This Girl is on Fire

She's just a girl and she's on fire

Hotter than a fantasy, lonely like a highway

She's living in a world and it's on fire

Feeling the catastrophe, but she knows she can fly away

                 - Alicia Keys

Yeah.  It was kind of like that.

 My lover got me a ticket to Jamaica for Valentine’s Day.  When I say my lover, I mean my employer.  And when I say Jamaica, I mean Orlando, Florida for a client meeting.  So, maybe I didn’t get whisked off to the Caribbean (this time), but my Valentine’s Day was hotter than yours.  Believe it.

I sometimes wear my hair naturally and for me that means a bunch of curls.  It makes me feel a little spicy.  Like at any moment I’m going to hurt someone with a mere switch of my hips.  The first time I wore my hair naturally as an adult, it was to impress a boy.  He had a crush on a girl whose hair was curly.  She was also Latina, but with one of those really annoying Spanish accents that everyone finds sexy, except me.  It just made me want to punch her in the mouth.  She was a troll and I was fabulous (obviously).  I would make him see this. I would make him choose me.  Short of boiling a bunny, I decided I would make my hair look just like hers. 

What?  That’s not normal?

I had no idea what I was doing.  Out of the shower, my curls look great; at the beach, same-same.  So I imagined all I had to do was wet hair, towel dry and head out.  But by the time I got to work my hair was in a huge fro.  I was going for Selma Hayek-natural but instead looked like a meth addict.  Hot!  I had no rubber band to tie my hair back and no time to run to a convenience store.  So, instead of impressing my crush, I ended up terrifying him.  Honestly, I find it very unfair since he never even found the stash of memorabilia stolen from his office (used forks, dirty Kleenex’ and other such personal objects). 

I digress. 

Present Day. 

I carry extra hair ties in my bag… at all times.  I’ve also learned to wear my hair curly (it requires lots of product).  And I’ve got enough confidence in myself now that I’ve pretty much stopped stalking boys.

… 

Okay, that last part just isn’t true.  But my confidence level does (as you will see) border on the obnoxious.  That’s how all good stories start, though.  Right?

Last week, February 14^th, I walk into a bar to meet a guy I used to date, (but who now (like Biz Markie says) is just a friend), along with a bunch of his Navy buddies.  My hair is curly (product!), my makeup is flawless, my heels are fierce, and my jeans fit like a glove.  I smell delicious and it is literally and figuratively intoxicating.  Everyone in the bar is eating out of my hands. I’m not sure how many years, (or decades if I’m lucky) I have left of this, but for now, in this wonderful, magical carefree time, I’ve still got it and it feels beyond amazing.

So, my friend walks me to the back of the bar and pushes me against the wall (because girls really hate it when guys do this) and he kisses me.  Things get hot.  Too hot.  I begin to have sensory deprivation because nothing is matching up.  The sweet smell of hubris has been replaced with something foreign.  Something awful.  Something burning. 

My hair. 

My long, flowing, thick, beautiful hair.

It’s on fire. 

I am on fire.

I am on fucking fire. 

I shriek a scream so loud it sounds like murder.  It is murder.  My hair… has been murdered. 

My Navy friend, like all good sailors, skilled in the art of damage control, pats the fire out.   I run to the restroom, heart racing, whimpering like a slobbery buffoon.  The product in my hair caught an open flamed candle on the ledge of the wall I was leaned (pushed!) against.   I begin to pull chunks of burning hair out onto the floor and there seems to be no end.  The clumps - melted, charcoaled black clumps - keep coming out.  I have a lump in my throat.  My cheeks are flushed.  My armpits sweat.  I smell horrible.  The whole bar smells horrible and everyone knows who dealt it. 

I run out of the bar humiliated… like all good stories end.

Maybe it was a sign from Jesus to cut my hair.  Or to stop making out in public.  It’s difficult to tell because He does work in mysterious ways.  Six inches later, my hair is still long.  No one noticed my missing locks at work, which is a good sign.  Lord, in this your Lenten Season, if you want me to stop kissing frogs, please throw a couple of princes into the pond.  And might I add (respectfully), when you want to burn a bush in the future, please don’t use my hair.

I’m just a girl and I’m on fire.  I thought you knew.      

Thirty-Four

Today is my birthday.  I am 34.  This day has always felt magical to me, like anything is possible.  On this day, 17 years ago, I wished so hard that I would get kissed for the first time so I could stop practicing on my forearm.  Yes, I was a gigantic nerd, and I never did get that birthday kiss.  But in the last 17 years, I have kissed a lot of guys.  I mean, A LOT of guys (unless my parents are reading this, in which case I have kissed only three).  So I guess that means I’m kind of a big deal.  I am usually remiss in sharing my age; I’ve been 22 for the last twelve years.  But I am still smokin’ hot and being 34 gives that statement a lot more gravitas.  I mean, you don’t get to kiss ten (million) boys in your lifetime by being ugly.  More than that, I’ve got some battle scars from the last year and at 22, I couldn’t have done them justice.  I realize now that what makes this day, Boxing Day (the best thing about Canada), so special to me is more than having one magical day.  It’s about having one more magical year and using this day to stop and reflect; to count my war wounds and count my blessings; to set goals and wish for moments as exciting as my first kiss.   

Thirty-three.

I got laid off from my job this year.  Again.  It was scary and humiliating and frustrating.  I had a brand new mortgage.  I had a brand new surround sound system!  My juice cleanses were cut off.  I stopped shopping at Neiman Marcus.  It was terrifying.

I got my heart broken this year.  In an email.  On Thanksgiving Day.  Which I happened to read while (surprisingly enough) I was with my entire family.  It felt like I got sucker punched.  Through the smiles and jokes I forced for my family, all I wanted to do was crawl into a deep dark hole and cry.  I wanted to shed tears that sounded like a two year-old having a temper-tantrum, with random high-pitched screams and fist pounding and feet stomping thrown in for effect.  I wanted catharsis. I wanted comfort.  I wanted him. 

Those were two pretty hard blows, but 33 was still the most amazing year of my life.

I moved to a new city and made incredible, life-long friends.  I travelled to different countries and to Navy football games.  I saw my first Foxfield races.  I danced until the roof caught fire.  I bought an apartment, on my own, with my own money; and it is the most beautiful apartment in the history of apartments.  I drank my first gin-martini and it was absolutely delicious; I didn’t even have to pay for it.

I fell in love.  However fleeting and painful it turned out to be in the end, it was passionate and fun and beautiful and sexy.  And it gave me the promise for what I am capable of feeling and what someone, someday will be capable of feeling for me too.  As it turns out, that someone is probably going to be Jamie Foxx.  And we are probably going to get married.

Most of all, I got a fresh start.  Again.  I got a new job.  Lots of new jobs, actually.  After just over two months of being unemployed, I had my pick.  Having recently been rejected professionally and personally, it felt amazing to feel wanted again.  It felt magical. 

Thirty-four.

I’m moving to Manhattan.  It’s bitter sweet.  My new tenant came to look around the house and as she was telling me how much she loved it I got a lump in my throat and wanted to shove her out the door, then throw her jacket and purse out after her.  I love the life I had in Boston, but I’m so excited about moving to New York that I sometimes have difficulty sleeping.  That city catches my breath every time.  It is magnificent, electric, seductive; and moving there (again) scares the shit out of me. 

Turning another year older is daunting.  I don’t look quite as fresh or chipper first thing in the morning without makeup as my 22 year-old self.  I carry Tums to fight off Indigestion, my unwanted travel partner.  I worry about how many fertile years I have left and think about when the right time is to freeze my eggs.  I never had a thought of these issues in my twenties.  My thirties, layered with independence, responsibility and lactose intolerance, have been happier and more exciting than the entirety of its previous decade.  Thirty-three, with its highs and lows was truly extraordinary.  Thirty-four, with its wrinkles and achy bones, will be my greatest feat yet.  I am going to be the most fabulous version of myself and take Manhattan by storm.  Not just for today, but for the whole year, anything is possible.  My adventure starts now.   

World Domination or Certain Death

I broke my knee and arm in a skiing accident when I was 17.  I had surgery on that knee when I was in the Navy and have since had chronic pain.  For this and other reasons, I am a disabled veteran and am entitled to free health care for the rest of my life at any Veterans Administration’s (VA) Medical Facility.  This is a blessing, but much like Peter Parker’s brush with a radioactive spider, also a curse.

I’m familiar with hospitals all over the country.  My broken knee and arm were neither the first nor the last bones I would break on my 5”7 frame.  A friend (in no way associated with the medical community) recently diagnosed me with small-footed-syndrome™, a condition which limits the body from maintaining its balance due to its too-small base paired with its too-tall height.  I accept this information as fact and have since begun purchasing shoes a half size larger and stuffing them with socks.  Like millions of men before me, this is to give the impression of genetic superiority to potential mates, lest they believe our children would suffer from the same small-footed-syndrome™ as myself and search for a better (larger-footed) genetic match. 

Aside from my newly diagnosed disease, I am also a borderline hypochondriac… surprisingly enough.  I once had pain in my chest that was so intense that I convinced my parents to rush me to the ER before my impending heart attack triggered by the early onset heart disease that I so clearly had.  It turned out to be gas.  I walked out, head held high, with Mylanta and a few hundred dollars worth of co-pay.  As I explained to my parents all those years ago, this was a small price to pay for the peace of mind knowing that their healthy, athletic pre-teen daughter was in fact not having a heart attack. 

I recently had my yearly appointment (code word, pap smear) at my local VA hospital.  Like the others I have visited, these buildings are dreary, soul rendering institutions suitable only for the 47%.  The results came back abnormal, showing the possibility of pre-cancerous cells.  This is extremely common and is generally followed by a second pap smear to rule out irregularities due to different stages of menstruation, inflammation, a drop in the Dow or a regime change in the Sudan.   Naturally, in its infinite wisdom, the VA prescribed me a colposcopy, a highly invasive and unpleasant procedure.  This was like treating the common cold with an intensive round of chemo.  

My gynecologist knew nothing about me.  She didn’t know that I was an (Half) Ironman or that I floss every day.  I mean (Half) Ironmen and regular flossers do not get afflicted with pre-cancerous cells.   But the rational side of me took over and I realized that if I was having this procedure it meant that I was both barren and dying a slow, painful death.  Obviously. 

Leading up to the colposcopy was an arduous process that took about an hour.  The nurse practitioner took my vitals.  I told her I always have a low body temperature, but she didn’t believe me; they never do.  The thermometer read 94.6˚.  She took it twice with the same result then used a second thermometer, again testing twice.  She recorded the highest result of 96.4˚.  I’ve always had a very low body temperature, which I am convinced is preserving my skin so I will be the hottest 50-year-old on the planet (invest early, fellas), which leads me to believe that my life’s purpose is probably genetic world dominance, establishing the first true Gattaca* (after first researching prosthetic-foot-elongation™).

The nurse followed up with an extensive dive into my family’s medical history.  She glanced at my online medical record and then casually announced that I tested positive for Hepatitis B. 

Readers: slow your role.  If I had tested positive for HepB, “The Adventures and Missteps of a Boat School Diva: Shenanigans, Tomfoolery and Other Bits of Ridiculousness,” would hardly be the forum I would choose to announce this.  Continue reading, please…

I broke out into a cold 96.4˚ sweat.  My heart raced and I thought of all the reasons that my life was now over, of course knowing nothing about Hepatitis B, its causes, symptoms or treatment.  I nearly burst into tears, asking what this meant in an octave so high it rattled the windows. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said flatly.  “It shows you were vaccinated for Hepatitis B.  You don’t actually have it.” 

Somewhere, somehow, I hope that I am wracking up points for my non-violent behavior.  “You see, Officer, I know I snapped this one time, but what had happened was…”

I moved into the treatment room where a matted brown sterile table with cold, sharp metal stirrups taunted me like a fat bully waiting for school to get out; no escape but to face it.  Having already been positively diagnosed with small-footed-syndrome™, and falsely diagnosed with Hepatitis B, which in my mind was every bit a life-ending, painful, humiliating disease, the pressure was too much and I broke.  I started sobbing, knowing that the worst was clearly in store. 

I had cancer. 

Contagious cancer. 

Leprous, contagious cancer that would spread through my uterus, breasts, skin, clothes and anyone I came in contact with. 

My life… was over.

I have always been a mass of contradictions.  The little girl who played with Barbies and planned her wedding to Ken in a beat before plastering mud on her face and playing Army with all boys on her block; the girl who was interested in fashion and makeup and went to the Naval Academy; the woman who loves her independence but yearns for a family.  So, for me, it’s not terribly shocking that I’m the same person who took those moguls head-on and fearless at 17, but dramatizes life in extremes that cause my 96.4˚ body to react with tears and trepidation. 

Either way, what hangs in the balance is simple.  World domination or certain death.  With stakes this high, I'm going to start flossing twice a day.  

    

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gattaca

Get Out of the Street

You fucking nigger!

I read these words days later, and they still hurt.

I grew up all over the country, but I managed a pretty long stint in Louisville, Kentucky.  I imagined as I was moving from New York all those years ago, that Kentucky was lined with dirt paved roads and wondered if people still traveled by horse and buggy.  The idea of moving out of an apartment building in the city into an actual house, with my own bedroom, backyard and picket fence was so exciting that I would have traded the luxuries of running water for the outhouse that surely waited for me in my new city.  Louisville, as it turned out, was every bit a metropolis, with concrete sidewalks and gas-fueled automobiles.  Incidentally, using the bathroom outside eventually proved to be frowned upon. 

I live in Boston now. They’ve had running water since the 1800’s.  Clearly, this city has arrived.  I share a neighborhood with Senator Kerry and his billionaire wife and Tom Brady and his leggy supermodel.  I have a good job.  I’m educated.  I buy my groceries at Whole Foods.  I share a dentist with Mick Jagger.  Clearly, I have arrived. 

I went to the beach on Saturday morning with a new group of friends.  I left my apartment at 8:45 to hail a cab, dressed in J. Crew from head to toe. Traffic was thin and I stood in the road giving myself easy access to taxis approaching from either direction. A couple of angry cars honked their horns at me.  One angry woman held her horn for seconds and threw her arms up at me. “Yatta Yatta!” I yelled back mockingly, not taking offense.  I knew I was wrong, but I was in a hurry.  I stayed in the middle of the street until a pretty, well-dressed woman my age in a brand new Nissan blew her horn, slowed down in front of me and yelled with venom that burned like poison, “Get out of the street, you fucking nigger!”

Like breaking a bone, the first reaction I had was numbness.  I stood slack jawed as if I had been slapped in the face.  Emotions raced through me as my mind began to process what had just happened.  I was immediately transported through time and was no longer the beautiful accomplished woman I believed myself to be, living in one of America’s biggest cities in the 21^st century.  Instead, I was back in 1990; an awkward little girl in Louisville, struggling with my identity, starting fist fights with boys who called me nigger. 

That woman, dressed like me, could have been any one of my friends.  She wasn’t a white supremacist.  She wasn’t old.  She didn’t have a confederate flag mounted on her window.  And as far as I know, she didn’t have magical powers. But in the course of five seconds, she was able to strip me of everything that I was.  In that moment, I wasn’t smart or kind, ambitious or quirky, funny or interesting; I was just a black girl, a nigger. 

I got into a cab and tears started flowing.  I had a lump in my throat and my breathing was shallow and quick, trying to prevent myself from sobbing.  As I went to meet my white friends, all I felt was humiliation.  They would know what this woman had called me and they would believe it too.   They would see my brown skin, full lips, curly thick hair, round button nose and they would think I was ugly.  They would see my clothes and think I was an imposter who wandered into the wrong side of town, the white side of town. 

More than that, they had probably always believed, as she did, that I was just a nigger. I felt bamboozled, betrayed by every white person I had ever met.  Because no matter what our background, we were all lumped into the same category and they referred to us this way behind our backs.  They were waiting for me to annoy them, to step out of place, to fail; then they would tell me how they truly felt about me; about all of us.

This woman could have been any one of my friends, but she wasn’t.  She had no idea what it was like to love me or be loved by me, to nurture me, laugh with me, learn with me, be annoyed with me or fight with me as so many of my beloved white friends and family have.  I have been struggling to find a meaning or lesson in all of this, but a social message seems a little boring.  Instead, I’ll share with you some thoughts I’ve had on the issue since it happened:

1)      I acknowledge that all white people are likely not out to get me.  I am fairly certain that this is probably true. 

2)      I imagine she will develop the strain of HPV that turns people into trees.  I mean, I’m not saying I hope this happens to her, I just kind of have a feeling that it will.

3)      I hope no one ever calls me this to my face without the luxury of fleeing in a car; not just for my sake but theirs as well.  Any one of my friends and likely any one of my blog posts will confirm that I truly am bat shit crazy.  Earrings will come off and Vaseline will come on.  I believe that there are certain situations where a good stomping is not only understandable, but well deserved.  At least I’ve got my insanity plea all but locked up.

Resurgence

I can tell you with absolute certainty that my happiness is 100% correlated to my level of physical fitness. I can pin-point the exact moment it happened - I mean, my spiral into complete and utter despair. Last June after running a 22 mile race (on the heels of a Half Ironman) – true to my obsessive compulsive personality – I got burned out from exercise. It’s taken a year, but I’ve pretty well burned through my supply of endorphins as well. Lately, it’s all I can do to keep myself from mailing strangers anthrax in a strawberry scented scratch and sniff.

Fast forward to present day. I live in a new city; a place, my priest promised, littered with eligible Catholic bachelors of the 6”3, handsome, Cape Cod-summering persuasion waiting to date me. Liar.

My work outs are sporadic at best. I’ve become that girl who was at the gym every day in January and now is nowhere to be seen. A year ago, I would have thrown a Slurpee at someone matching my description, and then shoved them in a locker with sweaty underwear. Now, I walk with my head down trying not to make eye contact with the kool kids.

Replacing my triathlon obsession, I’ve taken to a new hobby: longing for the days of yore. The days when I could wear a dress barely long enough to cover my squat fashioned glutes and know that my legs were killin’ them. Now, they’re just killing me. Yes, men still stare, but now it’s because they’re counting the dimples of cellulite all over my thighs. I know this, of course, because I can read the cartoon bubbles coming out of their mouth. Naturally.

I wake up in the morning and search for a pair of pants that fit. I try one leg on at a time planning my move back to Panama where jeans are fashioned to cut off circulation and camel toe is par for the course.

I sit in my chair at work. I can feel a flab of fat from my stomach hanging over my clothes. It’s humiliating. When I get up to go to the bathroom I have to politely ask my co-workers not to talk about me. Because they, like everyone else on the planet, spend their days thinking about how much weight I’ve gained.

And because I apparently do not know any better, I tried gimmicks. I paid $250 to do a 3 day juice cleanse. With absolutely no fiber, this meant that I was constipated for three days; and ravenously hungry. I celebrated my successful completion with a juicy cheeseburger and truffle fries. In fact, I still have that extra pound I picked up to commemorate the experience. I do not recommend.

What is left? I guess doing what I know best: ridiculousness. I signed up for a Tough Mudder this summer. July 14th in Vermont. Ten miles. Twenty five obstacles. One blog resurgence.

These days, fear of death and humiliation are the only things that seem to motivate me out of bed to run. As you, my readers, are my witness, I will not rest until I have exposed myself in the shortest shorts possible and the cartoon bubble coming out of your mouth reads ‘Now, there’s a girl who does not know how to dress age appropriately.’ Then, and only then, will I know that my life, and by extension the entirety of humanity, will be blissfully happy.

INVISIBLE

Last weekend was my 10 year college reunion from the United States Naval Academy. I love Annapolis, and I love Navy, but after last weekend, I must admit, I am over it. And I am never drinking again.

Kid Rock said it best in "Cowboy" - "Give a toast to the sun. Drink with the stars. Get thrown in the mix and tossed out of bars.” And that’s pretty much how it happened. I’m from Grosse Pointe, so I can’t quite claim to rep the same hood he raps about. But last weekend I was representing the trailer park like an extra from 8 Mile.

I am a pretty confrontational person in general. I never shy away from an argument and I’m not one to hold my tongue… for any reason. So, when a bouncer at the bar I was at started swearing at me for walking behind a restricted area, I told him I did not appreciate his tone. Confusing my general sassiness with the antics of a drunken sailor, he then proceeded to escort me from the bar. He clearly does not know. Get a white girl angry and she will write a sternly-worded-letter to the proper authorities. Get a Latina angry and she will set-your-shit-on-fire. The next time I walk in there will be to destroy it. I think that’s more than fair.

So I leave and go to a different bar but I am feeling incredibly emotional… because (!!!) I am intoxicated. To calm myself down I immediately order and down a vodka club soda. Drinking more is always a good idea. Then I become even more emotional. I run up to the bathroom, go into a stall and begin to sob. If Rosario Dawson could shed my tears she would win an Oscar and never have to make a movie about a run-away train again. My sobs are the most pathetic sounds you will ever hear anyone or anything make. Worse than a whimpering puppy. Pathetic.

A sympathetic girl in the stall next to me asks in her kindest voice, “What’s wrong, sweetie? Is it a boy?”

“No! It is not a boy,” I cry. As if any boy could ever make me feel as horrible as I feel at this moment. I mean, obviously this kind of pain can only be from getting kicked out of a bar by a short, ugly, uneducated bouncer. This is the absolute worst life has to offer.

We both leave our stalls and the sweet girl happens to be the new wife of a guy I had known in college. We look at each other and say nothing. Awk-waaaard. She turns and leaves. My sobs resume.

Later that evening, I manage to get control of myself and fall completely in love with a boy I had a crush on during my days as a Midshipman. Being the vixen that I am, I get him to walk me home. So we proceed to make out in the middle of a dark street. Classy, I know. I made a mental note to buy a dog and walk it in front of his apartment until he falls in love with me too. Because that’s not weird at all.

I walk into my house (alone), armed with butterflies in my stomach and stars in my eyes. Then I find two guys laid out on the couches and another on the floor in the fetal position with his pants around his ankles. Any sober person would take pictures and a video. Instead, I kick off my shoes and fall into bed.

The next morning is just painful. My eyes are swollen from crying. My head is throbbing from drinking. My very soul is exhausted from acting like a 21 year-old. I head out the house and find a mysterious stain on the rug in place of the drunken guy with his pants around his ankles. My housemates and I will later learn that it is a $5,000 rug with papers to prove it. The owner of the house is a West Point grad. What kind of a douche bag leaves a $5,000 rug in a rental house? I don’t know how they do it in Upstate New York, but in Annapolis leaving a $5,000 anything around sailors and marines is never a good idea.

I go to brunch looking as well dressed and manicured as a homeless person. So naturally I would run into the Mrs. Old Flame from the previous night in the bar bathroom. Hot.

I honestly wish the story could end here. As if it needs to go any further…

I sober up and leave Annapolis. Obviously not having gotten enough of the city the previous 3 days, I head to Cantlers with my best friend and her husband. Not having liked my last Annapolis impression of hobo-couture, I don a super cute J-Crew dress and 4-inch peep toe heels. Fabulous, right?

We sit by the water and enjoy cold beers. The waitress comes by and tries to save herself a few seconds by recklessly reaching over my head with a tray full of Old Bay Seasoning. She trips and dumps the entire tray directly on top of me. I am frozen in shock. It's like an episode of I Love Lucy. I stand up and it is as if I have crabs in my hair. My face is red from the seasoning. My dress is smothered in crab sauce. I smell like crab. Kid Rock said he would paint the town red. Well, I did that and got myself painted red in the process.

Dress ruined, smelling like the main ingredient of she-crab soup, I head into town feeling annoyed and mischievous. I have a few more drinks (always a good idea). It starts to downpour and my friend and I wait in a corner shop while her husband gets the car.

I see two athletic handsome men who clearly go to the Naval Academy. In the sexiest voice I can manage, I say, “Hey boys, are you two Midshipman?" I'm just trying to see if I still got it with Old Bay Musk. They turn around with the look of pure joy in their eyes. They are two boys, we are two girls. They think it’s about to go down. But my friend turns them away and tells them to keep walking. Their shoulders slump a little.

And then it hits me. Karma, like me, is a bitch. Maybe I should stop laughing at homeless people, stealing candy from children, and playing with 20 year-old boys who don’t stand a chance. Because this is exactly what happened to Britney. A couple of drunken mishaps, trysts with unsuspecting boys, run-ins with Old Bay - and her career was over. If I shave my head, someone please organize an intervention.

Aside from all of the antics of that weekend, the truth is that no matter how much I love my school it is tough going back. As a brown female, that school made me feel invisible. And last weekend I was transported back in time 10 years. All of the mids, back with their Ricky-Bobby-Smokin’-Hot-Wives all seemed to fit in in a way that I never could. It is tough for me to see that. They call Academy grads "Ring Knockers." I earned my ring not with a great piece of ass, but with four years of busting my ass.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t care about fitting in. I think it’s a natural emotion and pretty common among most well adjusted people. But sometimes, you find yourself at a Rick Perry fundraiser and it’s OK not to belong. The things that made me different at the Naval Academy are some of the things that I love most about myself. So maybe in Downtown Annapolis I am an invisible girl who gets tossed out of bars and doused in Old Bay Seasoning. But outside of that town I am a fabulous woman who falls on dates and does the robot in dance clubs. I'm okay with that.

Annapolis, I love you. But honestly, you give me angina. IHTFP and will need every second of the next five years to recover for our next reunion. See you then snitches.

PS… A bottle of Malbec is not “drinking.” Just sayin.

I WANT MY BABY BACK, BABY BACK, BABY BACK...

CHILE!


My sister, Amelia, was born 20 years ago today. I was the baby in the family until she came along and ruined everything. My sister is single-handedly responsible for my dislike of toddlers.

Louisville, Kentucky Circa 1993

My sister, a screaming 2 year-old, pounds at a glass screened door willing her parents to return from a night out. I try soothing words (she can’t hear them over her screams). I try The Lion King (who doesn’t love Hakunah Matata?!). I try a cookie (good girl – never too young to start thinking about your hips). None of it works. Finally, I walk out of the front door and leave her alone to cry after me. But in my defense (!!!)… I only walk around to the side of the house; I don’t actually leave. And it’s not like I give her Nyquil. Or vodka. Or duct-tape her mouth shut. Or smother her screams with a pillow. Give me a break - I was only 14! If it makes you feel any better I don’t care much for teenagers either.

Grosse Pointe, Michigan Circa 1999

I’m home from college and for whatever reason, happen to change clothes in front of her. The girl looks at my body and screams bloody murder then runs out of the room. (I will have you know that this is the first and only time someone has seen me sans clothing and runs, thank you!). Apparently she noticed the new belly button piercing that I got during my spring break trip in Miami. She does not yet realize that there are worse things one can pick up on South Beach. Honestly, what a drama queen! We obviously have nothing in common.

Seriously, for sisters who share DNA and grew up with the same parents, it really is surprising how different we are. I’ve met Rosario Dawson in person. Besides wanting to follow her home like a lost puppy, I kept thinking, how do I look more like this complete stranger than I do my own flesh and blood sister? Perhaps I was right all along… my parents found Amelia in a dumpster, felt pity for her and brought her home. It certainly would explain why she is a vegetarian and I eat steak rare enough to ooze blood down the side of my mouth, using only the back of my hand to wipe it clean.

Amelia would rather join the Peace Corps than walk a day in combat boots. She cannot do the robot. She cannot quote Top Gun. She wears a D-cup. But before you think she is a complete loser…

Valparaiso Chile, Present Day

Amelia is a junior in college, getting a double major and minor in Spanish. She is studying in South America for the semester. I could go on and on about her accomplishments, but you know how I hate to brag, even if it is on behalf of my smart, gorgeous, cool, quirky, loving and amazing sister.

Despite our differences we love each other as much as any sisters could. I would rather walk through fire than see her in pain. And no matter how old she gets she will still be my baby sister who will remain almost but not quite as pretty as me.

Amelia Teresa, aka Smelly Mellie

I would like to congratulate her on her birth, on this the day of her birth. And may her first drink tonight be paid for by a masculine Chilean.