Romance in the Burbs: Our One Year Anniversary

October 29, 2011 marks my one year anniversary with Ian. I had known him for a good two years before we started dating since we mix with the same circle.

He was already in a long-term relationship. I was already in a doomed relationship, but in a relationship, nonetheless.

I used to sneak looks at him and wonder if he was good to his mother. He noticed me because I was loud, wild, and devilish with this particular group, despite my normally reserved personality.

Anthropologists, man. They throw the best parties. 

Then the doomed relationship guy shattered my heart. Then Ian and his long-term girlfriend broke up.

Ian and I bumped into each other a few times during the summer of 2010, when we were both single. I went to his Fourth of July party. He was strikingly good-looking, and I was so self-conscious, I could barely look at him.

At a birthday party in September 2010, he and I briefly escaped to Papa John's and bought a pizza together.

He scoped things out. I babbled incoherently. I still couldn't bring myself to make eye-contact with him.

In October 2010, mutual friends pulled a few strings and performed some match-making.

Ian and I started hanging out. I started making eye-contact: One small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.

We hung out amongst other friends, but we zeroed in on each other pretty hard. By that time, we were both babbling incoherently.

"I like dinosaurs!"

"I like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!"

"I like Fievel Mousekewitz!"

"Oh my god, so do I!"

"I had the Fievel stuffed animal. I cut his hat off and tried to wear it."

"OH MY GOD, SO DID I!"

"It didn't work, so my mom sewed it back to his head."

"So did my mom!"

"I like Brontosauruses best!"

"I like Triceratops!"

"I LIKE CAKE!"

Clearly, our relationship was built on a firm foundation of communication, maturity and wisdom.

One night, I tagged along with Ian and his friends when they went roller skating. Throughout all of this, I would text my friends furiously:

Laura: "What does one wear when roller skating?"

Friend: "A pillow on your ass?"

Laura: "No, seriously."

Friend: "Honestly, you're going roller skating with your crush. It sounds like a deleted scene from Napoleon Dynamite."

The night after we roller skated, Ian sent me a Facebook message, asking me out to a movie. I promptly called my friends:

Laura: "SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAL!"

Friends: "SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEAL!"

On October 29, Ian picked me up at 6:00 pm and took me to a drive-in movie about a boy who falls in love with a vampire:

Ian: "That kid looks like Hilary Swank."

Laura: "Maybe it is. Hilary Swank's very versatile."

Ian: "IT IS HILARY SWANK!"

After the movie, we went back to Ian's house and played with Transformers and Ninja Turtle action figures.

Laura: "I loved Ninja Turtles as a child. My favorite was Michelangelo. My mom once came home with brand new Ninja Turtle action figures: Raphael for my brother and April O'Neil for me. I cried and cried. I never got a turtle."

Ian: "You can have my Michelangelo."

Laura: "Awww."

We sat next to each other on the couch, occasionally working up enough nerve to brush shoulders.

Pretty hot.

We sat politely on the couch until 5:30am, when Ian drove me back to my apartment. Our night ended at 6:00am, after a 12 hour date. We've been inseparable ever since.

All photos of Laura and Ian by Ren Buford 

Harvey the Killer

Ian: "Winnie needs to be careful. Harvey's a killer."

Laura: "No he's not."

Ian: "Yes he is. He has a Kill Word."

Laura: "No he doesn't."

Ian: "Yes he does."

Laura: "What's his Kill Word?"

Ian: "I can't tell you. I don't want Harvey to kill Winnie."

Laura: "Now I know you're lying. What's his Kill Word?"

Ian: "Well, first I have to connect with Harvey. We have to make eye contact. We have to make a connection."

Laura: "So do it."

Ian: <Stares sternly at Harvey>

Harvey: <Scratches ear>

Ian: <Moves closer to Harvey; stares intensely>

Harvey: <Yawns>

Laura: "Now say his Kill Word."

Ian: "It's Oreo."

Laura: "OREO!!"

Ian: "Stop! Don't scream the Kill Word! He's going to murder Winnie!"

Harvey: <Sighs> <Yawns> <Breathes laboriously>

Laura: "You know, Harvey used to just breathe heavily after walking. Now he breathes heavily while sitting. You might want to get that checked out."

Also, I'm sad to report CDR passed away (from natural causes, not from Harvey's Kill Word).

Rest in peace, CDR. We love you, buddy.

When Mommy Adopted Winnie: A Tale of Horse Ghosts, Demons, and Insomia

I had a dog growing up, a Cocker Spaniel and Beagle mix, who was inordinately gentle, kind, and loving. Muffin was a dream dog. She passed away when we were both 16.

At around age 17, I developed explosive allergies to everything under the sun, including cats and dogs. My allergies had been growing progressively worse up to that point, until they threatened to kill me. Thus, I went on hardcore antihistamines.

You guys, I never wanted a dog, nor did I want cats: Allergies! Expensive! High-maintenance! Poop! Pee! Poop! Expensive! I had reached a point in my life where I was aggressively anti-pet.

After I graduated with my Masters degree, I got a grown-up job and moved into my own apartment in the heart of the city. 

I'm prone to weird obsessions, which is how I've become obsessed with topics ranging from Appalachian poverty to moon landing conspiracies at various points in my life. At this particular point, I became obsessed with ghost stories.

My buddy Sam reinforced such flights of fancy because the girl is stuffed full of creepy-ass stories she swears actually happened. We began telling each other A LOT of ghost stories. Actually, Sam told a lot of ghost stories, while I stared at her, pale-faced and white-knuckled.

This being Laura's Latest Obsession, I also took it upon myself to Google ghost stories.

That's where I read about horse ghosts:

A lady wrote about riding horses as a child. Her horse was elderly, gentle, and calm. One day, she rode past a dilapidated stable. Her horse suddenly reared up and shot past the stable, freaked out and trembling.

The lady mentioned her horse's weird behavior to her dad. Her dad gave her a funny look and replied, "There was a fire at that stable about ten years ago. A lot of horses died."

So the horse was sensing horse ghosts. HORSE GHOSTS, PEOPLE. I MEAN, MY GOD.

That was the night common sense left me completely. I was living alone. I couldn't sleep at night. I stayed awake with the lights on, too frightened to close my eyes.

I would like to take this moment to tell people:  

I don't believe in ghosts. Or spirits. Or horse ghosts. I am a logical person. Ghost stories are made-up nonsense. 

But, at 4am, all alone, with a mind full of horse ghosts, I felt convinced demons would fly into my apartment at any moment, and I needed to be awake, just in case.

The next evening, I went out to dinner with a handful of friends.

Laura: "Y'all, I'm sleep-deprived because I'm scared of ghosts. I mean, I'm terrified. I can't sleep at night."

Laura's Friends: "You should get a dog!"

Laura: "Yes! Of course! A dog!"

Laura's Friends: "Then you won't feel scared!"

Laura: "Yeah! I mean, I don't like dogs. Or want one. But I should get a dog! Because I'm scared of ghosts! WON'T THIS BE PERFECT?!"

The next day, a friend alerted me that someone was offering a rescued hypoallergenic puppy for free. Being highly sleep-deprived and scared of ghosts, I agreed to adopt the puppy.

And it's been true love ever since.

Baby Winnie at 8 weeks old

New Daddy Gets a Blog

Folks who read my previous post: Ian helped ease some fears, ending my fit of paranoia. I'm keeping the blog public.

(To the person who stumbled upon this blog after Google searching "Laura modeling": I sincerely apologize.)

(To the person who stumbled upon this blog after Google searching "Maltese wearing clothes": Welcome, my friend. Welcome.)

My panicky feelings began to subside when Ian started a blog. That's right. New Daddy himself has a blog.

His oral communications professor required him to create one for an assignment. Ian thought it was lame. I thought it was rich.

Ian had to create a blog offering tofu testimonials, written from the perspective of an elderly woman.

I'm not making this up.

Ian wrote this awesome tofu testimonial:

I've been trying many new things with my diet. I recently had a doctor's appointment that was quite disappointing...high this, high that. I knew I had to do something. 

I started exercising a little more and doing yoga. One of my friends is vegan and always trying to convince me to stop my meaty ways. I'm not a big carnivore, but tofu is just so void of taste. 

Well, not anymore! Sally gave me her tofu bible....it's called Tofu for You. Tofu for You is jam-packed full of recipes all that will change the way you look at tofu forever. 

Every recipe is health conscious and there is so much variety that I could eat tofu year round and never get bored! I don't know how anyone could stand to eat tofu before?! I highly recommend Tofu for You. It will make tofu titillate your taste buds!

That was just the written part. Ian also had to craft an actual blog. As an experienced (heh) blogger, I know the key to a successful blog lies in offering personal details, anecdotes, and pictures.

Thus, I crafted a thoughtful "About Me" page for Ian's tofu testimonial blog:

My full name is Ethel Sandra Trisha Inez Catherine Louise Esther Susan (E.S.T.I.C.L.E.S.). I love my cat so much. 

I am a retired marketing specialist. I worked for the Kotex company for 25 years. I'm the one who came up with that red flower Kotex design. I feel a literal depiction of periods helps to empower females. 

I have a 5 year old grandson named Skyler Caiden and a 7 year old granddaughter named Dakota Harper. I also have an 8 year old cat named Mr. Snuggles.

When Ian realized I had published the above information, he shrieked a bit and insisted I delete it. Which I did.

But not quickly enough, because the next night, a girl in his group timidly asked about the Kotex stuff on the blog. You know? With the red flower? I'm pretty sure Ian played confused on that one.

He kept the miscellaneous information I added, such as favorite movies (Titanic), music (Celine Dion), favorite books (When God Writes your Love Story, Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul), and interests (lambs).

Pretty tame, huh? I preferred the Esticles stuff.

Finally, I uploaded a nice photo. Here's Ms. Ethel Sandra Trisha Inez Catherine Louise Esther Susan:

Here's the actual blog link:
http://singlegrannyinthecity.blogspot.com/

Everyone go and leave a comment!

Yes, Please

My mother is a peculiar creature. She has a nursing degree, years of experience in the medical field, a stick-thin figure, and an avid belief in eating appropriate-sized food portions.

But, that's just her. As far as she's concerned, the rest of the world needs more fun-sized Snickers bars in their lives. Pronto.

My mother crams her kitchen with jars of seasonal-colored M&Ms, baskets of fun-sized candy bars, and bags upon bags of sugary shit you haven't seen since you were five years old.

Remember Dum Dums?

Gelatin orange slices?

Candy corn?

Laffy Taffy?

Licorice?

Tootsie Roll Pops?

All manner of diabetes death traps sit on her kitchen counters. Candy greets you the moment you enter the door.

Laura: "We need to run to my parents' house for a minute. Is that okay?"

Ian: "Sure. I can eat candy. I hope your mom still has those gelatin orange slices. And Butterfingers. Oooo, and candy corn."

Laura: "I'm sure she will. She never eats that candy. I swear, she's trying to bait children so she can steal them and raise them."

My mom feels a twinge of sadness that her children have grown up and moved out of the house. She makes up for it by cooking fatty meals for us whenever we visit.

Laura: "We're eating dinner with my parents tonight, remember?"

Ian: "Cool."

Laura: "She's making corn casserole so, you know, prepare yourself."

Ian: "That stuff's The Shit. I'm going to hate myself tonight, aren't I?"

Laura: "Yes. As will I. She uses an entire stick of butter in that thing. Plus, she adds cornbread made with honest-to-God, pioneer-authentic lard. Lard, Ian. And we both know we'll eat the whole casserole. Remember when the two of us ate that entire rotisserie chicken? "

Ian: "Your mom must look at me and think, "Ian's a poor scrawny boy. He needs more ham."

Laura: "That reminds me. Mom's cooking a ham tonight."

Ian: "She's making me fat, Laura."

Laura: "It's her mission in life. Have you seen the size of her pets? Her cats look like beach balls."

Ian: "Seriously, I'll eat an entire plate of food, and then your mom will ask, 'Would you like more ham, Ian? More potatoes? More salad? More cheese ball? More brownies?' And I always say, 'Yes, please.' To all of it. It's a sickness."

The fun extends to Winnie. When Winnie spends a day with Grandma, she devours bacon, chips, crackers, tuna, bits of steak, meatloaf, and, in all honesty, probably an entire damn cheese wheel.

My cries of, "No table food, Mom! No table food!" fall on deaf ears.

After an entire weekend with my mom, Winnie has been know to lurch miserably to my car.

At home, she'll lie around listlessly, until I scoop her up and run her into the bathroom, just in time for her to hork up a garbage can's worth of food.

We just consumed a combined 14,000 calories at Laura's mom's house, and we think we're going to die.

No, really, this is the face of despair... man, that ham was good.

I Am Woman; Hear Me Snore

I am terrible at playing housewife. For one, I never cook. I also find cleaning house tiresome after working a 40 hour week.

I mean, God, people. How am I supposed to find time to Google pictures of hot, obscure rock stars (hellooooo, Win Butler) and watch blurry Youtube clips of South Park (despite having every single South Park episode in high definition) if I spend my free time cooking and cleaning?

It's called priorities, you know?

I consider myself an "eleventh-wave" feminist. Basically, I cherry-pick my feminist sensibilities based on whatever conveniences me.

You see, I can wear make-up and put dresses on the dog and yell for Ian to kill the slug in the bathtub, because as an eleventh-wave feminist, I embrace my femininity.

I am female, dammit! I don't burn bras; I love bras! I celebrate gender differences! I am soft and emotional! I am womanly! I do womanly things!

But the minute talk of cooking comes up? Like, cooking actual meals? OH, HELL NO. I AM A FEMINIST, AND I DON'T DO THAT SHIT.

Ian: "I always cook. You haven't cooked a single meal since I've been with you."

Laura: "You are correct."

Ian: "You don't even try to deny it!"

Laura: "Why would I try to deny it? I don't cook."

Ian: "What if we have kids? Would you feed them macaroni and cheese every night for dinner?"

Laura: "And chicken nuggets from the microwave."

Ian: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Laura: "Shut up; it's protein."

Ian: "I think I'm going to have issues with this."

Laura: "I'd nuke a can of corn, too. We can tell the kids corn's a vegetable, even though it's a grain."

Ian: "I'm not sure that's going to work."

Laura: "Hey, I can make milk. Have you seen how awesome these things are?"

Ian: "No complaints here."

Laura: "I'll breastfeed until the kid's 5 or 6. Then he can go on the reduced lunch program at school. And the reduced breakfast program. They make breakfast, too."

Ian: "............ I think I'm going to have issues with this."

Laura: "I bet I can make enough milk for you, too."

Ian: "Wouldn't breast milk taste bad?"

Laura: "No. I've read it tastes sweet. You'd love it."

Ian: "It's too bad you can't blog about this."

Laura: "Or can I?"

Winnie, the Albino Mutant Alien Rat

Once every three months, something magical happens at the Winiferd house. Every three months, Winnie gets a haircut, and New Daddy professes that he maybe, sorta, kinda likes Winnie.

You see, Winnie's haircuts strip her to the core, revealing a severe lack of "dog" in her DNA.

Winnie with long hair looks like an adorable puppy. Once sheared, she morphs into something...reptilian. Something cartoonish. Something mythological. Something like Falcor, the Luck Dragon, from The Never Ending Story:

Ian dislikes dogs, but he loves Luck Dragons.

The only time I've ever heard him say "awww!" over the dog was when she trotted into the house after a haircut, looking like an albino mutant alien rat, and jumped into his arms. Or perhaps he scooped her up.

Either way, he melts over having a Luck Dragon in the house.

Ian: "You should keep her in this haircut all the time!"

Laura: "That would cost a lot of money."

Ian: "She's so tiny! Spottswood looks like a giant next to her. She looks like Lady Gaga. No, wait, she looks like Splinter, the rat."

Laura: "She looks like Falcor."

Ian: "Yeah! She looks like Falcor."

Laura: "How come you only like her sheared?"

Ian: "Because then I can see her eyes, and they look so expressive. Her long hair hides her eyes, which creeps me out."

On Sundays nights, Winnie grows lethargic, exhausted from a weekend with no naps and too much bacon. This past Sunday night, Winnie the Luck Dragon lounged around sleepily, occasionally gazing up at us through alien eyes.

Ian: "Look at your dog."

Laura: "What about her?"

Ian: "Just... look at her." <contented sigh>

I'm reveling in New Daddy's brief adoration for Winnie. Next week, she'll be just another energetic puppy at the receiving end of New Daddy's high-decibel threats.

But, for now, we're both in love with this angelic face.

Laura, the Half-Ginger, Half-Day Walker, Red-Headed Mutant Girl

I have naturally red hair.

It's a darker red, dark enough to almost qualify as Auburn. Almost. As a teenager, my attempts to call my hair "auburn" were met with, "Dude. Your hair is red."

Touche. 

Growing up with red hair is difficult. As a very small child, I was bald until the age of two. By age three I had a head full of red ringlet curls. Red ringlet curls. I wore a metaphorical "Kick Me" sign.

In addition to red ringlet curls, I was horribly, terribly, painfully shy. Adults would zoom in, hands outstretched, desperate to rub my head and ask the source of my hair color. What, it came from your grandmother? And your father? You don't say! 

I never made a peep during those encounters. I hid behind my mother.

By about age 5, my ringlet curls straightened naturally. My hair's thick, so we think the weight of my hair murdered the curls. My mom was devastated. I was ecstatic. I think my immense fortune proves something: there is a Santa Claus.

By age 8, I had shed a good deal of my shyness. I was a happy-go-lucky kid, who made friends easily and loved to sing, dance, read, and write.

People of Earth: no amount of happy-go-lucky disposition, faintly discernible talent, and oodles of friends will counter the effects of having red hair as a child.

You are going to be teased.

You will invite the concerned looks of friends, who will mournfully ask, "Do you like having red hair?"

Boys will sing the "Big Red" jingle from the Big Red chewing gum commercials to you.

You will be asked if you're married to Al Bundy.

All while attracting the considerable attention of every elderly person within twenty feet of you. All while you retain your fierce apprehension of and shyness around unfamiliar adults.

So when Ian casually remarked, "If we have children, I hope they have your hair," you can understand why I exclaimed, "No, a thousand times no! A pox on thy very thought! 'Tis a cruel vexation! Oh, what a world, what a world..." <melts into a puddle of witch water>

Ian felt a little upset by my reaction.

Ian: "You have beautiful hair. I love it. I don't know anyone else with your shade of red."

Laura: "You don't understand. It's really, really hard to be a kid with red hair. It takes a long time to grow into it. I honestly didn't grow into my hair color until I was 25. Remember, when we saw that movie a few months ago? The one with the spiders? That's when it happened."

Ian: "But... I want us to produce the first child with naturally tan skin and red hair."

Laura: "Ian, that's a fantasy. It's a myth. Like vampires or the Loch Ness Monster or productive Americans. People with dark skin and red hair don't exist."

Ian: "But... I have red hair somewhere back in my gene pool. And I have brown skin. It could happen..."

Laura: "Any child of ours is genetically assured of being timid, bashful, and self-conscious. God, our DNA mixed together? The kid will be a complete hermit. Red hair's just not going to work."

Ian: "But..."

Laura: "And then you have those weirdo men who have red hair fetishes. Gross."

Ian: <Sheepishly> "I was drawn to your red hair from the beginning. Sometimes, I'll wake up early in the morning, right when the light starts streaming through the window, and your hair looks like glistening copper. Then I have trouble going back to sleep because I just want to stare at you."

Laura: <Feels like an ass>