My Moment with Marshall Bruce Mathers III.

"My thing is this; if I'm sick enough to think it, then I'm sick enough to say it."
-Eminem

It was the summer of 2002 and I was about to share a moment with the "Real Slim Shady".  I-kid-you-not.  It all began a few weeks earlier when my friend extended an invitation for me to join her at the "Anger Management Tour", I accepted (best decision ever).  At first my mom was a little iffy at allowing two 16 year old girls go to a concert alone (especially this concert).  Yet, as you can see, in the end, I got what I wanted (not a usual occurrence).  When we get there we realize that we have floor tickets.  Floor tickets.  Can it get ANY better?  It can.  It did.  Mind you, just a few days earlier I had watched Mr.Slim Shady perform on the MTV Video Music Awards (back when there were actual music videos).  I know I sound like one of those people.  You know, the ones that are always like, "Ah, back in the day".  Honestly though, "back in the day" when television wasn't bombarded by ridiculous reality t.v., things were good. Okay, back to the the Slim.  So, to see him up close and personal, was, well, unbelievable.  I recall he was even wearing the same bracelet he had worn when he accepted his award.  Now, let me describe how close we were to the stage.  Imagine a railing and then a stage right behind it.  Imagined it?  Well, I was on the railing.  There was not-a-single-thing between me and the stage.  Nothing.  When Papa Roach came on that night, I actually felt Jacoby's sweat on my face.  Ew.  Gross.  I know. 

 Back to my story.  Well, Marshall came on and he was rockin' (rappin', you know what I mean).  And, well, as you can imagine, he became mighty sweaty.  So, he grabbed a towel and patted his face.  And, then, it happened.  THE MOMENT.  He reached down, grabbed my hand, looked me in the eye, smirked, and handed me his towel.  Yes.  That totally effin' happened.  Marshall Mathers touched MY hand and gave ME his sweaty towel (sigh). I was left in a daze, a slim shady induced daze (or maybe it was all the smoke around me, I dunno).  And then .05 seconds later I was attacked.  Yup, attacked.  The girls standing beside me came at me like a swarm of killer bees.  And, I did what any girl would do.  I stuffed that sweaty maroon towel down my shirt.  Be jealous.  All the girls in the room were enraged.  I even remember walking out and hearing whispers, "Oh, look, there is the girl he gave his towel too".  Honestly, I felt like I was the -ish, seriously.  Wait, I am the -ish, who am I kidding (I kid, I kid).  I mean, I didn't want to wash my hand.  Nor did I wash that towel.  Ever.  I mean, it's been almost 10 years and it's still safely tucked in a ziploc bag.  Oh, yeah, it sounds gross, sure.  But, it's memorabilia, dude.  Don't act as if you wouldn't have done the same.  If you know me personally, sorry, you've probably heard this story a gazillion times.  Just be grateful you only had to read it not hear it.  So, tell me, have YOU had any star moments you'd like to share?  I'd love to hear about them.
xoxo

The "towel".  Never washed.  Too bad it no longer smells like Marshall, ahh.
Its 10th birthday will be on September 1st.
And, I've indirectly given away my age, oops.
Oh, well.
So, will the real Slim Shady, please stand up.

Flowers, the happy kind.

"Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers."
-Wallace Stevens

Funny story.  I was in 8th grade and we were about to begin our lesson on symbolism.  My teacher (whom I adored) asked the class what we thought flowers stood for.  We were about to start reading "Flowers for Algernon" and she wanted us to give our opinion on what the flowers in the title meant.  Of course, my hand was the first to go up.  Asalways.   It's not for nothing I won the vote for "Overall Brilliance" in that class.  "Yes, Renata, what are your thoughts", said my teacher.  And, I, brace yourself, said in the most serious of faces, "Well, I believe it symbolizes death and dying, you know, as in a funeral?".  The  entire class went silent as they glared at me.  Um, had I said something wrong?  My teacher, she laughed, and in the most gentle of ways said, "Will someone PLEASE buy Renata some flowers, she must get that idea out of her head".  Turns out, I was right.  And, it's not as though my view on flowers are entirely morbid.  It just so happens that at that moment, at that time, something told me that was the right answer.  Creepy.  I know.  I'm really not your average girl.

Fast forward about 10 years.  I do like flowers.  Not in a funeral-arrangement-kind of way.  But, in a, I-am-thinking-of-you-so-here-is-something-beautiful kind of way.  And, though there are other things I'd prefer, I mean, flowers, they sorta die.  I do appreciate their beauty.  Just don't under any circumstance buy me Roses.  Ugh.  So, so, so, so (I-cannot-stress-this-enough) overplayed.  It's like buying someone a heart shaped box on Valentine's day.  Who are you, Captain Original?  And, personally, I feel that you buy someone Roses when you don't really know them.  It's safe.  And, I'm not one for playing it safe.  Except when it comes to staying away from psychopaths, then I am "Cautious Carrie".  I've watched one too many of True Hollywood Story "Beautiful and Missing" episodes to wander around dark alleys late at night.  Or to park next to white creepy looking vans.  Call me paranoid, whatevs.

If you do ever want to gift me with some sort of flowery thing, here is what I like.  Peonies, hydrangeas, and tulips.  Not necessarily in that particular order.  And, if you are asking for my forgiveness, flowers are not the way to go.  After the scenario in my 8th grade class, I try to keep the connotation of the word flowers in a positive light.  I try, I try.
xoxo

Hydrangeas-Tulips, but, never, ever, Roses.

Do you believe in magic?

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”
-Roald Dahl

Magic.  I love anything and everything that has to do with magic.  When I was little I desperately wanted to have magic of my own.  Much like the two characters in Samantha Stephens in "Bewitched" and Jeannie in "I dream of Jeannie".  Ah, if with a twitch of my nose or a blink of my eyes I could have or do anything I'd like.  Well, that would be wonderful, and, slightly dangerous.  You know, make all the morons around me turn into, I dunno, pet rocks.  Kidding.  I would only do good.  I would be a good witch like Samantha or Sabrina (yes, I watched "Sabrina the Teenage Witch", especially on TGIF).  In my eyes Witches>Vampires.  But, I digress.  This isn't necessarily about my slight tendency to lean towards witchy magic.

 It's more about my absolute two favorite shows as a little girl.  Nick at Nite was the -ish.  Seriously.  Many a nights I would stay up way, way, way past my bedtime in order to watch these two shows.  And, on the days where I would fall asleep before they would come on, the very next morning I would fake an ailment.  "Mommy, mommy, my tummy hurts (really, really, sad face), is it ok if I stay home today, I don't have any exams or projects?"  This way, I would catch the morning reruns (and eat waffles) all while cozied up on our green couch.  Oops.  Did I really just admit faking sick.  I think I did.  Oh, well.  Momma, I am sorry.

I am feeling a little nostalgic today.  Monday's.  They do that to me.  Especially days where being an adult is just a tad bit bleh, if you know what I mean.  And, I sort of, kind of, want to take a week off and slip back to the year 1997, when I was in 5th grade (hence, my need for magic) .  I want to wake snuggled up in my pink-and-white striped comforter.  I want to slide out of bed, walk past my life-size barbie house, and walk straight to the living room to turn on an episode of "I Dream of Jeannie" followed by back-to-back episodes of "Bewitched".  Thinking of these television shows transports me back to a time where the only thing I worried about was if my Weekly Assignment Calendar had been signed by my momma (well, not really, I used to forge those all the time, oh, please, I was like ten).

Watching Samantha and Jeannie outsmart and enchant those in their lives made me dream of a universe where magic was entirely possible.  I would daydream of all the spectacular adventures I'd go on, the fabulous outfits I'd where, and the quirky people I'd meet along the way.  I had a wild imagination.

So, tell me.  What television shows bring you back to a different, more care-free time?  Oh, and all of this was possible as long as I was able to get to the remote before my little brother.  Because, the times he wanted to watch his morning cartoons always seemed to coincide during a marathon of "Bewitched".
xoxo

The War of Hair.

"Hair style is the final tip-off whether or not a woman really knows herself."
-Hubert de Givenchy

As far back as I can remember I have always adored short hair.  Ok, not, Twiggy circa 1967 short, but, more like Katie Holmes circa 2007 short.  Yes.  I love that bob.  And, I love Katie.  Actually, I love Katie pre- and post- the Cruise. And, that hair. Ah, so chic.  My mother.  Not-so-much.  My mother.  She likes long hair.  Long and nicely trimmed.  Which is how my hair was, until it wasn't.

 In the fourth grade I finally convinced her to let me decide how short to chop my hair.  Well, I think she may have tired of the begging-pleading-foot stomping-door slamming-whining and crying.  She gave me a hand, and, I took her arm.  When my favorite hair stylist, Luizete, asked me without my mom noticing how I wanted to cut my hair, I simply pointed to my chin.  Not a word was said.  I couldn't risk my lovely mother overhearing.  So, there I was.  Sitting in front of the massive mirror awaiting the moment I had so badly yearned for.  And, in one snap it was done.  My mom turned around and her eyes widened.  It was too late.  She was stunned.  I actually thought she might shed a tear.  She didn't.  After about 15 minutes she got over it, almost.  And, she realized that it wasn't that bad.  Don't get me wrong.  She still had a preference for my long golden locks, but, every now and again I would have a fit and my hair would be gone.  Most of the time, my dad was the one to take me.

And, this is where my fascination with cutting my hair came to be.  And, every couple of months I have this urge to just chop off all of my hair.  The urge.  Well, it comes out of nowhere.  It just comes like a wind storm and for days, weeks, months I simply cannot put it to rest.  Should I? Shouldn't I?

And, it's about that time again.  Ugh.  That anxiety filling time, where, I simply-cannot-stand-my-hair.  What is a girl to do?  Long hair.  Short hair.  Layers.  No layers.  All I know is that I need a change.  And, no, I will not.  I repeat.  Will not, dye my hair.
Decisions.  Decisions.  Decisions
What do you think?
Here is what I am thinking.

Bob with bangs?

Just a plain bob?

Or, just layers?
Hmmm, let us see what the weekend shall bring.
xoxo

On Love.

"Maybe I'm dreaming you. Maybe you're dreaming me; maybe we only exist in each other's dreams and every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other."
-Audrey Niffenegger

Every once in awhile you meet someone and your life is changed forever.  And, if you are lucky (which in most cases, I am not) you fall in love.  Lucky me, I have a husband and a best friend in one.  The two of us, well, we have a unique story.  Ours is sprinkled with just a little bit of magic.

Here comes the surprise.  We have known each other since we were nine years old.  I know.  I know.  An extremely long time.  I was at a barbecue at the park when his dad walked him over and introduced us.  I gave him one look and decided he could join in on our game.  "Can you swim?", I asked.  He could.  And that was the beginning.  No, this isn't that kind of story.  Our parents had common friends.  And, so, we saw each other quite often.  Then I turned 13.  And, we hadn't seen each other in months.  He saw me, I saw him, he asked me for my number, and, the puppy love began.  First kiss.  First love.  First heartbreak.  Of course we couldn't really date.  But, we spent hours and hours on the phone.  Held hands when no one was looking.  And, if anyone asked, he was my boyfriend.  Well, anyone but my parents.  Cute, right?  Then we broke-up.  I was too young.  He wanted me to tell my dad (it was never going to happen).  So, we went our separate ways.  Enter the heartache.  Here is the thing. Somehow we knew we would eventually be together. I mean, come on, who makes a bet at the age of 12 that they would marry the girl they've known since the age of nine.  He did.  And he won.  When we got married I wrote him a $25 dollar check (he should have raised the stakes).  More years went by.  And, no matter what the circumstance, when we would see each other it was as though we were the only ones in the universe.  

When I turned 18 our paths crossed again.  This time things were different.  He even asked my father for permission to date me (I'm not one for tradition, but, my father is).  The rest well, as they say, is history.  As of now, I am not entirely sure where I stand on the notion of soul mates.  Yet, there is this inextricable pull inside of me that tells me otherwise.  Soul mates.  One person made for the other.  If the universe conspired for two people to find one another, well, then he and I would be the example.  We are a force to be reckoned with.  The husband and I have been together for eight years and married for almost three.  There are good days.  There are bad days.  Yet, all days are wonderful because he is in it.  And, above all else we are friends.  I balance him.  He balances me.  We balance each other.
Husband, you're my favorite.
xoxo

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."

-Pablo Neruda

Coffee, a Love Affair.

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
-T.S. Eliot

Coffee, in the morning.  Coffee, in the afternoon.
Coffee.  There are few things in life I can't live without.  Coffee is at the very top of that list.  The aroma is like no other.  The velvety deliciousness as it goes down your throat, hmm.  I cannot remember a time where I disliked coffee.  When I was younger I would beg my mother to let me have a cup, a sip, a taste.  She-Never-Gave-In.  Like any other parent she gave me the whole speech on the plethora of side-effects.  Mainly, the whole "IT WILL STUNT YOUR GROWTH", was what she kept repeating.  Ugh, really.  Yet, here I am today.  Only at 5'4.  Not like that coffee would have made a difference. However, she did indulge me a just a little, on special occasions.  She would allow me to dip my french bread in cafe com leite (milk and coffee) during Sunday morning breakfast.  So, it was more like a mug of milk with a spoonful of coffee.  You take what you can get, right?

If there is one sure thing about my mornings is that there will always be a cup of coffee.  Iced.  Hot.  French Vanilla.  Hazlenut.  Toffee.  Whatever.
The only difference is that now I have to have more decaf than regular.  And, what I realized is that it never was about the caffeine.  It was the surrounding emotions that drinking coffee gave me.  The memories of afternoon coffee with my grandmother.  The early morning conversations with my father.  Coffee is a reminder of all the love that has filled my life.

And, there is not a single thing that I like better than a coffee date.
Good coffee, good conversation, and good company are the most fine ingredients for a wonderful time.

Which again, is why I need for it to be cooler out.  Like.  Now.
xoxo

Summer Lovin'.

"Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather. "
-John Ruskin

Summer, I am so over you.
It's been real, but, it's time to say good-bye.

Once upon a time I yearned for summer.
I counted down the days till June arrived.
Those were the days before real life, a real job, and real responsibilities.

Even though I am not over the sweet scent of sun tan lotion, popsicles, and sun showers.  I am so over humidity, mosquitoes, and the blistering heat.
Summer you've brought me happy moments.
Yet, I am counting down the hours for your departure.
I've never been much of a summer girl.  Fall.  Fall has always fit me better.
xoxo

Ziggy Marley, the clearance puppy.

"Dogs never bite me.  Just Humans."
-Marilyn Monroe

Yes, he is a boy.  So, what that he has a blue bow in his hair? He had to look nice for his first picture many years ago.

It was late and he was on sale.  Not that $800 is really a bargain, but, I guess that from his original $1,200 point, perhaps it was.  Well, we had gone into the puppy store with NO intention on bringing home a friend (no matter how cute all of them were).  My dog Gizmo (also a Maltese) had passed several months before and I was just not ready to befriend another pup.  Yet, my husband (who was not my husband at the time) decided that since he lived alone he needed a constant companion.  Ya know, someone to be absolutely ecstatic the moment in which you walk through the door?  So, we looked around and though he originally had his eyes set on this black little shitzu, as soon as we looked at Ziggles, we fell in love.  So, we asked if we could pick him up.  We could.  We did.  We set him on the floor in the designated play area, and, he went wild.

Let's just say that we laughed for a good 5 minutes just watching him run around and around and around.  This little pup was too much.  So, we put him back in his crib (I still lived at home and Felipi hadn't made a decision).  The look on his puppy face was too much to bear.  So, we left (heartbroken).  And, during our ice cream break, Felipi decided he was going to get that puppy.  The store was about to close and he was going to make a deal.  And, he did.  The owner decided to accept his negotiation and he was now the owner of a 4 month old Maltese.  For now, at least.  We wanted to name him Bob Marley, but, figured that Bob was just not cute enough for a nickname, so, Bob's son would have to do.  Ziggy Marley it was.  And, boy was he cute.

To make a long story short, let's just say that Felipi took Ziggy Marley home and then the next day called me and said he couldn't take it.  Ziggy Marley just had too much energy, too much spunk, and needed too much attention.  It was almost midnight and it was pouring, but, he was bringing him to me.  I was now his momma.  And, what a lovely day that was.  My mother wasn't exactly thrilled.  Yet, she learned to love him too.  Except during those weeks where he was eating organic and would have accidents underneath her dining room table.  Oh, and when he chewed the foot of her chairs.  Oh, and when he would pee in her room, ya know, those sorts of things.  Yet, look at that face.  Could you stay mad for long?
xoxo