Domo waxes nostalgic

I was in choir when I was a kid.  Junior high, high school, even a cappella in college.  And watching Glee gets me all misty.

In tonight’s finale, there was a scene that reminded me forcibly of a particular Moment In Time during my own high school choir experience.

The two romantic leads were alone together, right before they had to go onstage.  Rachel said, “Break a leg!”  And Finn replied, “I love you.”

He smiled his 16-year-old smile at her, and she smiled back; then doors opened and the lights hit them, and they had to go on.  And I actually said, out loud, to my television: “Girl, you will remember that moment for the rest of your life.”

When I was 17, I loved a boy in my choir, and he loved me.  We had The Drama in the way that only a pair of star-crossed teenagers who already had significant others could.

Domo’s senior year coincided with the mammoth motion picture experience that was Titanic, and during the spring choir show, the theme from that movie was naturally front-and-center.

Now, I didn’t get the solo, because our teacher couldn’t very well give it to just one girl—that would have shown FAR too much favoritism.

But my senior solo came directly before it; I sang “The Morning After” from The Poseidon Adventure.  Then I was forced to recite the old Titanic lady’s dialogue about it having been 84 years and how Titanic was called “the ship of dreams.”

Then, mercifully, I was allowed to exit the stage while all the other girls in every choir sang “My Heart Will Go On.”

So there I was, all but alone backstage in the dark, wrestling with what would be the climax of my drama with my very own Finn.  I was graduating soon; I still (sort of) had a boyfriend; prom was coming up soon; I was a mess.

And to this day, I don’t remember what, exactly, was the trigger that night.  But somehow I found myself at the very back of the stage behind the scrim, and there was Finn on the opposite side of the stage.  And we saw each other.

And with that impossibly cheesy music going on on the stage, we literally ran to each other in the filtered half-light and crashed together, holding on for dear life.  And when he said he loved me, I said it back.  And then he kissed me.

And I will remember that moment for the rest of my life.

I’m sure non-choir kids have those spotlight moments in their lives, too, but there’s just something about being backstage and 17.  Part of you never gets over it.

And I’m glad there’s a show that can bring that to life again.  That’s TV at its best—showing (and in some cases, reminding) us what life can be.

Life is a series of scenes that play out over years, and at the end we’ll each get our highlight reel.  And I know that in mine, all of the best scenes will be set to music.

Just Checking In

Isn't it sad when bloggers get a new blog and forget all about their first one?

Don't worry.  One day I'll figure out a way to blend the two blogs, or just import all the content from this one onto a new one and start afresh.

When it rains, dude

My air conditioner is on the fritz.

I'm getting worn out by the weight of being so searingly angry and wounded.

Soon enough, I can tell, carrying the anger will stop being worth it and I'll put it down.  But the Awkward is going to endure for a good long while, that's already in evidence.  Pretending to Be Okay in front of everyone is really, really tiring, and there will be times when I just can't manage it, until I actually am okay again.

But seriously?  The air conditioner?  I almost hit it with a brick.  I'm hanging on by a very thin thread over here!

SHOCKED AND APPALLED

Well, apparently I had quite the wrong end of the stick when it comes to my breakup.  The full venting is located on my double-secret probation blog, but I have to say something here, too.

Question: Is it normal, a mere five days after breaking up with someone you have purported to respect and care about for the past twelve years, to go on a date with the new girl at work?  And then to go on several more after that, with no intention of stopping?

Is it normal to take her to a party with all of your friends and family, less than two full weeks after said breakup?

What kind of a person DOES that?

Moving on is part of life, and screws fall out all the time---the world is an imperfect place.  I get that.  I was planning on moving on myself, after a decent amount of time had passed.

His dating a girl (whom, logic dictates, was essentially waiting in the wings) so quickly is just ugly, and mean, and disrespectful, and cold, and it means that I can never be friends with him again.

I can't be friends with someone who values and respects me so little, and is so unaware that his recent actions serve mostly to humiliate me in front of all of our friends.

I don't even want to know someone like that.

Which is going to be really awkward for all our friends.  Sorry in advance, guys, but it's not my fault---this one is all on him.  I have suffered the many and varied shades of his idiocy for a long time now, and willingly.  I was willing because I loved him, and I had faith in him to be more careful with me than he's been with past girlfriends.  Because it's me.

But I'm just not capable of getting over this last bit.

I AM SO SMART

I AM SO SMART

S-M-R-T

Given that this was the first time I've played bar trivia since the team name "Trent Lott's Dreaming of a White Christmas" was socially relevant, I'm going to go ahead and do a happy dance for my part in winning 2nd place and a $50 gift card to a downtown bar tonight :D

YAY TRIVIA!

Poor Slow Domo

Good Lord am I out of shape.  I'm ashamed to say I had to get off the bike and walk for a little ways up a hill this evening.

But at least I went riding!  It was fun, for the most part, and I think I'll stick to some less hilly parts of the neighborhood until I'm in a bit better shape.  I'm gonna be sore as hell tomorrow.

Little bit worried about weird sounds the chain is making.  I'm going to have to get one or more of my bike-wizard friends to take a look at it.  I hate the idea of something being wrong with my shiny new toy, but I'm sure it's nothing too serious. 

Between that and the 18,000 errands I ran this weekend, I am one dog-tired Domo.  Buenas noches a todos.

I GOT THE BIKE!

It's the best, I love it.  I'm a little worried that it seems to skip gear 7 when going down from 8; it just skips right over to 6.  But over time I'll learn how to fix little things like that, and in the meantime it's just awesome.

It's in the shed right now, because obvs I'm not going to leave a gorgeous piece of machinery like that out in the elements, to get stolen or rained on or pooped on by birds.  It's safe and sound in my shed, looking purple and pretty and so ready to ride. 

I've got my ridiculously padded bike shorts, I've got my helmet, I've got my water bottle and the arm band for my iPod.  Let the working out begin :)

In small doses, at first, but going further and further before I know it!

BIKE BIKE BIKE!

I AM GETTING A BIKE!

It is purple and beautiful and sooooooooo comfortable.

LOOK HOW PRETTY!!!

I was a little bummed out in my initial searching, because it seemed like the only bikes that were cute were also useless unless you live directly on Key West.  They don't have gears, they're heavy as hell and while there's plenty of room for a basket to carry your organic, locally grown produce home from the Farmers' Market, there's no way in hell you're getting up a hill without dismounting and walking the f*cker.  My friends and I decided that maybe that's why hipsters are so skinny---they're riding their damned heavy Cruisers all over creation because they can't bring themselves to buy a car.

So while I'd found a hybrid that was plenty pretty (in a silver, MacBook kind of way) and felt good to ride, I was super-psyched when I first laid eyes on the gorgeous piece of aluminum you see up there.  It'll take me on roads, dirt trails and gravel trails, and while it won't be good for deep-woods Off-roading, I don't intend to do any of that because yuck.  If I'm deep in the woods, I better be sitting on my ass in front of a roaring fire with a beer in my hand and some steak in my belly.

I hemmed and hawed over the purple one vs. the silver one, but really I'm in love with the purple one.  I will go to rescue it from the suspiciously laid-back salesgirl either Friday or Saturday, and I will then proceed to burn up the road around my house.  At least, the surrounding block or two, at first, until I get used to it.  It's quite hilly around here.

Oh!  And I've lost 4.5 pounds since Monday a week ago.  I honestly couldn't tell you how except that maybe breakups are slimming?

Double-Secret Probation

Got another blog.  I'm keeping that one a secret so I can chronicle my breakup in peace and not clutter up this original blog with all that business.

Every minute of every day

People break up all the time. We were always going to break up, it was a given.  But even with that given, I'm going to have to grieve. 

I am so very sad here, at the inevitable end of my relationship.  We will always be friends but I can't begin to imagine how much I'm going to miss everything that has always made us more than friends.  Formalizing it made it...well, formal.  But it was always there, and now I just don't know where it will go. 

I am deeply, deeply sad.

He followed me all the way home just to make sure I got here okay.

And now for the mourning!

Life rarely sucks as much as when you face the End of something, especially something you cherished.

John Dies At The End

Go out and get it right now.  This book rocked my world and it'll rock yours too, due to its unstoppable awesomeness and outright weirditude.  David Wong is my new hero.

I'm addicted to Cracked.com, so I put DW's book on my list of "Want!" for my birthday last fall.  The Kimmie came through, but I've just now gotten around to reading it and DUDE was it worth the wait!  Doesn't matter that it's in hardcover, the part where John tells David how the wig monster once stole his corndog makes it completely 100% worth every penny you'd spend on it.

But what I think I love best about the book is how the story of its genesis has inspired me to really start writing again, at least a little bit every day, until an idea takes off and I can run with it.  David Wong was just a cube-dweller like anyone else, writing weird stories in his spare time, and now he has a freaking book and people have bought it and it's being turned into a movie. 

When I come to die, I want there to be an honest-to-God book out there with my name on it, and I want more than just my immediately family and closest friends to have read it.  And if that's going to happen, I gotta get to writing.  So in addition to being a kick-ass read from start to finish, John Dies at the End might actually have changed my life.

A few things I've written:

http://www.cracked.com/funny-1808-the-southern-vampire-mysteries/
http://www.cracked.com/funny-2075-office-space/

I believe in Bigfoot.

I totally do, I totally believe in Bigfoot.  I saw a very convincing documentary on the Discovery Channel or something that went into all kinds of forensic evidence and went to experts in fields like fingerprinting, statistical analysis, identifying animals by their cries, etc.  It convinced me. 

I think the real clincher for me was the fingerprint analysis of some of the molds people had made of Bigfoot prints.  The experts stated that the patterns on the prints indicated a primate, since they were made primarily of straight lines rather than curves and whorls, like human prints are.  But they didn't match any of the patterns for known great apes.  I thought that was pretty convincing. 

I guess believing in Bigfoot is part of my personal belief that we don't yet know everything about this planet, that big parts of it are still completely hidden to us and waiting to be discovered.  I like the idea that we might never discover everything there is to see and know here, that in some way we're still crouching in our caves wondering what all the sounds outside mean, or what the lights in the sky are or when they'll be back.  The idea of Bigfoot and other cryptids is the idea of man's continued innocence and potential, and I find that enormously appealing.

The Stranger

So it's sometime in 2008, and my best girlfriend and I get rear-ended by a cab at a subway station in a major metropolitan suburb.  It's 110% the cabbie's fault, although I suppose a little blame could be shared by the folks who determined the flow of traffic, or their parents for not making them wear helmets as children.  But the long and short of it is that my bestie and I are drawn into a shouting match with the asshat who dented her bumper.  And he calls me fat.

Mark you, this is not your typical cab driver.  He is not the shining Adonis one is accustomed to seeing behind the wheels of our golden chariots when we stumble out of bars at closing time; he clearly does not belong to that unparalleled society of handsome gentlemen who take our drunk asses home and spare all and sundry from the horror of the DUI.  No, this particular cab driver is the epitome of the Average White Guy, and he's all kinds of shouty.

Average height, average brown hair, average face that might be perfectly nice to look at if you know and love him.  Utterly forgettable, the kind of guy who would play a detective in the background on Law & Order and get pulled in as filler for a line-up when the D.A.s need a witness to identify the Soccer Dad who beat the living hell out of a bodega owner or a hooker.  Has a paunch the size of Rhode Island, and he stands in the middle of a busy road and calls me fat.

He's scared; he knows he's screwed up and that we're taking down his license plate and his cab number and everything else we can about him, he knows we'll be calling his supervisor.  He's trying to put the blame on us, and it's a whirl of angry words and supercharged air.

So he says something completely ridiculous--something about having a camera on his dashboard that recorded the whole thing and would prove his innocence and send us to jail--and I cock my head at him with a really honest look, trying to make him see how far over the edge he's going.  And it hits home; he looks at me and sees what a complete idiot he's making of himself, standing there shouting at two girls whom he just rear-ended, and he goes on the defensive.

"What's that look for?  You're fat."

Now, this man has to be at least 37 years old.  37 years old, and he's using the oldest barb in the playground arsenal, the old "You're fat."  So I look over at my bestie and laugh, give his paunch a pointed look, and say "Oh, okay" in my most withering of sarcastic tones.  What I really want to do is curl up on the pavement and cry.

I know that if I were thin, he'd have said I was ugly, or stupid, or a whore--the guy was just out to hurt my feelings, because he was feeling defensive, because he'd fucked up and his bosses were going to know about it sooner rather than later.  I know that.  But the fact remains that he was right.

If he had said I was ugly, or stupid, or a whore, I'd have been able to brush him off completely as Utterly Wrong And An Idiot Mouth-Breather To Boot, and he would never have gotten under my skin and I wouldn't be writing this.  But he was right, and so he did get under my skin, and now I have the voice of a complete stranger in my head telling me I'm fat.  It's not there all the time, but every time I hear it, I feel the hurt almost as badly as I did the first time.  I feel embarrassed for myself.

I want to stop feeling embarrassed for myself.  If I'm ever being shouted at by a paunchy red-faced cabbie again, I want him accuse me of being a whore.

I'm The Fat One

I do not enjoy exercising.

However, I am quite tired of being fat.  Hence the walking.  I just walked 1.94 miles over the course of approximately 40 minutes, and I'm all sweaty and I feel fatter than ever.  I think it's because my t-shirt isn't quite big enough and it clings to my jiggly parts in a very early-90s, leggings-and-long-sweater kind of way that is definitely Not Hot.

So I'm at the beginning of a bid to stop being The Fat One, and a lot of this blog will probably be about that.  I'm The Fat One among my friends, and while I'm very smart, really funny and (seriously) extremely cute, the sad fact is that the first thing most strangers would probably notice about me is that I'm The Fat One.  It's disheartening and demoralizing, and makes me want to head to the Chick-Fil-A and get an 8-piece nugget with waffle fries and extra mayo.  Also a milkshake.

But why change now?  I've been The Fat One, at least in my own head, ever since I was a kid, although if I'm objective I can truthfully say that I didn't really start packing it on until my junior year of college.  Before that, I was just curvy, and more to the point I was healthy and could probably walk 1.94 miles much more quickly than 40 minutes, and without sweating, too.

But I frittered my 20s at an office job and on my couch, and since I can drink with the best of them and I love me some food, here I am at 30 with [redacted for sanity] pounds hanging on my 5-foot-nothing frame.  And now my knees are starting to creak when I walk up the stairs.  Swimsuit season is looming.  Wedding season is looming, and I have two fantastic dresses that I want to look fantastic in.  But if I'm totally honest, those are not the real driving forces behind my sudden upswing in determination.

The real driving forces are two male voices in my head.  One is the voice of a complete stranger, and one is the voice of one of my best and oldest friends.  But that's another story.

Why so secret, Domo?

I'm not saying I'll never change my mind, but for the time being I want this blog to be anonymous.  That way, if any wayward traveler or internet weirdo should happen across it, there's very little chance he* will recognize me or anyone I'm talking about.  This gives me freedom to vent about my people (this means you, jackhole), should I feel the need, without possibly hurting anyone's feelings.

Gotta go, my show is on.  Main thing about me: I love TV.

 * I have an English degree with a concentration in editing. I use singular pronouns where appropriate and will alternate between "he" and "she."  Use of "their" when the subject is singular bugs the fire out of me.  Also, let's face it, most internet weirdos are dudes.  I mean come on.

Whu?

Not an auspicious beginning to this whole blogging thing, I tell you what.  Also, that entire last sentence makes me sound about 67 years old.
 
I'm not 67--I'm all of a sudden 30, and to be honest it's kind of freaking me out. I'm not sure why, exactly, except that maybe it's because I'm not married nor likely to be any time soon, or because I don't have kids yet, or any of the other things we all figure we'll be/have/done by the time we're "of a certain age."  The fact that I'm not alone in that does not help in the least, and I find myself beset by restlessness and a vague frustration.  Hence the entry into blogging at this crusty old age.

I'm not sure what this blog will end up being about, although no doubt it will be picked up for all kinds of awards within months and I fully expect a book deal within two years.  But I've got my gin and I've got my Slanket, so away we go...