Ways My Neuroses Could Be Diminished With A Husband: Essay 1

** Side Note, I have been trying to post my 50th essay for the past two weekends and kept having technical difficulties, this is not that article, but maybe one day in the near future I will be able to paste that one as well.

I am a woman of many neuroses as evidenced by the following scenarios:

1. I believe inanimate objects to have feelings such that when I was a child I lost sleep over whether it was a privilege for ice-cubes to be selected to cool my drink or a horrifying death for the poor little icey guys and gals.

2. Ever since I learned of its existence in the ninth grade, I cringe when people misuse the subjunctive tense, even though English classes have not done a great job at getting’ the word out. If I WERE a grammar teacher you can bet people would know about it! (See, since I am not a grammar teacher I have to use were rather than was…that is the main subjunctive rule, consider yourself SCHOOLED).

3. I am constantly inappropriately, unfairly and unnecessarily ranking people and things on my various mediums for list-creation,

and

4. I am known to go for days without showering but still cannot stand the thought of dust on my feet . (Don’t even get me started about long walks on the beach, as I would sooner take up cannibalism as a regular pastime than the foot-rape that occurs on the gravelly shores of Texas.)

So, I could be wrong, but I just have a feeling that having a partner in life might whittle some of these neuroses down to a level that I like to think might be barely recognizable to my eventual DSM-wielding Shrink. Let me be clear about something though, when I say a husband could help,I do not mean through some romantic and spiritual process of sharing a space and a life with another human being--the two of us gently sanding down each other’s rough edges like iron sharpening iron. That, sounds horrible! Sandpaper?! Iron!? C’mon people, I am more of a “Kill ‘em with kindness kind of girl.” But, I digress.

My current neurosis fueled dilemma comes as a result of having just bought a book of funny essays by comedian, Jack Handey (that is his real name by the way). And here is my problem. I find it really unsavory when I go into someone’s bathroom and they seem to have a permanent collection of reading material in there. Call me crazy, but do you really want to advertise to the world that your bathroom habits afford you the kind of time to breeze through East of Eden? Why not just walk around in a T-shirt that you have bedazzled with the words “boweltastic” or “I’d rather be pooping”. I myself, have an unhealthy desire to be preoccupied at all times, but when I am in the bathroom I tend to be pretty goal-oriented, not looking for anything to potentially prolong my stay in the room where people go to do everything with their bodies that they are not allowed to do in front of others.

But this book of essays is the perfect bathroom book. The chapters are just a few pages each and it is light-hearted and mostly meaningless. (You do not want to read serious stuff in the bathroom. What happens if you have the most important epiphany of your life but then you can’t share it with anyone because it would involve them getting a mental image of your underwear hanging down around your feet while you sit on the toilet? Don’t do that to yourself, dude.) Anyway, I am standing there today, gazing into my restroom, hands trembling as I tried to figure out whether or not I cared so little about Jack Handey as an artist that I could take the chance of exposing his work to the invisible but certain cloud of bacteria that is sure to linger in that room, just to give my (apparently) soft-stomached friends a chuckle. But my pride would not let me do it. I cannot have people thinking that I am in the bathroom frequently and enduringly enough to need diversion.

But, if on the other hand, I had a husband, I could just roll my eyes when it came up in conversation like I am always seeing wives do. “Oh, the Jack Handey Book”, I would say condescendingly when it came up in conversation. “I have told Mr. Gosling how unseemly that looks but you gotta let’em win sometimes, am I right ladies?” Then me and all my snotty wife friends would have a laugh at our poor husbands’ expense and go back to playing canasta. I am not sure why I picture myself married in 1958 but I just do sometimes, especially when I am feeling particularly sexist. Plus, I always picture myself using the catch phrase “am I right ladies” a lot more liberally as I will finally have more things in common with my gender about which to commiserate.

But since I am not married, I have some decisions to make about this bathroom turned library debacle, so, Should I:

A. Elope with a Stranger providing he is willing to take the rap for my Jack Handey Book Sitting next to the toilet.

B. Fashion a stand that sits just outside the bathroom door, allowing guests to self-select whether they take the book inside with them.

C. Put the book in the bathroom with a huge-fake- sticky note on the front that says this:
Hey Girl, I got this book and thought of you, but I left it here in the bathroom just to get under your skin. I know both your tastes and your pet peeves so well. Don’t you dare take this book out of the bathroom or I will break up with you. Love, Your Totally Real Boyfriend,
                                                                                                 Leif Luke Tyler McRealenstein


P.S. This is what I look like in case you forgot

Let me know what you think, because I am definitely probably doing whichever one gets the most votes.

Year of Angst

There is something worse than a nightmare you know. It is called a dream-- specifically a dream that can never be realized. A nightmare is terrible of course, but ultimately you wake up relieved. A dream, on the other hand,  is lovely, but you wake up disenchanted, dejected and depressed. Because, as it turns out, your couch is not made of a never-ending supply of avocados, your boyfriend did not change his mind about the break up and that loved one is still gone. In short, dreams remind you that real life can be a real sucksville.
I don't bring this up for nothing. I bring it up mostly to get your sympathy and then later to make a point. You see, a couple of days ago, just before daybreak, I myself, dreamed a little dream. It wasn't a kooky dream where nothing makes sense. In fact, I would say that everything in it was perfectly :

plausible--
legitimate --
possiby even  too legit too quit --
But you be the judge:

1. Ryan Gosling was my boyfriend.
2. He worked as a teacher for hyperactive & blind children.
3. I had rejected his love and left him heartbroken.  
4. When I walked in his classroom to ask for his forgiveness, my presence made him nervous (in a good way) And Finally,
5. I calmed his nerves by going over to kiss him

THEN, just at that very moment,  the sun crested and my stupid (but impeccable) body-clock woke me up seconds BEFORE my Gosling Smoochfest. And I know this is pathetic but the discrepancy between that dream and the world I was waking up to had me slumped over on my couchbed and crafting a poem reminiscent of Jewel circa 1996.

I had been sucker-punched by my own subconscious and it got me thinking about other sorts of dreams...

Some of the waking dreams (as in aspirations) that we have in life are quite ethereal and ever outside of our grasp so we rely mostly on divine intervention (that goes above and beyond just daily graces) to realize these desires. On the other hand, there are some dreams that we can run ahead and take hold of without a tremendous amount of "perfect timing", "connections"  "Hell freezing over" etc.  I like doing that---
running after,
grasping for,
hurtling toward.

I've decided to keep doing those things in this life of profound single-lady freedom. It was one year ago yesterday that I went to a Conan O'Brien show, ran into old friends and found the voice for August Angst. In a very short time, I realized that I loved these little essays more than mostly everything else that I did. I only hated that I could  give it but a fraction of my time and thus ended up wtih work that quantitatively and qualitatively reflect that amount of energy.

So I want more. It has been my experience that all that running, grasping hurtling stuff can be off-putting in the romantic realm as men seem to frighten easily. But everywhere else in life it has served me quite well. So, as most of you Angsters know. This August, I am moving to the country, taking a breath from the over-commitment that is my way and taking hold of some lifetime dreams to include a few major writing projects.

I am not 100% sure what that will ultimately mean for lil Baby Angst here, but for now just keep reading this summer!  Regardless of the future, I do want to thank you for reading and thus being a part of one of the most clarifying years of my life. Now go have a piece of birthday cake in celebration of this momentous occasion. I recommend something with salted caramel.

Con Mucho Amor,
Kerri

Need Help with a Wedding?

You know, the economy is precarious at the moment and it wouldn’t hurt any of us to take a look at our experiences and qualifications should the need to make a creativecareer shift arise. After another smashing vow swap and dance party last evening (thanks Brad and Zoeey, formerly Silverman) I realized my (back-up) calling in life, although how I am coming to this entrepreneurial realization so late in life is beyond me.

I have served proudly in weddings all across the state of Texas and beyond. I have worn countless (10) dresses, but just for the one time. Sorry Brides you are not fooling anyone with that “wear it again” line. And all these years of showers and ceremonies and receptions and reflection has not left this girl without a pretty hefty Wedding Party skill-set. I think I am now ready to take this show on the road—systematize it, sell it for profit and de-intimatize it as is a custom of my generation. Check out my new Vitae and let me know what you think!

August Angst Vitae

Wedding Party Participant Extraordinaire

 

Previous Positions (Some dates and Locations Approximated)

• Jr. Bridesmaid (and sister of the Bride): Temple Texas, September 1996

• Jr. Bridesmaid, Copperas Cove Texas, Summer 1998

• Bridesmaid, Temple Texas, Summer 2001

• Bridesmaid, San Antonio Texas, March 2004

• Hostess with the Mostest(aka: House Party Crew): Houston Texas, Summer 2005

• Maid of Honor, Brownwood Texas, February 2006

• Bridesmaid, Wimberley Texas, Summer 2006

• Bridesmaid, Albanyish NY, Summer 2007

• Maid of Honor, Belton Texas, Fall 2007

• Bridesmaid, Austin Texas, March 2011

What I Do:

• Emotional Pep Talks & Reality Checks-Brides sometimes get the jitters – Do you think my mom’s alright? Should we do cake and then speeches or speeches and then cake? Can you even tell I’ve lost 35 pounds? Can you believe how great I look since I lost 1.5 pounds? How many more pounds do you think I can lose before the wedding?

They need a wordsmith around to reframe and affirm as needed, i.e.

I think your mom is overwhelmed with the love she has for you right now sweetie and isn’t it a gift for all of us to witness such profound affection from a mother to her child. Speeches first, cake second. You are tiny, I can barely see your waist. I am so glad you didn’t overdo it with the dieting---you look like freaking Kate Winslet on Titanic. I guess you could lose a pound a week or so but let’s keep in mind that you are pregnant so maybe we should just showcase the boobs. They can’t all be fairytales, people!

• Awkward Garment and Body Arranging- Brides cannot do a d**n thing for themselves. Not because they are ignorant or slave-driving but because they are in a corset (that you put them in) with wet nails and a fragile up-do. So you can’t be afraid of a little necessary groping or of helping another grown woman go pee. And I am happy to report that each and every one of my ten brides have walked proudly down the aisle absent of any urine stains. And most of them have made their sojourn to the altar comfortable in the knowledge that their severe discomfort (what with the two bras, spanx and 3 layers of itchy petticoat) has made this the most beautiful day of their lives.

• Crazy Relative Mgmt and Damage Control- Brides, for the most part, have a crazy relative or two whose blood connection has granted them access to be near the bride in the intimate and sacred moments of her wedding day. For this reason, they need a regulator. Someone has to tell Aunt Janice that she cannot bring her cat to the reception as her niece has a blotch inducing sensitivity to dander. Someone has to keep the divorcees apart and flirt with grandpa so that his old people tears (sweet though they may be) do not send the bride into ugly-cry right before her groom first lays eyes on her. That person is me, I am not afraid to send someone out of the room, ban pets or to use my feminine wiles for the greater good.

• Reception Dance Promotion-It is hard to get your reception on when nobody is getting krunk. I don’t know what that means, but I do know it is best when people are getting’ jiggy wit it at receptions. And I jig. I will two-step until I am body rolling and body roll my way all throughout the cupid shuffle. I can’t promise 100% attendance on sappy slow dances, but listen the groomsmen have got to be responsible for something. The point is every party needs a designated dancer and I am happy to be that for you. ( As long as we are still talking reception here. I do not do Bachelor parties. And speaking of my what I don’t do…)

What I Don’t Do: I will keep it short and sweet.

• Encourage Stupid Purchases- You will not here me tell a bride that she NEEDS a third dessert for her 2 vegan cousins that might fly in from Vermont. It is your day and they are used to it. Forget about miss manners, think about how starving children in Burundi might view this moral dilemma.

• That Juvenile Lingerie Shower Game: You know the one where whatever the bride says later comes back as a double entendre about the wedding night. So she describes the negligee as cute and little and everyone is expected to keal over in laughter when you think about if the bride had really been saying that about her new husband’s genitalia instead. Yeah, I won’t laugh. This is a non-negotiable. It is a stupid game and I cannot encourage its proliferation.

• Pretty Much any Details: If we were to use a film analogy, bridesmaids are the “character actresses” in a wedding. They are meant to deliver snappy lines, look interesting rather than pretty, bring a little diversity to the pictures and get sassy as needed. It is really more of a performing art, less roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty kind-of-thing. So, if you are looking for someone to recount the programs a milliion times or make sure the chairs line up evenly, I think you are looking for a stage manager (wedding planner) or some child actors (little siblings).  Otherwise I am happy to be at your service.
Areas for Growth-there are a few positions I have not fulfilled in my 14 years of wedding participation, but I am willing to learn and work hard in each of the following roles:

• Flower Girl

• Ring Bearer

• Reader

• Singer

• Officiant

And it seems like there is one more still floatin’ around out there,

Oh yeah!

• Bride

So just if you know anyone expressing a need for any of these positions, send them on over. Thanks to everyone who has helped build my resume along the way!

Kerri

The Happiest, Saddest Day

There is this episode of Friends that Amy Adams and I like to quote when pals of ours get married. In this particular scene Phoebe and Rachel learn of Monica’s engagement and tabulate their percentage of happiness versus their percentage of jealousy beginning at a promising 90% happy to 10% jealous and (through a journey of neurotic self perseveration) ending up at around 60/40. As two relatively long-time single ladies Amy and I can relate. Occasionally you think to yourself how in the world did that mustachioed dictator of a woman get a ring on it before I did?!?! But sometimes you are really not jealous at all (okay maybe like 2% but that hardly even counts just like in milk).


Sometimes, like last night when Amy’s brother got married you are just in soul shaking shock. Amy’s brother (whose celebrity pseudonym should be Conan but I reference the real Conan too frequently for that to work) has been a friend for the last 22 of my 28 years. We have seen each other toiling and searching and laughing and loving. We have made fun of each other and stood up for one another and then made fun of each other some more. We have had water wars, trampoline contests, secrets, surprises, lake-house trips, haircuts, cross-country moves, and divine moments on the big front porch when God sent extra portions of food and conversation with a gracious breeze to hover over us in our communing.

And I thought about all those things and when everything had quieted down at the rehearsal dinner I said to his family: “I think I’ve changed my mind. Maybe we shouldn’t let him get married tomorrow.” And his mom nodded in understanding “We just don’t like change. It has been this way for a long time.” And it is true. That is the problem with some of these weddings-- It isn’t so much that you want what they have so much as you want them—unchanged untampered with for worse or even for better. You want them to be in your personal collection of people or at the very least be available for checkout in some sort of shared human library—and here they have gone and been claimed permanently by someone else. And it doesn’t even really matter that the person doing the claiming is kind and good humored and willing to share the appropriate parts of your old pal with you (such as the case with this particular marriage). It is just the idea that the way it has always been is gone from one joyous moment at the altar to the next making this the happiest, saddest day.

And I have a lot of experience with things getting even better than you imagined in new chapters of life, so I have faith that the same will be true as my earliest and closest family of friends marry off without me. I suppose I will have to find a few more solitary single-lady adventures to keep up with all the rampant 100% happiness in the air. And I believe those adventures might be just around the corner.

Wishing you all more august and less angst as you navigate the joy and pain of change,

Kerri

Worst Wife Ever

I have been avoiding posts on showers (bridal not actual) for some time now due to the elevated numbers of friends who currently find themselves in nuptial preparation and realization (let me pause here to say that I feel I should be commended for selecting the word "realization" rather than cleverly using the word "execution" and thus subtextually aligning the action of sharing vows with something aggressive, depressing and undesirable. I will thus hold for your applause in absentia.)

I didn't want to say whiney and offensive things about these little celebrations whilst participating in them each weekend, but yesterday during my first (yes , first) shower of the day the bloggods sent such perfect manna style provision for this post, I feel it would be on some level unholy to continue my shower silence. And so I speak out.

Now, in defense of showers I will say that  the food is delicious (afterdinner mints, sausage balls and some kind of sherbet punch will never leave me dissatisfied)

Plus, any occasion to wear a cute dress cannot be all bad

Plus, I am in the 5-10% of the population who thoroughly enjoys most shower games. Give me a little Bride-Groom Trivia, some version of steal the clothespin, and a round of name that tune (love-song edition) and I am thrilled. Believe it or not, I have a competive edge.

Which is why, when Silverman's sweet aunt indicated that I would need a purse if I had any intention of winning the next game I declared loudly that I most certainly had every intention of dominating the next game and bolted out of the house to my car stopping only to grab a handful of refiller mints and a mini-quiche.

Out at my car I convinced myself that it would not be cheating to add a few more things to my purse since technically I treat my car less like a vehicle and  more like an oversized purse than most individuals.  I proceded to throw in an extra novel, a pen, a half consumed soda and a screwdriver because I seemed to remember this game probably had to do with who could provide the zaniest or largest amount of items from their own bag. Those other suckers inside were toast!  They probably don't even have one melted chocolate bar in the bottom of their clutch, I thought, proud that my disheveled artsy way of toting would prove to be an asset in this instance.

Into the house I swaggered just in time to hear the game facilitator announce that we would be rummaging through our purses for the most wifely items. Every item was something "every good wife should have" and would be worth 5 points. Perhaps my confidence took a slight hit at the understanding that I, not being a wife, could be at a slight disadvantage, but my deep wells of unmerited self assurance led me to believe that I would still prevail as the game's ultimate victor.

This ladies and gentleman is the list as it was called out and my subsequent defensive responses:

Item #1 a lipstick ("because every good wife should be prepared to look good for her man").  Ok that seems fair enough and I do have a lipstick in my car (I am not a complete barbarian) its just too bad I did not grab it for this game.
Item # 2 a shopping list (self explanatory) also something I might possibly have but just don't at the moment.
Item # 3 Reading Glasses ("to read your grocery list") Now I am starting to get a little incredulous, am I being penalized for being neither old nor visually disabled, because I don't believe in reverse descrimination but if I did I think I would be filing a bridal-shower lawsuit.
Item # 4 Tums ("because your husband always needs them") Ok, this is probably the reason why I will not get married. I am not even 100% sure what Tums do, but it sounds like it has something to do with something gross gone wrong in your body and I am never going to want to carry around somebody elses gross body problem medicine.
Item #5 Coupons ("because good wives are always looking for a deal") I too am always looking for a deal but I am not doing it in 1982. Who (other than my mother) clips and carries coupons around with them in the technological age?
Item # 6 a picture of your husband, boyfriend or parents.("because you need a reminder of your love" or somthing like that). Ok now I am raging a bit because as is clear from my ineptitude on numbers 1-5, I have neither a husband or boyfriend and If I were carrying around framed pictures of my parents I think that would explain why. Again penalized for finally beating the separation anxiety that crippled me for so many years? This is just getting cruel folks.

and finally,

Item # 7 A credit card ("because every good wife should have credit") YESSSSS I not only have a credit card, I have 2, Booyah I think to myself. And then ("however every good wife should also be prudent, so if  you have more than 1 credit card give yourself negative 2 points")

So, despite every effort on my part I ended the game husbandless, dignityless and in point debt. Here is the proof ...

This is my list along with single-lady Christina. The winner had 40 points.

Should we go ahead and join a convent now or maybe just start clipping some Tums Coupons? These are the sorts of questions that I take home with me at the end of each shower experience.

 What about you ladies and gents, how do you size up on this good-wife game? How many of the items do you have in your current purse, murse or genderless tote?

Dia de los Enamorados

The Christian-memoir superstud Donald Miller (crush-o-mine), says that for him, the idea of having a father around-- all present and loving is quite like the idea of owning a dragon. It is a fascinating daydream arousing the curiosity and doubtless fulfilling a few other intellectual needs. But ultimately it is a “what if” and these particular sorts of what’ifs tend to be dead-ends, if we are all honest about it. And that is exactly what the ideas of love and marriage have become like for me. Occasionally someone who hasn’t known me long enough to have ever experienced me in a fugue of love or heartbreak will innocently ask if I have any desire for matrimony and all of its subsequent implications, and I think, “why, yes, that would be nice—as would the ability to becomes invisible or experience telepathy, so if you know anyone…”

I suppose that’s why I was so surprised in a conversation with Paltrow a few weeks back. We were having our weekly Bachelor debrief and then she told me about this poignant wedding she had attended over the holiday. “I just kept thinking about you” she said, and I assumed she meant there was someone there with unruly hair, or who showed up in flip-flops or some other nonsense like that. But she continued, “ I thought of you because I just know that is what your wedding will be like.”

And, I cried.

Immediately.

Shocking even myself.

Poor, delusional Gwyneth, I thought. Can’t she see that I am nearly thirty, dripping with neurosis and plagued by 3 of the world’s most speedily recurrent chin hairs? There is no santa, or toothfairy or husband for me. But the fact that she thinks there could be is overwhelmingly heartwarming. It is the kind of true love which sees the best of me and for me. And I have a lot of that these days.

And that is why I still love Valentine’s Day.

Earlier this week when I realized the Day of the Enamored was right round the corner I did a little (mental) jump of glee, because what it has really come to mean for me is a giggly girlfriend’s holiday where you believe the best for one another and treat each other better than any of your stupid boyfriends ever did. Instead of skulking in to that cleverly released rom-com like some single sinner on a field-trip to catch a glimpse of couplesville, you bound in wearing your best girl-power t-shirts and mocking the finesse-less inevitability of whatever kooky, happy-ending version of Romeo and Juliet is being pushed on this particular evening.

And,

You imagine. For yourself and for all your single ladies, and all your married and trying to conceive ladies, and for all your pre-maturely widowed ladies. You imagine the best and most cliché and satisfying love affairs for the whole lot of you. And I’m not trying to bash reality, ‘cause I have had some real genuine moments of transcendental love in my life, and on most days, I wouldn’t trade them. But, the problem with real people and relationships is that you tend to lose control of the script you’ve written and that can be just as annoying as being single.

So, this Monday (and each day really) I encourage you to be thankful for what is still fictional and for what is real. Be lavish in your affections for everyone in whom you are delighted, regardless of gender or romantic-status. Tell someone expressly, explicitly what they mean to you and what you believe for them. And for God’s sake eat some chocolate covered strawberries. This holiday deserves to be celebrated if but for no other reason than the weeklong ubiquity of those juicy little wedding cake toppers.

At least I know there will be loads of them atop the cake at my wedding one day, right Paltrow?

Happy V- Day everyone, feel free to begin your unabashed affection giving right here in the comments section.

Kerri K.

R.I.P. My Dreams!

It probably goes without saying that I am in love with almost every semi-youthful, semi-not-disgusting male comedian on the planet, right? Obviously my first and true love is Conan. But guess what? He is married.

Jimmy Fallon? Married.

Stephen Colbert? Married.

Jon Stewart? Married.

Jesse Carey, (who is actually a writer for Relevant Magazine but funny enough to be a comedian)? Married!

And, fortunately or unfortunately depending on your worldview, I am not in the habit of going after married men, even in my imaginings.

But, there has always been one lovely hunk of funny who I could really depend on for my “I am going to become famous one day and then I will totally be in his league” fantasies. That man is Mr. Seth Meyer, head writer for television’s longest running and most well respected sketch comedy show, Saturday Night live. He is the anchor for Weekend Update and to date the funniest guest on late night television shows, in my less than humble opinion.

I also understand, from my faithful attending to each and every interview he has ever given, that his is a family of sports watchers, particularly football, which is a nice bonus to his already ample offerings of looks and comedy. And, because it is completely reasonable ,I always project onto all my celebricrushes a latent Christianity just ready to burst forth once they settle in with a nice down-to-earth, refreshingly “Jesus-ey” kind of girl such as myself. So that settles that issue, and all is well in dreamville.

Until...

I am youtube stalking him last night as a part of my things I am thankful for online musings, when what should my ears hear from his sweet wit-soaked lips, but the dreaded words of fake-crush death—

My girlfriend and I…..

What?!?! Seth Myers has a girlfriend? Well Seth, why hasn’t she come up in your dozens of late night interviews? Don’t you think that is a little misleading?

He continues,

Remember when I was here last year and I told you about her dad’s goat?

Last Year!?!? How did I miss this? Sure, last year was rough at this time what with Conan getting abused right in front of the whole country and all, but was I really so neglectful that I have now been imaginary cheat-dating at the expense of some poor stupid supermodel (one presumes) that is in love with Seth Myers? What’s a girl to do? Some have implied that I might have more luck in my actual dating life if I spent less energy on things of this nature, but that’s just silly. So who do you think, I should move onto next? Anybody know of any single, cute, comedians I should be obsessed with? Tell me your suggestions in the comment section!

And, be sure to check out some of the changes to my blog!

 I hope you like the new background for a new season. Also, you will notice that my posts are now organized for your reading pleasure according to the three areas of my tagline: Silliness, Singleness and Spirituality. I have also created my first of many semi-permanent blog pages entitled Single Cinema. And finally take a look at some of my favorite blogs which I finally figured out how to publicize (all of these changes are on the right hand of your screen).

What about you? Know anyone who might like August Angst? Anyone silly, single, or spiritual? Pass the word along! More readers means more feedback. More feedback means better writing. Better writing means better posts! I am Thankful for you, hope your holiday was sublime!

Kerri

Right to Write???

Have I mentioned that I hate internet communication? Because, I do. I think it has the potential for such veiled evil. I’m not even talking about dangerous child predator or stolen identity stuff.
No,
I am talking about a level of unprecedented self-involvement that has come to characterize this generation.
I am talking about forfeiting intimacy with a few in exchange for fandom from the many.
I am talking about misconceptions, misdirections, etc, etc, etc.

Why then, did I start a blog?

It is a fair question, especially from those with whom I have ferociously debated the concept. In a nutshell, I created August Angst because Kelly told me to. As a good friend she told me that I wasn’t a writer if I wasn’t writing and a blog might just give me the accountability that I needed.

I looked down my nose at the idea for a few weeks and then had a come to Jesus with myself.
 “Here is the thing,
I have to write to be a writer.
I don’t write when no one is looking.
I have no time for any submitting work.
Somethings gonna have to give.”

So, I decided to start a blog.

It would be my craft practice. Not a diary. Not therapy. Not something that would take the place of mature and direct communication with those with whom I am in relationship. And until yesterday I felt pretty good about having reached those goals.

But here is the only problem. I don’t know that I have the capacity to write something that isn’t in some way therapeutic. As much as I love to peruse the thesaurus and diagram sentences, at the end of the day writing is always therapy. And that is probably why a few weeks ago when I was feeling fragile, I decided to write about dates from last year.

I did not jump into that writing lightly. I thought about each person who had been gracious enough to pay for my meals, movies and museums and I considered whether they might ever be privy to this little NON-DIARY. It didn’t seem like they would (though I certainly knew there was a chance) so I proceeded with my snarky commentary—knowing that it revealed more about me than each of them.

Yesterday I found out that those little snarky comments had been discovered by at least one of my blog-characters.

And I mean, in all fairness to myself, I have yet to reveal anything horribly tragic about anybody. And I haven’t broken trust with anyone with whom I remain in relationship. But, I still feel like someone should stick my nose in a corner and make me think about what I have done.

It isn’t that I think my words have crippled anyone, in fact I have been assured this is not the case. But I can’t seem to shake that golden rule flippin’ around in my head, so I have to wonder what might happen for me if I came upon this post :

“Tips # 7-15 as learned from the overly dramatic blog-writer”.

7. Don’t be a weirdo 8. Brush your hair 9. Shut up for a half-second 10. What is with all the obnoxious laughing ? 11. Stop interrogating 12. Ever heard of a tweezer? 13. Get some speech therapy for that disgusting smack of yours 14. Try not being the loudest person in the restaurant 15. Don’t be a DB and journal about this date online, like some kind of reject seventh grader

It wouldn’t ruin my life.
I’d probably laugh at a clever line or two.
I might even show a friend in a rare moment of unfrazzled maturity
But,
On my worst and most insecure day, I suspect I would remember one of these clever retorts and cry into my pillow.

So, what ‘s a Golden Rule Honoring, Storytelling girl to do?

I think I’ll start by watching The Social Network this coming weekend . Looks dark, disturbing and philosophically similar to myself when it comes to some of these world-wide venues for communication.

Hoping to be back next week,
until then going to let the angel and devil on each of my shoulders duke it out for the win.

Sleep Tight?

People, something has gone awry. I don’t mean to belabor the point, but I think it might have to do with this last birthday. Back in July, as far as one could tell, I was a healthy, vibrant, woman with her whole life ahead of her. Now, just 2 months later, I seem to be in a state of rapid decline.

Two weeks ago, as many of you are well aware, I retched for the first time in 16 years and then spent the evening getting out of bed every 2 hours to lie toilet-side “just in case”. This week I awoke (from an otherwise precious slumber) writhing and screaming out in pain due to a rare and terrifying charley horse. The last, and only other time, that I have experienced a charley horse I was twirling my megaphone and hanging with friends in the choir hallway at BHS circa 1998.

So, in light of this odd return of old afflictions, I felt it best to get myself logged on to the Wikipedia for a little information and reassurance that I was not exhibiting the signs of any horrific and incurable disease. In hind sight, this was not my best decision.

Here is what I found out:

Vomit: may result from many causes, ranging from gastritis or poisoning to brain tumors or elevated intracranial pressure

Charley Horse: Common among pregnant women and the elderly.

So, at first glance, I am either poisoned, tumored, pregnant or speedily headed down dementia drive; however you look at it, the forecast does not seem great. Then to add insult to injury, I am watching the Colbert Report yesterday and I hear that Abercombie and Fitch has had to close down due to one of the many bed-bug infestations currently ransacking our nation. Please don’t misunderstand, because I will, of course, not be in the least affected by any amount of change in the A & F chain. But, I am pretty sure, and by that I mean 100% certain, that if the professionals at a store of that caliber cannot adequately extinguish these little blood-sucking creepers then they are definitely what one might call “all up in” my little couch-bed.

And if nausea, calf-seizing, and night-time crawlers are allowed to persist, one must wonder if there are any good nights of rest in my future. But there is one ray of hope for a restful night to come-- I could go out on another date with the guy whose name and occupation I can never remember, because if memory serves, I almost fell asleep during the one 15 minute conversation that we forced our way through before watching the movie that we had previously agreed upon.  That would supply me a wink or two guaranteed.

So, as a parting gift to all you sleepy-heads out there, I will leave you with Tips # 3, 4, and 5 as learned on my date with (insert snore sound here).

3. Do not choose to go to a movie on a first date…there is no time to get to know this stranger with whom you have agreed to spend an evening.

4. A the end of your time together—love connection or not-- Do not send your date, with little more than a “peace out”, into a dark alley to find her parked car, alone. If you cannot be bothered to walk her to her vehicle, at least get in the habit of providing rape whistles as a parting gift. It is just a polite gesture.

5. And most importantly, do not use the precious conversation time that you do have discussing, much less arguing, the history of traffic on interstate  35. In fact, just to be safe, let’s just say the history of any major highway thoroughfare, should be avoided at this stage in the relationship. Save your civic deliberations for an occasion when you can really give it the time that it deserves. For pre-movie banter, try sticking with info about family, hobbies and jobs. That should be a treat for anyone hoping to get to know you better.

And as a simple bedtime treat for all you faithful readers, I leave you with this little cup of warm milk.


Until next time,

Good Night, Sleep Tight…

Slamming Doors and Ralphing

Tonight, I had a new experience. For the first time in my life I had to have friends drive me home after puking in the single-stall bathroom of a local bar. The story would probably be sexier for some of you if it involved even the least inkling of tawdry behavior but true to form I was actually there with a church group after a fairly mature day of cleaning, conversing and celebrating labor day with my neighmly (neighbor-family). I suppose the immature decision of the day was convincing myself that 5 mini-brownies pretty much equal the size of two normal brownies and let the record show, I have, on many occasions, eaten 2 brownies without any noticeable recourse from my body. But, I hear the only constant is change. So maybe I am just turning into the type of girl who can’t handle her chocolate.

OR maybe I am just turning into the type of girl who saves her blog writing until the very end of the weekend only to find that the end of the weekend always get highjacked by something else—on this particular occasion, it just happens to be vomit. So I promised some more tips in this next post and I want to be a woman of my word, unfortunately, for now the tips are going to have to be quick and dirty. Here goes:

Tip 2 as learned from my date with the musician.

Do NOT slam a door in your date’s face. I know it seems self-evident but if you are rusty enough I suppose it isn’t. My 1st date with the musician was great. No complaints. But on date 2 he started talking a lot of music jargon and became so enraptured with the musical set on the outdoor stage that he hardly noticed me follow him inside to throw my trash away. I was inches away from a broken nose and he was moments away from being placed in the “friend zone”. It all kind of makes me nauseous just thinking about it. No wait, that seems to be the brownies again.

My apologies for having written such a disgusting post, but you gotta write what you know--Ya know? Here's hoping this a one time occurence!

August Angst

August is here.

That means we are but a few days away from THE day. God in his sovereignty knew that I was incapable of sharing the spotlight with any amount of grace or decorum and thus allowed for my arrival into this world to take place during the only month in which no formal holidays are celebrated—at least in the Americas—well, at least in the United States of America where I have spent most of my birthdays.
And of course some skeptic who is reading will feel compelled to run through each and every month to confirm that what I am saying is accurate and I just have 2 things to say to you:

1. Seek some counseling you have trust issues
2. Yes I am including no-day off from school type holidays like St. Pattys day. (I don’t want people thinking about Ireland when they could be spending those energies penning out their words of affirmation toward me.)

But, if you haven’t heard, August –even for someone as birthday-centric as myself- can be angsty. It means another year has rolled by and my left ring finger and womb both remain suspiciously empty. This realization often provokes a full day of intermittent sitcom watching and shower crying while Kasey Chamber's Not Pretty Enough plays in the background on repeat. But today as I felt the birthday blues attempt to buzz-kill me, I decided, for your benefit as much as mine, to swim through the self-loathing and into something more hilarious.

So, last year having arbitrarily deemed it “the year of the man”, I decided to celebrate my uninterrupted birthday month by calling upon friends and family to set me up with various pre-approved gentlemen in what I saw as a very mature effort toward angst-prevention. It was a hilarious and mildly successful experiment because when push comes to shove, I consider 4 free dinners and a movie or 2 a mild success. I am an optimist thank you very much!

I went on 4 dates with three gentlemen and came out on the other side with zero love connections but lots of advice. And I figured, if by any chance these musings somehow come to sit in front of some struggling single gentleman looking for a few wooing tips, then I could be of service. And therefore the next couple of posts are your August birthday gifts from me !

Dating Tips for Gentlemen as collected in Year of the Man Experiment ’09.

Tip number one comes from date number one. Date number one was with:

The Architect

The architect was a cutie. Skinny, Bieber-y hair, a hint of a southern drawl, no problems there. He also loved art and planned one of the better dates of my life including perusing a folk art fair, sharing a delicious lunch and the all-time-best art exhibit I have ever experienced. Still smooth sailing, right? Here was the problem with the architect and I can tell you right now, you aren’t going to like it. You are going to say I am too picky and deserve to live a miserable solitary existence in which the burden of planning my own birthday celebrations will always remain on me. I don’t care. I feel strongly about this issue. I can’t help myself.

The problem with the architect was that he was punny. Not in the ironic, isn’t this so stupid that we as vivacious twenty-somethings are using such a childish and simultaneously geriatric form of communication, kind of way. But rather in the, “yeah back in college all of us guys used to call it ArchiTORTURE” and now he is in a fit of laughter at his own simple wordplay, kind of way. It wasn’t good guys. It was not good.

So, my tip for all you would-be-casanovas out there is this: If puns are a big part of who you are don’t set them aside to get the girl only to unleash your dirty little secret during the first year of marriage—that would be unkind and plus there is a segment of the female population out there who love a good pastor-style sense of humor—you guys are meant for one another. But if, on the other hand, you have no real legacy or commitment to punning but use it as an ice-breaker on dates from time to time--

Here is tip # 1. Do not use puns as an ice-breaker on first dates. Puns are goofy things shared with family members who already know your full-range of comedic potential, but your date has no such access to your humor resume. When I hear you use a phrase like “architorture” without then making fun of your own lameness I am left to assume that this as good as it is going to get with you, and I don’t think either of us wants that.Would I have gone on a second date with the architect had he been so inclined? Probably so, but with ample reservation.

Then again, as it stands he is probably writing a blog right now to ladies explaining why licking your plate clean on a first date might send an ill-advised message, so in the end it looks like we are even stevens, but this isn’t about punny Jo it is about me managing my own august angst and it is about you. And if you will take this little piece of advice I think you will find it keeps you from a little something I like to call a DATEsaster. (You see what I did there?)

Coming up on August Angst:
Tip 2 as learned on my dates with the Musician.
Tip 3 as learned on my date with the Oh My God I can’t remember what he did for a living because he was that boring!!!
Tip 4 as learned on the date I never got with the Holy Roller.

Love is in the Air

sin
Can we all just agree that airplanes should be segregated? Not in the everybody move to duh back of duh bus, kind of way, but more in the happily married to the right and searching singles to the left-- please do not forget your complimentary glass-o-wine -- kind of way. I mean would it really be so hard, to add a simple checkbox to the ticket purchasing paperwork? I am looking at you American Airlines. Check out the sample below:

Yes, I would like to participate in a wholesome mid-air mixer with my fellow travelers of the world. It only makes sense and life is short so why not?

Yes, I would like to participate in a mid-air mixer but my wife has frowned upon the idea.

No, I do not prefer to meet anyone interesting during this particular flight even though I am caged up with these people anyway and in the case of lightning strike they will become my companions in death, but no thanks I’ll just sit here reading my comic book and leaning my seat all the way back as I am sure no one around me will desire any leg space whatsoever over the course of the next 3 hours until we land and I finally get home to my hermit crabs and PSP.

See, isn’t that simple? And its possible you could even cut an unnecessary word or phrase here and there if needed. All I am saying is, it is starting to feel outright wasteful l when I get to the airport, scout out three or four handsome twenty-somethings and then inevitably get seated next to two homely women reading romance novels, within devastating view of the dark-haired guy reading Blue Like Jazz. What gives?

I mean the other day I saw an add for speed-dating, but who really has the energy or moxy to sign up for something as new and risky as that? On the other hand, for a lover of efficiency (which I am not, but take a long meandering walk with me on this subject anyway) airplane dating is just a sensible and concurrent solution to two enduring problems: in-flight boredom/anxiety and a regrettable amount of experience playing solitaire.

What can we do to realize this dream? In the hands of the right marketer I think it could boost and dare-I-say revolutionize the airline industry. So write your representatives, senators and friends in the biz until we see this change because , until that time all we really have on our side are prayers of providence. That said, I happen to be boarding a plane around 9:45 tomorrow morning. Intercession Welcome!

Romance Religion Revealed (and other notable reunion moments)

1. Passing up the opportunity to go to an after-hours swim party in Moffat, TX population 150. Sorry guys, as totally unawkward as that sounds, I think I’m just gonna stick with the Cupid Shuffle and head on home.

2. Watching an old kindergarten buddy:
Storm the empty dance floor ,
steal the mic from the D.J.,
proclaim that the next song would blow our minds,
unleash the krunk-maker we all know as “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black-Eyed Peas. And then,
dance solo for one of the longer 3 minutes of all of our lives.

3. Spending time with BFFs Liv and Amy maniacally scheming pranks to be performed by Liv’s Husband. Should he attend the reunion as a French man? A swinger? An intriguing combination of the two? Endless possibilities.

4. Listening to a former Spanish class dreamboat ask if I am married and seem noticeably astonished that my answer was no, not in the “What’s wrong with you” kind of way in the tradition of small town church ladies, but more in the “what is wrong with everyone else on the planet” kind of way” . Thank you kind sir for this most appropriate response!

5. Running into Freddie Prinze Jr.’s old friend in the stairwell on the way out of the building and pretending to casually inquire about FPJ’s whereabouts.

Me: Oh hey there, you might know. You know who I was just remembering was that guy Freddie, are you still in contact with him?
FPJs Soccer Buddy: Yeah man, I wish he was here but I heard he was in Asia again.
Me: Oh he is in south east asia, huh? What for?
FPJs Soccer Friend: Missionary Work
Me: Missions work, huh? Neat. So, but seriously no current contact with him?
FPJ’s Soccer Friend: Yeah, no he’s just still a single man out there on his own so he’s kind of not tied down anywhere, like the rest of us I guess.
Me: and you're dead to me Soccer Friend. See you in 10 years.

So, there you have it. I remain in romantic agnosticism. But at least my friend Gwyneth facebook stalked him on my behalf and reports that he is now hideous, (I believe her exact words were, “ his hair is a little flat these days, so he is not quite as hot as we used to think.”)

Any of you ladies and gents have any interesting H.S. reunion fodder?

Reunion Romance

When I was 17 and only months away from graduating high school, I took a Physics Class. This was a mistake for any academic purposes as I routinely made A’s on the content portion of exams and then promptly failed the adjoined (and much weightier) practical application portions. My classmates were literally sleeping on their drool-stained desks each day as I hurriedly asked question after clarifying question, but unlike me, they effortlessly aced each week’s test. It might as well have been an exam over their own likes and dislikes, so disparate was their preparation compared with their success. And as you might imagine, for a person who genuinely argued that perfectionism was “of the Lord” Physics, as a subject, was not fun for me.

On the other hand, the class did have its social perks. One of my closest cheerleading buddies sat next to me so we eagerly engaged in prom talk, who was breaking up with whom, and which untrained newbies would dare tryout to take our spots. (It seems only fair to mention that some have said that there still has never been a suitable replacement). Then, on the other side of me sat Leo D. , one of the most popular guys in our class and since he happened to be star-gazingly in love with my cheerleader friend he included me in most of his discussions, jokes and, if memory serves, I believe there was a one-time only invitation to a hot-tub party in his backyard. Come to think of it, Freddie Prinze Jr. , might have been at highly inappropriate hot-tub party of 2000 as well.

Freddie Prinze Jr. , sat behind me in Physics. Every day when I entered the classroom prepared for a nervous breakdown he sang me all the way to my desk: “Hey Kerri, your so fine, your so fine you blow my mind, Hey Kerri (clap-clap, clap-clap) Hey Kerri. And every day I giggled and gushed, but somehow the idea that Freddie Prinze Jr. might have been interested in me for more than a physics-neighbor relationship, eluded me. It would have taken a miracle from God for me to be unattracted to this boy. He had 4 out of 5 of the elements catalogued in my FABULOUS FIVE Boy Features List. And since it wouldn’t be nice not to share…

1. The boy shall be skinny, thin will not do, I need to see some ribs sticking out of that undersized ironic tee that your wearing.
2. The boy shall wear glasses. Smart = Hot and I know there is no evidence connecting poor vision with intelligence, but it just seems intuitive, doesn’t it?
3. The boy shall have good mandibles. I don’t know if that is the correct way to say it, it is just what I have always said. This basically means a strong jaw-line which is emphasized in moments of anger or intensity.
4. The boy shall have funky hair. (It can be shaggy, spikey or dreaded…it just needs to be something that shows a propensity for moving away from the status quo.
5. They boy shall have good facial hair. (Freddie did not have this one at the time, but neither did anyone else because it violated school policy)

So, why are we (somewhat creepily) talking about a boy from the past, not to mention pool parties and cheerleading drama? Well, mostly because I am 2 days away from my high school reunion and a brief facebook stalking endeavor a few years back indicated that Freddie Prinze Jr. was still on the market. You see I became obsessed with FPJ after breaking up with an ex-boyfriend because I realized that he was exactly like F.P.J. except F.P.J. was clearly madly in love with me and probably had to endure years of counseling for my unintentional rejection. F.P.J. became the bread and the wine of my romantic communion. He was the one to metaphorically turn to when things seemed hopeless in the love department. He became ritualized in my mind and as oft as I thought of him I remembered how he had sacrificially poured out his awkward teenage love while I was still shamefully unawares. So this weekend could be the moment I see his face again, people! This is huge! What will happen?!What will I become?!

Weigh in on the options below:
A. Romance Atheist: He will have become bald fat and grumpy and will confess that he sang to me to get the attention of my cheerleader friend because he knew she was attracted to tenors. This causes me to lose the faith and begin my life as a cat collector despite my well-documented disdain for these, the snobbiest of animals.
B. Romance Agnostic: He will not show up, allowing me to remain in the sea of mystery. Sometimes sure of love, but often pretty sure that I am too smart for all of this silly jibba jabba.
C. Romance Believer: He will have arrived early at the pre- reunion dinner and is waiting for me at the door. “You can go in there and have a taquito”, he says “Or you can come with me and we can finally begin something that should have started 10 years ago.” I pause to consider both delicious choices, wonder if it is uncouth to suggest a few taquitos to go, then err on the side of safety and join him taquitoless in the van that he usually uses to serve meals to the homeless. He has a picnic inside, confesses that each day of the last 10 years he has been planning for this moment and asks me to join him at the reunion as his fiancé.
D. WRITE YOUR OWN THEORY and POST AS A COMMENT!
I will be back on Sunday with the Results!

K.K. and CoCo Part II: Love Never Fails

Edward, Catherine Zeta Jones, and I shared quick hugs and hellos before quickly finding our stair separated seats. I sat there in the balcony for about 20 minutes before realizing just how pathetic this situation might seem to the former man of my dreams. Here it is 7 years since we dated and I am still presumably dateless, AND, beyond datelessness, I have evidently alienated any and all girl friends who might otherwise have agreed to share an evening of laughter with me.

This was not helping my perpetual quest to portray myself as a non-crazy, but these are the moments in life when one must practice thankfulness. So, with my hard-earned maturity, I created this:

Things to be Thankful for in this Precise Moment
1. Cool jewelry, borrowed at the last minute to keep me from looking completely homely --Check.
2. A good book in my purse to stave off any pre-show boredom—Check.
3. Five empty seats to my right (potentially awaiting my bevy of hilarious gentlemen callers). Check, Check, Check, Check, Check.


It pains me that I am unable to sufficiently capture the scope of ridiculous prayers and unfair judgments that raced through my brain once the hope of handsome chair neighbors invaded my brain, but here Is a beginners taste of what went down:

Actual Life Event: Poor innocent couple walks ominously close to my five seats
Thought Life Response: “No Jesus, not a couple, a man, M-A-Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
Actual Life Event: A balding man and his 3-beer- toting compadre head my way.
Thought life Response: “ Ok, yes Jesus those are men but can we hold off for someone who is not so certain that he is going to need that much alcohol just to start the show?”
Writing World Confession & Response: And, don’t even get me started on all the short skirted, emo-wearing, and overweight women who dared to come near, because of which, I was eventually forced to protect MY SEATS with Twilight style vampire hisses unleashed at any and all of the aforementioned.
Are you there God, It’s me KerrAZY.

Luckily, my reading material kept me from blatantly staring people down for the full wait time. So, there I sat, nervously flipping through my copy of Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters like the Conan-loving-fantasy-freak that I am. Perhaps at this point it might be helpful to review the evening thus far.

I showed up:
• on time (hoping to be in bed by 9:30)
• alone
• in borrowed accessories,
• 4th grade level fantasy novel in hand,
• grumpily jeering at any women or ring wearing men, AND
• earnestly anticipating a love connection.

Somehow, things did not go as planned and those 5 beautiful spaces to my right were unsatisfactorily filled. The girl who sat next to me was skinny and blond and lucky that she arrived late enough in the evening for my hair-pulling and eye gouging reflexes to be in something of a hiatus. I was sort of starting to doubt the wisdom of paying quadruple the ticket price to get into a sold out show-- even for my little Snow Cone.

But, when that Late Night Band started playing and my giant toothpick of a man started talking and singing and showing clip upon clip of Walker Texas Ranger, all my neurotic worries drifted away. I was in the “Cone-Zone” where puppet dogs are inexplicably humorous and self-deprecation is less a pathos-inspiring habit and more a money-making endeavor. As we wrapped up the evening Conan explained that this trip to Austin was his first. Yes, Conan O’Brien chose to spend his only day in Austin with me, the Kerr-bear, an experience that left him “awed and thankful”. Not the first time I have gotten this feedback after a first date, but it’s always nice to hear. And now friends, I suspect we have all simultaneously arrived at the next logical question. How long before he introduces me to his parents?

K.K. & CoCo "Episode 1"

Last Night I went to see Conan O’Brien at Austin Music Hall. It should furthermore be understood that I am deeply and increasingly in love with Conan O’Brien. Admittedly, I say the same things about Tony Romo and Ryan Gosling, but with Conan its different. I actually believe in my heart that, if he didn’t have a wife and children, and if I could only corner all 6 foot 7 of him in an elevator somewhere, that we could start a life together and never look back on the days before we had each other. Perhaps these and similar imaginings contributed in some mysterious way to me attending this show unaccompanied. We can never know for certain.

As I tried to find my place in the longest line of people I have ever seen in my life, I kept an eye out for any single, glasses -wearing men demonstrating subtle but intentional ties to the Christian faith (a Jesus-Fish ring or a tattooed Bible reference perhaps). You see, I might have gently suggested to God that meeting my husband at a Conan O’Brien Show could really make up for years of confusing singledom. Not that I was in any way scoffing at his sovereign plan for my life or anything -- just trying to be useful really--help the big guy see things from a fresh angle ‘cause it sort of seems like he’s been a bit stuck in a rut when it comes to my dating experiences lately (sigh).

As fate would have it, there was a cute guy right behind me in line but I could not completely convince myself that the lovely girl he was with was his cousin, especially after he put his hand in her back pocket. However, behind the cousin couple was another cute guy. But, as it turns out it is sort of awkward to start a conversation with a complete stranger who is 3 people down from you in a line of other complete strangers. So, I could only assume that my divine “hottie” provision would come along inside.

Just before I entered the building,however, I heard a familiar voice yell out my name. A voice I couldn’t quite place but whose loveliness was undeniable. I turned, hopeful that it was one of my Austin crushes, thrilled to see me and hoping to grab coffee afterward. But when my eyes scoured the crowd to match the sounds with a sight, I saw that it was not a hunky crush at all. It was my hunky college boyfriend Edward Norton with his beautiful post-college wife. They had tickets on the floor, mere sweat droplets away from Conan. "Great," I thought, as they headed hand in hand to their superior seats. I gotta find out what kind of prayer beads that guy uses.

Stay tuned for Part 2 which may or may not include the details of my make-out session with one red-haired CoCo Puff.