MOBzilla

I have an idea for a new TLC show – MOBZILLA!


Everyone has seen the expected Bridezilla. The one going off on her bridesmaids for looking better than her. For not allowing them to color their hair or tan days before the wedding. Even those brides that insist the bridesmaids gain weight so that she, the bride, can be the skinniest.

Well, I have invented a new reality show, MOBZILLA. Yes, I am the mother of the bride that went ballistic.

It was bound to happen. Everyone kept commenting on how mellow and together I was through this last year. Calm, cool and collected, that’s me. Not really. I am the epitome of passive aggressive. The bride would make me angry; I would have a glass of wine and just not talk to her for the night. The groom would irritate me; I wouldn’t buy him beer for a few days. Just a few subtle ways of me dealing with my anger. Probably not the text book way of doing things, but it works for me.

What does this lead to? Let’s see, there are a lot of ways to describe it. Rivers run deep. Cold as ice. A disaster waiting to happen.

Well it happened. . .

And who should be the brunt of my explosion? My best friends.

A perfect wedding ceremony.

The flower girls made it down the aisle!

The bishop didn’t even mention eternal life or being sealed in the temple. Bonus!

The groom cried, priceless.

The bride panicked because she didn’t get her ring before the I do’s!

The untraditional Father-Daughter dance was beautifully executed.

Bar tab came in under budget.

So what went wrong?

The stupid flowers got thrown away. And who did I blame? My best friend. The one, who wrote a beautiful speech, spent countless hours sewing flower girl dresses, filling petal boxes, shopping for baseballs, getting me wine, holding my hand and encouraging me for the last year. And that is just the tip of the iceberg.

It was a few seconds in lapse of my judgment. Why cry over flowers that will die in a week? I didn’t. I cried over hurting my best friend’s feelings – all of them.

I have pictures of the flowers and that is what will last. Every bride tries to save her bouquet but in years it is thrown away. It is the memories that stay. That is what I forgot. No one cared that they got to take an arrangement home for a week. But they will all remember that I blew up for a split second.

It wasn’t just hurting my friend that gave me anxiety, it was the thought of the bridal bouquet that kept me up. On it was pinned the something borrowed: KyKy’s god-daughters baptism rosary that we had blessed by the Pope when we were in Rome and the something old: Kyky’s Great-Grandmother’s watch that her Great-Grandpa gave her grandmother on their wedding day. The same something old that my sister used on her wedding day. Things that only have meaning to us. Silly I suppose in the realm of things. Friendships are more important than objects aren’t they?

But I was the MOB. KyKy was texting me from her honeymoon to make sure I got her bouquet and the treasures off of it. How could I tell her it was gone for good? Compacted in the daily garbage?

To make you feel better . . . I dumpster dived! Knee deep! A very nice non-English speaking facilities man escorted me and Spermy down to the trash bins and together we tore through eight dumpsters. We found nothing but a lot of hotel room garbage. I mean nasty stuff. Dirty q-tips. Kleenex. Room Service. You get the idea. I stunk! Not sure my hands are clean yet! Where was Kir for those pictures?

Our good friend Ron proceeded to dive through several more, eventually finding THE flowers!

Scott, the hotel manager took charge of holding MOBzilla’s hand through the crisis. A reward was put out to find the bride’s bouquet.

Monday morning, 8 AM I received a call. It was Scott. “I have good news, I’m holding the bouquet!” He insisted on delivering it to my room.

Needless to say, the concierge, the bell desk, the check out guy and the valet all asked if we found the bouquet. I am the crazy mother of the bride. Not sure I wear it proudly.

I thank my friends for forgiving my selfishness. They did not deserve my tirade.

The bouquet, watch and rosary, are drying for the bride who knows nothing of the event.

It Takes a Village

Calm cool and collected . . . that was me. The epitome of the perfect mother of the bride. Not anxious. Not nervous. Why? Because my girls had my back.


They spent hours fussy cutting fabric to create perfection in a flower girl’s dress. The use of ninja sewing squares to insure precise mitered corners on custom sewn table runners. Toting steamers and irons up a canyon to eliminate press lines in provided linens. Climbing ladders to hang column wraps to disguise avalanche cement columns. Every detail covered, nothing left to worry about.

They were up to their elbows in rose petals stuffing Chinese take out boxes ‘til wee hours in the morning to shower the wedding party during the recessional. Meticulously pulling scissors to curl chartreuse ribbon on the handles while affixing the little programs. Making it all a party with glasses of wine. These are my friends, my best friends.

Who deserves friends like this? Ones willing to take the background as second string bridesmaids?

I’m not sure how I became so lucky as to have so many women love me. Do I deserve this? I’m not sure. For the last year all they have heard from me is wedding, wedding, wedding. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Yet they hold my hand, run to the fabric store or the sporting goods store, stay up late, lose time with their own loved ones and help me pull off the most perfect wedding ever.

The week before the wedding all they would say is list, list list. Give us your list of to do’s. Your job this week is to relax and enjoy your daughter and the joy of the weekend to come.

Incredibly, that is what I did. I had no worries. They took care of everything. The last minute details were divided amongst them. I got to go to dinner with my daughter and laugh and enjoy life. Hems were sewn. Linens were starched and pressed. Beautiful speeches were written. I slept without waking to terrors. I have great friends.

The day of the wedding they showed up in force to make sure my vision came to life. Friends from out of state hung pillar wraps. Husbands hauled outdoor heaters into place. Bridesmaid bras were sewn into place and priceless photos of the entire event were taken.

They say it takes a village . . . and the village rallied and came to my rescue.

Thank you to –

My second string bridesmaids:

Kel, Sandy, Mia & Kir

My second string groomsmen:

JD & Corey

Honorary Line:

Ron & Eileen!

The MOB has been MIA

As much as writing this blog was therapy, I ran out of brain capacity to keep it up. Between meetings with florists, bakers, photographers and alterations I completely lost all capability to do anything but wedding. My mind has still been running while I sleep with blog ideas and in my spare seconds I have written them, yet not posted. So now, it is time. The bride and groom are relaxing in Mexico. I am still having an anxiety attack now and then but am ready to share the events of the past year. Please forgive me for my laziness but realize that I was busy trying to be the best mother of the bride I could be.


It is in retrospect that I make these posts now.

My Little Pony Won’t Fit Through Airport Security

Have you heard that if you get a doctor’s note any animal can become a service animal? That is crazy. Of course it is, the new rule applies to the crazies that can’t cope without their dog, cat or yes, even miniature horse. Restaurants have to seat them, hotels give them turn down service and airlines are required to let them fly in the cabin.

Animal dependency is no longer confined to owning a purse dog.

What does this have to do with the wedding? Snowbird is up Little Cottonwood Canyon which is a watershed area meaning NO PETS ALLOWED. Fenway cannot attend the nuptials! That or just pay the $1000 fine if we get caught with him.

The idea of boarding Fen is very upsetting. Kyky is trying to convince me to seek psychiatric care and get him a service dog license. I refuse! Not because I don’t want my tiny man at the wedding but because I think the psychos that are doing this are ruining a system. Tadaki and his fellow CCI graduates have been through intense training and are incredible dogs. They have earned their certification and perform a valuable service for their companions. I hate these people that are making it hard for true service dogs to get on airplanes or into restaurants.

However . . . recent events have me thinking about joining the asylum.

My sleep pattern has changed in the last few months. I find myself waking up with clinched fists and a racing heart beat! Suddenly I can’t remember by usual psychedelic dreams. Sometimes when I wake up I wonder if I have a subconscious desire to take LSD. Instead I wake up with an overwhelming sense of panic and draw a complete blank to the dream that sent me there. I physically unfold my fingers, get a drink of water and try to get back to sleep.

I’m told I’m having sleep anxiety attacks. Great! Maybe I really do have a need to see a shrink.

Then Kyky noticed a new pattern. When Fenway sleeps over I don’t have these anxiety attacks. Instead of having night terrors, I have insane Fenway dreams.

SeaWorld introduces their newest Shamu trainers – Abihell and Fenway! Come see the world’s youngest Killer Whale trainer Abihell and her sidekick weiner dog Fenway. Yep, that is my dreams latest advertising campaign for SeaWorld. I went to see the show. The grand finale is the two of them surfing Shamu around the arena and splashing guests. Oh no! An accident. Fen fell off. And of course he is wrapped in a down comforter to keep him warm while working in the arctic waters. The down comforter takes on water and pulls him under! No worries, Baby Shamu to the rescue. Suddenly Fenway bursts to the surface on the nose of Baby Shamu and jumps back into place next to Abihell. The arena erupts and he waves his little paw as they finish the show.

Abihell loves this dream and constantly asks me to tell it over and over.

I’m hiking in Driggs, Idaho -- showing off the quaint little town to a few of my friends. This has to be a dream, I DON’T hike! We stop at the Targhee bar for a beer. OK, the dream is becoming more my style now. My guy friends have to go to the bathroom so Fenway and I wait out by the lockers for them. And who is there taking off his sneakers, why Michael Jordan of course. Fen jumps out of my arms and runs up to start kissing Michael’s legs. “Fenny get back here! No kisses! It is rude!” I was so embarrassed. My dog is licking the legs of a basketball God and he won’t stop. To my surprise, Michael tells me it is ok. Then he bends down and with his championship ring encrusted fingers lifts Fen up to his face. “Oh Fenway, you are so cute.” Michael then makes little googly kissy lips and lets my dog lick him all over his face. Next thing I know he is posing with my dog for a photo shoot. We chat a little about the NBA Finals between the Jazz and the Bulls and how I saw his last shot as #23.

The morning after this dream I had to Facebook my friend from Chicago to let him know that my weiner dog got to meet Michael Jordan and his haven’t! I’m pretty sure he tried to conjur up his own dream meeting between Michael and his dogs Zeplyn and Russell.

Fen is growling. He never growls in bed. He only growls and barks at things in the backyard. I roll over to see if I can figure out his problem, and there, standing at the bottom of my stairwell is a man dressed all in black. OMG, it is Richard Ramirez The Nightstalker! I can tell by his trademark tennis shoes! Holy crap! What am I going to do? There is no escaping my basement. Then all of a sudden Fenway transformed into a weiner dog version of Cujo. His teeth were enormous and his growl extra vicious. He stood in prairie dog stance and sort of reminded me of The Crane from Karate Kid. My dog was going to kick The Nightstalker’s ass! Richard Ramirez raised his pentagram tattooed hand to calm Cujo and whispered, “Holy Satan.” He then calmly and quietly backed his way up the stairs. Fen chased him out the back door while I called 911.

OK, maybe Fenway and I watch way too much Truecrime TV. But my 8lb dog chased off The Nightstalker!

I don’t need Valium or Prozac, I just need my dog to sleep with me and the anxiety attacks don’t happen. Kyky is calling to get me an appointment. Fenway might make it to the wedding after all. And I might have a custom made black satin straight jacket.

Blood and Wine!

Did you know that there is a cab called Gladiator?  It was a truly thumbs up moment at the liquor store today.  And the thumbs were saving me.

It has been quite a week.

A nineteen hour road trip to the middle of nowhere Montana with my mother.  Kyky is lucky that there will be a GOB at her wedding after that.  I truly wanted to throw her from the vehicle at ninety miles an hour several times over the course of the thousand mile trip.  She was an anxious, mean  and selfish passenger.  I was supposed to be greatful that she accompanied me.  It was too dangerous for me to go alone.  Really?  What would she have done for me if the car had broken down?  If I was attacked?  If I got lost?  Broken down - she would have told me to call my dad.  Attacked - I would have been murdered while in the process of trying to gather her oxygen stuff and prod her out of the way of danger.  Lost - really, isn't she always lost?  I'll be nice.  The couple of hours that she actually visited were kind of nice.  I still took a valium when I got home!  But the trip was well worth it.  I paid tribute to a woman most deserving of the life celebration her community and family honored her with.  And my best friend appreciated my being there, even if she didn't say it.

My dad's best friend passed away on Tuesday.  An awful death.  He was alone on a business trip and had a stroke.  The hotel staff found him twelve hours later after his wife made a distressed call looking for him.  My dad is on vacation in St. Maarten.  Unreachable to most.  Unable to make it to town for the services.  I am his ambassador.  I will send a card of condolences to John's widow.  Kyky and I will make the drive to Idaho for the services.  We are not my dad, but we can represent him.  It is important to him, and therefore, important to us.

Finally, though kind of trivial next to two deaths -- bridesmaid dress shopping!  Kyky can't think about bridesmaid dresses without overwhelming anxiety.  How much can she expect people to pay?  Should the Maid of Honor be dressed differently than the rest so she stands out?  Short?  Long?  Strapless?

Last night we found a great dress and at a good price.  Four out of five loved it and even said "I'll totally wear it again."  Silly saying.  Everyone knows they won't! The dress is like the jeans in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.  It fits the busties as well as the less endowed.  It fits the bridesmaids blessed with height as well as the shorties.  The jock and the tree hugger both like it.  The future sister-in-laws liked the price and loved the pockets.  The only one with an issue -- the girl who doesn't like her legs.  The one desiring a full length gown rather than a sexy above the knee hem.

Problem solved -- just add a laser spider vein removal to the wedding budget and everyone is happy.

Stress, Stress, Stress.  How to escape?  It is Friday and that means a new episode of Spartacus.  An evening of tiny loin clothes and abs of steel.  A game of how many times can the word cock be used in a single hour.  And what would gladiator battles be without a glass or bottle of red wine?  A stop at the liquor store and my evening is perfect.  The week's stresses fade away just like the lovely Thracian's past.  The bottle of Gladiator Cab is fading away pretty nicely too.

Jerk Off Those Relief Society Arms!

I have insomnia.  Do you?  Do you find yourself watching those stupid weight loss and exercise infommercials in the middle of the night?

Obviously I have.  And the wedding and my appearance in my MOB dress has effected my common sense.  For the first time in my life I have wanted to order something from those fakies that only appear in your subconcious at 2 AM when you don't turn your TV off!

It is the Shake Weight.  Just the sight of it makes me giggle.  Can I really get rid of my arm flab and back fat by giving a simulated hand job for six minutes?

I bought it!

I have done my 6 minutes for the last few days.

I'm pretty sure a man who had a weak wife/partner invented this product.

Will my arms look like Michelle Obama's at the wedding?  Probably not.  But will I be able to break the Guiness Book of World Records for the longest hand job -- YES.

That accomplishment might actually get me a date for the wedding.  Please send all eligible bachelors my way!

Sexy Time . . .

a foreign term to me. I got the guilty pleasure of having Kyky to myself 24/7 for her entire life. She was four years old before I sent her camping for a night with T. I had finals and couldn’t get away for the long weekend until Friday. T and Kyky had Friday off and were eager to get to the lake with everyone else. She packed her own little bag and was ready to load up in the bumpy truck for a night of fun and excitement, knowing that I would be there in time for lunch the following day. My parents gave me grief -- both telling me how she was probably crying herself to sleep. Talk about a guilt trip!

I drove into camp at Yuba the next day to find Kyky and T riding a wave runner and having a blast. T admitted that she had a few sniffles but he told her a story and she fell right asleep. It was a comfort to know that she loved him enough to be without me. It also made me think what life would be like if I had let Spermy in. Nah – T didn’t have legal rights. I could take her away at my discrestion. Greedy, I know. But I couldn’t imagine giving her up for more than a night every four years.

Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter – all mine. One year when I was dating Otis and I had to leave Kyky for a couple of hours to go to his parents’ house for Turkey dinner and it felt really lonely. Ky and I have spent her entire life together. Sure there have been a few long weekends apart. We’re not joined at the hip! The last couple of years she has shared her time with Stretch’s family over the holidays. It is nice. So far everything has worked out perfectly. Turkey morning is spent with the Stretches. No need for me to start cooking that damned bird at 4 AM! Christmas morning starts at our house. PJs all around!

So I have never had to share Kyky but now there is Fenway. Yes, Fenway, Kyky’s little Chi weenie. A tiny little wiener dog named after our beloved Fenway Franks. I bought him for her for Christmas last year. Her first dog. And don’t think I’m some mean mommy. She had bunnies and fish. Ky has just never been an animal lover!

Problem is, we both love Fen and think of him as ours! What am I going to do when she wants to move out with him! Who will make him scrambled eggs once a week to keep his coat shiny!? Who will buy him ridiculously priced clothing? Who will dip his chips? He doesn’t like tortilla or potato chips without dip! And Ky doesn’t know that he likes chunky salsa!

I guess joint custody is the answer to our dilemma. I’ve never tried this before but it works for my divorced friends. I’m figuring holidays won’t be a problem because Kyky and I spend those together. It is the rest of the year that is going to be tough. Currently I get my time when she doesn’t want him -- basically when she has a date, school or work.

Things are going to have to change though. I need a schedule. I need sleepovers. I need my time! This week has been our first test. Stretch’s parents are out of town and after the whole Grammy Dearest incident; Kyky has been living over there! She drops Fen off in the mornings when she has school. He has had two sleepovers when they have wanted to host Beer Pong tournaments. Nothing scheduled or documented though.

So I propose Sexy Time. That is what single moms call it. The time where your kids are away and you can have dates or just one night stands. It doesn’t matter. It is mom’s sexy time.

I want one night a week to spoon with Tiny. He is the best at curling up in the nook of my knees.

If I have a day of press checks, he is mine! He loves a nice drive in the car.

When I’m sick, he gets to be my nursemaid. No one else lies by my side and looks up to see if I’m ok every time I wiggle. If he could only get water and make soup he would be perfect.

Oh, and Sunday nights are a must. Those are our True Blood and red wine nights. He gets three little nips of wine and is the only one that loves vampire movies as much as I do. Well, besides Lost Boys. That one scared him under the covers.

The rest of the time will be my Sexy Time! Mama gets to be a MILF or whatever she wants time! Damn, I’m going to have to start dating. Sexy time cannot be spent on the couch!

Fen, we will work it out. Don’t worry. You won’t be hurt in this change of living situation! We all love you, just remember . . .


I know a tiny man,
He owns a weenie stand,
He sells most anything from hot dogs on down.

And in my future life,
I’ll be your tiny wife,
Fenway, we love our tiny man!

Mama Needs a Free Hand!

We met with the first florist today -- he was great. Totally got the look and feel Kyky was going for and suggested beautiful autumn flowers that fell in her color scheme.

Then the oddest question when it came to MOB flowers. Did I want a traditional corsage? A wrist corsage? or a bouquet that I carried?

Traditional flowers pinned to my silk dress?! I would feel like a granny!

A wrist corsage? My dress would be safe from damage but I would feel like I was a prom.

Bouquet? I can't carry a bouquet! I need a free hand at all times to hold my glass of wine. But if both hands were full I wouldn't be able to hug, only do the little pat pat.

This is going to be a tough decision.

Grammy Dearest

Have you read The Almost Moon? The much anticipated third novel by Alice Sebold, author of The Lovely Bones.

I remember how I anxiously awaited its arrival on the bookshelves. But it left me disappointed and unfulfilled. All my time waiting to read it and I was left with a very empty feeling . . . until today.

The novel is about a mother-daughter relationship and as I read it I thought of me and Kyky and I just couldn’t relate. I couldn’t imagine such a tumultuous relationship. That is until now. I should have been reading it with thoughts of my mother running through my head. She is the crazy mom that should be smothered, not me! I’m the murderous daughter, not Kyky! Now I’m thinking it might be one of my favorite books ever written!

Through the air vents I could hear screaming, then doors slamming, crying, more yelling. I couldn’t imagine what was going on upstairs but I knew I wanted to stay hidden in the sanctuary of my basement bear cave. You see, we all live together. Mostly, not happily, but dutifully. That is me and Kyky, not so much Gram. She thinks we are indebted to her; not the other way around. Anyway…

Straws finally broke on both ends – Kyky and Gram were at each other’s throats. Kyky locked herself in the bathroom, Gram picked the lock! Kyky ran down the stairs, Gram followed. A feud that has been brewing for weeks was finally boiling over!

Kyky can be a total bitch to Gram, but Gram usually/always deserves it. I should scold her and remind her to treat her eldress with respect. But how can you respect someone who is so self centered and never admits to being in the wrong? Someone who has to make everything about her, even this wedding?

Details about the fight are not really necessary for this story. Kyky left with her Elvis bag in tow, filled with enough clothes to be gone for days. Gram threw herself a pity party that no one else attended, no matter how many people she tried to invite. A typical end to their brawls.

So tonight I have been stuck with my pouting mother sitting on the couch by me. She keeps trying to carry on a conversation. A conversation that she always tries to bring back to how she was right and Kyky was a bitch no matter if we started talking about dinner or the weather. It always ends with Kyky in the wrong and her feelings being hurt.

I try all my normal diversion tactics to get her to retreat to her room. I made her watch the new Starzz Spartacus. A brilliant series full of blood, raunchy sex and beautiful half naked men in sandals and loin cloths – something she would hate! Way too vulgar and disgusting. But she stays. Her only comment is that the barbarians don’t dress very warm for the snowy weather they are battling in.

I play fetch with Fenway who she despises and I get him all riled up, growling and running around out of control. She grabs the damn toy and joins in!

I can’t take it!

Then I remember how Sebold's main character Helen shows up at her mother’s house and suffocates her. Wraps up her body and puts it on the porch. She cuts off her braid as a keepsake. My mother has short hair. What can I take? Damn, I wish she had bigger feet. She has a great shoe wardrobe. I would take all the ones that are too high for her. The ones she buys thinking she is still thirty-something and unable to walk in.

Ok, so Helen’s mother lost control of her bowels, mine lost control of her mouth. Lucky for me . . . I won’t have to do the sponge bath after I kill her! Helen’s mother was mentally unstable, mine is just crazy, mean and narcissistic!

Helen does have something else going for her, besides the fact that she is a nude model at age forty! OK, we don’t share that similarity. Well maybe if I were a model for a sketch class studying the classic middle-aged body, the ones with saggy boobs, tummy pooches and big, curvy, dimpled butts. Helen has an x-husband, an accomplice that helps her cover up the murder and move the body. Who could I call to help me!? Not Kyky. She would be too overjoyed jumping up and down in sheer excitement. My brother-in-law, though I am sure he would appreciate what I had done, is a lawyer and couldn’t possibly break the law. My dad would help – but he is 3000 miles away. Can a body keep till he gets here? Maybe in the cold garage? Mom thinks it is a good enough refrigerator for Thanksgiving leftovers, why wouldn’t it work for her? No, I would have to dispose of the evidence myself. Good thing I’m an Investigative Discovery junkie! All those sleepless hours of watching true crime might pay off for me.

My mind is just racing. Must keep filling my glass. Must buy bigger wine glasses to save my energy.

Finally, she has fallen asleep on the couch. Still in my space, but at least the constant nagging and lecturing has stopped. There is a pillow, a possible murder weapon.

I waited too long. My window of opportunity has escaped me. She raises her head and notices that Conan starts in ten minutes. She can’t miss his last show! Conan saved her.

Besides, my bottle of wine is gone. And she has already bought her dress for the wedding. I guess I’ll have to let her live.

Oh, God! Her dress for the wedding, that’s the next episode.

Mama’s at Laguna Beach Peck, I mean Park.

A long day of meetings in LA was welcomed by an evening of beautiful beach volleyball players on Laguna Beach accompanied by a bottle of Chardonnay. Half dressed boys with beautiful bods.

I’m talking buff, tan, glistening 20 something year olds. In their full glory of low riding surf pants with sun bleached hair. Not the frosted fake stuff we see in Utah. One was even so dashing as to do a back flip off the boardwalk for my cute bombshell blonde of a friend . . . Mama Mia. Then he looked back and flashed a wide white glistening smile. It made her day. Happy New Year to her!

Yes, our hotel room is within walking distance of the public beach. You know the one where Karch Kiraly used to play a game of pick up in the sand with Lagunatics. Are you too young to know who Karch is? Google him! He is the god of USA volleyball.

We are looking forward to four days at this glorious retreat.

Wake up call . . .

Did I mention I’m standing at the beach with my big black boyfriend Tadaki and he just pooped in the sand? Don’t Google him, he is just Kel’s dog. Not the god of dogs, but our dog god none the less. I’m the fairy dogmother that takes him poop and pee at all hours of the day while Kel lays in bed. Even poop bags in Laguna are awesome! The cool rich artsy fartsy people want to pet my dog.

Wake up call number 2! . . .

Mama needs a wallet. Or a sugar daddy.

First Kel’s card was declined at the hotel. Mama Mia rescued that one. Next, my card was declined buying wine at World Market! Is this our omen that we shouldn’t be traveling AGAIN!? Or that we should have waited until Friday – Payday – to fly out? No worries, we have five bottles of wine, snacks and an ocean view room. Things always work out for the mamas.

Did I mention our meeting on Saturday with 80 Firemen? Outdoors where it will be hot and they will probably just have to wear their boots, helmets, bibs and suspenders. Shirts would be too hot. That is the dream vision of firemen right?

Regardless of what has happened. I just got back from “hurrying” Tadaki on the beach. He isn’t opposed to going on sand. My luck, we walked by starlight and listened to the waves crashing. There is nothing like a romantic walk on the beach with a big black man.

Happy New Year

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld land syne!

For auld land syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

I’m Scottish, and this is a Scottish song about love and friendship in times past. The lyrics relate to a drink shared by men and women to symbolize friendship. Is this song telling me something on this night of a new decade? Should I welcome 2010 and old friends with open arms as the Waterford crystal ball drops in Times Square? Should auld acquaintance of twenty years ago be forgotten and left in the 80s? Can I really forget the past and welcome my old friend back into my life as if nothing ever happened?

Can I really drink a cup o’ kindness? Well, maybe if it is accompanied by a sidecar.

So I need a little encouragement to face the future. Leave me alone. At least I'm willing to face and accept it/him.

I have been really proud of myself so far. Mind you, I have only seen Spermy in person three times since his resurrection. The first time we both talked on our phones to avoid personal conversation while he bought Kyky’s first b-day present. Afterwards we spent over thirty minutes on the phone. The second time, I surrounded myself by thirty other people while he met Kyky’s family and I met his for the first time! The last time, my 40th birthday, we actually hugged. I have to admit that touching him after twenty years was weird. I know, a bad adjective to describe such a milestone, but it is really the only one that works for me.

It just turned midnight. A new decade. The ball dropped. Dick Clark slurred his new year wishes and should have embraced retirement no matter how much of an icon he is in this yearly tradition. A new text wishing me a Happy New Year. Ryan Seacrest with his bleached smile. JLo in her nuddy bodysuit. Where was Bon Jovi? My kid left after she attempted to open her first bottle of champagne.

I like having my friend back, even if it means I’m the dirty little secret.

Happy New Year to everyone. I hope that your dreams become reality, no matter how absurd they are. Remember sometimes dreams come true in ways we never expect . . . and if not, . . sometimes they are still AWESOME to enjoy.