The Freak

Last night, I did the wifely duty . . . I went to Marty's work party. These can be deadly events for the spouse. You know the routine. You go. You don't know anyone, nor do you really care to. I know that sounds harsh, but as the years have gone by, the wives have gotten younger and dare I even say, bustier (if you know what I mean). Nothing in common. Eking out conversations that are the typical party small talk, "Where do you work? How long have you been there? What are you doing for Easter break? How are the kids?" See if I had a little more in common with these ladies, I could add, "Who's your plastic surgeon? or "Hey, would you go with a C or a D?" Okay, so I admit to taking a little "blogger's license" here. They weren't all that bad. I did have some very sweet conversations.

I don't know if it's a sign of getting older or what. I like to think not. These 'cop' parties used to come every year and now they're held only every two or three years. At one time, they were fun. It was a once year thing. We'd get all dressed up, enjoy a few cocktails, the guys would stand around and slap each other on the back, and the women would talk about each other. Then there was the dancing. We never waited for the guys to get out there, because, basically, they never would. I mean come on. Mr. DJ would spin a little Brick House and there was just no stopping us! I was right out there bustin' it with the best of them! That's right. I tore IT up with my 80's moves.

Fast forward 20 years later. So I'm having a conversation with really the only wife I know. She, too, has been in the trenches like me. There we are, in the midst of the DJ playing very bad "dance" music (Margaritaville. Seriously?). Marty is standing over by the bar doing the guy thing. Before I know it, he's standing over me, beer in hand, and wants to dance. What?!?? Nobody is dancing. For the love of Pete, Lady Marmalade (the original version) is playing and now he has decided to become a dancing machine? The reality was he felt responsible for the success of this party and he wanted to break the ice. But, at my expense! I was sober. Don't get me wrong. I can get my freak on, but I just wasn't feeling it. And, when you try to get your freak on without anything to back it up (or at least a few drinks under your belt), that's when your freak could potentially turn into that old lady shoulder shrug thing. A risk I wasn't yet willing to take.

As it turned out, a couple of party crashers broke the proverbial ice. Phew. That bought me some time to belly up to the bar and throw back at least one cocktail. Oh, I danced a few, but I never really found my freak. Even after one of the guys requested "Stayin' Alive" for Marty . . . that still didn't do it. Sure, I had a couple of moments, like when Low Rider came on. I kinda found a little bit o' freak there.

Call it age, call it sobriety, call it fear of falling into the shoulder shrug category . . . I don't know. It's like I never really had to worry about my freak. It was just there. Is this what happens as we get older? We lose our freak? I guess this is the time in our lives that we have to stop and ask ourselves those deep, meaning-of-life questions, like should I just give in, call it a day, and perfect my shoulder shrug? And to that I say, "mmm . . . gitchi gitchi ya ya da da . . . gitchi gitchi ya ya here . . ."

She WILL Overcome

Last night, Marty and I went to our favorite Friday night hang, Cheesecake Factory. We go there because, if we get there early, we can find a high top table at the bar, settle in, order a couple of drinks, and chill. It's easy. No waiting and no sitting elbow-to-elbow with screaming kids in high chairs.

We're creatures of habit, really. We walk in, scope out the bar scene, and hope that "our" table will be available. It's the one that's not too close to the entrance, yet not too far on the other end -- the one that makes for the best vantage point to people watch -- specifically, the second one from the right. Funny. Now that I think about it, I do the same thing at the gym -- the same treadmill or elliptical or bicycle and not the one on the end, usually the second one from the end. Hmmmm . . . that's a little OCD, but I'll save that for a different blog.

Our favorite part of our excursion to Cheesecake really isn't sitting at "our" table, it's not the appetizers, and no . . . it's not even the cosmos . . . it's our waitress, Jenny. Last night, she bargained with the other waiter so she could have our table. That's the kind of relationship we have with her.

Jenny reminds us of Abby, the forensic scientist on NCIS. Abby is this sort of goth chick who definitely marches to her own beat. Like Abby, Jenny wears her jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail or two with very distinct bangs. She also shaves her eyebrows (I think) and then draws them on, unless maybe they're tattooed but I don't think so. But, now that I think about it, they're really quite precise. Could be that she's just a good draw-er. Unlike Abby, she has no visible tattoos (well, maybe. . . except for her eyebrows but I'm fairly sure they were shorter last night) or piercings. Jenny stands out in a crowd. Jenny is different. I love that about her.

Marty and I have had long talks with her (well, as long as she can get a way with while she's waitressing). She told us that she's going to school and wants to be a teacher because she had horrible experiences as a kid. She went on to describe the time that she decided to shave her head and the

school administration, in all their wisdom, put her on independent study, removing her from the mainstream. As an educator, I know there are two sides to every coin, but this is Jenny's perception and to her it's real. And, let's face it, in our screwed up system, it is possible that she was kicked out merely for shaving her head. Who's to say?

Our heart goes out to Jenny. Funny. In some ways, I can feel the mother in me, and yes, even the father in Marty, come out. Here's a young woman, who is brave enough to wrap her arms around who she is and pursue her dreams -- dreams that are very likely sparked by her differences. It makes me think. How many kids, and even adults, are out there and unlike Jenny, they don't have that "I shall overcome" attitude? They're the ones that feel like they're on the outside looking in. Looking in to a world, a life, that's very different than theirs. How many times do we judge without really knowing? More often than I care to admit.

We don't really know Jenny, but I can guess that she's had some hard knocks. Our Jenny is quirky, bright, and hilarious. When we left last night, she said, "I love you guys. Keep looking for me."

We love you, too, Jenny.

A Perfect Ten

This is my first blog post.

Dear Blog . . . just kidding.

My friend suggested that I get this blog party started by taking the "these are 10 things I can't live without" blog challenge. So here goes.

1. The perfect pair of jeans
I love jeans. I would wear them all day every day if I could. You know the ones. The ones that make your butt look good (c'mon at my age, I need all the help I can get to defy gravity). I prefer a little stretch so that if I miss a workout, there's a little give for that donut I shouldn't have eaten. Holey, faded, and raggy are sexy. I guess that's why they cost more.

2. My iPhone

Since I was limited to only ten things, I sorta cheated. I figured my iPhone covers my laptop and my iPod. I'm a social networking junkie. Twitter, Facebook, and texting make me happy. It's one of the few ways I have to stay in touch with my closest friends who live in every part of the world except where I live. And . . . I can't live without constant access to my music. Oh and not to mention, there's an app for everything.

3. Boots, boots, and more boots
I wear boots year round even when the temperature is over 100. I don't care. I hate sandals unless they're made of rubber and go between your toes. I heart boots: pointy toes, round toes, square toes. It doesn't matter. But mostly I have to stick with boots that don't go past my calves because I have cankles and can't get them zipped. Although I have been known to buy the ones that go higher and just leave them partially zipped but that just makes me feel half dressed and that bothers me.

4. My mom's wedding ring
Next to my wedding ring, I wear my mom's wedding band. She designed it in the 40's. It's rose gold with star-shaped diamond and ruby chips. I'm rarely without it. Whenever I look at it, it makes me think of her. I miss her.

5. Lip gloss

Dry lips suck.

6. Ellipses . . .
You know the series of three little dots . . . they're used for unfinished thoughts or pauses . . . I have a lot of unfinished thoughts . . . and pauses . . . I also use them when I don't know if I should use a colon or semicolon.

7. Long drives

Okay, so like with the iPhone, I'm really covering two other things within this one thing. Well, maybe three things. Whatever. Driving in my red Audi TT convertible in the nearby foothills, on a beautiful Saturday morning, is something I do often. I think, I cry, I talk to Jesus. I get away from it all. I love the hills and mountains. I'm also a sucker for a beautiful sky including clouds, sunrises, sunsets, stormy skies, and rainbows. I see these things on my drives. This is where I find my peace.

8. Paul Mitchell Super Clean Light Hairspray

I've been having a love affair with this spray for years. Sure I've tried others. I like my hair to move like Bo Derek's braids in 10. . . yet have the hold it deserves.

9. My Scotties

Don't read anything into this just because I didn't list your name or my husband's. What can I say? I love my two Scotties, Abi and Keiti. Abi (even though she's blonde) is smart, precocious, and very independent. Keiti is happy, chunky, and likes to eat. Together they represent my favorite qualities . . . in others . . . not my qualities . . . except maybe for the 'chunky' part.

10. My happy place

There's something about being with my friends that refreshes me and puts me in my happy place. I can be in Vegas, on the beach, on a living room sofa, or on a southern porch. It doesn't matter. In fact, when I'm in these places, I lose track of where I am because I get so caught up in that moment, in that conversation, in that sense of comfort . . . with my friends. Simply put. I love my friends and they love me. The end.

P.S. If you're so inclined, feel free to leave a link where we can find your ten things.