Obsessions revisited

When I was a teenager, I was obsessed with New Kids on the Block. Don't laugh. You have embarassing hair bands or boy bands, or Clay Aiken. I had Jordan. Owned every bit of merchandising you could own. Exhibit A:





As I got older, my obsession waned, and I moved on to what my roomates in college called my "female misery music": Tori Amos, Indigo Girls, etc. But I have always held a special place in my heart for boy bands.

This Sunday night, a good HS friend of mine made a pilgrimage to the hometown to see a concert. Yes, folks, Jordan Knight is making the Casino Boat circuit. A small ballroom, with drunk women in their twenties and thirties hollering "We love you, Jordan!" Jordan, still looking good, prancing about like the God of 1990 that he was, but a bit more tired looking. And his falsetto? Fell flat many times. I was looking forward to hearing his new stuff, plus maybe a few old NKOTB hits thrown in for nostalgia. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a big New Kids karaoke...He'd start singing a song, then put the mic out for us to finish it. I'm like "Dude, I know the tickets were only fifteen bucks, but I didn't pay to listen to the drunk girls sing." And his secret was out a while ago when he was on VH1's Surreal Life Two: he's a prima donna. And a big whiny baby. But he didn't look quite so puffy as he did on the show. Got buff for touring, apparently. And the Surreal Life AllStars that he'll be filming in September.

But it was fun. We did the Right Stuff Dances and waved our hands in the air like we just didn't care. We laughed at how old we all were. We even got our pictures taken with the opening act...some 98 degrees guy that is trying to go solo a la The Lachey boys. At least he was out there meeting the people, posing for photos. To get a "meet and greet" pass for a crummy Jordan Knight autograph? Fifty bucks.

And we had to drive home from Indy. Us old chicks had to work on Monday.

Also? I got pulled over going through a tiny town in Northern Indiana...going forty five in a thirty five. Luckily the cop took pity on us old chicks reliving our youth with the sleeping babies in the backseat at one thirty in the morning. He let me off without even a warning.

But he did tell us to "keep Hanging Tough" as he walked back to his vehicle.

You may be able to go back, but it's never quite the same.

Art the Fart

In discussing this week's blog discovery debacle with my best friend, she made me feel a lot better. I was obsessing about hurting someone's feelings. She then reminded me that I'm a good person, who would go out of my way to NOT hurt someone's feelings. And that tone can be misconstrued in writing. She reminded me that this is an entertaining blog (most days) and that anyone who really knows me would know I meant no harm. And that all you can do is apologize and move on. Then she said three words that made it all better: Art the Fart.

Art was a little fat kid in kindergarten. You all had them. Even at age five, kids can be cruel. My daughter is already telling me about the little boy that no one is nice to because he's fat. I can't believe it, but then I think back to Art. He was a quiet kid and didn't cause trouble. But no one was really kind to him and he ended up tagged with a monniker that I wonder to this day if he still thinks of it: Art the Fart.

The day of the kindergarten field trip, my mom chaperoned. The only time I remember her able to do so as a working mother. We paired up into partners for the trip...buddies, who needed to hold hands throughout the day. My mom pulled me aside and said: Angela, why don't you be Art's partner? No one wants to be with him, and that would be the kind thing to do.

So I was partners with Art the Fart. I still recall his tiny sausage-y fingers wrapped in mine, walking around the tiny zoo, looking at the monkeys, the lizard house, the lone lion. And I actually felt good, being kind to someone who hadn't seen much of it in his short five years.

There is a post script to this story. From that point forward, I became the patron saint of the friendless: Christina who peed her pants on the bus, Geraldine who always smelled like poop...you get the picture. I was queen of the dipshits, basically. But I didn't mind. It doesn't hurt you to be nice. And it doesn't make you unpopular to rub elbows with those who are shunned. Hell, it actually feels pretty good. And to this day, I always defend the underdog, feel sorry for the teased, and drop a dollar in the homeless guy's cup. And stress to my kid to be nice to that little chubby boy in her class.

So Art the Fart I became. I told this story in college, and got saddled with the name. As she reminded me tonight, my best friend and I met because I felt bad for her. Her roommate came across the hall and asked: Have you met my roommate yet? Oh. My. God. Her closet is FULL of Metallica tshirts...and I think she has a mullet. Not a big deal in '92, but at The Harvard of the Midwest, it was a cardinal sin. Of course I KNEW I had to be her best friend, even before I met her. I was The Queen of the Outsiders, after all.

And it took me only a few months to convince her to axe the mullet.

So anyway, she reminded me of Art. And that I am a good person. And I made a mistake, I apologized and need to move on. And so I shall.

But damn if I wish I remembered Art's last name. So I can Google him and maybe stalk him via his blog.

Busted!

Don't ever write anything in a blog you wouldn't care if the world saw. Luckily, I'm a pretty honest person, and rarely say anything here I wouldn't say to your face. But I do feel bad, as I got an email from my high school boyfriend, telling me he found my blog and was disappointed. (About my entry following the wedding last summer when I ran into him.) He lives HOURS from here. We haven't seen each other in more than ten years, and have zero friends in common. Did he google me? Or is someone else out there reading and forwarding information on? Quite possibly his sister...who is out there online more. Who I didn't mention in the entry, but it was nice to see her there. She looked happy with her partner. It was refreshing to see her out...esp in our hometown, which isn't exactly a haven for liberalism. She was also one of the only people in his immediate family who was really nice to me back then.

I do feel badly. I wasn't very complimentary to him, his wife, or his mother. But I was glad that he was living the life he'd wanted so much, and the experience confirmed I was definitely *not* the person to share it with. Seeing him proved to me God's plan isn't always what *you* plan. And seeing him made me even happier with the life I have now. Though I am also married with kids now, it's still a completely different life. And we each have made those choices. I'm glad I made the choices I did. But I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't do a little skip when I opened up my email box and saw his name there. So maybe I'm not *totally* over him, as I'd thought. And he is still a good looking guy, just not the same guy I'd seen in dreams over the past ten years. And God knows we've BOTH put on about fifty pounds apiece since high school. So no one's perfect. I guess my whole point was about romanticizing and making your memories shine of perfection. Then reality sets in. And it's not so perfect.

He's right though, it was closure. I was shocked seeing him. I was taken aback at how different he'd become. He was so full of life, so handsome. Now he looked drained and tired. And said as much in my blog. I'm sure I hurt his feelings, and for that I am sorry. I emailed him back and said as much. I hope that is enough to close this chapter, and that he *is* truly happy in the life he's chosen. And I haven't woken up in tears since that wedding, from a dream where I'd completely ruined his life. So closure it was.

But should I find a package sent that's full of dogshit or a dead rabbit or something equally scary, I'm betting he pointed his mom in this direction. :)

Adventures in Waxing

SO when I was in school, they talked about how if you do a waxing improperly, you can really bruise someone. I didn't get it. I mean, you pull a strip off, taking hair with it. You're not punching someone in the leg. I didn't understand the concept, until now.

Oh, don't worry. I didn't hurt a client.

I hurt myself.

I'm the only esthetician right now. This means I get all the clients and therefore, all of the money. Which is awesome. But I don't have anyone there to do *my* waxing. So last week, I had an hour to spare and thought I'd give it a try. Locked myself in my treatment room and got to work. Legs, not a problem. Except that one line behind your calf. You have to be Gumby to make that one work. But the legs are now relatively hair free, and there is much rejoicing. It's been six weeks, y'all.

So I move on. Or up. To the bikini line. I'm not going brazilian, just doing a quick cleanup, ya know? Until I can find another esthetician to give me a hand, I can just handle a bit of excess hair, right?

Turns out you *can* bruise someone. Pretty badly, in fact. Mostly if you're trying to pull a strip, hold skin taught, move quickly and cleanly...but using your right hand to pull across your body, both back and to the left. I'm here to tell you my friends, you just don't have enough hands to do this effectively by yourself.

And I have a purple, smarting crotchal area to show for it.

Whah.

Happy Blood Clot D...wait...

I ususally take this time to rant about commercialized holidays, and then justify my husband's lack of attention to them by his constant and daily love and "it's the small things he does" line of reasoning.

But the boy came through. I will wear red tomorrow and follow the leagues of millions who believe in love.

My one day with the fam is Sunday and I was in training all day. I was really bummed when it ran over and I was racing home at 6 to try and get some time with them before bedtime.

I walked in the door and was met by the hubby, telling me to keep my coat on: the babysitter had already arrived and we were going out to dinner.

And it was my favorite dinner: penne rustica from Macaroni Grill, accompanied by a frozen peach bellini and rosemary bread dipped in oil. Followed by dessert. The best part of my Valentine's Dinner? What was lacking: kid placemats, sippy cups, high chairs and crayons. No trips to the potty as soon as my food arrived, no retrieving the spoon from the floor umpteen times, no bread thrown at my head, no "Girlchild, eat. Girlchild, eat. Girlchild, quit jacking around and please eat".

Bliss.

We got time to finally talk. Just us. About everything and anything. With NO interuptions. And he had planned it all ahead of time, which may be the most shocking and romantic part of the whole thing.