"You KILLED Bags?!?!"

In light of this weekend's tragic and way-too-early loss of actress Brittany Murphy, I thought back to one of my favorite movies starring her, 'Just Married'.

'Just Married' was a movie that I saw in the theatre, and was merely average--certainly not an intellectual thriller by any means. At the time, my now ex-husband and I were living in our first apartment, it was my senior year in college and I worked full-time. However, I worked full-time at a job where I had a ton of free time, so I used all that free time to do whatever studying and school work I had, so I was left with plenty of leisure time at home.

My ex-husband worked nights four nights a week, and since it was the first time I'd ever lived away from home, it was eerie for me to be home alone with no noise, so I left the TV on a lot. We had the "premium" movie packages, which one would think, since you are paying "premium" prices, one would get "premium" programming, but not so much. I have since learned that the premium movie channels typically play the same movies over and over, until they move on to the next movie, which they then play over and over. The premium cycle repeats.

That particular fall, the movie 'Road Trip' played incessantly, and sadly, it had become part of my daily routine. Come home from work, cook dinner, eat with ex-husband, read newspaper and magazines, shower and watch 'Road Trip'. It was truly ridiculous TV, and for the rest of my life, I will be haunted by Tom Green and DJ Qualls. In fact, I was recently stunned upon downloading a Britney Spears video onto my iPhone, only to discover him in the video, reappearing in my thoughts. At the time--the early 2000s--he dominated pop culture. Now I don't even know if he is still alive.

After HBO had exhausted its run of 'Road Trip', it moved on to 'Just Married'. So then my daily routine became come home from work, cook dinner, eat with ex-husband, read newspaper and magazines, shower and watch 'Just Married'.

My favorite part of 'Just Married' was the part where Ashton Kutcher's character was working on work--I can't remember his job exactly, but he was working at home--and Brittany Murphy's dog, Bags, annoys him. In frustration, he tosses a toy for Bags, which sadly flies through the window, with Bags chasing right after it. Bags is dead, and Ashton is responsible.

When Brittany's character comes home, she automatically looks for Bags, and confronts Ashton on his whereabouts. Ashton had no choice but to look her straight in the eye and tell her that Bags had had a terrible accident. Brittany looked at Ashton and screamed, "YOU KILLED BAGS?!?!"

To this day, I do not even know why I found this amusing. Was it Brittany's tone of voice? Was it the ridiculousness of the situation, which was common in movies of this era? Was it that the dog's name was Bags?

Here's a shot of poor Bags before his untimely and made-up death, credit 20th Century Fox in 2003:



When I was watching 'Just Married', if I happened to be on the phone at the same time as the "YOU KILLED BAGS?!?!" part was about to come on, I would need to put the person on hold, because I knew I would laugh too hard to have a normal conversation. I would laugh like a schizophrenic over poor Bags, and no one I was talking to on the phone could ever understand, no matter how much I tried to explain. And this was fine, since I also did not understand the hilarity of Bags.

I vowed to name my next pet Bags. Unfortunately, I forgot this vow when I got my dog, who is named Kennedy. Luckily, though, I will never have to worry about looking at a boyfriend and screaming, "YOU KILLED BAGS?!?"

Passive-Aggressive Office Memos

I think it's time to stop running trains and start offering vacations:



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Thoughts on Babies and My Lackthereof

When I was 19, I had lofty goals for procreation. Knee-deep in my pathetic pageant career, I determined that I would like to have three children--all girls, naturally. They were to be named Josan, Jocelyn and Jordanna. The reason I needed to have three girls was apparent: they were to form a trifecta of pageant perfection, and take the state and national pageant scenes by storm. Of course, I also realized that in order to accomplish the high goals I'd set for Josan, Jocelyn and Jordanna, I would need to find myself a very rich baby daddy. Since northeastern Minnesota had a distinct lack of rich and available baby daddies ripe for the picking, I had to set other goals for procreation.

I gradually moved toward the idea of having two children, and ideally, by the time of my ten-year high school reunion, I would have one child and be round and jolly and glowingly pregnant with the second. As it would turn out, this was not entirely off the mark: I was pregnant at the time of my reunion, though it didn't go as I envisioned in my fantasies. It was my first kid. I didn't look at all pregnant until my sixth month. And I skipped the reunion.

As I moved through life, it didn't occur to me that I should think about having kids until I was in Cancun for my mother's 50th birthday. I went home and tossed the birth control pills, and announced to my now ex-husband that I would like a baby. He happily obliged, and it what would hauntingly describe our future, told me that he hoped it would take a very long time for me to get pregnant, because my attempts at getting knocked up meant him getting laid more often.

At first, I threw myself into my new project, dealing with ovulation tests and temping. After a year, nothing had happened. I can't say I was surprised, because deep down, I think I knew something was not right. Alas, I made an appointment with the OBGYN who would eventually become the biggest crush of my adulthood, and he diagnosed my infertility in one quick glance at my blood test results. He started with drugs, which meant calculated baby-making sex, a total downer for romance or fulfilling sex--not that I was having that to start with. Within three months, I was pregnant.

I had a semi-difficult pregnancy. Any pregnancy that is kicked off with fertility treatments is generally treated more sensitively, but I had no problems with the bonus ultrasounds. By week 18, an abnormal growth that had been present since my own birth was found in my uterus, a complication that could interfere with my baby's growth, so I got ordered to have ultrasounds every two weeks. It didn't occur to me to find any concern in this, as I was just ecstatic to know that I was having a girl. At 33 weeks, I got pregnancy-induced hypertension. Again, I wasn't concerned. This meant that I then got weekly ultrasounds and visits with the OBGYN, which suited me just fine, since my love for him was at an all-time high by then.

I had known for a long, long time that I would be having AC via planned C-section, because of the uterine septate causing my daughter to remain in a breech position. I could not be happier. I attended birthing classes, but snickered through the breathing exercises, knowing that I would not need them. I was only going to need the maximum amount of drugs allowed by law, coupled with the reassuring touch of my OBGYN, even if that "touch" was the slice of his surgical knife. From week 28 on, I asked at every visit when we could schedule that C-section. Finally at 37 weeks, I got to schedule it, and naturally, I chose Valentine's Day. Score! This allowed me to guarantee that he had no choice but to spend the "most romantic day of the year" at my side!

A week later, I woke up with an incapacitating headache. I took Tylenol. I took hot showers. I threw up in the kitchen sink. I finally passed out on the couch. When I awoke, I was so disorientated that it took me a bit to remember where I was and how I got there. It was only then that I broke down and called the doctor's office. I was promptly ordered to the hospital.

At the hospital, I repeated the obvious over and over, to every request: No, I would not have a cervical check, because Dr. W said I did not need them because I was having a planned C-section. No, I will not wait for you to talk to the on-call OBGYN, because Dr W is doing my C-section in one week, and anything else would not be acceptable. No, I will not pee in the cup every time I need to go, because I already did that once and that's fair--have YOU tried to pee in a cup with proper aim when YOU were nine months pregnant? No, I don't want the Lortab. I want the Percocet. No, I do not know why the Lortab doesn't cut it, and no, I am pretty sure that it has nothing to do with a pre-existing drug habit.

In the end, I was sent home with a bottle of Percocet and an order for bed rest. The next day, I had an appointment with Dr W. I had already made the decision to not mention my little trip to the Birth Place, fearful of ruining our scheduled February 14th date. In his typical laid-back fashion, we chatted and caught up on each other's weeks, before he asked me about the Birth Place visit. I explained I had a headache, hoping to fool him into thinking that it was a headache and not a pregnancy-induced hypertension headache that smacked "preeclampsia". After all, the Percocet took care of it. I was cured. Dr W asked if "it" was gone. I asked if he meant the headache or the Percocet. He said both. Headache yes, Percocet no. He told me I could sell the Percocet for $10 a piece on the street. I laughed uproarously, because here was a man who understood my dry humor. I proposed marriage. He proposed that he free up his schedule because I needed my C-section the next day.

I was returned to the hospital with not even so much as my baby daddy. In fact, the baby daddy finished his work day and then went for a hair cut before finally showing at the hospital. By this time, I'd been questioned several times by the nurses and the resident on duty about the location of the baby daddy. The baby daddy did eventually show, stayed for a few hours, then headed home. This was fine with me, especially the next morning, when Dr W showed up for a last-minute ultrasound, freshly showered and in scrubs. I was fully intoxicated, not with the idea that I was having a baby in six hours, but rather with the scent of Dr W's soapy bare skin so close to my own.

As the day dragged on, I began to resent Dr W. I could not have anything to drink, and it left me feeling near death. I would go into the bathroom under the guise of brushing my teeth, simply so I could suck the water off the bristles of the toothbrush. I imagined Dr W drinking can after can of Coke, while I suffered dehydration. Finally it was time for my C-section, and AC was born at 1:40 pm, precisely seven minutes after surgery started. Typical protocol calls for a heavy shot of Valium to knock the new baby mama out for the stitching-up portion of the event, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna succumb to any federally controlled substance when I had a full 45 minutes to monopolize Dr W's attention. It took all the strength that I had to fight off the drowsiness, but I indeed carried on a normal conversation, all while Dr W meticulously stitched up my innards. Best. Surgeon. Ever. The payoff came at the end, when after he'd finished up, he squeezed my hand. Beautiful. Even though he'd just seen my reproductive organs in a far more graphic way than anyone else ever will, I KNEW he wanted me, and now I had proof.

After an hour in recovery where I was fully awake--an experience I do not recommend for anyone--I was brought back to the nursery to meet AC. I held her for a moment or two, and then asked for a glass of water.

In retrospect, I still wonder where that "moment" was. You know, the moment where the heavens open and angels sing and you look at your baby and are completely consumed with love? Why hadn't this happened? Was there something genetically wrong with me? Was it because of my physical problems--that my body never went into labor and I somehow missed a hormonal rush that would've caused this feeling?

After I had AC, each day that passed made me feel that I wanted more kids less and less. When she was two, I made an appointment to have Essure permanent birth control coils placed--one of Dr W's specialties, so he recommended it over traditional tubal ligation, a phrase I later came to understand as, "He recommends it over traditional tubal ligation because he is reimbursed more for that in-office procedure than for an in-hospital procedure". I was still married at the time. The baby daddy wanted more kids. I was sure that I did not. I was also sure that I did not want the baby daddy himself, and figured I was doing him a favor. If I had the procedure, it saved him from a vasectomy, so he could still have kids with his next wife. He told me he had never been so insulted in his life. I thought I was being as unselfish as humanly possible. Rule number one of marriage: do not indicate to your spouse that he is welcome to have children with his "next wife", no matter how unselfish you think you are being.

After I had my procedure, I had no regret on my part, but I did have "survivor's guilt", as I term it. I have been so very fortunate to form friendships with a handful of women who have the same infertility condition that I do. They struggle with painful and expensive infertility treatments--and often painful and expensive emotions--to try and have more babies, and the failure rate of such procedures is high. I got pregnant quickly when I did have first-line treatments, and could possibly do so again. The irony that I could potentially have what my friends want so much but CAN'T have is not lost on me. Just this morning, I talked to one such friend. She has a beautiful little girl, who is slightly younger than AC. She herself is one of the beautiful-est people I have ever known, and in my future life, I hope I come back as her. She is never not happy, never not smiling, never not sweet, never not optimistic. She loves her baby, she loves her baby daddy and she loves life. She continually asks me to visit her in the Bay Area, promising a getaway filled with waffles and freshly-made cream, hot cocoa with Kahlua and horse-drawn carriage rides. I warn her that if I did indeed visit, there is a strong possibility that I may never leave. She is the purest form of mothering perfection I have ever known, and brings out all of my "I am not worthies". She makes Mary Poppins, Dr. Spock and SuperNanny look like slackers. You can be sure that her little AN-R is not sitting around watching Spongebob, as I guiltly admit to doing with my own AC. And since we had our babies, she has lost four more, four babies that she loved with all her heart and all her soul, and could not possibly been any more wanted and cherished from the very moment of conception. I know very few people who are worthier of having more babies than R, but despite all these setbacks, she stays sunny and optimistic and beautiful and loving. It brings survivor's guilt tears to my eyes, knowing that I could've maybe had what she wants most, and wishing that I could remove the scars from her heart and simply add them to the scars in my fallopian tubes that will prevent me from ever becoming pregnant again.

Last night, I was shopping, and in front of me was a little girl about AC's age, twirling around on the poles designed to keep shoppers separated and from kicking each other's asses during this mad holiday season. I knew from eavesdropping that her name was very similar to AC's. Suddenly, she stopped twirling, looked me in the eyes and gave me a gigantic smile, and she wouldn't stop. Eventually, we were eye-to-eye at the register, where she was sitting on the counter and, with help from her grandmother, paying for her purchases. Shopping Girl again stared into my eyes and smiled, and suddenly, I was hit with a deep, soul-crushing sadness: I will never again have a child like this. In her eyes, I could see my future babies, those I could've had with that elusive "The One" I keep waiting for. But now, no matter what, I will never be able to share that bond with The One, even if I found him today, when I am still young enough to reproduce.

Looking back, it makes me wonder: did I really not want more kids, or did I simply not want more kids with the baby daddy I was married to at the time? In my mind, looking into those tiny little blue eyes of the Shopping Girl, I caught a glimpse of what it could've been like to have a baby with someone else: a baby daddy who would've kissed my baby bump and talked to our baby through my tummy. A baby daddy who would've been at the hospital with me instead of getting his hair cut. A baby daddy who would pay attention at doctor's appointments instead of spacing out, only snapping back into reality when Dr W called him out on his inattentiveness. A baby daddy who wouldn't have left me at home less than 24 hours after we came home, so he could go ice racing.

The poor marital decision was easily remedied by divorce. The scarred tubes and the endless wonder of what future babies I could've had if and when I finally do find The One? Not so much.

Kate Minus Hate

Admittedly, I watch very little television. If someone stole the TVs out of my house, it would probably take me a long time to notice, except for the fact that I will cop to occasionally using the TV as a babysitter to keep AC occupied for a while. While it can be disturbing to see your kid completely engrossed and staring with a vacant stare reminiscent of a lobotomized patient in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest", Spongebob Squarepants can still be a tired single mom's best friend.

For years, I'd heard of friends watching "Jon and Kate Plus Eight". I saw little entertainment value in this show. First, it left me wondering what sort of people have eight children on purpose. Second, is watching the crazy, loud antics of these children really that entertaining? If I wanted crazy, loud antics, I could skip the TV and just look to my own house.

Nevertheless, when the tabs started reporting last spring on the growing marital problems between Jon and Kate, my eyes slightly perked up as I read my weekly magazines. At the time, I was desperate to get out of my own marriage, and any marital discord and reported splits between celebs became automatic fodder for my own thoughts: Look! If it didn't work for Jon and Kate, what does that say for the rest of us, who don't have the luxuries that millions of dollars and servants provide? If they can't make it under the best of circumstances, how could the average couple make it?

The media and what felt like virtually the entire country grew to be anti-Kate, thanks largely in part to Kate's rumored b!tchiness toward Jon. After all, if Kate could just be nicer to Jon, then he wouldn't have to cheat, but with that b!tch of a wife, how could he not? I decided I needed to see this b!tchiness for myself, mostly because I, too, had been accused of being a b!tch toward my husband, a trait that I partially agree with but fully blame on his own traits, including laziness and stupidity. Someone had to keep the guy in line with plenty of nagging, and since as his wife, this job fell on me. It was not unlike trying to raise a teenager, because my ex-husband is at the same maturity level as one.

After determining that TLC was featuring a Jon and Kate marathon on Memorial Day weekend, I decided I'd check this out. After watching Kate, I was literally in tears--of joy, from laughing so hard. Kate and I were virtually identical on the b!tch scale, and I had said some of the exact same b!tch-phrases to my ex-husband, including complaining about him breathing too hard. In my mind, this Kate Gosselin was hilarious! I wondered if we'd somehow been separated at birth. Just like that, Jon and Kate went from my idea of a horror show to a comedy. Kate Gosselin. Best. B!tch. Ever. You say Kate's crazy? Well, I GOT her crazy.

Unfortunately, as the Jon and Kate divorce talk intensified, so did everyone's hatred of Kate. Since I already have a very similar hair style as Kate--except mine is symmetrical--I felt it my duty to defend Kate's honor. I insisted that there was no "poor Jon" in this situation. He was the one who brought on his own b!tch. I acted just like Kate, and I knew just why. No matter what people or tabloids insisted, I defended Kate.

Shortly after their separation, Jon started acting like the immature, lazy teenager that he had always been, and suddenly public support flipped from Jon to Kate. She's not so crazy anymore, is she? Luckily, I had the same experience when I divorced my husband: guess who looks like the crazy one now? Sure, it takes laying low and aligning yourself with the proper allies, but in time, all those b!tch phrases pay off when the world gets to see exactly why you had to act that way.

With Jon and Kate's divorce finalized yesterday, one can't help but be happy for her. She's proven her net worth as a b!tch, and was named as one of Barbara Walters' Ten Most Fascinating People of 2009, and one of People's 25 Most Intriguing People. Jon, on the other hand, has done what? Date girls half his age? Stolen money from bank accounts? Made ridiculous fashion decisions that prove he still lives with a teenager's mentality?

I like to think this little moral of the story also applies in my own marriage: who's the little b!tch now, baby?

32 is NOT the New 22

Yesterday, I turned 32. My birthday typically goes unnoticed, with its close proximity to Christmas. I got cheated when I was born at this time of the year. If my birthday was in June, perhaps people would notice. Perhaps I'd get double the gifts, instead of the people who give you one gift and tell you that it counts as both your Christmas and your birthday gift. At the very least, I'd be able to get a Birthday Caboose on the tourist railway I work for, as obviously, this train does not run in December. However, since my mother's birthday falls on the day after mine, she has always been aware of the separation of my birthday and Christmas, unlike the general population.

Being single for the first time in 10 years made my birthday slightly less than enjoyable. I don't typically find any birthday downright enjoyable--it's just a birthday. Once you hit 21, there's no real reason to even keep counting and keep track, because you have the same rights at 71 as you do at 21. Sometimes when asked, I even have to briefly think about how old I am, because I don't consider it a daily consideration.

Alas, my loneliness got me thinking back to my 22nd birthday. On my 22nd birthday, I got flowers from three different boyfriend prospects. At 22, I still believed in the myth that Prince Charming would soon be coming to sweep me off my feet, preferably with a fighter jet rather than a white horse. Shortly after my birthday, I chose one of the three flower-sending boys for a relationship, and we were engaged within seven months. Eight months after that, I left that fiance for my now ex-husband, to whom I was engaged after six months. Next time around, I plan to be engaged within five months, to keep consistent with my gradual reduction in time it takes to acquire a diamond ring.

While turning 22 brought many prospects and hope, all of these were blown to hell in the proceeding years. While I did actually marry fiance number two--mainly because I had no other choice, since there was no way in hell I'd call off two weddings in under one year--I was miserable for roughly six-and-a-half years of our seven year marriage. It finally dawned on me that there is no such thing as Prince Charming--that notion is merely an urban legend, like believing that sea monsters live in storm drains or that if you step on a sidewalk crack, you will break your mother's back.


Turning 32 has found me a divorced single mother to that toddler who acts like a caffeinated ferret. I am far more exhausted. I am far more broke. I am far less attractive and fit, at least based on the photo comparisons I have made of myself on Facebook--see left. I am far less hopeful that I will ever find anyone to date me ever again, much less find the much-fabled "The One". Instead of receiving three bouquets of flowers at work, I received none.

The only redeeming quality of turning 32 is that I have a far better group of friends now than I did then, friends whom I adore. Sometimes I worry that my friends will one day wake up and realize that I am not nearly as cool as they are and they will de-friend me, but so far that has not happened. My 32-year-old spirits brightened considerably when last night, they took me out for dinner and showered me with yellow friendship roses and iTunes gift cards. What more could a girl ask for, except maybe an invitation for a date with a cute boy, so she no longer feels completely and hopelessly undateable?

However, as lovely as the evening was, it is always still sad when it ends, because when I go home, I know am going home alone. And that can be a lonely, lonely feeling, and one that when I turned 22, I would've never expected to be feeling when I turned 32.

Don't Ya Wish Yo Boyfriend Was Hot Like Mine?

Two years ago, I somehow stumbled upon the extreme good fortune of getting to meet George Clooney. Who would ever guess, that some girl who lives in extreme northern Minnesota and makes a living at a feeble non-profit train museum would get to meet George Clooney? It made every single frustration and every single small check I'd ever received from this place entirely worth it.

George visited our museum to kick off his press tour for his slightly-less-than-successful movie, 'Leatherheads', as the movie was based in the fictional town of Duluth--the name of my town. As far as life goes, that day ranks as one of my top five, far surpassing both times I've been proposed to, and possibly even the day my daughter was born.

Sadly, when I think back now, I can't even remember the wording of the face-to-face conversation. But clearly, he did remember me, because this was in my inbox today:



To me, it is obvious. He really is my boyfriend. And of all the women he's had--including a rumored love affair with one of Tiger Woods' love affairs--he sent ME this card. I have never felt more special in my life.

I'll Take a Bellini...With a Side of THAT Boy

I enjoy my job very much, and I should, because as I've approached the seven-year mark of my employment here, roughly 22 percent of my living years have been consumed by this job. It leaves me little to not enjoy. Sure, I do paperwork most of the time and it is rather tedious, but I like where I work, I like the people I work with and I like my paycheck and I like my free health insurance. I also like that apart from about four weeks a year, my job is pretty leisurely, so I get paid a decent sum of money to essentially pursue my real interests, like blogging and shopping on eBay.

Unfortunately, this is one of the four weeks of the year that I am expected to work, and I am working hard. Perhaps if I'd been a little less leisurely, I would not have to work as hard this week, but alas, I was not, so now I am paying the price.

Since I have so much work to catch up on--by tomorrow--I had no choice but to skip the annual building-wide holiday party. I figured I really would not be missing much, since I see these people five days a week for 52 weeks a year. Do I really need to devote even more time to them?

However, I did request a Bellini. Served at my desk. Because what could be better than a leisurely job that also allows to to drink? At your desk. No questions asked.

In all of the years that I have been at my job--nearly seven--I have encountered virtually zero attractive men. I work for a railroad museum/tourist railway, and the majority of the men I encounter are in the 65-plus age group. However, a few months back, our insurance rep visited, with his son. Imagine my shock that day when in walked the best-looking guy I'd seen in years. Imagine my horror that I was wearing a maternity shirt--even though I was not pregnant at the time--and no lip gloss. Had I known that I would be meeting an attractive man on this day, I would've freshened up by applying fresh lip gloss, wearing a real shirt that would flatter my DDs and losing 25 pounds.

Alas, the good-looking man is easily a mere 25 years old, a full seven years younger than I. One of my co-workers has explained that to put you in full-on cougar territory, the man you are pursuing needs to be at least ten years younger than you. I beg to differ.

Today, I made an off-the-cuff remark about inviting our insurance rep--and his son!--to the holiday party. As a "favor" to me, my boss did indeed invite them. My no-longer-favorite co-worker called and demanded that I get to the party to mingle, because guess who showed? It was the insurance rep's son. I politely declined, but again requested that she deliver my Bellini.

Imagine my surprise when my Bellini arrived--carried by the good-looking son of the insurance rep. I am not a good flirter. Not by any means. After seven years of marriage, it is a lost skill for me. And when the good-looking man stepped into my office, bearing a Bellini, I am sure that my face turned as red as Sebastian in 'The Little Mermaid'.

Again, had I known that I would be visited by whom I consider to possibly be the best looking guy in town, I would've freshened up by reapplying my lip gloss, showing more cleavage and losing 25 pounds. Nevertheless, I am sure that my bright red face nicely disguised my lack of lip gloss.

After I got through this awkward social situation, my co-workers demanded that I thank them: this was my birthday gift, as my birthday is tomorrow! Despite my embarrassment, it was still a far better offering than two weeks ago, when I walked into my office to find two of my co-workers sitting there, bearing champagne and a half-dozen roses. I asked if I was being proposed to, by not one--but TWO--people. How would I ever choose? They told me happy birthday. I told them they missed the mark by two weeks. Ever since then, I have wondered how they could've possibly gotten this so wrong: they presented my birthday gifts on December 4, which is a day that has neither a "1" nor a "7" in it, so I am not sure how December 4 could be confused with December 17.

Alas, I still can't turn down a Bellini on work hours, with a side order of eye candy.