Mo Livin' Large

"What's playing at the Roxy? I'll tell you what's playing at the Roxy....

... Picture about a Minnesota man so in love with a Mississippi girl that he sacrifices everything and moves all the ways to Biloxi. That's what's playing at the Roxy." Nathan Detroit (Frank Sinatra) Guys and Dolls

I love Sinatra. I love Guys and Dolls. Hence the reason for today's quote. Well that and it's my blog and I'll write whatever I feel like writing.  ;)

One of my random posts just to bring you up to date on what's been going on in my life but doesn't necessitate an entire blog post.

• Remember Preston with the suicidal dog? He texted me a few weeks ago. He wanted a one-nighter. I declined. Haven't heard from him since.
• Catholic Boy and I have been chatting quite a bit. Poor guy got quite an earful about Clark and amazingly enough is still talking to me. I have come to the realization I am in love with Catholic Boy. However, given that he's been through a handful of girlfriends since we met five years ago and I've been a piece on the side through most of those relationships, I will never pursue anything with him. Like I said a few weeks ago, our friendship far outweighs the benefits on my side of things.
• In my on-going weight loss project, I was happily introduced to the blog Skinnytaste by Lovely Lisa. It's a wonderful blog written by Gina who is dedicated to making delicious, scrumptious healthy recipes. All recipes are Weight Watchers friendly and the variety is absolutely mind-boggling. So far I've made Stuffed Pepper Soup, Greek Turkey Meatballs, Skinny Tzatzki, and Easy Crust-Less Spinach and Feta Pie. And I've made them all twice, believe it or not (not just because they were so good but because I also had all of the ingredients on hand and needed lunch).
• Confession: I love Regency (pre-, during and post-Napoleonic wars) romance novels. I devour them by the boxload that I buy either through eBay or my local used bookstore (Paperback Trade Inn in Clawson).
• After seeing him in Push, I developed a cougar crush on Chris Evans. So when What's Your Number starring Anna Faris and Chris Evans came out on DVD, I ran out and bought it despite the bad reviews. Well, that and I think Anna Faris' character Ally and I have a lot in common. Not going to lie, I enjoyed it. So if you want to have a What's Your Number viewing party, hit me up.
• So not only have I been watching What's Your Number, but Bridget Jones' Diary, He's Just Not That Into You, The Holiday, The Naked Truth and Love Actually are in constant rotation on my DVD player.
• Just curious if anyone is stunned by my revelation about Catholic Boy. I literally was walking back from lunch with Lovely Lisa and it just kind of came into my head and out of my mouth.
• I'm considering hiring a big teddy-bear type guy to be my personal hugger who doubles as my movie watching/cuddling partner. It's been a while since I've experienced the human touch (and for once, I don't mean that in a sexual way).
• I'm tired. Not like physically sleepy tired (well, most days anyways) but tired with the direction my life is taking. Bored is probably the more accurate word here. But regardless.... I think I'm going to spend May researching low-cost ways to make my life more interesting. Any and all suggestions are welcome.

And that, my friends, is all the news that's fit to print. Cheers!

 

"Nature makes boys and girls lovely to look upon...

... so they can be tolerated until they acquire some sense." ~ William Lyon Phelps

March 12 was the 100th birthday of an organization I hold very near and dear to my heart: Girl Scouts. Because of Girl Scouts, I have seen and done things I wouldn't ordinarily do. I have made life long friends. And I once became the most popular girl at Boy Scout camp.

When we were sophomores in high school our troop leaders made an interesting decision, one I'm sure they almost immediately regretted. We were going to go camping at Silver Trails Boy Scout Camp. With boys. There were a few other Girl Scout troops there as well, one of which we knew well, but (and no offense to Sheila or Carrie or Vanessa or anyone else I may have missed).... We were at BOY Scout camp. Our eyes and ears weren't really focused on the girls.

It was an early October weekend when this all took place. The leaves were in the midst of their color change, and the temperatures were warm enough during the day but cold at night. Darkness fell about 7 p.m., and it was about this time on a Friday night that we actually arrived at the camp. We met a young woman who was to show us to our campsite. Some of us were quietly bitching moaning about having to set up our tents, which was never our favorite activity to begin with, in the dark.

The young woman, who was probably all of twenty-two bless her heart, got on her walkie talkie and called her younger brother and two of his friends to our campsite to set up the tents for us.

And thus it began.

Please forgive my lack of usual detail. It was just such a dream come true long time ago that some of the lesser details have become a bit hazy.

The younger brother, Chris, and his friends, one of whom was Jake, came by and helped us set up our tents. They were very nice and polite and had no issues chatting with our leaders' husbands while they put up our tents and went off to gather wood for a fire for us. This is a very important fact for you to remember...

... because the next morning is when the rest of the boy scouts figured out we were there.

Not going to lie. Odds were definitely in any girl's favor that weekend.

I remember our leaders giving us a pep talk about taking the activities seriously. They explained that because these were boys, they were going to think the girls couldn't keep up.

BAH! Turns out, we showed them.

Our troop was divided into two patrols to participate in the activities. We'd go from station to station building fires, figuring out how to cross a creek as a team, and other nature/team building activities. At some point, Chris and Jake caught up with us, along with Jake's little hellion weekend buddy, Phillip and we all wandered around the camp together.

I should mention here that because my memory is a bit hazy and dreamlike, I cannot recall exactly how we met some of guys I'm about to mention, but there were three distinct groups. Chris and Jake, a group from Grand Blanc including a redhead who was really into our leader's daughter Jeanne, and a third group from Walled Lake including two guys named Rob and Adam.

Around noon, we stopped and went back to our campsite for lunch. Which was interesting because right in the middle of lunch the group of guys from Grand Blanc wandered into the woods behind our camp and serenaded us with The Righteous Brothers "You've Lost That Love and Feeling." Original? No. Did we care? Yeah, a bunch of 15-year-old girls are going to mind that four guys couldn't come up with a more original song to serenade us with. Our leaders and their husbands on the other hand, they cared. Not so much about the song choice, but the fact it even happened.

As they chewed us out about conducting ourselves like ladies, Jen and I occasionally glanced at one
another and did the proverbial eye roll. What we both found interesting was that during the serenade, some of the guys were clearly directing it at Jeanne, and yet it was Jen, our friend DonnaMarie, and myself who were bearing the brunt of the verbal flogging.

There's something to be said for being the outgoing girls of the bunch, clearly.

After lunch, and with Jake and his little buddy Phillip in tow, we made our way to the archery session. Our group signed up for a session and took a seat. Surrounded by boys. Little boys, boys our age, and men. We were the only girls in the little outdoor ampitheatre. When it came our turn to shoot the bows and arrows, little asshole Phillip said, quite loudly, "I don't know why we have to bother watching this. They're girls. Girls can't shoot bows and arrows."

His remark was met with a fair share of laughter.

There wasn't a lot of instruction given to us as to how to properly shoot a bow and arrow. I'm not sure if it was a time constraint issue or if it was more of a conspiracy issue, but either way, all of those males underestimated us ladies. What they didn't know was that Mo actually already knew how to shoot a bow and arrow. My dad had taught me a few years earlier. So I quickly taught my fellow girl scouts. And by the third and final shot, everyone in the group had hit the target, or at least the haystack it was posted to, at least once.

Except me.

I was so busy teaching everyone how to correctly line up their quivers against the bow and then how to line up a shot, I hadn't made any of my own. I was fully prepared to forfeit my opportunity but the man running the station told us he wouldn't sign off on our completion until I completed the activity.

Essentially, I had to shoot three arrows. By myself. With everyone watching.

Sucks to be me.

I prepared my bow and arrow and let the first shot go. It actually skidded along the ground before stopping several feet in front of the target. There was some laughter and catcalling from the stands. Taking a deep breath, I re-aligned myself, set up my second shot, and let it fly. I hit the target. Not just a corner of it, but within the circles. There were some "Wows!" in the crowd and someone said, "Let's see if she can do it again." I smiled to myself, lined up my third and final shot, and let 'er rip...

... right into the dead center of the bullseye.

My friends cheered. Jake said to Phillip, "See? That's why we watch the girls shoot bows and arrows!"

The rest of the afternoon as we went from station to station, boys were pointing at me and telling the older scouts, "That's the girl who hit the bullseye!"

Turns out, I was the only scout in the campground who made a bullseye all weekend.

Girls can't shoot bows and arrows indeed.

Later that night, after an awards ceremony around a campfire where I won frickin' tent stakes, we girls were back in our tents talking. Suddenly someone said, "I think something's out there."

"It's probably just a rabbit," I replied. No sooner were the words out of my mouth when there was suddenly a lot of woodland creature activity behind our tent.

"I don't think that's a rabbit, Mo."

I was unzipping the window of the tent when a voice whispered, "Where's Jeanne?"

Again, Jeanne is the leader's daughter.

"She's in here," I whispered back as I finished unzipping the window.

"Monique? Is that you?"

"Adam?" He was one of the Walled Lake guys.

"Yeah." Suddenly the redhead from Grand Blanc was in the window followed by a blond Adam.

"Jeanne, there's someone here to see you...." I whispered. She was by my side in an instant.

"Where's Jen?" Rob, the other guy from Walled Lake, asked.

"Over here," Jen whispered from the tent less than four feet away.

It continued like this with girls popping up and down in front of the windows while the guys were rotating around outside the tent, with lots of whispering, teenage hormones, etc.

Suddenly our leader's husband's booming voice called out, "Gentlemen, get back to your campsites NOW!"

The guys scattered like leaves.

The next morning, our leaders read us the riot act. One of them even started crying. And we were marched firmly to and from the closing flag ceremony, standing a great distance apart from everyone at the ceremony itself. There were no chances to say good-bye, to possibly grab a phone number or address or anything.... We were ordered to finish packing and our parents would be there soon to pick us up.

The thing was, we hadn't actually done anything to warrant the amount of trouble we'd gotten in. We hadn't snuck off to the empty field nearby, we weren't drinking, we hadn't even left our tents. A few teenage boys had done what teenage boys do: they snuck into our camp and talked with us. But given the dirty looks Jen and I were getting (we were almost always the instigators in situations when things didn't go exactly as our leaders planned, even when evidence to the contrary was blatantly staring our leaders in the face), you'd think we had run off, gotten married in a pagan sacrificial virgin ceremony, and killed all the innocent little forest creatures by beheading them.

In short, the punishment certainly did not fit the crime.

When we got home, we told our own mothers what happened. I think it may have been my mom calling Jen's mom, or whatever, but there was a phone call made between the two moms and the common summary was: our leaders needed to have a wine cooler or two and loosen up.

But needless to say, we never did return to Boy Scout/Girl Scout camp.

 

"Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break...

... every step you take, I'll be watching you." ~ "Every Breath" by The Police

Once upon a time, Mo was a stalker.

(I'm pausing while I wait for the laughter to die down because those who know me well know I still have mad Google stalking skills).

This is a story about my early stalking days. Before computers were as popular a household appliance as a washing machine. Before the mainstream population knew what the Internet was. Before Google even existed!

Yes, yes, there was such a time. Believe it or not, when I was in high school, getting a teacher to give you a pass to the computer lab was kind of a big deal.

Kind of, sort of digressing again. Needless to say, this is the story of my high school and beyond crush.

For my fellow alum readers, could you just bear in mind that this story took place more than 20 years ago? And if you figure out who it is I'm talking about, just laugh, shake your head, and do your typical "Oh Mo" thing. Please? I'm beggin' you.

To say I am was boy crazy is to put my obsession with the opposite sex mildly. I went through crushes on boys like Ryan Gosling goes through abdominal crunches (and for your viewing pleasure....).

But there was one boy in particular that I was always sweet on. We'll call him Heath, because that's my favorite candy bar. There's a little irony in there too but I can't just come out and tell you what it is.

Anyways, the day Heath stepped foot in Royal Oak Kimball High School ("Let's give a cheer for Kimball High School, let's give a cheer that's long and strong..."), my heart was claimed. Though in Heath's defense, he most likely didn't know it (and perhaps still doesn't?).

I gawked at him in the hallways. I forced my friends to attend basketball games just to see him. I was over the moon when I found out he actually lived on the next street over.

To this day, I always take the longer route to my mom's house just to pass his house even though he hasn't lived there in about 15 years.

The kids I used to baby-sit for lived across the street and six houses down from him. One evening, after a particularly harsh rainstorm, the street flooded. Travis, bless his little heart, wanted to go out and play in the puddles. I had already consented as, not going to lie, I wanted to too, but imagine my delight when Heath and his brother came outside. About thirty seconds later, imagine my mortification when little Travis called out, "Hey, Mo! Isn't that the guy you like?"

God willing, Heath didn't hear him. Or if he did, he never said anything about it.

As the school years merged one into another, my crush on Heath never faded. By senior year, I was still gawking at him, making a point to visit with my friend Dee before second hour only because Heath was in there too (which was right across the hall from MY second hour), and driving by his house every chance I got (thank GOD it was one of the few ways to get to my house from that particular "busy road"). By the time basketball season rolled around, even Heath's mom knew of my unrequited love crush for her son, thanks to my good friend Irish Politician (they worked together believe it or not).

You know, looking back, it would actually be a small miracle if Heath didn't know about my crush....

In the midst of basketball season, yours truly got the thrill of her high school career: I somehow managed to land the Varsity Basketball Team layout for the Lancer yearbook. Which meant I had to interview the team captains, Heath included (y'all are digging out your yearbooks now aren't you?). I still remember that brief 20 minute interview fondly.

*sigh*

It was about this time that I came up with a completely harebrained idea. I swear, this is the truth: I once read a book, in high school (it's an impressionable age okay?), about a girl who had a crush on some guy and she would basically go do this little Indian War Dance/African Rain Dance thing in his front yard. 

You see where I'm going with this, right?

You do.

So you can only imagine what a complete lunatic I've become in the years since high school.

I digress.

It started off where after the basketball games and while Irish Politician was driving my friends and I home, we would stop in front of Heath's house. I would simply kneel and wave my arms up and down (much like a praying Muslim, I admit) on the sidewalk chanting my undying love. As basketball season progressed, my daring increased. I went from the sidewalk to the top of his front steps (his house was on a hill and there was a small set of stairs leading from the sidewalk to the front yard). And then halfway up the sidewalk. And then as basketball season reached it's climax, I was in the middle of the front yard.

I should mention two things here. One: there is a HUGE plate glass window on the front of his house. It's probably about six feet by eight feet and takes up one entire wall of the living room (never having been in the house before, I can only guess). Second: Kimball's basketball team was doing so well, we were tied with Troy for the district title (or some such nonsense, I really don't remember except that we were going beyond the usual basketball season because we were kicking butt).

So one particular night, my friend Irish Politician decided we needed to up the ante a bit. Okay, a lot. Not only was I to do my own version of an Indian War Dance/African Rain Dance thing in Heath's front yard, but Irish Politician was going to pull into his driveway with the lights of her unreliable 1980-something Ford Thunderbird on.

Again, I mention that Heath lived on a rather steep hill for a house. I should also mention that this particular Royal Oak Boulevard was a Boulevard in the true sense that there were boulevards in the middle of the street separating the two sides of the streets.

I should also clarify that no, I was not on drugs nor did I have a single sip of alcohol until I went to college.

I'm not sure if that fact makes me braver or a bigger idiot, but it is what it is.

So Irish Politician went around the boulevard, dropped me at the sidewalk, and then continued to pull into Heath's driveway with the car running and headlights on, shining directly into the darkened living room of Heath's house.

In the meantime, I ran up into the front yard and began running in crazy circles and figure eights waving my arms around like a lunatic and even began chanting a bit.

You can imagine everyone's surprise when a light suddenly went on in the house.

Now imagine the light going on to reflect Heath's dad standing in the living room in his boxer shorts.

Are you picturing this yet?

It gets better. Because Irish Politician's car conked out right in the middle of the driveway at this point.

They say that in panicked situations, adrenaline is a force to be reckoned with. I can attest to this. It's the only way I managed to run across the front yard shouting, "Put it in neutral, put it in neutral!" before shoving the car back down the driveway with Irish Politician and two of our other friends in it.

At some point, Irish Politician managed to get the car started again. Behind me, another light came on in Heath's house as the front yard suddenly got brighter. And there was Mo, running as fast as her legs could carry her down the driveway, across the boulevard, and diving head first into the car before Irish Politician peeled away.

I can only hope and pray that this is the first time this story has seen the light of day for many of you.

And for you others who didn't know me in high school.... Don't I sound like a hell of a good time? ;)

 

Stuff I Could Not Make Up Even If I Tried

Little vignettes of things that have truly happened to me but aren't worth an entire dedicated post.

My friends Mark and Kony in Chicago had a vegetable garden behind their garage that yielded copious amounts of vegetables. One night, after having dinner together, Mark sent us home with this huge zucchini. It was as big as Dipshit's forearm, I kid you not. Anyways, when Dipshit and I returned home, we had an issue trying to find a parking spot (not unusual in our neighborhood). After a few minutes of driving around aimlessly, I had Dipshit drop me at the corner across the street as I had to use the bathroom quite badly. So there I was, standing on the corner of Sheridan and Lunt (I always had people telling me this joke: There are 3 streets in Chicago that rhyme with vagina; Paulina, Melvina and Lunt) waiting to cross and the light turns red. Waiting at the light was a car full of young teenage boys. And there I am crossing a street that rhymes with vagina carrying this HUGE zucchini. By myself. The guys started laughing and one even told me to "Enjoy my night with my special friend." Dipshit thought it was hilarious when I told him the story. And just for the record, my special friend made an excellent zucchini parmesan.

I once went out with a guy who had a sock fetish. Rather than request nudie pics, this guy wanted to see pictures of my feet in my socks. He loved the fact that I have all of these weird, wild socks including Dr. Seuss One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish socks. It was odd, to say the least.

Never in my life have I enjoyed beer. I shotgunned a beer once just to prove I could, and I periodically try new beers such as the new lime beers everyone has started making and the Blue Moon you add orange slices to, but for the most part I am most emphatically not a beer drinker. So a few weeks ago, I swung by my dad's apartment to see him about something. While I had let him know I was coming, he told me he had a few things to do beforehand but that if I beat him there to let myself in, so I did. My dad arrived a few minutes after I did and offered me a beer. I said, "Oh, Dad. You man of perpetual hope!" My dad looked surprised and said, "Coke? You found a Coke in my refrigerator? Really? That can't be any good!"

I once asked a guy if it was in yet. It was. (B, that one was for you).

The other day at work, I received a sales call for a woman that no longer works with us. After politely explaining three times that the person he was looking for no longer works here, the man began spelling her name for me and telling me her position. Finally, completely exasperated, I said, "I know who you're looking for, but she doesn't work here anymore!" The man said, "Fuck you," and hung up on me.

In the days when MySpace was cool, I once had a guy hit on me. After a few phone conversations, I agreed to finally meet him in person at a Borders (yes, desperate times, desperate measures). So we meet. It didn't go well, mainly because he was an idiot. He wanted to open a "We Sell Your Stuff On Ebay" store in 2006 (reason numero uno that you're an idiot) because he had some friends who had opened stores in Chicago. I asked where in Chicago they had opened their stores. He said, "I don't know exactly which city, honey. Chicago is a big state after all." We argued for 15 minutes that not only is Chicago not a state, but it's not even the capital of Illinois. He left for the bathroom shortly thereafter, never to return. Icing on the cake? Some random man who had been sitting nearby said to me, "I don't think he's returning." He paused for a moment and continued, "It's probably a good thing. He's an idiot."

Another "Mo Went Out With This Idiot" Classic. I just want to make my disclaimer right now: I was high for the first time. In college, my friend Shiraz and I got conned into attending a party with our friend Jame-O (he worked with someone who was the roommate of the person attending the party or something like that). At one point, this rather beefy but good looking guy came over and started talking to me. We talked about school (I went to CMU, he went to Grand Valley) and I asked him his major. "Baseball." I shook my head to clear it and said, "No, your major. What's your major?" He responded,  "Baseball" again. I leaned over to Shiraz and said, "Now I know I'm high, but this guy is telling me his major is baseball." God and Shiraz as my witness, I could not make this next part up if I tried. A fellow partier walked by at this moment and "Baseball" said, "If you put that guy in a barrel of oil, you'd come up with a fish! Fish! Fish!" But he was blond, cute, and beefy and sadly, though our conversation never did get any better than this, yes, sadly, I did go out with this guy. And violated Shiraz's beanbag with him as well. 

The last time I smoked was almost a full decade ago. I was in Brooklyn, New York with my friend Brooklyn (name has been changed to protect the not-so-innocent). I had a friend Tommy who lived in Queens, and was a Brooklyn cop and we were hoping to finally meet in person (ironically, he had met my friends Gwen and April at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico when they were all vacationing there at the same time). Anyways, Brooklyn was having a bit of a panic attack at being back in New York without the love of her life so we decided to use a holistic approach to calm her down. Not wanting me to feel left out, Brooklyn handed over the joint and I inhaled. Wouldn't you know it? Tommy called RIGHT at that moment. So as we're talking, it's becoming more and more obvious that I just inhaled and suddenly he's yelling, "You're smoking pot right now? On the phone? With a cop? While you're in Brooklyn? SERIOUSLY?" Well, um, yeah.

And if you've wondered why I started my blog, it's because when I tell these stories (and many, many others), people tell me to write these things down. So I'm writing them down.  :)

"What would you say to the one who got away?"

I saw this on a Facebook post from Etsy. It got me thinking about what I'd want to say. So since I am ALL about sharing, here's what I would say. For those who know me and have been around awhile, see if you know who I'm writing these to. :)

Dear California:
Thank you for giving me the perfect kiss. The one I hold all others up to. While it didn't hold passion, it held so much more for me. Romance, sweetness, and innocence were there, yes. But it left me wanting more. So much more in fact that on the nights we ended up at the bar together but separate, I still knew you were there. You were like a little beacon that I could track with some weird inner honing device. And while we quite obviously didn't work out, I still remember you with great fondness, and I smile every time I hear Bones Thugs and Harmony's "Crossroads."

Dear Aerosmith:
Thank you for being an adult. Because I never felt I had to dumb myself down for you, I was comfortable being myself around you. You encouraged me to pursue writing (I still have the pencil you sent, even 15 years later) and allowed me to express myself to you without judging me. You always knew I was destined for better things than I was experiencing at the time, and I wish you had still been around when I packed up and moved to Chicago. I think you'd be proud of who I've become and I remember with you great fondness. And I smile each time I hear "Don't Want to Miss A Thing" and think of you.

Dear Meineke:
You were the one who reminded me not all guys are douchebags and that there are men out there who really do put her needs ahead of their own. After five years of always being the low priority on Dipshit's list, you once drove all the way from Aurora to the north side of Chicago to give me a hug. You brought me flowers on our first date. You made a Dunkin Donuts run in Florida just so you could call me and tell me you missed me. And had I stayed in Chicago, we would've been great together. Your words, not mine. I didn't realize it until a few weeks ago, but you are the one I've measured every man since you against. They've all fallen short. You are one tough act to follow.

Dear Catholic Boy:
You'd be the one I love to hate if I didn't love you so much. You make me laugh, you've made me cry, and no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to peg you just right. It's been five years since we've met, and there are few guys I enjoy talking with as much as I enjoy talking to you. Cheers my friend.

In conclusion, I offer this toast to all of us ladies (and I won't lie, I'm stealing this directly from the movie The Wedding Date): Here's to the husbands who've won you, the losers who've lost you, and the lucky bastards who've yet to meet you.

P.S. If you haven't already done so, be sure to enter this week's contest and leave a message to your younger self on the Mo Livin' Large Facebook page! You'll be entered to win a $20 credit at The Strawberry Hill for whimsical accessories for yourself, your daughter, niece, mom, aunt, grandma, best friend, or yourself (yes, I said yourself twice. BECAUSE YOU'RE WORTH IT!).

"A lifetime's passed by you....

... What would you say?" ~ Dave Matthews Band "What Would You Say"

I'm sure by now most of us have seen the YouTube video Dear 16-Year-Old-Me. And then there's the blog post regarding the Mom whose 7-year-old declared she was fat. So I started thinking. If I could tell my younger self, my daughter, my sister, my niece, my little cousin, my goddaughter, or some random little girl on the street one thing I've learned in my 36 years of living, what would it be? Just for the record, I have no daughter, no niece or goddaughter to whom I could dedicate this post to so I'll dedicate it to my younger self.

Dear 16 Year Old Mo:

At some point today, you probably felt sad. Most likely, it was because of a boy, whether a boy said something mean to you, or because you don't have a boyfriend and have never really been on a date. Perhaps you overheard one of the more popular girls laughing behind your back because you're wearing clothes from 13 Below or Dots. Or maybe it's because you saw one of the cutest boys in school point at you while talking to his friend, who in turn turned around to look at you. And you knew without a doubt that it was you they were talking about because you were the only one in that particular hallway at the time.

You know what? It doesn't matter. Because in high school, everyone cares about the most unimportant stuff. They think you're cool based on the clothes that you wear, the car that you drive, who your friends are, and whether or not you spend your weekends drinking with them.

The truth is, you my dear are like a fine wine. You just get better with age. In college, when you realize no one is judging you on your clothes, your car, your friends, etc., you open your mouth more. And suddenly, people start listening to you. Whether what you've said is funny, thought-provoking, or challenging to the the professor, it doesn't matter. Your teachers look forward to hearing your spin on a topic they've chosen to discuss in class. Your English 101 professor actually publishes one of your papers in one of his books. You become good friends with Dr. Hartman, a David Letterman-like advertising professor who includes you in the small group of students who organize a visit to Central Michigan University's campus by Tom Curley, President and Publisher of USA Today (and who is now the President of the Associated Press). Although you should also note, math and science? Still not your strong suit. Neither are 8:00 a.m. classes.

Occasionally, you'll run into some of your high school classmates. Some will be students at Central with you, some will be there for a visit. They will be in awe of you. Gone is the geeky Monique of high school, who was probably best known for her long hair and timidness. College and beyond Mo comes into her own. She's not afraid of speaking her mind, standing up for herself, and creating her own sense of style. And yes, just for the record, you do start wearing Ralph Lauren, Jones New York and all the other brands you coveted in high school. Though with the exception of a few pieces, most of your "brand name" wardrobe comes after college because you work at Marshall Fields while searching for that first "real job." And just so you know, the Coach and Kate Spade purses? Yeah, you don't get those until you're 35.

Unfortunately, boys turn into men, and they don't get any easier to figure out. Well, they do. It's just that you, my love, are too smart for your own good and you figure them out way before they've even learned your last name. You have no great loves in college, although there's a fling or two thrown in for entertainment. You continue to carry a torch for Rich Sands and Heath (and by the way, dress just a little better and drink just a little less the night of Devin's bachelorette party. You'll thank yourself later when you run into Heath at 3 a.m.).

And then you meet Dipshit. I would love to say run, far and fast in the opposite direction, but the truth is: You will learn more from your relationship with Dipshit than you will from any class, teacher, professor, friend, person, book, etc. you ever come across (well, by the time you're 36 anyways). These are important lessons for you to learn, and though it's been more than 6 years since Dipshit and I have parted ways, I can still assure you that there is no other way for you to learn these lessons without going through the turmoil you go through with Dipshit. And the lessons you learn will be with you a lifetime. And so while you will hurt and be angry and be sad and reach the darkest point in your existence because of him, everything Dipshit puts you through in the end will be well worth it.

There are some behavioral patterns that continue with both young and older Mo. You have a tendency to stray towards promiscuous behavior. This isn't always a bad thing, but more often than not, it can be. As you get older, you realize that having a one (or five) night fling isn't always a bad thing. But younger Mo, you end up getting hurt a lot. That's because your self confidence is such that you believe a boy won't be interested in you unless you sleep with him. THIS IS NOT TRUE! So don't do it. Unless it's California. Because he makes it worth it. No joke.Once you and Dipshit part ways and you begin dating again, make up your own mind regarding whether or not to sleep with someone, but I'll give you this hint: five years after meeting him you still can't figure Catholic Boy out. And it both annoys you and challenges you.

But the most heartbreaking thing of all....

At the age of 18, when you are a freshman in college, you will find out you have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). After spending your entire spring break shuffling between dermatologists, endocrinologists, and gynecologists, you and your mom are sat down in front of the doctor and told that between your hormonal condition and your genetics, you will most likely never be able to have children as you do not ovulate. In addition to this, you will sprout hair in the most embarrassing of places such as your chest, your back, and most obviously your face. Losing weight will be even more difficult for you because your body doesn't process sugars like normal. You will find yourself curled up in bed in the fetal position with horrendous cramps. Your periods... well, when you do have them, it looks like someone spilled grape jelly into your panties.

I am sorry, younger Mo. There is little to nothing we can do about this medical condition as it's something older Mo is still struggling with. Be up front and honest about it though, with everyone you meet. Someone may (okay, does) leave you stranded at a restaurant with both the check and no ride home when you tell him you can't have children, but he wasn't worth it. Make sure the guys you date are open to adoption. Or maybe they'll be divorced or widowed with children. Or maybe we aren't supposed to have children at all. I don't know. As I said, it's something I'm still struggling with twenty years later.

But what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Survival of the fittest as Dad says.

Other things you need to know:

1. Don't skip that semester of college. It was a really really really bad choice.
2. No matter how much he angers you, bothers you, annoys you and just pisses you off, always tell Michael how much you love him.
3. Don't bother trying to involve Mom in wedding planning; she's going through her midlife and you'll probably end up trying to kill her anyways.
4. Mom and Dad do end up getting divorced, so you can start wishing for something else when you blow out the candles on your birthday cake.
5. No matter how counter intuitive it seems, you are far more happy single than you've been with any guy you've dated thus far.

But most of all, the most important thing I can tell you right now is to love yourself. Know that you're funny, smart, well-rounded, stylish, well-adjusted (for the most part), and loved by your friends and family. You, darling Mo, are worth it. Always remember that.

Even if you should have bought a dining room table instead of that Kate Spade purse and wallet the Christmas of 2011.

With all my love,

Mo

"A list is only as strong as its weakest link." ~ Donald Knuth

Once upon an evening dreary, as I surfed weak and weary over many a webpage of forgotten lore....

Did you know Edgar Allan Poe's birthday was January 19th? It was. He was born in Boston in 1809.

Now that you can add that to your bits of useless information for trivial trivia purposes....

And this post is dedicated to my oldest, and certainly one of the most dearest, friends, Jen.

My friend Jen has been touting things like What the Bleep Do We Know and Rhonda Byrne's The Secret for as long as we reconnected in 2009. Of course, Jen's pretty much always lived by the credence "what you send out into the universe is what comes back to you" even when we were kids. She's especially annoying encouraging when I start griping about my lack of love life. "If you just stop looking, it'll happen." Easy for her to say. She's pretty, bubbly, outgoing, cute and thin (I'm all of those things but thin. I know my own limitations). And I know everyone says it, I do. But waiting for Mr. Right or more realistically Mr. Right For Right Now to come along is an exercise in futility when I spend most evenings running errands, at the laundromat, or at home (though I do hold out hope for my bald neighbor).

I'll even admit that I bought The Law of Attraction written by Esther and Jerry Hicks once. I'm pretty sure it's packed in a box in my mom's basement though.

So one night, relatively recently, I was bouncing around on in Never Internet land when I came across an article on Yahoo's Shine, which then led me to oprah.com. It was an article entitled "The Magic of the Soul Mate Wish List" and was written by Arielle Ford. I have absolutely no idea why this particular article would speak to me (insert wayyyyyy too innocent facial expression here).

Also linked to this article were two more of it's kind published in the February 2008 issue of O, The Oprah Magazine. "Have You Created Your Magic List Yet" by Martha Beck, which was written in correlation with Alice Gorman's "The Love List."

To summarize, you create a list of qualities you're looking for in a mate. The more specific, the better. Alice Gorman's list had 100 characteristics she was looking for and included something about charcoal colored socks (I can't remember if that was a preference or if her mate should dislike them). So you create this list, write it down on paper. Think long and hard about it. Take as long as you'd like to create this list. Stick it in a special but out-of-the-way place. Don't put it on your refrigerator under a magnet. Place it in the box that holds a pair of Manolo Blahniks or something.

And then fugetaboutit.

Let the universe do it's work. In the meantime, be the sort of person you want your ideal mate to be. If you want your ideal mate to be a football lover, then become one yourself so you have something to talk about. Me? I judge a team based on their tight ends. Or perhaps you want a golfer so that you can have some time to yourself on a Saturday morning. Someone who will make you laugh, but not cry (in misery). Someone who wants to slice and dice while you season and sautee. A passionate lover perhaps?

Oh come on, you saw that one coming from a mile away!

Some people advocate burning the list once you're done with it. Literally sending your list out into the universe as it were. Others recommend tying it up in pink or red ribbon, like a scroll. Alice Gorman buried her list in a box in the closet.

Whatever you decide to do with the list once you're done creating it is your choice and yours alone. Or you could take a poll on Facebook. Who knows. But once the list is complete, do with it what you will, fugetaboutit, and go on living your life.

Now obviously, sitting at home on a Friday night waiting for this divine creature to call isn't going to work if you ignore any and all invitations, have your groceries delivered, become agoraphobic, and what not while you wait for Mr. Right. Of course, doing the exact opposite and searching for every Mr. Right in the produce department of your local Kroger isn't exactly giong to get you far either. Especially if you come across as the creepy stalker.

And whatever you do, don't think that sleeping with the married man from your office is allowed while you wait for divine intervention! You'll get divine intervention all right, and let me tell you, Karma's a bitch!

No, none of that. Just go on being the unique, glorious individual that you are and trust that the Universe is looking after your best interests.

If you write it, he/she will come.

Guess who's doing a little experiment? Updates to follow.

And here's to you, Jen! I'm putting out into the universe what I hope to get out of it. And if you want to lend me some of that Flying Wish Paper you have, I'd gladly accept.  ;)

P.S.- Cannot WAIT for next week's giveaway!

 

"I realize that I'm black, but I like to be viewed as a person...

... and this is everybody's wish" ~ Michael Jordan

I've been having a lot of blonde moments as of late, but this one takes the cake. Even if it happened more than ten years ago.

Michael Jordan's home in Chicago had pink marble in it. Very, very pale pink marble, but pink all the same. How do I know this you ask? Very simple. My ex husband, affectionately referred to as Dipshit, installed his kitchen appliances. Well, the dishwasher and ovens (yes, multiple) at least.

Keeping this in mind....

Dipshit's company Christmas party in 2000 was held at Gibson's Steak House in Chicago. Quick review of the steakhouse: FABULOUS! But anyways.... The dinner was held in one of the restaurant's private dining rooms, which is on the second floor, as are the bathrooms. Two small stairways, one leading to the dining rooms and another leading to the bathrooms, branched off of a small landing at the top of the stairs. This is important to know as....

Yours truly at one point excused herself to make use of the facilities. I did what I needed to do, tipped the bathroom attendant, and went out to rejoin the party.

Instead, I came face to face with a very tall black man wearing a white track suit.

I say face to face and very tall because I was standing on a landing three stairs above the landing the tall black man was standing on.

"Whoa, you're a tall one, aren't you?" I said smiling. He'd startled me but only because of his height.

The man smiled in return. "I suppose I am. But I get that a lot."

"Well, at your height, you're kind of asking for it, aren't you?" I laughed.

The man genuinely laughed. "Well, there's that I guess. And are you enjoying your evening?" he asked.

"I am." I explained that I was attending the Miele (ME-lah) Christmas party and that it was lovely.

"Miele?" the gentleman asked. "The German appliance company?"

"Oh, you're familiar with their products!" I exclaimed.

"I am. I have their oven, confection oven, and dishwasher and a vacuum cleaner or two."

"Or two? Those are a thousand dollars a pop and you've got two? Oh, I'm very jealous." The man smiled. "Well, I'm distracting you from your original intention I know, and I should get back to the party," I said.

"It was very nice chatting with you," the tall, bald black man said.

"Likewise. Enjoy your evening and Merry Christmas!" I responded.

"Why thank you!" he said. He seemed pleasantly surprised at my farewell. We moved to opposite sides of the small staircase and he went up as I went down.

Back in the dining room, Dipshit inquired as to the length of my bathroom visit. "Oh, I wasn't in there all that time. I just was conversing with the bathroom attendant for a minute and then a nice black guy I met on the stairs. He's even taller than you!"

"What did you talk about?" Dipshit asked.

"Believe it or not, Miele!" I told him.

At that moment, the tall, bald black man wearing a white track suit poked his head into our dining room.

"I have it on good authority that this is the Miele Christmas party. I just wanted to say thank you for your superior products, but in addition, thank you for your professionalism and discretion whenever you've been in my home. Juanita and I both thank you. Merry Christmas!" He added a wave and a smile in my direction.

"Is that the black guy you were talking to in the hall?" Dipshit asked me, incredulous.

"Yeah, why?"

"You do realize you just carried on a conversation about appliances with Michael Jordan, right?"

Not. A. DAMN. Clue.

"I think in terms of the day's resolutions, not the years'."

~ Henry Moore

So I realize this post is a little late in coming all things considered as here we are in mid January and I'm just getting around to writing a post regarding resolutions (or as I'm calling them this year: declarations!). But there's been quite a bit of noise in my head as of late and getting everything out and down on paper or typed into something has been a long time coming (and truthfully, it's still not even done; my head is a very noisy place to be right now). But I wanted to shake some stuff loose and here it is.

Mo's 2012 Declarations

For starters, my parents instilled a sense of social responsibility in me at a very young age. With the exception of groceries, it's been drummed into us to use "the little guy" whenever possible. Frentz and Sons Hardware in Royal Oak or True Value Hardware in Mancelona always got our business (I also recommend Busy Bee in downtown Detroit at the corner of Gratiot and Russell). Shop at farmers markets. Buy gifts at craft fairs. The list goes on and on. And sadly I realize I've gotten away from that. So I vow that this year, I'm going to use "the little guy" whenever possible.

I'm going to make more use of Etsy to buy gifts if I'm not buying from The Strawberry Hill or TobieGirl Creations. I'd love to say I'd shop at local boutiques for clothes, but being plus-sized, most local boutiques don't cater to a larger woman except for the plus-size resale shop Have Hips in Clawson (if you haven't already been there, go! They've got good stuff starting with size Large and up). And as far as groceries are concerned, we have some really great local grocery stores, but I'm also going to make a more concentrated effort to go to farmers markets. Whether it's in Royal Oak, Eastern Market in Detroit, or Cherry Street Market in Kalkaska (check out their online store; their preserves are out of this world and I love anything from Alden's Mill House), I want to support local farmers.

As long as we're on the topic of groceries.... As I mentioned in Monday's post, this past weekend  I found out Preston has a new dating interest. I was at my mom's house beginning the arduous task of packing up stuff I still have at my mom's. So as if the news about Preston wasn't bad enough, I made the mistake of stepping on the scale I found behind my bed within minutes of finding out.

Thank God my mom and sister weren't home when I read THAT number.

So that number was 260. Don't you love my honesty? And as long as we're being honest, admit it.... My number makes your number look just a little bit better, doesn't it? So in light of my weight being what it is, as well as the fact that I don't like the way I look, add in that my knees hurt going up and down stairs, well yeah... it's time to lose some weight. My plan right now is to use my old Weight Watchers Momentum program as a) I already have it on hand and b) I have about 10 WW cookbooks with the old Points program information.

Losing weight of course implies that I'm going to need to exercise. I hate exercise. Unless it's a nice, leisurely stroll around the block, I usually don't like it. And then I discovered Vixen Fitness. I equate Vixen Fitness as "a feminine movement studio" whose sole purpose is help Mo release her inner vixen (and yes, that's their motto as well). I originally found the fitness studio when I was looking for a belly dancing class. I took one and had a lot of fun, but I haven't taken another; I think I may start a full series in March. I'm in the middle of my "Sensual Movement" series though, which is a lot of fun despite having difficulties with my "sexy face."  I'm also signed up for a lap dance workshop in early February and want to sign up for the strip tease workshop in late February.

Why all of these "erotic" fitness classes? Well, feeling sexy has a lot to do with confidence. And confidence it would appear has more to do with a man finding you attractive than your actual "attractiveness." No joke. I saw an article about this earlier this week but of course I can't find it now. So in addition to my Vixen Fitness classes, I'm starting to read more of the books that cause my family to proclaim me the most self-helped girl in America (if you ever see my bookshelves, you'll understand). These books include How to Be Adored by Caroline Cox and Seven Days to Sex Appeal by Eva Margolies. Just a side note... if you're ever in need of a quippy self-help book, hit me up. Chances are I own it. Anyways, I'm hoping to improve my self confidence and make those around me green with envy.

Not really, it was just a good lead into my next declaration.

For 2012 I really want to work harder on developing a greener life style. While I can't always afford to buy organic meats and vegetables, I can afford greener cleaning and beauty products. This fits in nicely also with my stand against testing cosmetics on animals. The problem with this little vow though is this lifestyle can be a costly one. So I'm trying to find products that are kind to Mother Earth, animals and my budget. It's not necessarily an easy task.

While all of these declarations are things I'll be working on adapting as part of my ongoing lifestyle, there are a few things I need to work on immediately.

First, I need to get the rest of my stuff from my mom's house. This includes books, clothes, my computer, and my cats (yes, my poor cats have been cooped up at my mother's 3-story, 1800+ sq. ft. house instead of my 900 sq. ft. apartment). Once that's accomplished, then I plan on moving my crafting things over so I can make my beautiful handmade cards (more on that some other time). And finally, I need to start saving up for a dining room table.

That's going to take awhile.

But all good things are worth the wait, correct?

"Anybody who's ever gone through a hard time -

... any outsider's perception, no matter how much information they're given, they have no idea what the person's life is like." - Amy Grant

* Mo note: this is by far and away the most heartfelt post I have ever written, and will be for a very very very long time.

The other day, my cousin Kristyn posted on Facebook about her niece's blog post about Perception. I read it, and it got me thinking. And then I went back to Facebook, read a few more posts from friends and family and thought some more about perception.

"No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be true."
- Nathaniel Hawthorne

When I was living in Chicago, so many people thought my ex and I had it made. No kids, two adults with good jobs making an almost six figure salary living one block off of Lake Michigan in a vintage 1,200 sq. ft. apartment. Why wouldn't we have it made?

We put on such a great act for everyone that I think it was hard for each of us to believe we were actually unhappy.

Our reality is that we were maxed to the hilt on credit. It was rather understandable, each of us moving to Chicago with nothing but a bookcase and a dresser between us for furniture and some leftover stuff I had from my apartment dwelling days in college. Mix and match plastic cups and hard plastic dining ware weren't going to cut it for the long haul.

So we opened up a Macy's charge (Marshall Fields back then) and a Target account and had ourselves a little spendfest. I paid cash for our living room furniture (which I still have, thank you very much) but our dishes, linens, household cleaning supplies, household necessities, and everything else we needed went on those two cards. We opened a Sears account to purchase a computer desk. The following month we had to buy a new car when Dipshit totalled his for the second time (he really was an appallingly bad driver those first few months in Chicago). Then we had a line of credit with Dell when we bought our computer. Add that into the undiscovered reality of Dipshit doing a pretty decent job of stringing himself out on credit even before we began dating  along with a loan we took out for our wedding and you'd find the newly married Mr. and Mrs. almost $40,000 in debt.

Sure, I was wearing Ralph Lauren and Jones New York to work; the majority of my wardrobe had been bought and paid for while I was working at Marshall Fields. I bought my mom and I matching DKNY purses and totes for Christmas... at Filene's Basement (a store much like TJMaxx and Marshall's but with slightly higher quality merchandise). And then there was the one lunch hour when I ran out to Marshall Fields and bought 7 pairs of shoes for almost $300.

I can't say I'm perfect. That's what this blog post is about after all.

Of course, in addition to the debt we had, there was also the actual relationship issues Dipshit and I had. He wasn't a big communicator and I'm a yeller. We weren't sexually active (well, he was but I wasn't as it turned out). My wants and needs weren't a priority for him. And I was something of a control freak.

One of us had to be though so that the bills would be paid, food would be on the table, the car would be maintained, the animals healthy, the laundry done, the house cleaned.... You get the idea.

So when I announced the divorce to my friends and family, it would appear the majority of my problems had been shipped over to Iraq.

But in exchange for getting rid of Dipshit, I had a new pile of problems to deal with. The self-doubt that came from the hurt, neglect and anger I'd suffered with during our relationship. The evident self-confidence issues I had as a plus-size woman. The unworthiness I felt because my husband wasn't even willing to work on our marriage because I "wasn't worth it." Direct quote.

And just when I started to feel better about myself and thought, "Okay, I can do this. I can be single again. After all, I live in one of the greatest cities in the world!" my bottom fell out from under me again and I found out I was losing my job. A few months after that, I busted into Dipshit's email accounts and found evidence that he was bi-sexual. He was on "Hot or Not" under "Men Looking For Men." He also had quite a few emails from both men and women that he was planning on hooking up with when he came home on R&R (a few years later, I was having computer issues and was going through some files when I found a huge file full of pictures of naked men and some women. I've never been sure if they were conquests of his or not, nor will I, but....).

Time kept moving on and I lost my job. Despite what I thought was a great resume and applying for up to fifteen, twenty jobs a day, I wasn't getting any interviews. I had an insane week-long bout of insomnia (just a little plug for Miele products - you can vacuum at two in the morning or run your dishwasher and no one is ever the wiser). And then Dipshit came back from Iraq and it got even worse (read my Karma post under the Dipshit category to read how).

After a year and a half of being angry, sad, disappointed, anxious, and overall miserable, I couldn't see an upside. I was three weeks from losing all of my unemployment benefits, my soon-to-be ex was an even bigger ass than he'd been while we were married, and I had absolutely no job prospects in sight. I wasn't even getting interviews. Me, someone who always got the job after the first interview. Reality was hitting me from every direction and I didn't like it. Not one bit. And I couldn't deal with it.

So I attempted suicide.

I sat down naked in the bathtub on July 12, 2005 and tried to slice my wrists. Just for the record, it hurts. A lot. When I couldn't bear the pain any longer, I grabbed a bottle of booze to chase down a bottle of aspirin.

I don't remember much of that night.

I do remember the exact day though. Because it was the very reason I climbed out of the tub and went to get myself help during one of my more lucid moments. I just remember thinking to myself, "If Kony has to tell Katie I killed myself on her 13th birthday, Katie will never be the same again."

I ended up in a psych ward for a few days. And just to inject some humor into this rather morbid post, I am the idiot that told the admittance doctors, "Oh, don't worry. I don't do what they tell me to" when asked if I heard voices in my head. No, I seriously did. It's a wonder they didn't lock me up for life.

And over the three days I spent in the psych ward, I had epiphany after epiphany. With one explanation from the sociologist who was helping me with my after-the-psych-ward-plan, I learned more about what I was going through than I'd ever learned from the year and a half of therapy I'd been in since Dipshit announced he was leaving me.

To summarize: I was married to a gay man, and therefore any problems in the bedroom weren't about me. It was about him. Because my significant other was a compulsive liar and a man with a very dark side to him as his mother said (perhaps even slightly sociopathic, if that's even a word), most of our relationship would always have two very different sides because we would never view the reality as the same. And yes, my entire life was going to change. I'd have to move home and start almost completely from scratch. It was a rough situation, to be sure, and my feelings were very, very real, but it was just that. One situation in my life.

Whereas most of the fellow patients in the ward with me were there because of their psychological problems. My roommate was a young woman, about the same age as my brother, who told her parents at the age of six that she wanted to lie down in front of a train and be run over. Another woman in the ward was a few years older than I was, with a child, living with her parents in a one-bedroom senior living center that couldn't afford her medication for manic depression (bi-polar disorder). A third patient, a young man who again, the same age as my brother, was also a manic depressive alcoholic "rich kid" who wanted desperately to help himself but whose parents were also alcoholics who didn't believe their son had an ongoing mental illness and therefore would toss out his medication after three months. I saw them. This poor kid had a mother who showed up in a psych ward drunk and complaining about the fact that she was missing dinner "at the club."

These people had real problems that unfortunately would follow them for life.

My financial problems would go away in time. I would gain back my self-confidence and believe in my self-worth with time. I would (or will) eventually meet someone new and perhaps spend the rest of my life with him and start a family. All it would take is time.

And for a brief period, some anti-depressants that made me feel very very foggy most of the time. Within three weeks of my suicide attempt, I packed up 90% of that great vintage apartment I had one block off of Lake Michigan and left the rest with Dipshit. I put 80% of what I took from the apartment and placed it in storage. The other 20% came back to my mom's house with me. Also in that three weeks, my unemployment benefits came to an end. And my divorce was finalized.

I had a follow-up examination with a psychiatrist a month after my suicide attempt. I talked. A lot. I know, hard to imagine isn't it? The doctor asked a few questions and I answered them with my usual honesty. At the end he asked how I felt about the meds I was on. "I don't know, doc, am I supposed to feel like I live in a fog?" I asked.

"So you don't like being on them?" he asked me.

"No, not really." I shrugged.

"Then stop taking them. You, Monique, are an astoundingly normal woman. You have one of the best grasps of reality I've seen in a patient in a very long time. You had a terrible situation to get through, that's true. But you know it'll get better. Tell me, what did it for you?"

"Three days in a psych ward and a really great sociologist who explained it all to me with one conversation. And did you just call me normal?"

"I did," the doctor nodded.

Imagine that.