I had a friend from California come hang out with us here in Nashville for the past few days. We went out to a bar her first night here and I got two “Do you know that you look like Robin Roberts?”
She was flabbergasted. She thought, as I imagine most of you think, that I’m making up stories about people approaching me and pointing me out as Robin Roberts. I can see why you might think that. I do have a flare for exaggeration. I do tend to ere on the dramatic side of every story. I do not think I look like Robin Roberts. But here, people think I do. My friend tried to reason with my Robin Roberts fans. She pointed out my coloring might be similar but it’s not exact. She pulled up a picture of Robin Roberts to prove that we don’t look alike. She very gently tried to point out that they might be saying it, thinking it solely because I’m mixed race. She got nowhere. They were sure I looked like her and could not understand that being mistaken for her NEVER happened before I moved to Nashville. Not once in California did someone hesitantly approach me and let me know I look like her. Not once did someone awkwardly try to take my picture without me knowing it and get busted by her flash going off. Not once did someone – anyone - stalk me into the bathroom in the hopes of a brush with fame. She thought I was making it up. I wasn’t. It’s a fascinating thing, looking like someone. New to Nashville with no friends or familiar faces, my “Robin Roberts?” moments have been like a warm hug every time. They are sort of like a, “I’m being seen, I’m not invisible.” moment in my day. And, weirdly, it doesn’t irk me at all. I know I’m not her. I know I’m me. But the love I get from others merely because “...there’s something in your face that reminds me of her...” has been a bright spot in a lonely day. And now, it’s a ridiculously silly in-joke I share with my new friends here, with Husband, and now with my friend from California. And speaking of Husband, he has suggested. ‘What would Robin Roberts Do?’ as my new mantra. He thought it would be a fitting way to live through the confusion and messy discord in my life. He has a point. Robin Roberts always seems to have it together. Robin Roberts doesn’t seem to have any messy personal issues. She always looks put together and happy. Robin Roberts has managed, while work a ridiculous work schedule and recovering from a life ending illness, to write and finish a book. Robin Roberts never seems to go to the doctor’s office and find herself undressing in front of open blinds. If she did, we’d know. She even faced a life or death situation with grace and humility. There were no reports of her whining or sniveling or generally being anything like me suffering through my bout with flu last week. So maybe Husband’s right. I should adopt, ‘What would Robin Roberts Do?’ as my mantra. Then, maybe next time I’m faced with a muddy dog and a terrified chipmunk, I will just smile beatifically like she does and just enjoy the moment. Maybe this weekend, I'll sit down and finish working on that book, that play, that poem - maybe I'll just finish writing something. Maybe, the next time someone approaches me and asks me if I’m her, I should hug them and pose for a picture. Wait, no. Maybe first I should figure out how to not look like a bedraggled mess, make sure my hair isn’t a sorry mess of fro and twists and actually find out where the moving box of make-up is and put some on my dark spot splotched face. Then, when someone approaches me and puts me on their Facebook page for all eternity, I won’t look like I’m cringing with embarrassment to totally not be Robin Roberts. And Robin Roberts would be proud to call herself Robin Roberts. Or rather, not be ashamed that I was mistaken for Robin Roberts. Phew, this being Robin Roberts is hard work already. I might just imagine what she might do - and then do nothing. It’s worked pretty well for me already. And there’s no make-up involved...
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I washed Tigger the Dog on Tuesday. We had a friend coming in on Wednesday and Mom due in on Friday so I tricked her into the bathroom for a bath. Where she went limp like a toddler in a temper tantrum and refused to get into the tub. Fifteen minutes of her and me going at it. I’d lift her; she’d roll and collapse on the floor. I’d tempt her with the treat; she’d stand, realize I was just being an ass and collapse upside down on the floor. It is very hard to get an eighty-pound dog off her back and over two feet of tub wall. But I did and two hours later I had a slightly damp clean dog.
And then, the sky opened up and released a torrent of – well, cats and dogs. The ground turned to a thick chocolate mess of mud and muck. And yesterday morning, when I let TTD out for her morning pee, she decided to jump off the porch steps into the muck and chase a wayward chipmunk at full speed. Because that’s what happens when you clean a dog, it rains and she then chases chipmunks and you no longer have a clean Golden Labrador but a dirty two-toned mix of Chocolate underside and Golden top. And then the vacuumed decided to protest the incoming guests and quit sucking. Or rather, only started sucking ironically. Not sure if that works. I learned my English from Alanis. Anyway, Friend was due in at four o’clock. I set about vacuuming at two o’clock. Enough time to get it all the dog hair that has been molting off TTD and forming little lab sized balls of hair in all the corners. Tiny poofs that move when the air goes on, dance about when I walk by and multiply every time I seem to turn around. I pulled the vacuum out of the cupboard and turned it on – nothing. Not one puppy poof was threatened. All the vacuum did is push them from corner to corner to corner. It’s as if it was trying to form a full dog. Good news, I could pick mini puppy fur up with my hands. Bad news, pretty sure that doesn’t count as clean. Because it happens without fail; you wash the dog – it rains cats and dogs. You’ve got a friend coming into town – the vacuum breaks. You go to the doctor – she asks you to undress and you take off your top and then notice the blinds are open and the folks in the parking lot can she all your jiggly bits. Oh, is that just me? Am I the only one who goes in for a strep test and ends up with my top off flashing the masses below because the doc is sending me for an X-ray for possible pneumonia? Am I the only one who, once realizing that the binds are open, duck down to the floor of the room I’m in and attempt to put the stupid gown on - backwards as requested - and then try to tie it while hunched down on the floor only to find that it’s missing the crucial string needed to tie it shut and keep the world outside from seeing my side boob? Am I the only one that, after the X-ray - that actually included a part where he asked me to hold my hands over my head and the whole freaking gown became a large front bib barely covering my important bits! Am I the only one that makes the awkward walk back through the receptionist pit with my back flap open, trying to keep my unharnessed breastisists from sneaking out for some air, get back into the room and instead of closing the blinds, duck down and change back into my street clothes? Am I the only that didn’t process that closing the blinds would have made this whole thing less X-rated? In my defense, my brain is mostly snot right now and it was raining the aforementioned cats and dogs and who wants a gander at my jiggly bits enough to hang out in the parking lot and ogle them? I don’t know. But if you do see them online later, please be kind. Blinds are not slimming. I arrived home yesterday afternoon to find that the City, in their infinite wisdom, had cut down the swathe of honeysuckle that was hiding the neighbors below us from us and us from them. As we live halfway up a hill, the bushes were a valuable part of making us feel like we were deep in the woods. And a valuable part of making me feel like no one was looking in the window of the bathroom. Not that I think anyone would want to. I mean, the bathroom is not where anyone looks their most glamorous so why I think anyone would be standing at the bottom on the hill looking into my bathroom window, I don’t know.
Husband says I’m crazy and that the angle of the view into the bathroom from the bottom of the hill would be all wrong anyway and all they’d see IF they could see in would be the top half of my head. I have made him stand out side on several occasions to check if he can see me. I have stood outside on several occasions to see if he was lying when he said he couldn’t see anything. And no, he wasn’t lying. You can’t see in during the day but at night - I keep forgetting to ask him to check at night. And I keep forgetting to ask him to check from the road above the neighbors below us. And yes, I know a curtain or blind would solve this whole silly argument but then I wouldn’t be able to look out the window and see Owl hunting or all the pretty birds getting breakfast on the bird feeders or chipmunks and squirrels claiming on the bird feeders and eating to their hearts content. Anyway, yesterday the City cut down the honeysuckle. Husband and I went down for a gander and found, while the City’s actions were somewhat logical - they were cutting the bushes below the electrical wires - they didn’t cut a single tree branch that was actually touching the electrical wires. Not one. And they left the honeysuckle in piles and plies along the path under the wires, almost like a threat to the other bushes. Don't grow here or else. The good news is that we can see what’s at the bottom of the creek that forms in our yard every time it rains. The good news is that we didn't find the bodies of Love Boat neighbors that Husband thinks are dead. The good news is that a monster didn’t’ come out of the cave at the bottom of said creek while we were looking. The really good news is that I, in my sandals, did not get a tick bite or a chigger bite or step on a snake. After surveying the mess, we went inside so I could grab dinner and while we were at the new kitchen sink, we spotted the neighbor below us standing in the pile of cut bushes and looking pissed. Okay, from where we stood, we couldn’t tell if she was pissed but she looked it. Husband went down to chat with her; mostly to reassure her it wasn’t us that did the cutting because, let’s be real, he had suspected it was them at first. They chatted while I made myself a sandwich. I watched as they pointed in this direction and that direction. Her husband came out and I watched him wander over to the cave. I watched the three of them talk and talk and talk. And when husband came inside I asked him how it went. HUSBAND: They were surprised too. ME: What are their names? HUSBAND: I don’t remember. ME: What do they do? HUSBAND: I don’t know. ME: Can they see into the bathroom? HUSBAND: I didn’t ask. Twenty minutes of conversation that he doesn’t remember and not a single useful piece to help me move forward in life. I’m off to shower now. I’m thinking I’ll just go ahead and put on a show for anyone who might be watching. That is if they are still watching after seeing Husband’s daily show where he cleans out his nose while standing in the window. That would be enough to scare anyone off looking… I hope. It was not what I was expecting, driving home from rehearsal, roof open to the 80degree night, throat raw from coughing, brain tired from trying to remember if I was to ask if Agnes knew about the baby or how she knew about the baby or what happened to the baby… you get the idea, brain was fried. I pulled up the stop sign two houses down from mine and suddenly a rush of wings and a blur of feathers swept past my windscreen. Stunned I sat at the stop sign, franticly looking about me. Trying to see if there had been contact or if the feathers had landed on the grass beyond my car. I spotted nothing. Two inches closer and he would have been in the car with me. Shocked I creped the car home, checking overhead for wings, the lights of my car leaping across the trees, no Owls in sight. I parked in the garage and walked up the stairs – finished by husband to absolute perfection. In a hushed coughing whisper, I told him about the almost Owl to car contact. “I was just dive-bombed by an Owl!” “Tigger the Dog also got dive-bombed earlier.” He said nonchalantly. As if this happened every day. As if my episode not five minutes before was the norm at our house.
Today I’ll be planted near the window, watching to see if they are out and about. And tonight, after my rehearsal, the dog and I will spend some time watching the show. I’m only slightly worried that they’ll attack me. It would be my luck if they tried BUT it would be a fantastic story and, unless the seven Owl’s work together, there is no way they can carry me off!
Twelve years ago today, I sat in the corner of a dark British pub pretending to write deep thoughts on a scrap of paper while waiting to meet the guy I’d been chatting with for a few weeks face-to-face. The guy whose online name was ‘All My Own Teeth’. The guy that would become Husband. Everyone else in the pub was paired up. Everyone else in the pub had on variations of the same uniform, jeans and ironic t-shirt. Everyone was having philosophical conversations about the meaning of life or sports. I was in a white dress shirt and jeans, pretending to write poetry but really scrawling, “I hope he’s not a total ass. I hope he’s not a total ass” over and over on my tiny piece of paper. If we were to be meeting now, I’d have been putting status updates on Facebook; funny snarky comments about the bar folk while speculating the depth of horror this date would possibly take. Apparently with pen and paper, I was more honest. Future husband walked in and looked around the pub. My head slightly bowed over the table, I saw him scan the crowd but didn't call him over. I just waited for him to see me and decide if he would stay or go. Online dating is like that. Sometimes the person you’re meeting is a lying liar pants and they leave before contact is made. Sometimes you wait in a bar in San Francisco to have a face to face with someone you’d been chatting with and he spots you through the window and decides not to come on into the bar and tell you he doesn’t like what he sees. Sometimes you meet the guy and he tells you matter-of-factly that he’s “only five foot six on his good days.” and you, at five foot seven and a half can clearly see that this is not a good day and that he’s likely to only have had that good day once in his life, when he wore heels as a joke in college but your mother raised you to be polite so you smile and say nothing. Sometimes you meet a guy who likes science fiction movies and books and games and doesn’t listen when you tell him you like murder mysteries and romance novels and blow ‘em up movies and he asks you out again even though it's totally clear you have NOTHING in common. Sometimes you go out on a date to a movie and your former boss is naked on the massive screen above you doing things you didn’t want to discuss on a first date. And sometimes, you meet a guy who is nice but so dull you actually fall asleep mid conversation - and he doesn’t notice because he’s obviously used to people doing that. I digress. Twelve years ago, my weird year of dating online ended when future Husband spotted me writing pretentiously in the corner and came over and introduced himself. We made awkward small talk for a bit, very aware of the surrounding couples bent on identifying the worlds problems and solving them from their bar stools. Finally, after the allotted fifteen minutes of evaluation time - "Do I like her?" "Do I like him?", we went outside, sat down at the table and he proceeded to tell me the truth. About everything. Future Husband held nothing back then and he still doesn’t. He told me stories about growing up in Scotland. He told me funny stories about driving – though he neglected to tell me about the time he hit a sheep and it went flying over the guardrail. He told me stories about girlfriends – lots of funny stories about girlfriends. He told me stories about not having girlfriends – lots and lots of awkward and embarrassing stories about not having girlfriends. He was funny and charming and awkward and honest and yes, a bit of an ass and I’m pretty sure I fell in love with him when he told me the very embarrassing story about poop that no one would ever tell a first date. He was not at all boring. I had no idea then that eight short months later; we would get married in a drive-thru in Vegas. I had no idea that ten years later, I would still find him funny and charming and honest and a bit of an ass. He still has all his own teeth and he still tells me funny and completely embarrassing stories about poo. And my life with him is not at all boring. Happy Tenth face-to-face, Husband. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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