new?

You gotta go where you’re hot

2009-10-18T15:51:00.000-07:00

I first heard that phrase from my friends Roby and Meg.

We were in Vegas a few years ago for Halloween. Roby and Meg arrived a day after me and the other girls.

I was hot then. That’s not an ego thing. I’m just saying, I was in my prime. I was fit. I was happy and I was on the market. We had spent the night dancing at Rain at the Palms, and when the evening (read: morning) was over, I landed at my brother’s place to crash.

Roby and Meg were due in that night.

When I got home from the Palms, Roby and Meg were already at my brother’s, regaling him with their tales of gambling and boozing at Binions.

Wait. Where?

Binions. Downtown. Old Vegas. Old men.

Why?

Because according to Roby and Meg, you gotta go where you’re hot.

Love that line.

I went to Home Depot this morning to buy moving supplies.

I was hot at Home Depot. There were men everywhere offering me help, smiling, flirting, and not all of them were employees.

I was hot at Home Depot.

You gotta go where you’re hot.

What do you write when you realize you have an anger-ball inside of you?

2009-10-07T21:00:00.000-07:00

Points to anyone who gets that reference.

I’ve been writing so many angry posts lately, and it’s possibly related to the fact that my shrink has been in Southeast Asia for a month on vacation, but no excuses, I’ve been kind of bitchy lately. Not to say that I have an excuse, but whatever, when she’s gone. My blog is my outlet.

So, here are the things that have been eating at me. But for reals, I don’t want to be a complainer (so seriously disregard my blog thus far).

No?

Ok. So here goes.

Spencer, really? No really. We’ve all figured out that everything that comes out of your mouth is a publicity ploy. You didn’t really mean it when you said that Heidi has better pipes than Beyonce. You just said that because you knew it would get you attention. You and I both know that Heidi sucks as a singer. Beyond sucks. But whatever, that ridiculous statement got you play. And F me for contributing to your ridiculous press.

What else?

Dear Caesar on the Animal Planet:

Bless you for explaining the chew-toy lesson on dogs. Yes. Thanks so much. My puppy found my Burberry flip flops.

I know.

You might say whatever, “who needs Burberry flip flops?’

But to that I’d say whatever, I have them. Scratch that. I HAD them.

No more.

Thanks, Caesar. I learned my self-indulgent lesson.

Also, you know about my merger and how an $800billion company was bought by a $500 billion company after it drove itself into the ground. It actually matters if I show up in expensive shoes these days. Who knew that the new girls in charge would care?

They do. I was prepared.

Not my dog., but me.

Next?

Oh right.

I’m buying a house in Vegas after my boss approved my relocation as a satellite employee.

Good?

Yes.

Will he sign his name to that on a piece of company letterhead so as to approve my mortgage loan for the house in Nevada?

Apparently, No.

Aaaarggghhhhhhh!

OMG. Am I irritated.

Dear Homeless (?) Guy at 7 Eleven:

2009-10-03T15:50:00.000-07:00

I am perplexed.

When you spoke to me, you said you were hungry and asked if I could spare any change.

Because it’s not typically my practice to hand out change when entering a grocery store or the like, I always respond with an offer to buy you food while I’m in the store.

That’s what we did today.

We agreed on a hotdog and bag of potato chips. Remember? You said you’d like a hotdog, and I asked if you’d like two. You said no. One would be okay, but maybe a bag of chips, too.

Deal.

I entered the 7 Eleven made, made my purchases and picked up your hotdog and a bag of Kettle Chips.

When I came out, you were gone.

I looked for you, but you definitely bailed, and so I am flummoxed.

Did you really only want cash? If so, why did you say you were hungry? Why did we barter for Kettle Chips? If you weren’t hungry and you just wanted cash, you could’ve said so, and I would’ve explained my cash policy, and we would’ve parted ways amicably.

But now, I’m kind of mad that I wasted $3.98 on a hotdog and Kettle Chips that you clearly never wanted.

The next time I see you, I’d like an explanation.

That’s all.

Thanks,
Colby

Many thanks for the righteous indignation on my behalf

2009-09-27T13:12:00.000-07:00

You guys are awesome.

I wrote that post in a fit of rage (if that wasn’t clear), and I’ve sinced calmed down, but I thought you might find it interesting that this person hasn’t stopped. I did send her a modified version of my post (minus the expletives and a few other notes). I couldn’t help it. I had to.

Anyway, I got another e-mail from her last night. Again she had the balls to try to educate me as to the prices we’re asking.

Here’s the best part, she offered to purchase 3 of my Mom’s quilts, albeit at a discounted price. "Let’s make a deal," she said.

Wait. What?

So, I’ve already explained to her that the prices are discounted. We’re selling quilts for $300-$500 that my Mom would have sold for $1000-$3000.

And now I should take the prices even lower? For her? For a woman who clearly does not understand and therefore would not properly appreciate the artistry/value of my Mom’s work?

Aside from being a complete idiot in thinking I would ever sell her anything, I can’t help but wonder how she had the balls to try to bargain with me. She knows that we’re selling them to raise money for my Mom’s care, but getting a discount is what’s her priority??

Is she unfamiliar with the concept of fundraising?

Do you think she low-balls the little kids who sell candy bars for their school?

Or what about raffles?

“I’d be happy to buy a raffle ticket to win the trip to Hawaii that’s being raffled in the first place to raise money for a dying child, but only if you discount the cost of the raffle ticket.”

I’m not crazy. That attitude is wrong, right?

Freakin bitch.

But seriously, I’ve calmed down. I think it was the offers to shank/abuse/destroy her eBay reputation/litigate/take her out that did it for me. You guys rock.

This is a vent session. I'm angry, so it's a beeyotchy post. Deal or skip it.

2009-09-26T17:05:00.000-07:00

Dear eBay bitch:

My Mom was an artist. I only say was because she's sadly dying of a degenerative brain disease. But the point of my answering your beeyotchy e-mail is that my Mom was/is a freakin artist.

She was a RECOGNIZED genius in her field.

Most of us young folk would never imagine that the quilting business is a multi-billion dollar a year industry, and maybe what most people would even imagine less is that my Mom was one of their most gifted artists. She traveled the world giving speeches, hosting trunk shows, teaching classes , and she published 3 books.

Obviously things have changed, and my mom has been overtaken by a horrible disease, frontotemporal dementia, and my brother and I are now managing her life.

Because taking care of my Mom is an $8000 per month expense, my brother and I made the most difficult decision ever and agreed to sell her quilts - her art - her legacy - to help cover her expenses.

Surprise, surprise. We've encountered some assholes like you on eBay who want to tell us how much our Mom is worth.

I tried my best to remain gracious and ignore your last e-mail, but frankly, it's been KILLING me. You did e-mail me THREE times to explain to me the errors I've made in my "pricing strategy."

Fuck you!

How dare you try to suggest to ME – her daughter - what the value of my Mom's quilts are?

Really? Did you know her? Did you ever hire her to just quilt a piece, let alone create an entire quilt for you?

How dare you try to tell me what YOU think her value is/was based on current or lucky eBay buyers who may not know?

My Mom earned $500 an hour to just give a 2 hour speech/trunk show - all over the WORLD. My mom earned $150-$250 per hour to just to quilt a quilt that she didn't even design or piece together.

I have her financial records because she is unfortunately dying of a degenerative brain disease, and I have to have them to try and cover her exhorbitant medical costs. And that’s not to say, that I wasn’t present to see her quilts sell for $1000-$3000 or more on many occasions, because I WAS!

Some of her quilts are selling on eBay in the $300 range only because my brother and I are handicapped in the sense that we are not rich enough to pay the $8000 a month that it takes to cover her full time care costs.

The price that her quilts are selling for has nothing to do with their value (as you've so adamently tried to suggest to me) but only with the desperation that my brother and I feel in trying to survive an aging parent.

We are SICKENED that we are letting her ART go at these prices.

So, please do NOT try to tell me that your eBay knowledge of buying practices helps you define the value of my Mom’s quilts. Do not try to bargain with me.

Do not try to tell me that you know eBay so well, that you know what the appropriate price for my Mom's art is.

How dare you to try to explain to me her worth?

You should be ashamed.

Knowing eBay doesn't mean you know us, doesn't mean you know my Mom.

Sincerely,
Colby

Apparently you just have to complain to the President to get stuff done

2009-09-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

So, I flew into Vegas this morning to try Round 2 of selecting the cabinets, granite, flooring, etc for the new house, and let me just say, things have changed.

I was treated like a Princess, which while wonderful, was not what I needed. I just needed polite and accurate, but whatever, I'll take it.

Below is the picture of the construction process so far.

If you look closely you can see the workman in the garage, not really working, but again - whatever. This is a lot of work for less than 3 weeks.

In my excitement, I snapped this pic and e-mailed to three of my favorite girls. Their comments are below.

Veronica: "I particularly love the dumpster! Good color! Is it staying with the house as yard art?!"

Rachel: "Nice ventilation and cool breeze for HOT VEGAS NIGHTS!"

Amy: "Awesome! Do you get to keep the dudes in the garage? Or just the coolers?"

How much do I love them?!?! A bunch of comediennes. Strong work, ladies.

The fall of the house of Usher? Or is that I’m trying to buy the house that Ruth built?

2009-09-21T18:16:00.000-07:00

No.

No. It isn’t either.

I’m just trying to buy a new construction home in the Vegas suburbs.

Let me tell you how it’s been going. So, I’ve already mentioned the inept selling agent who screwed up my purchase contract so many times that my fingers bled due to the number of times that I had to re-initial and re-sign.

What I didn’t mention is that she also happens to be a bitch.

She is.

The inept selling agent, we’ll call her Delilah, is an idiot. So, not only did she fuck up my contract several times, she was also quite bitchy. Why? Because she doesn’t know her business.

Last week I was scheduled to fly back to Vegas to meet with the design consultant to choose the flooring, granite, cabinets, etc. My appointment was scheduled for Friday morning at 10am, so I flew in Thursday night. I landed and checked my voicemail, and who is it? Delilah. It was Delilah telling me not to come to Vegas because the design consultant left the company.

What?

I’m.Already.Here.

So, I called her, and I was still calm, and I was assured that the company will do right by me. So, I started thinking, what’s right? Lost wages due to the valuable vacation hours I’d just sacrificed. Plane fare. Rental car. Pet hotel. All in all – right by me equals about $1100. Delilah said she would call me Friday morning at 9:30 to let me know what could be done.

9:30 – no call.

10:30 – no call.

So, I got in my car and drove to the sales office.

No one’s there.

WTF.

I’d had it, so I called to complain to her manager about both her mistakes and her bitchiness. He told me we seemed to have a personality conflict.

Wait.

What?

Our personalities clash?

My personality plays a role here?

My expectation that she be not only accurate but also not a bitch means I have a personality flaw? I have a propensity to clash with other personalities because I believe in customer service?
What?

Jackass.

So, then I went over his head, too.

It was frustrating and rather amusing at the same time. Anyway, I got my way and they are going to do right by me when they fly me back this week to do what we were supposed to do last Friday. Apparently the fact that I’m frustrated with this is also a flaw of mine, too.

Whatever.

Off topic, I got a letter from the Homeowners' Association today regarding my condo. Apparently, it’s been reported that my car was parked in the same space for 3 days in a row.

Wait. What?

Apparently my car has been parked in the same space 3 days in a row and that’s a violation and I may be subject to towing.

WTF?

Who not only notices stuff like that, but actually takes the time to complain about it?

Does someone have a clipboard with a grid of all the spaces in the complex? Does that someone troll the parking lot every night documenting which vehicles are in the spaces? And OMG, that’s 2 freakin nights in a row with Colby’s car. Does that person get excited about possibly having me towed?

What the fuck is wrong with people?

So my banishment from eBay is over (It happened two weeks or so ago, I was just super late in posting about it.)

2009-09-13T18:05:00.000-07:00

Anyway, I spent the afternoon on eBay re-listing my mom’s items that were pulled due to my free market bidding practices and posting about 15 other new things. I wish I could tell you all my mom’s name as you could go on eBay and bid for me to help drive up the prices, but alas – maybe you don’t want to take part in my exercise of free market capabilities, and maybe I should just be glad that I’m not in jail (for reals – they arrest people for this; not the eBay police, the real police. I know.)

Whatever.

So besides the eBay thing, I spent the after watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (OMG. LiLu, thanks!) How did it take me so long to discover this? LiLu is one of my favorite bloggers, one of whom I’ve mentioned here a few times. I’m wondering if that makes me a stalker. But I think, no. It doesn’t. I read her, and I comment on her blog quite regularly, so not stalking. It’s not like those friends of yours who read your blog, never comment, and then suddenly you’re having a conversation with them and it’s like they know you better than they should, and it becomes clear to you that they read your blog because they know stuff that you never actually spoke about aloud and it’s creepy and you do a double-take for a sec because it throws you off. Then the realization hits you that they’re lurking and then you get over it and you move on. (Note to Brother – this doesn’t include you. I understand you’ve got the whole mystery thing going.)

Anyway, back to It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. So, I read the TV Guide description:

“Seriously dark comedy about four twenty-something friends who run a struggling pub in Philadelphia.”

Dark.

Friends.

Booze.

Philly.

I’m in.

Let me just say, I cannot believe what I’ve been missing. My first episode was the one where the brother and sister don’t want to work anymore so they decide to pretend to be mentally retarded and/or crack addicts in order to obtain government assistance. Then they actually become crack addicts because they had to really get into character in order to obtain the aid. From the scene at the federal office, to the first crack purchase with the dealer, “One please.”

I DIED.

Good stuff.

In closing. It’s been an interesting week. We had a lovely episode of 9-1-1 on 9/11 in which the Mom decided that she was having difficulty breathing. She was totally fine, though, the nurses at the facility took her vitals, and she was totally normal, but she was insistent that she go to the hospital because she was clearly dying. Good times. So whilst in a comatose like state around 930pm (what? I was hungover), I got the call from the assisted living facility saying that Mom was in an ambulance on her way to the hospital even though nothing was wrong with her. 5 minutes into the ordeal in the emergency room, she was asking when she got to go home. Really, Mom? Where’s the panic now? You manifested this dramatic death scene which induced a trip to the ER, and now you’re just over it? WTF. So after about 5 hours of unnecessary tests and further validated proof that there was nothing wrong with her, I packed her in the car and drove her home.

You want my life, I know you do.

I say healthy competition in the marketplace and they say fraud, whatever

2009-09-10T17:02:00.000-07:00

I’ve been playing with eBay a bit, selling some family heirlooms, and I learned something.

Apparently you and and your friends are not supposed to bid on your own items to help drive up the price. Who knew?

I didn’t know.

They caught me.

They banned me.

I’ve been banned from eBay.

For 14 days.

I now have to take a web-based training module on ethical behaviors on eBay.

Whatever.

Freakin communists.

Note to HHH: I know. Another parallel. The eBay thing. Not the fraud.

Some odds and ends on a Friday holiday weekend

2009-09-04T17:27:00.000-07:00

If you’re riding mass transit, like I did today on my way to meet the fabulous Mar for lunch, please be mindful of my personal space. Don’t hit me with your bag. I stood on the train for 10 minutes before you got on with my own huge handbag and managed not to hit anyone once. You hit me like a million times from the minute you got on. Just open your eyes. Be aware. And maybe, you know, take a shower, too, cause you kinda smell.

Just sayin.

And when all you crazies approach the doors to exit the train once it’s stopped, maybe you don’t have to run people (me) over to get off. It was noon. On a Friday. There was no one around to fight for a space, and by the way, you were EXITING. Maybe you just be gracious and file out in an orderly manner. You are not cattle.

Or maybe you are.

I don’t know for sure, but I think you weren’t.

And when you’re walking on the sidewalk. A busy street in the city. Maybe if you’re a slow walker, you don’t force yourself in front of those of us who walk at a normal pace. Maybe you look at the lane of traffic before you enter and you gage whether or not people are walking faster than you typically do, and then you slide in when appropriate. Like. Behind. Us.

Just a little common courtesy.

And if you happen to be a jackass real estate agent, and you’re more interested in getting a sale than you are in doing things right the first time – maybe you dial back that greed a bit and don’t force your BRAND NEW BUYER to re-sign her purchase contract no less than 4 times due to your little mistakes. Or not so little mistakes because I did. Have to. Re-sign. 4 fucking times.

Bitch.

That’s all.

I lost my lesbian v-card … I think. Kind of.

2009-08-31T21:11:00.000-07:00

She came into the room, and she firmly asked me to take off my clothes.

I told her it was my first time, told her that everything from the waist up was okay, and that I’d prefer to leave my pants on.

She smiled. I think there may have been a language barrier between us.

I laid down, and she began to put her hands on me.

Neck. Back. Waist.

It felt good.

And then, her hands were on my butt. Slowly making circles.

I was startled.

She had completely disregarded my rules.

I didn’t know what to say, but I let her continue -

The shiatsu.

Signed,

Colby in Sin

(Heh heh. So, the descent begins.)

Note: After being absent lately due to A LOT of painting in my condo last week, I continued to be absent because I just bought a house in Vegas. The move is on.

Wordless Wednesdays: Have you met my avatar? Or my dog? I've been painting. That's all I've got.

2009-08-26T08:17:00.000-07:00

Colby's puppy:

Colby's Avatar

And one last thing, from my friend at work. You may have to have worked in a bank to get this, but OMG, it's hilarious. (Failed at the wordless part of Wordless Wednesdays again.)

So this one won’t be funny or sarcastic, just news

2009-08-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

Looks like I’m moving to Sin City.

What? You say. We haven’t heard this talk.

And to that I’d say, I know.

But you *have* heard me lament and/or rejoice at the thought of my employment termination. I have a lovely severance package coming, so it’s ok, either way. And I know, I’ve mocked the TARP and the need for banks to be bailed out, but I don’t count. Not me personally as a bank employee. My bank severance package is commensurate to 12 years of killing myself for them. It’s not outrageous. It’s not millions. It’s not even hundreds of thousands. It’s one year’s salary.

It’s rightful. And I would say if it wasn’t. Remember my ridiculous acronym project? I call out BS when I see it.

We had an over/under going with this lay off thing, didn’t we, as I’ve suspected that it’s coming with our latest merger?

Will they, or won’t they keep Colby?

Jury is still out.

But I had to be smart. In my opinion, it’s looking more and more like notice is going to come October 31 with a 60 day notice of job-end at December 31. (Angry Bell, did you win this? Points to you. )

Um. So here’s the deal.

With her dementia increasing its hold, my Mom’s expenses are through the rough and we’re running through family money like there’s no end. We can either run out of family money, or I can move us to Vegas. Buy a huge, beautiful house, super-cheap and bring Mom with me, thereby saving us a ridiculous amount of money on assisted-living facility costs indefinitely, or until I can no longer manage it – being a primary caregiver.

Best part – my brother lives there so I will no longer be alone in this battle for my mom.

Or I can sit idly by and watch the chips fall where they may. Become unemployed and move Mom into my tiny Bay Area condo and be uncomfortable as the family money runs out.

What to do?

Well, if you’re me, you ask your new Merger Company Boss if you can be a satellite employee. You play the Mom card (don’t judge), and you pitch – “Technically, I’m a satellite employee here, why can’t I be a satellite employee in Vegas?” Then you give him the heartfelt reasons that you should be allowed to work from home. Anywhere. Even in the newly, overbuilt Vegas suburbs.

And in my case, you win!

True, folks.

Today, I got the approval to move to Vegas and continue my current, albeit relatively non-existent merger responsibilities, plugged in at home. No change in salary.

If I survive the merger and don’t get laid off, Mom and I are in a place with family support where we don’t blow family money quite as fast. And I keep my salary and don’t pay state income tax. Yeah Nevada! And most importantly, my fabulous brother folds me into his existing network of friends – so I won’t be socially alone in a new place. Good stuff.

Or

If I don’t survive the merger but I’m still in Vegas, Mom and I are in a place with my severance package, a huge house, and NO STATE INCOME TAX. And my brother!

And then, I get another job eventually.

I win!

We win.

Am I a fan of 185 degree summers (yes hyperbole)?

No.

Am I someone who is willing to change things up for a couple of years to accommodate a family crisis?

Um. Yes.

I’m not sure if I wrote it to sound like this, but OMG, this afternoon when my boss said “yes,” I got the best possible scenario.

How did that happen?

Oh and yeah. What does this mean big picture? All of my fabulous interweb friends can have an extra special (me) reason to come to Vegas.

Come play with me.

Stolen Lines #6: I hate you Facebook

2009-08-19T20:44:00.000-07:00

“You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

Um no.

“Seriously, you’re telling me ‘it wasn't me, it was you’?”

Um. Yeah.

“I call BS.”

Why?

“Because you’re almost 40, and you were 26 when you BROKE me, and you chose to Facebook me 14 years later - only to tell me it wasn’t me, it was you?’

Well. It was. Me. That is.

“That’s garbage. You could at least me tell me what it was about you that didn’t let you love me. My shrink says this answer is really important.”

Your shrink, huh? She must love me.

“It’s not you, it’s her.”

------

I stole the first line of this post from Salaam Paris by Kavita Daswani. This post is part of Grace's 6th experiment with Stolen Lines. Grace provides the first line and you start/end your post with it, and whatever you put in the middle is yours. Anyone can participate. (And this time, I submitted the line.)

Note: This is a recent recap of an IM chat my First Love initiated. He went on to tell me other BS like he "didn't love unconditionally then." We got nowhere. Seriously, a waste of my time. I told him not to bother contacting me again. He's sending me wounded e-mails. I'm mocking his patheticness. It's good times all around.

The one where my multiple personality disorder takes over

2009-08-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

So, this morning at our usual Sunday breakfast haunt, Mom and me chillin. Mom with her Bloody Mary (Rude!) and me with my water, sat chillin, looking around the room at the bar & grille (yes . . . they spell it with an “e”) people watching. It’s kind of a dive bar & grille. It gets all kinds. Rough necks, Central Valley types (Hip Hop Hippie – you know what I’m saying here), emo boy bands on the morning after, etc. There’s a guy wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt, and he’s doing shots (it’s 10:00am!) and talking super loud, making sure that we all know he’s here (like the guy from Mother's Day).

Not that I judge.

Um. So. Yeah. "Hungry Like the Wolf" came on and I flashed. (No, Cheddar. Can't give you the band. Maybe that's a good thing?)

Back.

To the 80s. Weird that that’s a song that must have gotten under my skin (it’s totally ok to judge me on that).

Anyway, I tried to remember what year I was in high school when that song was popular. I guessed that it was around 1989, which of course made me think – holy fucking shit (I think and write those words, but I almost never say them aloud - at least not together), that was 20 years ago. So, I begin a conversation with my mom, which really translates to me just talking endlessly, her just watching and listening to me, and me just patiently hoping for some small response.

I say to Mom, “Remember this song, Mommy? I think I was a sophomore in high school when this song was on.” (I’m 35)

Me: “That was 20 freakin years ago. How is that possible?”

Mom: (Silence. Just eyebrows raised.)

Me: “20 years ago. Mom you were 43. You were 43 when I was high school.”

Mom: (Nothing.)

Me: “Oh my gosh. I’m practically 43.” (So it’s 8 years away. Whatever. I’m practically 40.)

And that was how it went. I talked and I flashed some more to seeing "Sixteen Candles" and the "Breakfast Club" when they were showing in the theatres.

And I ordered a Bloody Mary.

I know. I broke my regimen. Whatever.

But, I'm still talking, and I stop for a breath so I can see if Mom’s listening, and she is. She’s just watching me. She’s finished her 2nd Bloody Mary and I can see she’s itching to go. That’s one of the things with her dementia. We’re always on *her* time. It’s like narcissism for which she’s totally not cognizant of and therefore not responsible for. And she’s ready to go. It’s time. She’s starting to get up and leave the table, but we haven’t paid the bill yet. (There’s the absence of cognition.) And so I pushed back. I pushed back just a little.

Me: “Mom, I can finish my drink right? I’ll try to drink it fast. But it’s vodka and I haven’t had booze for like 14 days so that’s going to be tough.”

Mom: (No words, takes the straw from her empty Mary and puts it in my glass.)

I about fell off my stool laughing, and I produced a few tears. That was cognition. 2 straws would make me drink faster. When I find that in her, it makes me cry and it also makes my day.

I can't, I can, I won't, I will, I should, I shouldn't

2009-08-12T16:34:00.000-07:00

This post was inspired by LiLu who was inspired by many others. Take the headlines and put in your own bullets. These are mine.

I can’t:

Hide disdain from my face when I feel it; if I’m irritated, you will see it
Approach a staircase or escalator without crippling fear and anxiety (leftover from a fall down a flight of Spanish tile stairs 7 years ago)
Hear music (see You spin me right round)
Forget my jury duty experience; can’t forget that it was me who turned the last holdout during deliberations; can’t forget that even though it was justice, I helped convict a man of first-degree murder
Remember what my mom was like before dementia seized her brain – I mean I can – but I can’t …. does that make sense?

I can:

Identify the appellation when blind tasting Pinot Noir (mmmm wine . . . that I can't have for another 79 days)
Remain even-toned when in a verbal battle; my calm-ness will frustrate you to no end
Talk to CEOs of major corporations and not be scared
Stop you dead with my eyes; angry eyes; if looks could kill eyes; when I’m feeling it
Make you laugh equally with sarcasm or delight

I won't:

Go camping; enough said
Drink Rum; bad memories, and the smell, the smell alone
Apologize for my shoe and handbag fetish; we all have our things
Eat cottage cheese
Feel guilty that I am paid a salary to do nothing; I killed myself for them for over a decade and this neglect . . . I won’t feel sorry that my company is the perfect example of why the TARP began

I will:

Try to take more of my life back even though I’m slowly losing my mom to her disease and she’s my big responsibility now
Start playing golf again
Travel more
Be open to talking, flirting and dating again
Try to find balance (cliche - I know; but you're not living my life. Oh wait. Great song. That I heard. Live Your Life by TI featuring Rihanna - points to me!)

I shouldn't:

I shouldn’t feel guilt that my jury duty experience sent a man to prison for life; he was guilty; he earned it
Any longer take my fabulous friends for granted
Be so content with solitude, but I am
Treat my puppy like a child, but OMG do I love her; she mended my black heart
Discount the accomplishment of finishing my bachelor’s degree in my 30s ( I went back damn it! I earned it)

I should:

Have stood up for myself the one time that it mattered most
Not feel regrets for any choices that I’ve made (ok – that was a contradiction)
Seek a profession that delights me when I get laid off (note: I said "when" not "if"; it's so coming)
Always remember and be grateful my brother, my Aunts and Uncles who are with me in this battle for my Mom; remember that I need help sometimes and that I'm not alone
Make a concerted effort to learn to hear music; if I can; I see what it does to me when I actually hear it

----

To read more of these, visit this post on Lilu's site, scroll to the bottom, she credits many more.

You spin me right round

2009-08-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

Have I ever mentioned that music is wasted on me?

It is.

It’s like I have a learning disability when it comes to music. I don’t hear it. I can buy a CD, go on a road trip, and one hour into my drive, the CD will be finished, and I’ll have no idea what I heard. Because I heard nothing.

I was having a conversation with my first love recently – we’ve casually reconnected - 14 years after he smashed my heart. He asked me if I had good taste in music these days. I laughed at him and flashed back to the Christmas he gave me the Smashing Pumpkins boxed set as my present. So romantic, no? Freakin jackass. Actually though, what it did remind me of was how little he really knew me as I have no musical inclinations, not now and not then either. Because he broke my heart so long ago, I made him feel bad for that, for not knowing me, and it felt good to do it. Rude. I know. Whatever.

Sometimes though a song will get under my skin. A single song for which the chorus or the melody or the beat will infect me, and I’ll find myself paying attention when I hear it on a movie soundtrack or riding as a passenger in someone else’s car – as that’s the only time that I have the opportunity to listen to music. I drive listening to news radio. I have no stereo at home.

My friend Rachel and I saw The Ugly Truth last night. Horrible. Just horrible. Atrocious acting. Katherine Heigl is a waste of humanity. I find it odd that she viewed Knocked Up as misogynistic, and yet with last night’s piece of garbage, she spent 2 hours pretending not to be herself to get a guy. She took feminism back 30 years with this film. I hate her.

The soundtrack though finished with Right Round. Flo Rida. A little sampling. (Did I use that term correctly?) This song was also in the Hangover, the closing credits where you see the photo montage of the events of the night before. This song is currently under my skin.

After the movie, Rachel and I drove to Best Buy where she bought the CD. While driving there, I played with my new iPhone and downloaded the song. I love my iPhone. I have one song on it.

As we finished our shopping, the two preppy girls that we are, climbed into Rach’s brand new Lexus SUV. Opened her CDs and blasted Flo Rida. We started moving our heads. Grooving to the music as we sat in the parking lot. 2 Thirty-something ladies, rocking out to hip hop. In a parked car. A boy who looked all of 16 caught us, laughed at us, walked past us shaking his head. I didn’t fault him. I’m sure we were a spectacle. I didn’t care.

So apparently Flo Rida – his name – is about where he’s from. As in the state. He’s from Florida. Did you know that? I did not know that.

TMI Thursday: My body is rejecting its host

2009-08-06T07:07:00.000-07:00

It's that time again, TMI Thursday sponsored by the hilarity that is Lilu.

Here’s the disclaimer:

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, "how many readers can I estrange THIS week??" TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else's!***

Click here for other TMIs.

My body is rejecting its host

Colon: “I am determined to punish you for the new health kick you’re forcing us to be a part of, you whore.”

Whore?

Me: “Yes. I’m aware. You have not been discrete.”

Colon: “Need I further illustrate the continuous, painful spontaneous cleansing I’ve begun?”

Me: “No. No. I'm clear as to your intentions and the results. Words are not needed.”

Ovaries: “Bitch, we’re declaring war.”

Me: “Is that why I'm stuck curled in the fetal position?”

Me: "Wait. Are. you. laughing. at. me?"

Muscles: “We’re rejecting this ridiculous exercise thing you’re asking of us and will continue to stab you with millions of needles any time you move.”

*Tears

Don’t show weakness.

Brain: “I’m leading the charge against you on behalf of your body, skank.”

Me (weakly): “Oh?”

Brain: “You’re checking your puppy into a pet hotel this weekend, leaving her for the first time. You know that anxiety you feel?”

Me: “That’s you?”

Brain: “Aren’t you quick?”

Me: “Umm , I-“

Brain: “That was rhetorical, stupid.”

Me: “Oh.”

Liver: “It’s been 7 days since you’ve given me the juice.”

Me: “I know. I just want-"

Liver: “Shut it. I am not pleased. Just wait til the next time you drink the alcohol. I'll teach you what happens when you try to detox."

*Moan.

(Looks through medicine cabinet.)

Me: “I must have some Pamprin/Aleve/Pepto around here somewhere.”

Body: “Mwhhaaahhaaaa.”

Me: “Oxxxxyyyy!"

Body: "What?"

Me: "I’ve got Oxycontin that I took from Mom. Say hello to a little coma, my friends!”

Body: “Shit!”

Me: “Not anymore.”

------

Note: Please direct the EMTs and/or ER staff to this blog post for a list of the substances I may or may not have ingested should the 911 occasion arise.

As seen on tv

2009-08-02T20:14:00.000-07:00

I’m in pain right now as I type this. I can no longer lift my arms.

I’d like to say that physical pain is the only reason I haven’t been blogging too much lately, but really I can only blame it on the last few days and the torment I’ve begun to subject myself to – otherwise known as exercise. Um. Not just any exercise though, I’ve decided to challenge myself with one of those “get your bod in shape in 90 days” infomercial DVD sets. I blame the puppy for waking me up at 3:30am. That’s the reason I saw the infomerical, but I can’t really put it all on the dog because I’ve been known to indulge in informercial shopping during the wee hours of the morning when I lack sleep. I have a random collection. The Tony Little Gazelle. The Quick Chop. Etc.

So, anyway the current DVD of choice is hosted by former Olympic gold medalist Mitch Gaylord (mmmmm American Anthem).

What? It was 1986.

I know. Many of you were 3. You can’t relate. Whatever.

It doesn't matter now, though, as my love for him is over. His program is freaking insane. Unless, I guess, if you’re a gold medalist.

So I’m thinking then that would make the program out of bounds for about 99% of the population. It’s a very regimented plan. It came with green tea pills that are the size of a quarter, to be taken twice a day. They scare me. I have this recurring nightmare that I’ve had since I was a child in which I think I’m choking. I wake up and have to talk myself down, and these green tea pills are contributing. They’re so big they give me anxiety. They may not last.

While reading the meal plans, I flashed to that scene in The Devil Wears Prada where one of the supermodels is parceling out almonds. I remember thinking to myself wtf, who the hell lives like that? Counting almonds? Who does that? Well, apparently now I do as my morning snack today was a nectarine and 10 almonds. Not eleven. Not 9. 10.

Because I’m a disciplined person, I have no doubt about my ability to stick to this program, without error.

Except.

One.

Thing.

Booze.

No booze.

I can’t have booze.

For 90 days.

As my brother said when we discussed this tonight, he’s not sure he can be friends with me during the next ninety days. I kind of agree. I may not actually be friend-worthy.

I’ll keep you posted.

Oh and one more thing. Cottage cheese. Mitch Gaylord loves cottage cheese, and it’s practically a daily part of the diet.

Blech.

Subsitutions, anyone?

TARP dollars instant messenger chat (round 2)

2009-07-28T20:48:00.000-07:00

Here again, your fabulous tax dollars in play. And in case you don't know me, I'm really bored at work. I have nothing to do, and when I say nothing, I mean the absence of something. Just nothing. Not anything. Nil.

Well except the riveting Compare Our Acronyms project as discussed in the linked post above, but aside from that, thanks to our merger, I have naught.

Even the promise of a Merger Communications team opportunity has not really materialized.

And so, I instant messaged Adam on my team.

---

Me: You don't have any knives lying around, do you?

Adam: Ummmmm . . .

Me: Perhaps I can test the edges of my desk . . .

Adam: Not for your wrists?

Me: Maybe the edges of my desk are sharp enough.

Me: And, yes for my wrists.

Adam: I have scissors.

Me: Oooooooohhhh . . .

Adam: Go to the restroom, plug the sink and let it fill up with warm water.

Me: That *is* an option.

Adam: Let your wrists soak for a few minutes.

Me: Hmmm. . . does that soften 'em up?

Me: Is that why girls always slit their wrists in bathtubs? The warm water effect?

Adam: That’s how it was explained to me.

Me: Interesting.

Adam: Cuz I asked the same thing.

Me: I guess they must have googled “best way to slash my wrists.” I haven't gotten to that point yet.

Adam: But if you really want to leave an impression, there are better ways, and I’m sure if I tell you, you'll prob think I’m sick in the head.

Me: No. Tell. I'm bored.

Adam: Knife through the heart. Sooooo dramatic!

Me: Oh right. Yeah, but that's not really an appropriate response to boredom, but I think if I had a broken heart that might be the more poetic option.

Adam: My friend's college roommate did that, and he found him....scarred him for LIFE.

Me: Is it true that you get an automatic 4.0 for the semester when your college roommate commits suicide? Isn't that a rule?

Adam: I don’t know.

Me: Or was that just a movie I saw?

Adam: I don't know.

Me: Does this chat add shareholder value?

Things I wonder about the people at work

2009-07-23T20:19:00.000-07:00

Who is the person who spikes their morning coffee with the 5th of bourbon hidden in the lower drawer of the file cabinet?

What’s with the person who completely changes their voice and their tone to sound more charming whenever the Execs walk into the room?

Who’s the hot guy I occasionally run into in the elevator when it stops on the 16th floor?

What does an Administrative Assistant do all day when she refuses to order supplies, book meeting invites or deliver interoffice mail - when we know she can’t use Excel or put together a power point presentation?

No really. What does she do?

When someone calls in sick on a Friday, who really believes they’re sick?

Ditto to the last question, but insert Monday instead.

(Unless of course you’re me and you legally put your “paid time off” hours in with HR.)

What’s with the person who always pretends to be doing something monumentally significant at every moment of the day yet really is only randomly googling?

Who does that person think they're fooling?

What’s with someone making a huge, really stupid and unethical mistake and asking me to give up hours of my time to help fix it?

Who cares if I have the time. Why is that my problem?

I hated everyone today.

Almost everyone.

I'm in a funk.

Living With Frontotemporal Dementia: Volume VI

2009-07-19T15:20:00.000-07:00

Typically when I write in the living with FTD series, I’ve been writing about my mom’s symptoms along the road to her diagnosis. I left off with February of 2008; December was when we finally got the answer to her escalating odd behaviors. Anyway, I’m skipping around today and actually talking about today, or this week, or last week – the present I guess, actually what living with FTD is like.

When I talk about my mom’s disease, I think I’ve mentioned a number of times that she doesn’t really communicate any more. At least not with words. Most of the time.

DeeDee (whose mom also has FTD) asked me recently how we communicate.

-----

Because she doesn’t speak anymore, it’s tough to tell where my mom’s at these days with her cognition. Is she in there? If she is in there, then how much? Does she understand everything we say? Or just part? And only when she wants to? Are there good days and bad days?

I don’t know. I can’t tell. Except for the last thing, there are definitely good and bad days.

It used to be that I could feed her the words to use.

Me: “Are you excited that your son is coming to visit?”

Then she can repeat:

Mom: “I’m excited that my son is coming to visit.”

You can’t ask her something broad – like “How do you feel about your son coming to visit?” How do you feel requires thought formation, or abstract thinking. If I ask a question like that, I get no response. Just silence. So I’ve learned to be specific, like I was in the example above.

That was how I thought things would be. Now, many times, she doesn’t respond at all, even if I give her the words to use.

Sundays are our bike ride days. We take my dog with us and ride to the dog park, let the puppy play for a half hour, ride back and then we go out to breakfast (Bloody Marys). Last Sunday we got a late start, and so in the car on the way to the restaurant, I asked her if she wanted breakfast or lunch. I try to prep her before we go out to lunch/dinner/etc. that way I can help if she doesn’t have the words to use with the wait staff. I remember from my years of food serving/bartending – that customer who made you wait while they decided what to order just killed. And while it’s not my mom’s fault, I still try to save the wait staff. Anyway, she wouldn’t answer me. I gave her the words – breakfast or lunch. I got nothing.

I said to her, “Mom. That’s an easy one. I need you to answer me.”

She looked at me but said nothing.

So we drove to the restaurant. While there I talked to her like I always do. Tried to keep it light, asked questions, told stories about work, and I got nothing. No responses. I got frustrated. I felt like I was talking to a wall. Not her fault. I know that, but that doesn’t make it easy. I feel sometimes like I give so much, and sometimes a yes or no answer is all I need back. And yet so often, I don’t get even that.

Then she has days where she completely surprises. Old family friends Ron and Carrie came to visit her last Saturday. They had just come from a wedding so Ron was suited up, and Carrie had on a cocktail dress. She changed in the car from heels to flip flops before they walked into Mom’s facility. After a half hour or so of chatting (Ron and Carrie chatting and Mom half-listening) about the wedding, life, kids, etc., Mom noticed Carrie’s flip flops and said:

“You didn’t wear *those* to the wedding, did you?”

Classic. That is vintage Mom. When Carrie told me this story, I just cracked up because I flashed to all the times Mom would ask, “Are you going to wear *that* to school/dinner/restaurant?” I’m sure you can hear the tone, it’s Mom Tone.

The point though is that question was not only a complete sentence, properly formed, pertinent to the conversation, but it also required thought formation or abstract thinking. She knew you weren’t supposed to wear flip flops to a wedding. Where did that come from? Why did Carrie get that morsel of conversation, and I sometimes don’t even get yes or no?

So, there are glimpses. That moment showed us “she’s still in there.” But how often is there that much cognition? Does she always process what I say to her? And the lack of response is because she just can’t find the words? Or is the cognition random?

I haven’t a clue. I just keep talking.

What seems to be the problem, Officer?

2009-07-17T20:19:00.000-07:00

I went for a wine-inspired run last night with the puppy. We got caught in the sprinklers at the park, and I lost my BlackBerry. So, overall - well done.

I woke up this morning, got online and looked up the number for The Bank’s incident management group as I needed to call them and report my missing BlackBerry. But I can’t make this call to report my missing BlackBerry because, well - the BlackBerry is freaking missing!

This would be my 3rd replacement phone this year (I know, I have issues).

A day without my BlackBerry. I felt like I was missing a limb.

BlackBerry withdrawal. Quite like heroin withdrawal. I think, but different. I’m sure. Or not at all different. Totally the same.

It was ugly.

And then suddenly it was early afternoon, and I’d gotten caught up in communications stuff, and I still hadn’t gone anywhere to locate a phone so I could make the stupid call to stupid incident management. And so, I decided it was time to get a personal phone.

Best Buy. iPhone. Pretty. Done.

As I returned from the store and pulled into the driveway, there was a police cruiser parked in one of the spaces.

I wasn’t drunk last night, was I?

I love how quickly I associated the police car with me.

In the stairwell, the Officer and I crossed paths. We said hello. He was going down, I was going up and so I asked, “Everything ok here?”

Officer: “Everything’s fine. Unless you’re Colby in the City?”

Shit.

Me: “Actually, I am Sir. What can I do for you?”

Officer: “Your phone was found in the park. Turned into us this morning. I was able to trace it to you.”

Me: “Oh? Um. Thanks. That’s awesome.”

Officer: “Call your Mom.”

My mom’s involved?

WTF.

This is where your TARP dollars went

2009-07-16T16:43:00.000-07:00

So, I’ve often written about my job and my lack of responsibilities. Here and here and I'm sure elsewhere, but this is all I could easily point to. Anyway, the following two conversations took place today.

It's Corporate America at its finest.

Shelly: “We’re putting together an Acronym Team for the merger, and I know you’re bored these days. So, I thought I’d ask you to be the point of contact for The Bank.”

Me: “Um. So let me get this straight. Bank A and Bank B are putting together teams to compare our acronyms?”

Shelly: “Yes.”

Me: “Um. ~~As riveting as that sounds~~ I’ll have to ask Veronica on my team. You might not believe this, but back when our old boss thought he was going to be running this merger (right before he got fired); he actually had Veronica working on something like this.”

Me (cough): “So, you know. I ~~would prefer to slash my wrists~~ really ought to ask her.”

Next scene.

Me: “Hey, V. The Bank is putting together an Acronym Team for the merger. You interested?”

Veronica: “Is the acronym F.U.C.K.?”

Me (laughing): “Should I tell them that’s your answer?”

Veronica: “Yes...if the acronym for the team is F.U.C.K. , then I'll be on the team.”

Me: “Well. Yeah. No. They actually asked me, but since I know you’ve already done a lot of work on this, you know, I didn’t want to ~~rob you of an opportunity for exposure~~ steal your amazing thunder.”

Veronica (laughing): “Thanks. I think I’ll pass.”

Damn it.

This is what it's come to - a bunch of overpaid VPs in a room dissecting freaking acronyms. These are your tax dollars my friends.

Wordless Wednesdays . . . almost

2009-07-15T18:45:00.000-07:00

I'm finding myself without words these days. I find it fortuitous then that someone has created Wordless Wednesdays.

This is my puppy, finding the sun in the backseat.

Photo taken by my brother.

Next time I'll try to stick to the wordless part.

And this is why I don't date

2009-07-12T16:22:00.000-07:00

I've been on a self-imposed recall for a while.

Off the market.

Sometimes I find myself inspired by my bff in the blog world, Mar. Inspired to do a lot of things. Start cooking. Exercise more. Be more social. Travel.

One thing she does not inspire me to do is start dating again.

Read this.

Consider me permanently, indefinitely unavailable for courtship.

I know I've been a bit ADHD

2009-07-11T07:58:00.000-07:00

With my blog theme. I just can’t seem to find one that doesn’t bug me in some way. I think I’ve now found one.

The really odd thing is that I have a strong dislike of the color red, and yet my last two themes have been predominantly red.

Weird that I chose them. I know.

Anyway. I should be settled for a while.

In case you were wondering, this is how I escape my reality

2009-07-09T15:28:00.000-07:00

On a couple of occasions, I believe I’ve written about my propensity to shop when things in my life get complicated. I like to call it indulging in retail therapy.

Typically, I have my addiction under control and only really lose it when something goes wrong with my Mom. And when it does, depending on how bad it is, I tend to over-indulge.

Well, sometimes though, I use booze. To over-indulge (read: pretend like things aren’t really the way they are). But more often than not, it’s shopping. Or it’s both. I might buy myself something pretty, and then drink a bottle of wine while I’m wearing my new purchase around the house. Think Jennifer Hudson SATC movie, new Louis Vuitton handbag from Carrie – “look who’s home from the big city” moment.

So anyway, during one recent therapeutic shopping session (when my mom was in the hospital and she asked for a priest - justified, right?), I purchased two pairs of Christian Louboutin patent, peep-toe pumps. One in black. One in camel.

Both are equally gorgeous, but the black ones pinch a bit, and since the shoes are ridiculously expensive, you really can’t justify keeping them if they hurt. So today, I scheduled a lunch trip to Neiman’s to return them. *Cry*

I asked my co-workers Adam and Veronica for encouragement. I’ve been thinking about running away to Europe (if my lay-off ever happens), and one pair of Louboutins equals the cost of discount airfare to Milan. All the more reason to take them back.

“Tell me I have to return them,” I said.

Adam responded, “No store credits, no exchanges, you must return them.”

Veronica seconded the motion.

Throughout my drive, I received constant reinforcement via BlackBerry Instant Messenger.

Me: “No exchanges. No store credits.”

Veronica: “Keep singing the mantra.”

Me: “No exchanges. No store credits.”

Adam: “Get your money back!”

Me: “I WILL! And I’ll show you the receipt for proof.”

Veronica: “Back away from the shoe department very slowly.”

Adam: “Slowly...? She needs to run from it!”

I laughed and nearly lost control of the car. No texting while driving damn it.

Next scene. I’m at the Returns counter at Neiman’s being helped by the cutest, most charming gay guy ever.

Guy: “Sweetie, did you buy these with a Neiman’s card?”

Me: “OMG, no. I would get myself in trouble with a Neiman’s card.”

He rolls his eyes at me, clicks his tongue, points his finger and says in a charmingly condescending tone, “Sweetie, you’re buying Louboutins. You’re already in trouble.”

I laughed. He had me there.

But, this means I’m ahead though, right? With Mom's lawsuit that I now have to deal with, and with the return of the Christian Louboutins, then I get to buy two things for the lawsuit, right? Right?

No?

*Sigh*

Yeah. So. Feel free to judge me for the spending. To that, I say whatevs. We all have our "things." Guys buy $4000 flat screen TVs, huge stereo sytems. I have my shoes and my handbags.

We all have our things.

Does anyone have "a guy?"

2009-07-07T18:47:00.000-07:00

I was served with lawsuit papers on Sunday. The server was actually looking for my mom, and to be frank, he was a bit of prick when I said she didn’t live with me. He was all indignant like “well this is the address of record I have for her” and I was like “not surprising jackass as I pretty much manage her life these days” and he was further all “well I guess I’ll just have to try to find her” and I closed with “if you stop being a prick and maybe explain yourself, I can probably help you out with that.”

Ok. So, I don’t really speak like that, but that’s how it felt. That was the tone and for the most part, the verbiage of our interaction. Seriously. Since when do you tell a strange man who you just opened your door to the home address of a relative? Shocker that I would be unreceptive.

Asshole.

So anyway the lawsuit. It's about Mom's car.

Turns out the slimy used car dealer who sold my mom the crazy car pictured above, now not-so-affectionately known as Granny Dynamite (what else would you say if you saw a 63 year old lady driving this thing?) But I digress, the slimy used car dealer went out of business quite soon after selling Mom the car last year and basically bolted from the state of Oregon after de-frauding approximately 40 buyers/sellers, 5 or so banks and a couple of insurance companies.

Mom is named as a defendant because – get this – turns out the guy maybe didn’t even own the Mustang to sell to her in the first place.

So, I now add this to “the list” and I’m wondering – does anyone know anyone who might be able to disappear a car? You gotta guy for that? No really. If we don’t have possession of it, and she never really legally bought it in the first place, and with the dementia, my mom can’t speak so she can’t testify to that, and I can't testify for her because it would be heresay (right?). I’m just saying maybe the car could just disappear.

Applications are currently being accepted at colbyinthecity@gmail.com.

PS. This is not the post I deleted a couple of days ago that outlined the other hypothetical illegal activities I may or may not have been involved in.

I heard the adults from Charlie Brown

2009-06-29T16:59:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote a post about the lay-off my internal crystal ball is prophesizing, with mild emotions of peace at this outcome, coupled with a bit of a woe is me, all precipitated at the hands of the new boss who neglects me.

Today he visited.

And shocker. He talked to me.

Turns out the Merger Communications team is losing an employee to medical leave for a short time, and they had requested me to fill the gap.

Boss and I talked about it today, and I swear I saw relief in his eyes. Actual care for me. I saw for a moment, that it mattered to him that he’d left me by the side of the road.

I remember watching his face and his eyes and reading the tone and inflection and the other cues he gave with non-verbal communication, but really all I heard was the teacher from Charlie Brown, and all I could think to myself was, perhaps I should write another blog post, lamenting my lack of Senior Vice President status and 30% salary increase.

I'm just saying I should be practical here.

I'm also very sad that I haven't won the lottery.

Actual Vs. Planned: Volume II

2009-06-28T16:43:00.000-07:00

Sunday Planned Agenda:

Gym
Neiman's to return a pair of shoes
Wine shop to pick up last 3 months of wine club shipments
Various other mindless but important errands

Sunday Actual:

104 degree temperatures
Bloody Marys

That's all.

What would you say you do here?

2009-06-24T18:56:00.000-07:00

As our merger continues to move at a glacial pace, I find myself with nothing to do and with a new boss who has no interest in me. He’s a tech guy. I’m a communications girl. We are not a fit, and thus I have become the proverbial red-headed stepchild.

It’s been 8 weeks since the time he last spoke to me, and yet here I sit, without task, stripped of my responsibilities by the company that acquired mine and I think to myself, how long can this last?

"Nothing, Bob. I do nothing."

How long before the efficiency experts find me?

The only motivation I have left is directed toward collecting my severance which after 11 years with the bank is substantial.

Let me go.

I’m ready to run away to Europe for a month; then come back and scout locations for the coastal bed & breakfast of which I dream. (I still won't be able to afford to buy it, but I can still dream.)

How long does a Fortune 100 company pay an employee to do nothing?

Well, I guess if you’re Citibank, you’d just give me a 50% raise. But I don't work for Citibank.

Shall we bet on my job-end date? I say September 30.

Over/under anyone?

6 things that irritated me today

2009-06-21T20:44:00.000-07:00

I wrote about 6 things that made me happy. Started it last night and finished it today, and what’s with Blogger posting the publish time as the time you started your draft? Weird.

So anyway, I’m in a bad mood. Just to warn. Skip this one or don’t.

1. It’s Father’s Day? What? What’s that? Enough said.

2. Dear Loser at Jack in the Box: It’s JACK IN THE BOX. If you didn’t know what you wanted, why did you cut me off in the drive thru, just to pause interminably in front of the menu with no speaker, just to pull forward to the menu with the two-way speaker and tell the girl you needed a few minutes to decide? Were you waiting for the sommelier to come out and perfectly pair your food and wine? Do you even know what a somm is? It’s freakin Jack in the Box. Order your Sourdough Jack and move the fuck on.

3. Dear Dude at the Dog Park: Your dog is like a 100lbs and clearly you’re out of your mind and believe it’s ok to bring him into the miniatures section. I don’t care if he’s feeble and on glucasomine [pause – that does kind of make me sad – pause break], if a significant number of dogs are cowering in fear simply at the appearance/size of your dog, get the fuck out.

4. Dear Loser at Jack in the Box Part Deux: Dude. I’m a dog lover but your vanity plates: “I ♥ my Shi Tzu” and your bumper sticker “My dog is my co-pilot” are deserving of a lethal injection. Not the shi tzu, just you (ps I’m looking to adopt again). Kthxbye.

5. Lance Armstrong the III: So we meet again on the neighborhood trail. This time it’s my sweet mom who got in your way and by the way, she has an Alzheimer’s type dementia. She’s on her trike and doing what she can to stay to the right, but really – we don’t know with her anymore – right might mean left – but I digress. Neighborhood trail. Fuck your yellow rubber bracelet, your spandex and your attitude.

6. Finally. Today I delivered a rubber mattress cover and a package of Depends to Mom. It doesn’t suck more than that.

And one added bonus:

7. I flirted with a guy, and it felt good and scary and I felt completely out of practice. I guess that’s what a self-imposed re-call will do. Boo to dating re-calls and atrophy of game. Not to say I ever had game, but – well you get me.

Unimportant things that make me happy

2009-06-20T21:36:00.000-07:00

On this random Sunday, I choose to take part in a meme. These are 6 unimportant (in the grand scheme of) things that make me happy. If you read my blog, you’re supposed to do this, too, but since I typically have a strong aversion to memes, I won’t judge if you don’t.

You might argue and say these are in fact very important things, and to that I say, whatever.

1. The Soup. Joel McHale and his continual verbal assault on the spawn of Satan that is Heidi and Spencer.

2. Scavenger Hunts. Yesterday I served as Mission Control for my friend as she covered every inch of San Francisco on a scavenger hunt to win a $15k diamond ring. I was useless. My Google skills did nothing to help her, then again the clues were freakin insane and made no sense, but alas – it was fun and I don’t think she’s going to break-up with me for failing to better support the team.

3. Facebook. Typically I find this to be useless, but today I am grateful for my first love who obliterated my heart (when I was 22) and Facebook'd me after 13 years only to tell me it wasn’t me, it was him, which is total crap from a man who’s almost 40 now, but whatevs, that’s his story and I’m sticking to it. It wasn’t me.

4. The Real World/Road Rules challenges. Period.

5. Puppy toys: my beautiful puppy disemboweled her stuffed cow today, but fortunately she still has the pig and the lamb and a hundred or so others that bring her (me) joy.

6. Booze. (You might argue and say this is really important, not unimportant at all, and I’d totally agree with you, it’s just that I can’t write about things that make me happy and not include the alcohol.)

That’s all.

----

Others who've done this meme:

Grace
Vernacular

Best use of cliche, executive style

2009-06-18T19:20:00.000-07:00

We’re getting laid off soon. It’s coming, and we know it. There was a brief moment when it felt like we might be safe, when we were told we would be safe for another year or so, but in financial services – really, job status requires a day to day analysis. It’s just something that you have to revisit on regular basis in these times.

My team and I are on the Executive floor of our building. There’s an Executive Kitchen here, one that we were never allowed to use unless there was a meeting of the Board of Directors. But now as we’re watching everyone lose their jobs around us, there is a small number of us left, and so we were thinking, let’s go rogue. Let’s use the forbidden kitchen that they never let us use, and so we planned a potluck. And not just a potluck, a let’s *use* the kitchen, the ovens, the stoves, the broiler, the Executive china, and omg, the dishwasher potluck. Let’s full on do breakfast and lunch.

Since I don’t cook, I thought I’d *use* the kitchen by making a salad. Utensils. Knives. Serving spoons. China.

After we settle in from the best breakfast potluck ever, Adam and and I conversed via Instant Messenger.

Adam: “What time are you going in to cook what you brought for lunch?”

Me: “Um. I’m thinking 12:15ish. I’m just making Caprese Salad, but you’re cooking for reals, yes?”

Adam: “Yeah. I’m doing something adventurous with sausage.”

Wait for it

Me: “That’s what she said.”

Adam laughs and responds that he’d set himself up for that. I agreed.

Flash forward to dining during lunch in the board room. There are 20 of us there, and I decide I’m going to play with Adam a bit.

Me (smirking): “Hey Adam, your sausage is good.”

Adam coughs. Nearly spits out his food.

Adam: “Thanks, Colby.”

Me: “Pleasure.”

Back at our desks after lunch, I get a instant message from Adam.

Adam: “Did you set me up in there.”

Me: “No. I innocently thought your sausage was worthy of praise.”

Adam: “That’s what she said.”

Best workday ever.

Let’s go back to 1990 for a moment, shall we?

2009-06-16T20:39:00.000-07:00

I was inspired by another blogger (on my sidebar - LiLu) who posted her high school prom/formal pics. She encouraged others of us to do so, and while I searched for mine, I found they were lost in the relo from Hawaii.

Hawaii memories good. Other lost photographic memories bad.

Anyway, pictured below is me then. Senior pic. I was channeling Eden Capwell from Santa Barbara. It was when we used AquaNet, a brush and a blow dryer to create wings.

But this was me.

I was 16. If you do the math, yes. I was young. Started school early, finished early. I accept both mocking and praise, though I anticipate just the mocking.

I only wish that I had a better picture of the sweater. It was kind of patchwork, classy mod. There was tweed, there was cashmere, there was silver lame' (that's lah-may) thread, there were leather strips. I wore it with a black leather, knee-length skirt, black pumps, and of course black, sheer stockings.

PS - That was the last time I saw my natural hair color. There was a brief incident (accident) with Pamela Anderson white blonde that was just as briefly Cyndi Lauper pink after a mishap with red. In order to remedy the pink, my stylist gave me a rich, chocolaty brown that when I looked in mirror, I realized was the real me. I've been a brunette ever since. Perhaps a pic for another post.

This was not well planned

2009-06-14T17:38:00.000-07:00

After Mom’s knee-replacement surgery last year, she bought herself a bike. This bike did not make the move with her from Oregon to California. Which is really the right thing, because she would never have been able to balance on it. Her legs just aren’t strong enough.

She’s been asking about it a lot lately, though, so I decided to compromise and buy her an adult tricycle. 2 wheels on the back – great for rehabbing a knee. No balance required.

The kind boys at WalMart put it together for me, and since their store is about 10 miles from my house, and I don’t have a truck, and no one else I know has a truck, the only logical conclusion was to ride it home.

I decided to be careful and meticulously plan the ride. I went on Mapquest to map the route, as clearly I need to avoid highways or main drags that either don’t have a bike lane, or don’t have a sidewalk.

I found a safe route.

A smarter person than I would have then perhaps driven the route once in their car in order to identify any major obstacles like scary, desolated rural areas alongside serial killer attracted reservoirs or even just the simple stuff – like steep, 90 degree inclines.

I didn’t do that.

The first mile. Downhill. Smooth.

The next three miles? Up.

Up.

And then up some more, with Mom’s new shiny, pretty, 100lb rehab bike. There were points where it was so steep, I had to get off and walk it up the hills (pretty much those entire 3 miles.)

9.9 miles later, I was sweaty. My hair was dripping. I was a hot mess. Scratch that. Not so hot, but definitely a mess.

I ran into some yummy fireman at a stoplight. I looked up and just looked right back down.

I stopped at Mom’s facility on the way home to give her a peek (read: rest and prevent a heart attack).

She hasn’t ridden a bike in 43 years – since the tumor – now with the knee replacement surgery, her leg bends, and this bike is a real option for her.

Mom smiled like I haven’t seen in years. She was grinning from ear to ear as she rode the bike down the sidewalk and back. It was a moment.

I rode the bike the rest of the way home, and now everything hurts. I don’t know how I made it up the stairs to my place, but I did. I collapsed. I’m glad now that I never planned to have children because I’m sure I’ve caused permanent, physical damage to that place, and I will never again judge anyone for wearing those padded bike shorts.

And now as I'm lying on the sofa writing this, muscles tightening and stiffening, I think to myself, seeing her smile and ride that bike is well worth the pain I’m sure I’ll be in through 2010.

I hate call centers

2009-06-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

I got a new credit card in the mail yesterday. I called to activate it. It wasn’t an automated system, and so I had to talk to someone and answer a ridiculous number of identifying questions, just short of giving my blood type and offering up my first born, I got irritated.

Me: “Seriously. What’s with all the questions?”

Her: “This isn’t a lot of questions. I’m just activating your card.”

Me: “You’re arguing with me about the number of questions you’re asking?”

She ignores me and begins reading aloud the literature that came with my credit card.

Her: “Your card is a Visa, and as such can be used any place Visa is accepted.”

Me: “I understand how the card works. If you could just please activate it, that would be great.”

I said please.

She keeps reading the literature.

Me: “The card came with the literature that you’re reading to me, I don’t need you to read it. If you could just please activate the card.”

She begins the promo offers.

Me: “I’m not interested in having you sell me anything. I realize that it’s your job to try. But stop. Please stop talking and just activate the card.”

Her: “If I stop talking then we’ll just be silent. It won’t make the card be activated any faster.”

Me: “Silence is great. That’s fine. Stop talking.”

No silence.

Her: “Blah blah blah blah blah.”

Me: “I thought we just agreed that you were going to stop talking. I know this has to have happened to you before. I find it hard to believe that I’m the only person who finds this activation process to be ridiculously irritating.”

Her: “Well actually, Ma’am, you are."

Me: “Now you’re arguing with me about whether or not people find you irritating?”

Me: “Just activate the card, pleaaassseee.”

Her: “Your card has been activated. You may-“

Click.

Bitch.

I don’t see Bill Murray anywhere

2009-06-11T08:59:00.000-07:00

And I should because I’m living inside the movie Groundhog Day.

It’s day number 5, and Mom has packed her suitcase every day. Every day she’s called me to take her to Oregon, and every day I’ve had to talk her off the ledge.

She doesn’t remember that she’s done this – how often? – oh right. EVERY DAY.

I wish I had a TMI Thursday to post, but apparently I’ve blocked out all of my embarrassing situations. As the repressions come forth, I’ll be sure to get back in.

In the meantime, I’ll share with you the conversion Brother and I had yesterday.

Brother: “Well, I guess this thing with Mom could be worse.”

Not likely.

Me: “How’s that?”

Brother: “Well some people who get Mom’s form of dementia have sexual side effects.”

Me: “Right. Right. I remember that. Increased libido. Inappropriate, public displays of sexuality. Promiscuity.”

Brother: “Right? Mom could be whoring it up at the rest home, and instead we’ve just got memory issues and compulsive behaviors.”

Me: “Thank God for small favors.”

Me: “OK. So, I guess now we’re just grateful for the symptoms she doesn’t have and hoping she doesn’t become a slut.”

Brother: “I’ve never been more proud.”

Me: "I never thought I’d be satisfied with such low expectations."

We laughed. Because sometimes you just have to.

Existential crisis in my sphere

2009-06-10T06:31:00.000-07:00

So, I began writing a post last week in which I would have told you that I was feeling blocked. Not that kind of blocked. But blocked writer’s style. I was thinking that I might take a break and then the drama with my mom happened, and suddenly the blog was writing itself again, and so here I am. Still blogging.

This is all too weird too because I dropped by LiLu’s site that same day, and she had just published a post about the existential crisis taking place in the blogosphere. Many of her favs are thinking of - or already have shelved their blogs. I remember thinking it was spooky to be thinking the same thing, thinking that there were others out there who for a variety of reasons had nothing left to say, or nothing that they wanted to say and share with the world.

And I know. You’d probably say, “but Coles, you’ve only been doing this since April,” and I’d say yeah, but then I’d say “I’ve really been doing it since January.” It’s just that I had to abandon my first blog due to being outed at work. Not that kind of outed. Anonymity outed. But still you might say that’s only 6 months, I can’t really be struggling, but I’d say that sometimes I do. Struggle that is. And then I think perhaps this is what my shrink was talking about when she said I need to lower my expectations of me.

So this foray into existentialism was capped by my very good friend C who joined me for dinner and wine last night. She stopped by my place before heading back home to visit the puppy. As we approached my front door, I prepped her on the happy dance my girl does for me each day when I get home for work. C smiled. And we opened the door to something like this:

(Unless you want to hear my ridiculous puppy voice, I suggest you turn your speakers off.)

Cute, huh? That tail could do some damage if she were any bigger. I filmed that a while ago, but really it’s a nightly occurrence. I just adore coming home to her.

The existential part? Puppy did the dance for C last night. Not for me. She ignored me for the rest of the evening. I was like an old, discarded shoe. I kind of wanted C to go home after that. I love her to death, but she had to go.

What? My little girl is only supposed to love me. Pathetic. I know. I accept it.

Living with Frontotemporal Dementia: Volume V

2009-06-08T19:47:00.000-07:00

I got a call from Mom at 11:30 today (something about this time of day?). She’d packed her bag again and was waiting outside the facility for me, waiting for me to take her to Oregon. Again.

So, what can I do but laugh, and try to find some humor and recognize that we’re in the thick of it, and she’s declining, and this crazy is just going to continue.

I give you then, Living with Frontotemporal Dementia Volume V. This would be the 5th post in this series, the series in which I answer a fellow blogger’s question (whose mom is also suffering from this disease) about the symptoms Mom showed on the road to this horrific diagnosis. I left off with the end of 2007, and so here begins 2008. The year of the diagnosis. As 2008 was the massive escalation of her symptoms, this year might take a couple of posts.

----

January came and Mom was on this fixation of having knee-replacement surgery. When she was 20, this would be 1965, she developed a tumor in her knee. Because the surgeons of the time had no real understanding of cancer, they removed the tumor which encompassed the part of your knee that allows it to bend. So, basically they fused the two lower leg bones (tibia and fibula) and the thigh bone (femur) to her patella (knee cap). What this did was save her leg, though it could no longer bend. It basically made one long bone, no knee joint, in her right leg.

She walked with one normally functioning leg, and one straight leg for the remaining years. It was the only way we knew her. She basically lived as though she had no disability for 42 years, and we never thought of her as having one.

About every decade or so, it occurred to her to seek the advice of orthopedic surgeons. As advancements in medical knowledge were made, she’d on occasion visit an Orthopedist and ask if they would reconstruct her knee.

Imagine if you never bent your leg. The simplest thing - you never used your muscles to bend down and pick something up. Imagine if your quad muscle was never used for 42 years. I imagine that it’s quite like a comatose patient who wakes up and can’t walk. The muscle is atrophied, and yet with some rehab, you could learn to walk again.

Not so after 42 years, though, and so Mom was routinely denied for surgery, as she should have been. You can’t rebuild a muscle that hasn’t been used for over 4 decades.

In January of 08, she began to obsess about the potential for this surgery. She said to me once on a phone call, “I’m going to keep going to doctors until I find one that says, yes.”

I tried to reason with her that if numerous doctors continued to say "no" to her, the one doctor that finally did say "yes" would be a hack. There was no getting through to her. She was fixated and she was going to have this surgery. No matter what.

She found a hack.

In the meantime, her battles with her neighbors had escalated. One in particular. Nurse K who lived next door. K’s husband had died the prior year. Complications of massive organ failure from diabetes. Tragic, but peaceful for him to finally end years of suffering.

Mom got it into her head that K, as a nurse, had killed him by overdosing his meds (the first of her paranoid delusions). Despite the fact that there was an autopsy and full police investigation that cleared Nurse K, Mom chose to believe she was a murderer. This only added to Mom’s animosity towards this woman and their long running battle of K’s loud-barking dogs.

Mom called me one morning in that same January to report an incident of violence that had occurred between the two of them. Mom relayed that the dogs were barking so loud that she lost it and decided to blast her outdoor stereo system to drown them out. She said that Nurse K responded to the music by throwing a potted plant at Mom’s house. Mom’s response? Well, Mom drove to K’s new husband’s place of business, stormed in, and in front of all of his co-workers, threatened the husband to get control of his wife and the dogs, or Mom would hire someone to burn his house down.

Sound like an episode of Cops? It did to me.

Mom relayed this story to me like it was 100% acceptable behavior.

I lost it and told her that she’d “fucking lost her mind.” I couldn't help it. It broke me.

She didn’t understand why I didn’t get it.

This was the next sign of her inappropriate behaviors. (Inappropriate to say the least.)

February came and Brother and I learned that her knee surgery was on. I had been working 12-16 hour days at The Bank. We’d been going through a huge merger, and my responsibility was ensuring that branch employees were prepared to become the new bank. One coast had just converted to the new systems, and the remaining coast was to convert in February. I had been dreaming of peace. And vacation. And because I now had 12 weeks of time off on the books, I’d decided that I was going to take the month of March off. The last of the branches would be converted, and I could run away – having lived up to my obligations.

Mom called one day in February and asked if I was still taking time off in March. I hesitated to say yes, because she had stolen my last vacation from me, but I didn’t lie completely and told her that I was taking 2 weeks. She said that was fantastic because her knee surgery was in March, and I could come to Oregon and take care of her.

Again with the narcissism. She hadn’t though twice about taking my vacation from me. A second time.

I agreed because what else do you do for your mom? She offered to cover my travel expenses, and so I took her up on it.

It was getting closer and closer to the day I was to catch my flight, but for some reason, she couldn’t get it together enough to send me the flight info. There was this incredible lack of coherency. I finally got short with her and asked her to give me the name and number of her travel agent. Suzanne. She did.

I called Suzanne.

Suzanne’s words to me: “Oh my gosh. I’m so glad you called. We’ve been so worried about your mom. I didn’t have any faith that she was going to get you your flight info.”

I was at work, and I heard these words and I just started crying. I asked her if she had a few minutes to talk to me, and when she said that she did, I took my phone into a private office.

Turns out Suzanne was one of my mom’s oldest friends and biggest client’s in the quilting business (mom’s profession).

I asked Suzanne why she’d lost faith in my mom, and she had some stories to tell.

----

As I’ve already written 3 pages in a Word doc on this, I’ll pause here and begin this again in another post.

What I’ll finish with here is – Brother and I knew she was different with us. We knew there was some sort of crazy going on, but we had no idea that it had touched her other relationships. Her business. Stupid. I know. But I guess you have blinders on when it comes to your family. You think that only family sees the bad stuff.

For us, we were to learn that everyone was seeing it and that things were breaking down.

We still didn’t know why. I know I had begun to think Alzheimer's, Dementia, brain tumor, something. She was only 62. There had to be a reason that my fabulous mom was becoming this . . . . crazy person. That’s what this felt like, but it really felt like we just didn’t know anything at all.

A funny thing happened at the rest home

2009-06-07T08:11:00.001-07:00

During the trauma that was yesterday, I found myself cracking up at a 93 year-old resident at my mom’s facility.

My mom was freaking, and I still had my dog, no leash, and the temperature was too hot to leave her in the car, so I brought Puppy into the facility and tried to leave her in the enclosed garden area while I handled Mom.

Fletcher (the 93 year-old) was out there in the garden, chilling on one of the chaise lounges. So, I asked, “Fletch, can you keep an eye on Puppy for me for a minute.”

Fletch says, “Sure.”

I go to handle my mom.

I come back.

Fletch says, “I think she’s not used to men.”

And I laugh and say, “Is that supposed to be a commentary on my current dating life?”

He doesn’t get it. He’s 93.

So, I try a different route, “I guess when I find a husband, Puppy will get used to men.”

Fletch (totally serious): “It’s not that hard to find a husband.”

I laughed.

I guess I missed the memo.

You know it's bad when

2009-06-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

You realize it’s only 11:30am and you’re already broken.

I woke up early and took the puppy down to the condo common backyard area and let her run free. No leash. No collar. I know what you’re thinking – no leash, no collar – totally her fault that the dog broke free of the yard and ran into oncoming traffic. And I’d say to you, I know. I know. My fault. But yeah, me and my [new favorite] neighbor who happened to be out there, too, ran after my little girl, and you know he blocked traffic, and I learned that no matter how out of shape I am, I can apparently still run. And we got her. Back. Safe. After a mild heart attack.

And then I realize I’m late. I’m late for therapy, and so Puppy and I head off to the shrink. And today’s the day that she decides were going to tackle my failed relationships. And so I’m thinking, great. Let’s rehash my love life. And so I tell her that I really know what my problem is, and I’ve read self-help books, so I’m just going to tell her what my deal is, and she can tell me why I can’t seem to fix things anyway despite my rather extensive introspective knowledge.

So, I tell her that while in relationships, I do A, B and C, and the reasons I do A, B, and C, is because of D, E, and F. But maybe it’s also because of G, H, and I. But, I can’t really tell, you know cause it’s maybe both, or it’s maybe one or the other, but I definitely know that ABC are the behaviors and DEF, GHI are the potential causes.

And then we have our recurring conversation that I’m like a gemini, and that I don’t really need a shrink, because I can just let my two sides be their own devil’s advocate and that she can leave the room and I can battle myself. And we laugh, cause you know, she’s got the psych degree and maybe she should be the one to referee.

And then the session’s over and I’m driving home, and I get the call. The call from the assisted living facility where Mom is and she’s having a crisis. So, instead of going home, and I’ve still got the puppy by the way – no leash – she went to therapy with me, instead of going home I head over to the Chateau. That’s the name of Mom’s place. Fancy, huh? Doesn’t even sound like a rest home. But, I go.

I get there and Mom’s waiting outside for me with a suitcase and tries to get in the car. Why you ask? Because we’re going to Oregon where Mom’s house is. But there are no plans to go to Oregon. Mom’s dementia has planted this seed in her head, and because she can’t communicate anymore, she can’t really tell me why we’re supposed to go Oregon. And since she can’t tell me why she thinks we’re supposed to go, I can’t explain to her why her reasoning doesn’t work. So, it’s an impasse. And Mom’s standing there defiantly with her suitcase. And so after a half hour of me trying to give her reasons why we’re not going to Oregon, I call my brother on the phone, for reinforcements. And he doesn’t answer. So, I hang up and dial again. No answer.

So, I text. Help. Call me. She won’t listen to me.

And so then, I grab Mom’s phone, and I call him from there, thinking you know, he’ll see her name and pick-up. And I’m right, cause he does. And I try to explain, you need talk to her. I can’t convince her she’s not supposed to go to Oregon. And he’s like. Calm down. And I’m thinking, what the fuck? Don’t tell me to calm down. Just talk to her like I’m asking you. She’s not listening to me. And so I try to explain again, and again I’m apparently still sounding out of control because brother’s tone is getting harsh, and I’m thinking, why I am getting tone? I never ask for anything. But through my tears, I kindly and politely get my message across and he talks to her. And he gets through to her.

And I take the phone back, and I’m crying, and he doesn’t know what to say. He says he's sorry. That he doesn’t know what to say. But, I can’t talk. And so we hang up after he tells me that I’m a star, and I say thanks.

I get Mom settled, finally. And I’m ready to leave the facility, and the director and the owner, both of whom I’ve gotten to know come out after me with a bottle of wine. And they say they saw how I needed it and how they know it’s not going to do me any good because it’s only 11:30, but to save it for later.

And I’m thinking fuck later and I can’t fucking believe it’s only 11:30, and maybe the wine would be good right now. I can pretend like it’s Sunday brunch.

Crazy or Justified? You tell me.

2009-06-04T18:48:00.000-07:00

All right my fabulous internet friends – and those of you lurkers out there, now’s the time de-lurk and comment for a friend. All of you.

Not my story, but a reader’s, who asked me to post this to gather some intel along the lines of the battle of the sexes.

Here’s the sitch.

Live-in boyfriend of four years. Marriage on the table. There’s been talk, but nothing finalized.

One day a girl checks e-mail for her man, at his request on an unrelated topic, and notices a conspicuous Sent Item. The dumbass forgot to clean it up first.

Subject Line: A pic for you.

The girl opens this e-mail and finds that her man has sent another girl a pic of himself. Clearly there was something suggestive, flirty happening here.

Girl freezes.

Thinks. Re-groups.

Decides to send the homewrecker a new pic from her man’s e-mail.

Subject Line: Another pic for you.

This time the pic is of her man and her together – a couple’s shot.

---

He says – she’s crazy fucking ridculous for doing it and got mad at her.

She says – she’s justified.

I say - she’s my freakin idol.

What do you say?

Stolen Lines #5 - Running away to the islands

2009-06-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

Tell me . . . have you ever thought about changing your life?

I have.

I did.

A couple of times.

But the most significant time I remember, I was young. 18. In my first semester at college and my girlfriends and I just weren't ready. Not in the least ready for that next phase of pre-adulthood garbage.

The solution?

We voted on a temporary soujourn from the college plan, and we decided to drop out and move to Hawaii.

Perhaps not for everyone, but for four small town girls who’d yet to have consumed all the booze available to us at the time, it was a fabulous move.

We spent two years on Oahu. We got jobs on the South shore. In the oceanfront hotel bars as cocktail waitresses and bartenders (you only had to be 18 to serve liquor then). 21 to drink – and we had good fake IDs.

There were midnight swims and boys. Island boys and vacation boys. There was dancing. There was booze. There were surf lessons and day sails.

It was 2 years of reckless fun.

There was a romance with a naval officer. He was not so much a gentleman; it was my bad boy phase. There were no Righteous Brother serenades, but I didn’t mind it much.

There was booze.

There was a tattoo (my one regret).

But, I’d changed my life. I’d left small town, wine country life and I’d run away, spontaneously, no plan, just seeking fun and escape. Albeit temporarily, I changed my life.

Eventually, it came time to change it again and go back to school, but I didn’t look on it as a backward change. It was forward.

Tell me. . . . have you ever thought about changing your life?

-----

I stole the first line of this post from a play called Betrayal written by Harold Pinter. It’s part of Grace's 5th experiment with Stolen Lines. Grace provides the line, you start and end your post with the line and whatever you put in the middle is yours.

Weekend in review

2009-05-31T11:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve been in my cave this weekend, which is an appropriate metaphor as what I did while in my cave was have my own little HBO marathon of True Blood. It’s kind of like Buffy, except our heroine isn’t a slayer, but she’s in love with a brooding vampire like Angel. It’s just that this brooding vampire kills people on occasion. Well I guess, as did Angel, but this guy, you know, drinks people’s blood. So, kind of the same, but not. They haven’t explained why he doesn’t actively drink and kill humans, like we know Angel didn’t because he had a soul. They haven’t said if this guy has a soul.

So I guess doing nothing but watch vampires leads to creepy dreams, because I had one that was kind of spliced with True Blood and Hitched or Ditched. Which I’m ashamed to say I caught the first episode of (and hated - way too serious). So as with the show, my friends planned my wedding, invited me and my groom to attend and basically dared us to say "I do." I don’t remember who the groom was.

As it’s only 11:30 or so, I can still make Sunday productive. I guess. If I want to.

TMI Thursday: Indecent Exposure in Mexico

2009-05-28T06:58:00.000-07:00

---

7 of us had plans to go to Cabo in the early summer of 2002. Boys and girls from work. As it happened, a hurricane had come through the week prior to our vacation, and so the city and surrounding areas were rather wet.

This did not stop us. We went anyway.

It was one of those fabulous trips where you drink margaritas all night, and sip bloody marys by the pool all day – necessary to recover from the evening before. It was practically intravenous alcohol consumption.

It was fabulous.

My first day there, we all went for a walk on the beach, in our bikinis/board shorts. The waves were awesome – the after effects of the hurricane. My brother and I were competitive swimmers during our youth and through college, and so the water and the waves just looked fun to me.

I went in.

I was immediately pulled under, and I could not get myself out. I fought, but I was continuously pulled under. I was going to drown. I remember having the vivid feeling that I was going to die. It was fear mixed with surprise – this can’t be happening, I’m a swimmer.

As the current had its way with me, I had moments where I surfaced, grabbed a breath and I could see my friends, actually see the fear in the eyes of my friends. People were gathering on the beach to watch my death.

Somehow, I pulled myself out of it. Beaten. I felt like I had been through a severe beating as I crawled onto the sand. Sputtering. Coughing. Pain.

I pulled myself together. Stood up and saw the 50 or so people staring at me. There were smiles, and I felt sure they were grateful, as was I, to see me alive and ok. They were celebrating my survival. There was applause.

I thought it was sweet.

I noticed how free I felt, and imagined this is the euphoria you read about when someone has a near-death experience.

Not so.

It was freedom, just not the kind I was thinking of.

It was freedom from my bikini. The waves had removed it, and I wasn’t even aware. I was flashing an entire resort full of people. On my first day there.

I was humiliated and yet never so popular at the same time.

Retail therapy to the extreme

2009-05-27T16:25:00.000-07:00

Me: "Um. Can I get this?"

Self: "Ohhh. That's the new vintage-y Fendi bicycle."

Me: "Uh huh. It's only $9500."

Self: "No."

Me: "No? I can get the one that doesn't have the fur saddlebags for a supremely discounted $5500."

Self: "No."

Me: "Still no?"

RUDE!

Living with Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD): Volume IV

2009-05-25T13:38:00.000-07:00

This is the fourth post in the Living with FTD series. Another blogger, whose mom is suffering from this disease (as is my mom), asked if my mom showed symptoms before her December 2008 diagnosis. The answer is still, yes. Too many to count.

I guess I hope that in sharing what we have and continue to go through, that others who may be researching FTD and its impact on a loved one might find some solace knowing they're not alone.

----

2007 came, and the telephone conversations with mom decreased, and the number of friends breaking up with her increased.

Still, my brother and I did not have a clue that she was in the initial stages of FTD.

During the Spring of 07, Mom began to describe her neighbors with hate. She lived in a small lake community on the southern coast of Oregon. There are about 10 gorgeous houses that were built on the banks of the lake, and they were populated with lovely retired couples.

Suddenly there were always conflicts. One neighbor with dogs who barked too loud. One neighbor who suddenly stopped talking to her because she believed Mom was trying to steal her husband. There was always some conflict or another, and Mom did not handle them well.

I guess I would say her tolerance level changed. The neighbor with the dogs - Mom took her to court and sued her for noise disturbance. It was ugly.

The husband-stealing myth - Mom started talking trash about the couple with all of the other neighbors.

The neighbors stopped inviting her to stuff. It was the continued disintegration of her relationships.

These were the stories she would tell us, and it was always the other person or persons’ fault.

Summer and Fall came. Mom came to the Bay Area for a business trip, and when she heard I was taking some vacation time, she hijacked it and decided she would spend an additional week with me. It didn’t even occur to her that I might want the time for myself. She made the decision without considering me. It was the beginning of her narcissism.

She asked what were my next plans for the house (home improvements), and I told her I had been thinking about tiling (or hiring someone to tile) my patio. She jumped on it. Decided we would do it. Took control of the project, insisted that we do it ourselves, drove me to Home Depot and bought the tiles, grout and necessary tools.

Again, she decided without consideration.

It was a grueling ordeal, and one that I will never do again, but we did it. After finishing the patio, we sipped wine and talked about our accomplishment.

Me: “That was some seriously hard work.”

Mom: “Well, it certainly wasn’t what I wanted to do during my time with you.”

WTF?

Didn’t she insist that we go to Home Depot? Didn’t she insist on buying the tiles? Didn’t she force this? The same way she forced me into the condo purchase in the first place. It’s clear to me now, this was another of her fixations, which are of course another side effect of FTD.

But aside from fixations - where did her reality go? I barely mentioned that I’d been thinking about the patio, she took control, insisted that we do it, and then came at me with the “this wasn’t what I wanted” bit?

I knew something wasn’t right.

Thanksgiving came, and Mom decided I was cooking that year. I don’t cook, but whatever, she decided. Brother flew into town. Mom drove down from Oregon. It was during this Thanksgiving that Brother and I knew that there was no denying something was wrong.

I took Mom grocery shopping with me for the final needs for my first ever Turkey dinner. While in the grocery store, she behaved like a mad woman. She was pushing the cart 100mph, bumping into people, knocking stuff over, and I was just trailing behind her, wondering who this rude person was who’d taken over my mother. I was in shock.

I can look back now and see the narcissism. Again, not in an egotistical sense, but more in the sense of being completely unaware of anyone else in the room, not being aware of anyone else’s feelings or presence. Brother and I talked about this, but still - we thought it had to be anger, loneliness, depression maybe, because she had become super-negative, too.

Sometimes, though, I will admit, we thought she’d lost her mind. Sometimes, she just seemed crazy.

The day after Thanksgiving, I had arranged for a driver to take us wine tasting in Napa/Sonoma. While at the first winery, Mom got lost in her head and started telling our server about what an awful man/husband/dad my father was. My brother and I wanted to melt under the table. How could she do this? With a complete and total stranger? How did my dad become a topic during this wonderful experience, sitting in the vineyards of a winery in Sonoma that had opened for the day just for us, for my brother’s connection with them.

We didn’t understand it then, but of course it was part of her fixations and the beginning of inappropriate behavior in social situations. What I noticed the most about Mom’s vision of my dad was that he even corrupted the good things for her - still, 10 years later. Every success or accomplishment, and she’d had so many, the spin was always, “It’s a good thing I left your evil Dad, because I never would have had this kind of enjoyable experience with him.”

It was incessant.

Brother tried to have a conversation with her. This was our first attempt at getting to the bottom of what was going on with her. She denied everything. Denied the negativity, denied the fixations on my Dad, vowed that she was happy and successful and just enjoying life. Denial. We asked her to get counseling. She refused.

I opted out of Christmas that year. I just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t spend another couple of days with this person who had replaced my Mom. So, Mom went to Brother’s house, as was our annual tradition, though this time without me. While there, he told me she was the same. Withdrawn. Conversations that made no sense. Repetitive behaviors. She discovered a new fixation while there, too. According to Mom, Brother just had to have lamps for his bedroom. He said she was obsessed and wouldn’t stop bugging until he took her shopping and bought some lamps.

Sorry I left you alone on that one, Brother.

----

So here I’ve covered increased fixations, declines in relationships, inappropriate behavior in social situations and narcissistic tendencies. In this time as well, our conversations with her on the phone lasted only seconds; and in each conversation, she would repeat what she’d told us the week before. It was just nonsensical.

In my next post, I will begin with 2008. Which really was when the FTD advanced its hold, still though, we were in the dark. We just knew our Mom wasn’t the same.

I was tortured by small children

2009-05-24T12:10:00.000-07:00

On Thursday, I volunteered with Junior Achievement. I got the 5th grade class in a small city in Bay Area, California.

At orientation, when asked what grade I was getting for the program, I answered 5th and was continuously hit with the look.

The “I feel sorry for you, you‘re about to enter hell” look. That or just flat out apologies.

But I was thinking, I’ve been a trainer during my career at The Bank, so I’m not intimidated by the prospect of teaching a class. And I love to volunteer. So, how bad could this be?

Um.

Nightmare.

They were monsters.

I couldn’t figure out if they were just not getting the material for real, or pretending not to get it just to screw with me.

I had boys that were throwing out inappropriate comments. For Example: Name a human being who is a resource in a community?

Answer: Bank Robber.

WTF? No Damien. How about a freakin fireman, you little felon.

He was kicked out of class by the teacher.

I had one boy raise his hand and ask if I had ever run over a cat while driving.

No, you future serial killer, I haven't; but I’ll bet you have animals buried in your backyard, don’t you?

He was kicked out, too.

As were 3 other children of the 35 registered in the class - for various egregious offenses.

I found myself constantly pausing and waving my arms in the air and saying, “Ok. I’m hearing a lot of conversations that have nothing to do with my reason for being here, so let’s bring it back to me.”

The only non-narcissistic opportunity to say that ever.

What the hell with these kids’ parents? You raised evil demon children.

The sad thing about this was the 10 or so gems in the class. Sweet little boys and girls who wanted to participate in the class, and yet both the teacher and I were forced to control the bad seeds so much that the good kids suffered.

The really sad thing is that we (and by we I mean California) just laid off almost 27,000 teachers.

It’s only going to get worse.

We need to start building more prisons now.

TMIT: You want me to go where?

2009-05-21T06:20:00.000-07:00

So, this is my first TMIT. It stands for Too Much Information Thursdays, sponsored by the hilarity that is LiLu.

Here’s the disclaimer:

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, "how many readers can I estrange THIS week??" TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else's!***

Note to Big Brother: SKIP THIS ONE!

----

There was a point in time where my job took me to SoCa quite a bit. My heart is there, my best friends from college, everyone is there. So, it worked out perfectly. Monthly I would arrange a trip for work, do the work thing and then do the friend thing.

On one such trip, I met a guy.

Hot.

6’5. Blonde. Southern.

OMG. Hot.

We began a frequent flyer affair so to speak. When I was in town, I would forgo the company-paid-for hotel and stay with him for uh, um recreational activity of the sex kind.

He helped me earn a couple of free trips that year. It was good times.

Anyway – one time Hot Southerner asked if perhaps I might bring some toys with me on my next trip.

Sure. I can do that.

Of course, I don’t have anything that I’d be interested in sharing, so I decide to drop by my local porn shop/adult book store and shop.

I asked the clerk for the Rabbit.

I was directed to the hard core room.

What? I need to go where?

The.hard.core.room.

And so I enter.

I am instantly surrounded by Gene Shallot types. Curly hair. Creepy mustaches. Hats with the brims down low. Because apparently even Hard Core Guys don’t like being seen in the hard core room.

I grab the Rabbit and approach the clerk.

Clerk: "Great product. Very popular with the ladies."

I’m just cowering, eyes averted, get on it with man.

Clerk (opening the Rabbit packaging): "Let me see, I’ve got some batteries in here somewhere."

WTF?

Clerk: "Since we have a no-return policy on vibrators, I have to make sure it works before you leave the store."

Mortification.

Suddenly there’s silence behind me. No shuffling of porn. All the Hard Core guys are suddenly making their way to the counter, with NOTHING in their hands. They’re just watching.

Blech.

The Rabbit is now, um, hopping, and the clerk’s validating that it works, playing with the all the tricks, cause there are a few.

Clerk (eyeing the Rabbit with respect): "Well. That ought to get the job done."

That ought to get the job done. You mean, the Big O? Oh geez. You mean the Big O.

Me: "I’m sure it will be fine. Thanks. If you could just wrap it up, please."

He wraps it up. I leave – looking behind me to make sure none of the Hard Core Guys are following.

Safe.

Next quandary.

How do I get it to LA?

If I pack carry-on luggage, I’ll have to face the screeners at security. If I check my bag, I run the risk of some creepy airline guys doing awful things with it. Photographing these awful things and after Hot Southerner and I are done playing with it, I’ll find said creepy photos buried in an obscure pocket in my suitcase. And I’m thinking which is worse? Brief moment of awkwardness or possible STDs and the appropriate required STD testing?

No brainer, right?

Carry-on.

Next scene. Security gate at SFO. My carry-on is sliding through. I’m holding my breath, because while I’m very far from a prude, I am a bit, well, discreet?

My bag goes through. There’s minimal reaction from the guard and I think, well that was simple enough. But, no. The conveyor belt starts going backwards. Then stops. And several screeners gather around and review the images my bag is projecting.

Have you seen the Rabbit?

Can you imagine how it looks on an x-ray?

Anyway. I’m just standing there. Trying to act confident. And I swear, I got the nod. If I'm not mistaken, the security crew gave me a high-five with their eyes.

Do they have a list for people like me? Kind of like the No-Fly List, but better, sexier?

----

Other TMITs

Apparently I overstayed my welcome

2009-05-20T17:12:00.000-07:00

I went to visit Mom today, as I do most days. I budgeted the afternoon to her.

When I got there, she was sitting outside. Because of her dementia, she is incredibly restless, so a visit with her at the facility, typically takes us to multiple locations. The second location was her apartment.

We relaxed in her apartment for about ten minutes or so before she decided we needed to go back to the common room. I had brought Puppy with me, and so I suggested that we sit in the garden for a little while and let her run free.

That lasted for about ten minutes before it was time to go to the common room.

We sat in the common room.

That, too, lasted about ten minutes when Mom stood up, and I asked, “Where we going now, Mommy?”

Mom: “I’m walking you to your car.”

Huh.

I laughed.

Me: “Oh? It’s time for me to go, huh? You’ve had enough of me?”

Didn't I just barely get here?

Mom: “Yes. I have.”

And so she walked me to my car, and I drove home.

Funny. She’s so freakin funny sometimes since she’s lost her edit button. This was almost as funny as when she was in the hospital a couple of weeks ago and told me I was fat.

That was funny, too.

Her hospital bill for that lovely stay? Not funny at all. A little over $70,000.

Yes.

That was $70,000. As in 1000 dollars, 70 times.

I’ve got to find a way to make Mom work for us. Perhaps I could even turn her into a small business.

"Do you question what you see when you look in the mirror? Do you think your friends might not be being honest with you about your man/weight/looks of your butte in your jeans? Do you need someone to give it to you straight - no holding back - just the truth? Make an appointment with Colby’s Mom. You won’t be sorry."

Or maybe you will.

What? No?

Seeking seminars on independent wealth

2009-05-18T16:52:00.001-07:00

Does anyone know of any?

In keeping with my shrink's recommendation to aim for average, I'm over this having to work thing and am seeking learning opportunities to gain independent wealth.

I've thought about envelope stuffing which can apparently earn me $2000 a day, and I could totally probably get over my fear of paper cuts, but apparently envelope stuffing is a scam quite like a ponzi scheme.

Instead of getting, you know, envelopes to stuff, or other pertinent items related to the company for which you now work, you get instructions to place an ad like the one you responded to, asking people to send you money to get information on the job of envelope stuffing.

I.did.not.know.that.

It's like Bernie Madoff with envelopes.

Or without envelopes as the case may be.

I ♥ my therapist

2009-05-16T10:34:00.000-07:00

I saw my shrink this morning.

We discussed the funk I’ve been in for the last two weeks, and she told me I need to lower my expectations - of me.

I love a doctor who recommends aspirations of mediocrity.

I was hoping she would recommend pharmaceuticals (at least in the short run), but apparently they really don’t hand those out like candy.

Or am I just seeing the wrong shrink?

So now I'm feeling like aiming for average might be ok. Aim low, I say (at least for now).

She asked me what I do to make myself feel better when I'm feeling low.

Isn't that why I'm in her office?

Who's the one with the multiple psych degrees here?

Anything you can be, I can be greater

2009-05-14T06:22:00.000-07:00

I hate people like that, and unfortunately - I know one.

My friends and I have a One-Upper in our midst. We’re not usually mean girls, but this one particular friend has been making us a bit crazy lately.

Here’s an example:

A friend (one we like) just entered a triathalon and mentioned how she was struggling with the swimming aspect of the training.

One-Upper: “I was a competitive swimmer. I was really good. I was such a strong swimmer that they used me to test endless swimming pools when they were first designed.”

Us: “Wow. You must have been really talented (cough, cough liar).”

Anyway, we hit the wall with our collective tolerance level today, and the following conversation ensued. We were talking about my puppy when my very good friend morphed into a version of One-Upper.

Friend: “I used to have a dog-walking business. I was even used to test the prototype of new leash designs.”

Me (laughing cause I know where she’s going with this): “Well of course you did. What a great job.”

Friend (out of character for a moment): “Yeah. Isn't there a song? Anything you can do, I can do better."

Friend (still singing): "No you can't, yes I can, no you can't. No you can't. No you can't."

I’m laughing. A lot.

Me: “Stop. My stomach hurts.”

Friend: “Wait. Your stomach hurts? Why? From the flu you have or from laughing at my jokes?”

Me: “Your jokes.”

Friend: “I mean. Well, it’s natural for it to be my jokes. I used to be a very successful stand up comedienne.”

Me: “Oh. I know. Wasn’t one of your stand-up shows the first to ever be burned to a cd? It was a test, right? For submission to the Grammys.”

Friend: “How did you know?”

Me: “Omg. You're killing me.”

Friend: “You know. I invented ‘omg.’”

Me: “Well. I’m related to Einstein.”

Friend: “I’m related to Plato.”

(She’s Greek.)

Me: “Aren’t all Greek’s indirectly related to Plato?”

Friend: “No. Just my family. But don’t Google it, because you won’t find it. It’s information only passed down through word of mouth, generation to generation.”

Me: “Ah. Yes. Of course.”

Friend: “Oh. And also, I won the last season of Project Runway, it’s just that since it can’t air due to the legal issues, you’ll never really know.”

Me: “I’m glad you told me. I would have liked to have supported you.”

Friend: “Yeah. Well there won’t be a website or anything for you to validate – I mean comment. But, thanks all the same.”

It went on.

But I’ll stop here.

I wonder if this was just funny to us.

-----

Note: We are taking steps to break-up with her. We don’t want to continue being mean girls. We’re not mean girls. We’re nice girls. Temporarily crossed over.

What did I do to deserve this

2009-05-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

First. I have a fever.

Second. I innocently approached my mailbox. Assorted bills. Junk mail. And wait for it . . . jury duty summons.

Didn’t I just do this?

Last year. First-degree murder. Guilty.

I don’t look back on this experience fondly. That’s putting it mildy. I HATE this time.

In particular, I hate that after we returned our guilty verdict, the defendant’s PI called us and showed up on our doorsteps to ask us why.

Our HOMES.

I guess I have a problem that in California (and who knows maybe everywhere), our judicial system does not protect the privacy of its jurors.

During voir dire, we are asked to say our first and last names aloud, and while this is happening, people in the defendant’s camp, are writing it down. They’re going home and they’re googling us. Or using their access to DMV or whatever other damn system that gives them my personal information.

I was so angry last year when this PI started making her visits. She was privately employed – meaning not attached to the Public Defender’s office, but clearly joined at the hip with the PD representing my defendant.

The defendant who I'd just helped find guilty of first-degree murder.

After her visits began, I actually called the Office of the Public Defender, who by the way would not take my call (shocker). But I asked anyone there who would listen to me, “How is it acceptable that someone under the employ of a defendant has the home address of a juror?”

How is this acceptable?

I never got an answer. Just dances. There is no answer. It just is.

I don’t want to do this again.

Because I have nothing else

2009-05-11T20:03:00.000-07:00

to say.

Have you met my puppy?

Hard to believe anyone could yell at her, huh? Especially jerky-ass bike guy. Who could yell at that face?

I heart her. She's my little princess.

Actual verses planned

2009-05-10T16:55:00.000-07:00

Mother’s Day Planned Agenda

7:00 – wake up and take puppy for a long walk
8:00 – groceries
9:00 – Home Depot
10:00 – go to Mom’s assisted living facility and partake in Mother’s Day brunch
1:00 – take Mom to a movie

Mother’s Day Actual

9:00 – wake up from alcohol-induced coma
10:00 – sit on floor of shower and allow hot water to rain over me
11:00 – drive to assisted living facility for brunch

I arrive and Mom’s waiting outside for me. She walks up to my car and starts to open the door.

Me: “Mom wait. I’m here for Mother’s Day brunch. In the facility’s restaurant. Don’t get in. I need to park. No really, Mom. Don’t get in.”

She ignores me and gets in. So I drive to a parking space and open my door to get out of the car. She looks at me in surprise.

Me: “What? I’m here for brunch. I’m going inside. I haven’t eaten yet.”

I mean, Happy Mother’s Day. I’m here for brunch. Come back inside with me, Mommy. Love you.

(I’m hungover and if I don’t get food soon, I’m going to throw up.)

She follows me back in and we sit. We dine. I ask the facility director (whose serving as our waitress for the Mother’s Day event) for tomato juice and a glass of ice. I pull an airplane bottle of vodka from my handbag and make my own Bloody Mary. (What? They don’t have liquor at the rest home.)

I ask for Tobasco. But of course, it’s a rest home. Nothing spicy here.

Mom sees my cocktail and says she wants one, too, and I tell her we can go out to get one before the movie. I tell her I don’t have another bottle of vodka in my handbag. (Because that would be bad?)

And so we drive around looking for a place with more vodka. We find the Red Robin. Fine. Whatever. They have a bar.

We sit. We order. We drink.

In comes Tough Guy. He’s all tatted up. Looking around the room to make sure he’s the toughest/coolest/buffest guy [idiot] in the room.

He’s wearing a t-shirt that he’s cut into a tank top and those funky, loose cotton parachute type pants.

Once he’s sure that everyone’s noticed him, he sits next to us at the bar.

Bartender: “What can I get for you?”

Tough Guy: “I don’t know. Do you have experience making Strawberry Daiquiris?”

I fell off my stool.

He's ordering a girly drink, and he's questioning the bartender's mixology skills for said drink.

Poetry.

Living with FTD: Volume III

2009-05-09T20:14:00.000-07:00

You know what really kills me . . . it’s when I run into someone who’s my mom’s age, and they’re normal.

It happens all the time.

I talk to someone in their early 60s and they make sense. Good conversation.

Wit.

That’s the big thing. The ability to use sarcasm or their inherent wit.

Mom has so lost that ability.

Or watching a movie like Rachel Getting Married, which is enough to make you slash your wrists anyway, but you see this family of people gathering for the eldest daughter’s marriage. There’s like 30 people at the house, and it’s not even the day of the wedding. It’s just people there to support. Cousins. Grandparents. Aunts and Uncles. There’s a multitude. And there are so many people over 60 who still have it.

And I see that and I want my mom back. Because besides my brother, she’s the only real family I have.

I want my mom back.

I hate her fucking disease.

Frontotemporal dementia just fucking sucks.

You are not Lance Armstrong

2009-05-09T13:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Dude on the bike:

It's a small, neighborhood trail.

There are seniors on bicycles. Mothers with their new babies in those runner, push-cart things. There's me and my puppy.

This is not the Tour de France - despite the fact that you're dressed for it with your matching hypercolor spandex and your yellow rubber bracelet.

Um. Dude, did you shave your legs?

Anyway, dial back the attitude that we're all out here interrupting your serious training.

Neighborhood trail.

And if you ever yell at my puppy again, let's just say I won't be anonymously handling it on the internet.

That's all.

Thanks,
Colby

First Love and Facebook

2009-05-07T17:37:00.000-07:00

So, I got a little tired of the Facebook exchange. It was starting to get ridiculous, and so I e-mailed First Love (FL) directly to his precious Facebook account:

"I have to ask...why did you choose to search my name?" (read: waste my time?)

No answer for a week, but he did manage to update his Facebook status 150 times.

Tool.

His reply:

"Sorry for the delay- but good question so here goes just started up facebook account a month or two ago and when adding [name of old friend] and [name of another old friend] from the [restaurant that we worked at] days, I thought of others I knew there and your name popped into my head, of course then after going back into the past when we last spoke and I was not the nicest person and did not handle the situtation very well. Karma is a bitch so here I am wondering how you are doing - obviously you were going to go beyond the restaurant thing and I was curious to see where that took you- The ability to think and work with people has never really been a problem for you and I am glad to see you are doing well- I didnt really know how to put the feeler out there and thought why not just send a sniper hit....I dont want to rehash my mistakes or the other things I handled badly with you because I was not mature enough to deal with the situation at the time. I can apologize a million times but I realize a lot of time has passed and actions speak louder than words. I am glad to see you are doing well and would like to keep in touch on whatever terms you think is best. This is my longest facebook message ever - congrats - did I go around in circles or what? fyi-remember there is no spellcheck in facebook and I am borderline retarded."

Ok. First: Boo for using the word "retarded."

Second: This is actually kind of funny. Really, the only thing I remember about our break-up (besides the fact that I couldn't get out of bed for weeks after it happened) was that he said he didn't love me any more.

That - and I remember that Mom and Dad were still together and in town to visit me that week. He was supposed to meet them. I remember going to the Rusty Pelican in Newport Beach for family dinner. Brother's roommate S was our server, and sitting at the table, I was a ghost.

S saw I was broken and told me that I was sweet and beautiful and that I would be ok.

[Wow. Memory.]

Re-focus.

So FL's e-mail. I don't remember that he "didn't handle it well." Frankly, he was quite efficient.

"I can apologize a million times . . ." Why? You didn't love me anymore. You were honest. That's ok.

Interesting how we remember things.

Updating new template

2009-05-06T19:00:00.000-07:00

Please bear with me as I update my template. All prior posts should be fixed by the end of the day.

I especially apologize to those of you who have me added to your Google Reader.

You might hate me when the day is over.

Thanks,
Colby

Living with FTD Volume II

2009-05-04T18:43:00.000-07:00

This is the second post in the Living with FTD series.

It was the fall of 2006 when we first noticed something had changed.

Mom casually mentioned one day that one of her biggest clients had dropped her and that this particular client was no longer friends with her either. Mom was casual and flippant about it when it should’ve been something that mattered to her. In losing this friend, she was also losing substantial income.

This was the first relationship that she showed complete apathy for. We didn’t understand it then, but we were to later learn that apathy is a side effect of frontotemporal dementia (ftd).

Around October of that same year, I was looking to buy a house or a condo. I had found one that I liked and during one of Mom’s frequent business trips to the Bay Area, I took her to look at it. She decided that I must buy it.

Catch that? “She decided.”

After a week or so of crunching numbers with the bank, I couldn’t make it work. It was always, you need more money to put down, the rate kept getting raised and the monthly payment amount kept getting bigger. (Even a banker doesn’t always have it easy dealing with a bank.)
So, I pulled the plug.

But Mom wouldn’t let me. She was like a bulldozer and started working the loan without me. All of a sudden the loan was in process and the condo was mine. Despite the fact that multiple times, I begged her to stop – because the payment amount was now really just too high. She ignored me and kept moving forward. She was fixated. Again I didn’t get it at the time, but of course we learned later, fixations are a side effect of the dementia. She was so fixated that she wouldn’t listen to reason.

This was in November 2006.

In December at Christmas time, we joined Brother at his house for the holiday. Mom was withdrawn. The one thing she kept repeating was how broke she was. Over and over again. It was incessant.

I asked her if she had used up all of her cash to help me buy the condo, and she said that she had. I was floored. I had no idea. She had plenty of investments and a steady, high monthly income, but she’d used up all of her cash. OMG. I felt guilty and yet at the same time, I felt so very frustrated. Hadn’t I begged her to stop? Where was her common sense? How could she have done this?

My brother and I finally called her out about it, and she was surprised. Denied that she was being repetitive, denied that anything was wrong. She was fine.

I remember Brother and I making eye contact and thinking – this is not normal. Something is wrong here.

Throughout the visit, she became noticeably more withdrawn. When she did talk, she was fixated on her divorce from my dad, nearly a decade earlier. She kept repeating what an awful man he was and how he had kept her down during their 34 year marriage. Their marriage was far from perfect, as is my father, but this obsession and need to vocalize it was new.

This was the first real sign that her communication skills were leaving her, though of course we didn’t realize it then. We thought that maybe she was depressed or lonely. We didn’t know that it was the onset of the dementia and the beginning of the end of our conversations with her.

That Christmas was AWFUL.

------
This is as far back as I can trace the beginning of the changes in her behaviors. The fall of 2006. Prior to this my mom was a savvy, independent dynamic woman. When she divorced my father, she turned her quilting hobby into a mini business empire. Published 3 books, traveled the world giving speeches and teaching classes. Then came the fall of 2006 and apathy in relationships, fixated behaviors and communication deficiencies.

Colby in Sin

The one in which I offend as a means of seduction

The one in which he offends as a means of seduction

And then there was one

It puts the lotion on its skin

An open letter

A break from my break

I’ve got all my life to live

I'll take mine by Diane Von Furstenberg (DVF)

Show me sand the floor

Lost and found in Las Vegas

The most expensive vacation that wasn't

This is definitely not Scotland

This volcano has some seriously bad timing

The one about my flaw

Another ray of sunshine in my world

Sometimes people can really surprise you

Tacos, Navy Seals and short shorts

Does vodka count as a food group?

Living in the land of sex

An open letter to the branches of our government

The differences between boys and girls

More than just a little un-cool

I come to you today with a list and some pics

TMI Thursday - That was just so much more than I needed to see in the morning

If it weren't for the random text messages

I probably had my best day yet in Vegas today, but it’s probably not what you think

I spent Christmas with Reggie Bush

Christmas in Vegas - and this is an appropriate title

Just of a couple of quick things on the shopping list

The Fates can be just plain rude

Colby in Sin

Let's call a spade a spade

A funny thing happened at the dog park

Sometimes you get thrown an unexpected life raft

Living with Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD) Volume VII

Excuse me sir, but do you offer a happy ending here?

You gotta go where you’re hot

What do you write when you realize you have an anger-ball inside of you?

Dear Homeless (?) Guy at 7 Eleven:

Many thanks for the righteous indignation on my behalf

This is a vent session. I'm angry, so it's a beeyotchy post. Deal or skip it.

Apparently you just have to complain to the President to get stuff done

The fall of the house of Usher? Or is that I’m trying to buy the house that Ruth built?

So my banishment from eBay is over (It happened two weeks or so ago, I was just super late in posting about it.)

I say healthy competition in the marketplace and they say fraud, whatever

Some odds and ends on a Friday holiday weekend

I lost my lesbian v-card … I think. Kind of.

Wordless Wednesdays: Have you met my avatar? Or my dog? I've been painting. That's all I've got.

So this one won’t be funny or sarcastic, just news

Stolen Lines #6: I hate you Facebook

The one where my multiple personality disorder takes over

I can't, I can, I won't, I will, I should, I shouldn't

You spin me right round

TMI Thursday: My body is rejecting its host

As seen on tv

TARP dollars instant messenger chat (round 2)

Things I wonder about the people at work

Living With Frontotemporal Dementia: Volume VI

What seems to be the problem, Officer?

This is where your TARP dollars went

Wordless Wednesdays . . . almost

And this is why I don't date

I know I've been a bit ADHD

In case you were wondering, this is how I escape my reality

Does anyone have "a guy?"

Recent post withdrawn

I heard the adults from Charlie Brown

Actual Vs. Planned: Volume II

What would you say you do here?

6 things that irritated me today

Unimportant things that make me happy

Best use of cliche, executive style

Let’s go back to 1990 for a moment, shall we?

This was not well planned

I hate call centers

I don’t see Bill Murray anywhere

Existential crisis in my sphere

Living with Frontotemporal Dementia: Volume V

A funny thing happened at the rest home