I Am The Queen

Of what, you ask?

I made a pithy comment about how adorable Lisa and her Cleveland Rocks accent are and she apparently has a problem accepting compliments. Instead she obsessed over the accent thing until we were fighting in comments sections. I told her she was on crack, others voiced their opinions (in my favor, I might add) and we finally had to settle it in the trash mags. Ok, fine. People and US did not call us and we have not released rap albums answering each other's challenges. Just an aside - I so would have the more gangsta album and my sales would be fierce. 50 Cent would call me to collaborate on a book and a new fragrance. Just to annoy my husband I would riddle the tracks with the word "shorty." But, alas, that is the next argument.

This time?

We took it to the people.

LiLa's followers submitted words which I massaged into a masterpiece. It was then delivered to the third Roecker, Stacey, for safekeeping. They posted the vlog this morning.

It is a work of art.

Who do you know that can get aardvark and flan into a script without sounding desperate, really?

Go vote, kids. It's time to shut this debate down and pronounce me Queen of...

Well, I haven't figured that part out yet.

My Twenties Couch

It is a new day.

Today is the day I am getting rid of my single girl couch.

My twenties have been leaving me a thing at a time.

First it was the Volkswagen Jetta. I was sad to see it go and wallowed in the fact that a single girl's car explained her job status. So said my Ex-boyfriend, Sam, "Girls start with Saturns, sometimes move to a Honda Civic, but by the time they get a Jetta they are no longer a flashing red light." I think he forgot to add, "...and may not even be asking dad for money anymore."

Mr. J didn't understand, "You're trading it in for a Boxster. Why are you being such a girl about it?"

I pouted as I watched the dealership man drive off with my black leather seats, my first sunroof, the upgraded stereo system and sports package, "It was the first car I bought by myself with no help from dad. I used my very first ever grown up girl stock options for the down payment."

"What was the stock trading at when you sold?"

I rolled my eyes, "Not the point."

I mourned my Jetta when I would see a single girl with shiny lips and fun music blaring from her sunroof. She was energetic, exciting and carefree. Then I saw my Ex-boyfriend in the parking garage and felt my nose climb an inch or two, my eyebrows become fixed and my left wrist dangled from the top of the steering wheel, arm straight, pimp lean while I shifted gears with my right hand. I made sure to rev the engine extra high as I rumbled past him with my top down.

So, what's it say when the girl drives a Porsche, asshole?

I'd smile to myself, imagining that he went into his office, closed the door and started crying into his post it notes, What was I thinking? She is such a fucking stud.

Shortly after I stopped parking the Jetta in my driveway, I sold the driveway.

"Why are you so upset about selling this house? It is tiny!"

"It's my single girl house! I bought it by myself with no help from anyone. I picked out the floor plan, the paint, the baseboards, the shutters, the everything."

"It is the size of a tin can. It is already too small for us and we only got a dog."

"I know, but still... It was the first house I bought by myself."

I sold it to a good friend, a single guy who adores it as much as I did. I felt a solitary tear well in my right eye when his priest, Father Bill, sprinkled Holy Water around the structure last week, blessing it and praying that it be filled with Christian values. I tilted my bowed head and peeked over at new owner sideways. He knew what I was thinking, Thank goodness Father Bill never came over when it was my single girl house. He would have burst into flames in the doorway. I crossed my eyes, he laughed and we both closed our eyes before we were caught.

Now that I have a grown up house and a grown up job, a grown up car and a grown up list of bills to pay it is time to let go of the last tangible piece of my past. Mr. J and I hired designers to decorate our house and I like to refer to them by their true calling - marriage counselors. Too many fights were had in the flooring section of Home Depot, so Kevin and Charles sat down with us and tried to make our marriage work. The result is a modern piece of heaven with a contemporary twist that keeps my husband from imploding. He can only handle so many clean lines and brushed metal details before he starts looking a little wild eyed.

I feel that I need to appropriately eulogize my single girl furniture. You see, right after the Jetta and way before the house I only had an apartment. There was nothing on the walls, a TV on the floor and a moving box that was my coffee table, kitchen table and catch all. I budgeted and bought the most comfortable couch, chair and ottoman I could find at RC Willey. That is where I slept, I was sick, I made out with numerous boys and it was the cornerstone of all sorts of happenings in my single girl life. Amie and I watched The Bachelor while we curled our feet in the cushiony goodness of the pillows and ate PF Chang's. I broke up on the couch, I cried on the couch, I read on the couch and I began to write my book on the couch. It is where I nap during the day, where I took up residence the day I found out I miscarried and where me and my little rescue dog, Ginger, lay when we want to look up at the sky through the tall windows that will soon be covered in ultra-expensive fabric.

Sadly, it no longer "goes" and it is so large that there is nowhere to put it or it's siblings.

And, so today I put it on Craiglist.

"Free Sofa, Chair and Ottoman to a good home."

Fifteen people called and another five or so emailed us within thirty minutes. To be fair we gave it to the first callers, which I am not happy about. The lady was crazy and droned on and on into the phone just as I got an email from a girl whose voice I'd also heard on Mr. J's voicemail, "Hi, this is Brooke. Could you call me about your couch?" She sounded maybe twenty and her email was filled with exclamation points and sent directly from an iPhone. Another young girl in need of a couch like mine - one to muddle through your twenties on. I immediately emailed her, "We are giving it to the first person we heard from, but if she doesn't show or changes her mind I will call you." I looked at Mr. J, "I want to give it to Brooke."

Whomever it is that ends up coming by tomorrow night will likely see it as an overstuffed, slightly shabby set of beginner furniture. They will not see the life I've lived on it.

I hope that it brings the new owner as many memories as it has me.

I don't know that the new couch can live up to my Twenties Couch, being from Bloomingdales and all.

But, oh how I hope it will.

Shorty Doobie Do Down Down

Visiting the local cable company customer service center is a cross between visiting the DMV, applying for social services and reporting your passport stolen at a US Embassy in a third world country. This is the reason I never had TiVo. They wouldn't deliver the box outside of the hours 9-5, Monday thru Friday and I refused to get the vaccines required for pickup.

That is until Mr. J decided that we had to install the most ridiculous home theatre system in the history of the universe. Ridiculous in that he decided to take an internet crash course in installation and I want to throw remote controls at him from my perch on the couch. As I write I have already been interrupted three times while he asks me to plug in something, untangle something else and remember that Center is Far Right and Surround Right is Middle.

Yours truly is the only one on our account, hence three phone calls throughout the course of the day, "Have you picked up the box yet?"

"No. I could get the swine flu."

"Just go. I need that box today. At least you're insured so if you do get it we can afford the meds and if you die I will be able to mourn to prerecorded TV."

"I'm very busy and important. You pick it up."

"I would. If I was on the account. Would you rather call customer service and spend an hour or drop by and pick it up on your way home?"

"I hate you."

I pulled into the parking lot and sighed as I stared at the conversion vans filling the first three rows, children spilling from them with juicy cups and food in their hair. I walked into the tan concrete building to find a security guard sitting on a chair to keep the violence at a minimum, "What are you here for?"

"I need to get TiVo."

"We don't have TiVo. You'll have to settle for DVR."

"Ok. Who do I talk to?" I looked around, hoping to see a group of Best Buy Geeks or Apple guys with lanyards and a desire to upsell me an iPhone.

He pointed over my shoulder to a machine that spat out numbers, "Get a number, have a seat and someone will be with you shortly."

I turned to find that the menu was in Spanish and turned around, "Um, which one do I push for TiVo?"

"DVR?"

"Right."

"Third one down."

"Fantastic."

I used my knuckle to push the third one down, afraid that if I used my fingertip and then mistakenly touched my face I would end up with pink eye or a raging case of herpes by morning. I stepped over two little girls that were rolling on their bellies with ring pops in their mouths and found a chair that did not look like someone died and decomposed in it. I looked up to find that the entire row of gangsters to my right were staring at me and I flashed to the movie "Taken" where foreigners are sold into the sex trade. I imagined that I would be pulled from under the bank of chairs, the little girls with the cherry red mouths watching me while Liam Neeson told me to calm down, "They're going to take you." I'd likely end up in the back of one of the conversion vans in the parking lot and leave behind a husband who would mourn his inability to record TV shows without commercials.

I began to rifle through my "pacifier," known by some as a cell phone. I checked Facebook, Twitter and wondered if I should post a status update, "If I don't update my status in thirty minutes, my last known whereabouts were the corner of Rancho and Washington in the Cox Customer Service building."

My number was called and I made my way to a makeshift table at the front of the room, an afterthought. Windows 1-8 were in a teller row, while windows 9 and 10 were card tables with computers. "Window 9" was written on a sheet of printer paper and scotch taped to the back of the monitor.

A forty-ish black woman with braids asked what she could do to help me.

"I need TiVo."

"We can set you up for DVR."

"Oh, right. Yes, please."

She clicked on some things, typed in some things and bobbed her head while the Isley brothers crooned from a TV screen behind her, which was set in a bank. Every screen was a different channel, but they were all muted. Soul Classics was not.

I motioned to the screen, "Is that your channel?"

She smiled sweetly, "No. I like the R&B channel, but the girl at Window 10 likes Soul. It's good though. Who can go wrong with the Isley Brothers?"

"My channel is 905. R&B. My ex-boyfriend set it up so whenever we turn on the TV that channel comes on automatically. It drives my husband nuts because he can't figure out how to re-program it and it's been five years."

She laughed, "He doesn't like R&B?"

"It's not his favorite, but he'll listen to my stations for a while. Until someone says 'shorty.' That's the rule. If the song has the word shorty in it he gets to change the station."

She laughed and leaned in, "How old is he?"

"34."

"Ah, not his language. What does he listen to?"

"Country. Drives me bananas. I like some of it. They're good storytellers, but half the time we're driving down the road and I'm crying because someone's grandfather taught him about life and died."

"My dad listened to country. I like a few bands. You ever hear that Rascal Flatts song about how if you play a country song backwards you get your wife back, your car back...? That song is hilarious! My dad really influenced my love of music, so I listen to everything. I'm going to see the Doobie Brothers soon!"

"Oh, if you like the Doobie Brothers you have to check out Earl Turner at Palace Station. I made my husband go. He sings some old school MoTown, R&B and soul. You would love it! At first he was like, 'I can't believe you're making me go to this,' but he was dancing and singing along by the end."

"I'll have to take my sister to that. She used to get so mad because me and my dad would go to shows together. I told her the other day that I was excited to see the Doobie Brothers because me and dad saw it once. She got really mad, 'I don't want to talk about that.' See, she went off to college so she never came to the shows with us. Now our dad is passed on and it hurts her that I have memories that she doesn't."

"Well, they're your memories to have. I'm the same way with my dad. He lives in Florida. We used to go driving when I'd had a rough day or something bad had happened. We'd listen to the radio and sing along. He used to sing Beatles songs to me all the time. I saw Love by Cirque du Soleil and cried because it reminded me of my dad and I missed him so much. Oh, and I saw Hall and Oates with an old boyfriend. He was quite a bit older than me and I was singing and dancing and he asked me how I knew all the words. I told him it was because my dad loved Hall and Oates. He didn't like that so much."

We both laughed, "Girl, I bet he didn't!" She pushed a new DVR box toward me, "You're all set. Everything is programmed. It was fun talking to you."

"You too! Have fun at the Doobie Brothers and make sure you go see Earl Turner!"

"I will! And, you tell your man that you are his shorty."

I laughed. She laughed. We both sank into the memories of our fathers, the memories of music and I didn't even notice the bank of dirty chairs or anyone else as I floated out the door. I was simply high on the human condition, a simple conversation and the melody of life lived out loud.

I hummed all the way home.

Tomorrow I'm going to call my dad.

Those bitches, Lisa and Laura

Ok, so this goes against everything I believe in, but I love Lisa and Laura and will make an exception. They have finally started to fight in the comments section of their own blog and it is about the tiara Laura won't take off, so I guess it is time I give in and provide them with a commercial. Anyone who makes me visualize someone I've never met giving birth with prom hair deserves a little recognition.

Well played, ladies. Well played.

Here goes:

They got a book deal. I'm jealous. They are the most popular kids in our high school and are vying for world domination so they're giving away a Kindle in celebration.

How saccharine, how adorable, they make you love them even when you're seeing green.

So, click this lovely little link and read the contest rules. It closes midnight on Friday the 13th, which is just so sickeningly cute that I just can't stand it.

Congratulations, bitches.

Barista Adored

The Barista has a boyfriend and it is not The Attorney.

I knew she was crushing on one boy more than the others, but I didn't think it was the one that was flirting with her last week while I waited for my latte. I watched him try to reel her in, feel her out and encourage her about some sort of exam or test she was taking. I rolled my eyes. I was sure he was older than me and I was boring holes into the back of his aged head while I could see her beautiful twenty year old face over his shoulder. Pedophile, I thought. He didn't leave once he had his drink, instead lurking at the creamer station while I tried to speak to her with my eyes. She nodded to let me know that he was, in fact, one of them. I smiled, winked and told her to have a good weekend while she mouthed, "We'll talk later."

A few days later I walked in and asked if he was the "Meh, maybe" one.

"No, that was The Guy. I like him so much. He is the nicest guy I've ever dated." I tried to hide my surprise and keep from shaking the image of his disheveled look from my head.

"How old is he?"

"Thirty-one." I swore he looked older than me, but then again I was the one whose ID was not confiscated for scanning amongst the gaggle of six girls that went a-clubbin' on Halloween.

"What does he do?"

"He's a probation officer."

Good God. This is worse than I thought. He should know better.

She almost chirped as she told me how wonderful he was, how thoughtful, how he opens her doors and calls her to say hi. She stopped dating the other boys for this one, this probation officer that I was sure told someone in his life, "She's mature for her age," after they gave him a dirty look when they saw her lithe frame flit like a ethereal angel next to him.

It wasn't until the elevators opened and deposited me to my office did I realize why The Barista's boyfriend was not sitting well with me. He did make her his girlfriend. I'll give him that. The Attorney just wanted to sleep with her. I am not in love with the age difference, but we all need to date the older man. No, it wasn't any of those things.

She could do better. She just doesn't know it yet.

I hemmed and hawed over this idea in my brain. She's so pretty. He's so... hairy. She deserves someone different. A young entrepreneur, a budding architect. Someone who manscapes.

And, then I realized I was being silly.

Mr. J has often asked, "Why were you dating such a troll?" when he'd see pictures of my Exes. I'd look over the faces and remember the things that made me smile, "Well, Christian was the funniest guy I ever met and Sam was very charismatic. Jace was smart and Dylan was easy to hang out with. They were all silent killers. You never saw them coming, but one funny story or a day of movies and laughs and they would suddenly become more handsome to me." Mr. J thought that was sweet, "I like that you saw a person's worth and not their looks." I smiled, "Oh, I dated some lookers. Oddly, I have no pictures of them."

I never dated a devastatingly handsome man for very long. There wasn't much substance, no real connection, no glue to make me grab my camera to load a picture to my Myspace page.

Justin?

Well, the one time we ran into him Mr. J gawked, "Dude, that guy is good looking!"

I smiled, "He is." I looked at his perfect facial structure, his deep blue eyes, the square jaw that always makes me want to procreate. I realized Mr. J was used to seeing my ugly boyfriends and feeling superior and here he was being faced with the idea that I'd had hot sex with a guy who looked like hot sex.

"What happened?"

"We had the best first date I've ever had. Sushi, a little twilight mini golf at a golf course and I thought he could've been special. He's actually really smart. After a few dates we had sex and that was it."

"It was bad?" I could tell this thought made Mr. J very happy. He started to smile in a way I'd deem snarky.

"No, it was great. He just couldn't seem to find my phone number once he left my apartment. Or his fingers were broken. Not really sure."

"Oh."

Then there was Matthew McConaughey. He was a cross between the actor, an Abercrombie model and sex on a stick. I wish I had a picture of him to wave in front of Mr. J when he poses in a mirror and reminds me how lucky I am to have, and I quote, "A hot piece of ass," like him.

Yes, Matthew was tongue-tyingly gorgeous.

And, he was dumb as a box of rocks.

After I realized I couldn't answer his questions regarding a three page business plan he had me review, I thought it was time we should end our tryst. It wasn't that I couldn't answer the questions because they were too complicated. It was simply that using smaller words wasn't working and I was crossing over to condescending. He was looking sullen, I wondered if he knew how to spell his name on paper and the jack rabbit sex detracted from his full lips and blonde curls.

I will always wonder if his air freshener business ever really took off.

Justin and Matthew McConaughey would've been trophy boyfriends, husbands, what-have-you, but who really wants a trophy when your connection is dim? I just happened to trip over Mr. J and found both an ex-Abercrombie employee and active brain waves. How lucky am I?

And, how lucky is My Barista?

She has found a boy that escorted her to LA this weekend so that she can check out the law fair at Loyola. He thinks she will be a wonderful attorney and winked at her that day when I was staring at him in disdain. Something I will never do again. She shrugged her shoulders while she drizzled caramel on someone's whipped concoction and said that the entrance exams are tough. He smiled and shook his head, eyes sincere, "You'll get in. I know you will."

I know she will too.

The Probation Officer and I may not be there with her, but we already imagine her in power suits, freckled nose staring up at a judge. She will click click down hallways of justice in peep toe pumps. We're simply people she will meet on her way to become the version of herself she imagines while she steams milk and tells me that the pumpkin scone is a vegetable and therefore nutritious. She will have many other boyfriends, some that look like Abercrombie models, some that make her laugh and others that make her cry. She has many faces to meet, many stories to collect.

And, many hearts to break.

Things I Need To Get Off My Chest

Hookerween = Success

I have decided that I am now too old to drink margaritas one after the next and feeling your kidneys is not a good thing. Dressing up with your girlfriends and affixing fake lashes and rhinestones to your sister in law's face (the one with the three kids and the dirty look when you mention slut heels) is pure bliss. Seeing your sister in law's flawless abs in her slutty costume six months after giving birth to her third child, however, is pure hell. Not one stretch mark. Not a one. Granted, I don't have children, but my stomach doesn't look like hers now and I do Bikram yoga.

Bitch.

Snarkiness = Adoration

I received an email today with the following gems that basically comprise my faith:

I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

There is great need for a sarcasm font.

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.

Bad decisions make good stories.

And Amen.

Mr. J = Love and Giggles

He's reading Young Adult and he doesn't even know it. He just finished The Hunger Games and was hooked. I haven't finished, but in true Mr. J style he tried to give away the ending. The ending in which Katniss gives Peeta "the butt love." I didn't have the heart to stop him between my fits of laughter, "Well, that's impossible since the book is written for teens. Fooled you!" I'll wait until after he reads the sequel that he is itching to get his hands on, "They have to make this into a movie!"

LiLa = Jealousy

I love LiLa. Really I do. They're my favorite sister writers and I adore them. I had the opportunity to talk to Lisa one night after we'd both had a few drinks and I loved her and her Cleveland Rocks accent even more that the day before. This is where the affirmations begin - They are my friends. They deserve happiness. They work hard. They are wonderful people.

What am I yammering on about, you ask?

The annoyingly beautiful girls with attitude, sass and a penchant for wrapping Us Weekly into a rhyme once a month have sold their book and will see their names in print come Spring 2011.

They're up there with my sister in law and her ridiculous Brooke Burke abs right now.

Gah.

Oh, I know! LiLa, let me dress you for your author photo! I have some rhinestone studded fake lashes and some fishnets with your name on them!

Give them a hand, kids. They are amazing and I can't wait for them to shout me out on Oprah.

And scene.

Man Eater

With the exception of Mr. J I am relatively ambivalent about other men. I see the husbands in the mall that check out girls while their wives are standing beside them; the sideways glance, the quick smile. It makes me a little ill and I immediately feel sorry for the woman that has no idea that her man is a pig. Don't get me wrong, I do notice a good looking man, but it is simply a passing observation, a He's handsome. Now, do I want a latte or an iced green tea? How many calories have I consumed today? Definitely the latte. God, I forgot to drop of the dry cleaning. I guess I'll have to stop by Banana Republic to pick up an outfit for tomorrow. I'll just sneak it in the house in my gym bag. Mr. J will never notice.

I've truly come full circle.

Let's see.. there was birth. I was a toddler and boys were just in between me and my desire to poop and nap. Then I turned three and fell madly in love with a fourteen year old. I was often professing my love for older men children (my version of man child), decreeing our impending nuptials and staring at them googly eyed while their mothers giggled about how adorable my crush was to them.

I hated those bitches.

I sneered, sighed internally and thought to myself that they just didn't get me. I've always been mature for my age and those moms just didn't understand that I had grown up feelings and a grown up libido to match. By five I was playing Show Me Yours behind the cubbies at nap time. When Jason Sussman told me he wanted to fuck me I got the gist and then convinced the cutest girl in class, Kelly Parker, to join in the fun. There was a lot of grinding, some sweating and while we didn't really get the mechanics of this fucking Jason had heard about I am sure that both of my playtime partners somehow remember those first days of carnal bliss.

I still don't know why Kelly's parents pulled her out of school and moved her to Lake Magdalene Elementary, but whatever.

They didn't get me either.

Kindergarten relived itself over and over again in my twenties. It was fun, it was dramatic, it was fraught with angry text messages, a little self-loathing and before long I realized it was time to find one wonderful man and settle down, be a grown up, get me some stretch marks and a pair of Crocs. Ok, not really the last part, but it is such a great visual, isn't it? I found Mr. J, I grew up and the girl I left behind seemed as though she was just someone I once knew. I sometimes forget about kindergarten and My Slut Phase (Decade, whatever).

Until a photo like the one above reminds me that there is a little beast in me and she's been with me since I was three. She's the little girl that looks at a boy and wants to eat him. Not like a delicious snack, either. To put it in terms that my YA readers can understand - I am like Edward for a few seconds every now and then. There are few boys that do it to me and if we were to lay our cards on the table I could assure you that Gerard Butler in 300 made my face burn. It only lasts a few seconds and when I'm done with my carnivorous thoughts I remind myself that after I eat the boys I get indigestion. You see, boys like to talk. They don't stay pretty like Patrick with his perfect bone structure and lithe frame. No, sometimes they have opinions, sometimes they fart and most of the time they have a friend that makes your stomach churn.

Even Patrick Dempsey. He probably clips his toenails in bed.

Mr. J clips them over our leather ottoman, sweeps them into a nice pile and then tries to feed them to the dog. At least it is cleaner.

Mr. J - 1.

Patrick Dempsey - 0.