Do I Have An Internet Stalker??????

A couple of months after moving to Colorado, it started to really hit me how much I missed my friends and wonderful colleagues in Arkansas. Over time, I started thinking of ways to reach out to people, stay connected (this blog being one of the results of that thinking). The first time I tried connecting "on-line", it was through an invitation my friend Stacie, who moved to D.C. the same week I moved out here, sent me for "Good Reads". Considering my love of reading, that's been great fun. I've made "friends" on the site (and have rejected quite a few that I suspected were not interested in the books I've read) and even found out about a few author readings in the area. That positive experience led to deciding to write this blog and also to my joining Classmates.com. I thought it would be fun to see who from my high school had posted information and see if any were in the Colorado area and, yes, I admit, I wanted to see if there was any information posted by my "first love", who was/is 4 years older than me and already playing football at the University of Houston when we started dating my junior year. Yes, he was listed, unfortunately (or fortunately) no information about him. Oh well, it would be fun to try to look up old friends.
So . . . I answered the silly questions that they ask you to answer and posted a picture, which took some time, so I decided to wait for another day to see which, if any, of my high school buddies had posted info/pics.
However . . . within a day or two I received an email that someone had "signed my Guestbook" and left me a message. When I went to see who it was, I recognized the name but could not, for the life of me, picture this person in my mind. Here is a "redacted" version of his email to me:

O.K. what can I say. This Is my last letter on this site. I apparantly found what I was seeking so now I must continue my journey else where. How befitting,since the only moment I really had back in Exeter, I mean XXXXX, ( they are or WERE somewhat similar) was with you (seriously , that was the closest I came to reaching out and stealing a kiss from a girl, and THAT WASN"T VERY DAMN CLOSE WAS IT?!)when I handed you your cap during the air guitar show, but you did have tempting eyes. Well, I went there to go here. You were an absoulte knockout then and you have only gotten more fanatically beutiful. Phenominal. Why? I dunno. Uhh, I know I went to a school full of supermodels. My Lorrrd was I nervous (scared to death, more like it) but I can tell you this, I did the Ridgemont High thing to every girl in that school but two (one I was-am(?) in love with-the other was you--way beyond MY imagination. What can I say, every guy in that school was the same way (puberty ruled). Well, I must say, it has been a real kicker you just happening along when you did. I don't know how you feel about yourself but just from what I saw of you in high school you seem like a winner and I hope your doing o.k. I don't know if you like distractions from your day but if you ever need to be distracted or if you need a really weird answer to any of life's questions you be sure and email me (I will do my best to put you to bed with a smile) at XXXXXXXXXX When I get my website back on space (if you live you learn.com), if I have your address I'll let you know. Right now I simply have too many projects to properly maintain it. Oh, yea, if you wondering what "ridgemont high" meant, rent the movie, and watch it with your daughters if you have such and they aren't grown. When you get to me just explain to them (for their own good) all men are like that--get used to it. Well, God bless and take care.

So . . . hmmm . . . didn't quite know what to think about a message like that from someone whose face I cannot picture in my mind. The yearbooks are packed away somewhere in my storage unit. And, being the guilt-laden creature I am, I was more concerned that I didn't remember this person and didn't remember an "air guitar show" and feeling bad that I was apparently so self-involved in high school that I didn't know this person had a crush on me. Looking back, I think I should have been more worried about the intimate nature of an email from someone I knew 20+ years ago. I didn't want to "start" something, so I just didn't reply to the email.

A couple of more emails appeared over the next few days that were fairly innocuous. Then this one:

HELLO. I meant to ask you when I visited your site last time, uh, oh, what was that question? Ohh no!, guess I've just been caught wanting to look at your site (your picture?) again. Myyy Lorrrd! I apoligize but ya gotta love this internet stuff! I mean, you know and I know I'll never get to hang with you, and youv'e heard the saying about how much sweeter a great wine gets!. Oh, gee, what can I say? Hopefully no harm done and hopefully someone got a little bit of cockiness. I mean, daaammmnnn! MMMyyy Lorrrd! Ya big tease! Don'tcha know any loser can get on here and stare at ya?

Okay . . . so now I'm beginning to get a little annoyed. I haven't replied to any of his emails. Wouldn't that suggest that I'm not interested? Why is he continuing to write to me?

Then, a few days ago, I woke up one morning and had a message from Classmates.com that I had a new message waiting for me. This one frightens me. It read:

There were two young ladies who were waaaaay out of my league at one time. NO more. I know I grew up way too fast which meant when you were 18 you had your 18 year old groove goin'. That was a long time ago. Welcome to grownup hood where feelings are real. And skills have been attained because of simply growin' up. I can't imagine you, therefore I am without any fanfare gonna get you girl, in an extremly pleasureably sort of way. That is if you allow yourself such gratification. God bless and take care.

I immediately reported this message to Classmates.com and asked if they would please block him from sending any further messages to my "inbox". I removed my picture and any information that might identify my location, but I feel that cat has sort of been let out of the bag. I've not heard from him since, but I'm really quite nervous about this person. I hope he was simply drunk or on drugs and really regrets having sent such a threatening email.

Luckily, I work with a local police chief on a regular basis. He's picking me up for a meeting tomorrow and I think I'll mention it to him. Maybe he'll have some good advice. If any of you reading this have some words of wisdom about this, I welcome them. . . . Just don't send me any scary messages!!!

Metrosexuals . . . . or Dating in Denver

My dating life since moving to Denver has been . . . less than fulfilling. Since February, it's been non-existent with the near-death dog, spending all my time fighting identity theft and forged checks, selling my house in Arkansas, dealing with nasty neighbors, and caring for my daughter. But . . . those casts are coming off in June, she's going away to camp for 2 weeks, and, frankly, I'm hoping my love life starts improving.

Things looked promising for a while. In fact, within a 5-day period in early February, I had four dates (which actually stressed me out a little bit --- I'm not the best at juggling, especially men . . . in second grade I accepted I.D. bracelets from 2 boys, Stanley and Gene, because I liked them both and didn't want to choose OR hurt feelings . . . of course, I got busted on the playground and then had no boyfriends or I.D. bracelets . . . since second grade, I've never dated more than one guy at a time.)

Anyway, these 4 guys . . . . all seemed nice and interesting, all good-looking. I had hope.

One was a builder who was redesigning and rebuilding a river walk in another Colorado city. He was a great emailer, the phone conversations . . . eh . . . so-so, but the date . . . oh my gosh . . . one of the worst conversationalists I've ever encountered. Looooooooooong periods of silence and pretty much monosyllabic responses to the 500 questions I asked just to have some conversation going. I finally claimed an unforgotten commitment and scooted out of that one.

The second was the vice president of communications of a major telecommunications giant . . . this one had to be a great conversationalist, right? I mean, come on, he's VP of COMMUNICATIONS. . . . Well, he had a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas about women and relationships, and I could barely make it through the entree considering the doses of sarcasm he was heaping upon me. With this one, I claimed a text message from my babysitter (couldn't figure out how to make my phone ring) meant I needed to get home and check on my daughter. When we left the restaurant and were headed down the street, he noticed he had a ticket on his car. I left him standing in the street cursing and yelling after me he would call me and I could pick up the next dinner (yeah right buddy, in your dreams).

The third one was an airline pilot. Cuuuuuute as he could be, but there simply was not room for all three of us in any relationship that might develop . . . . the three being me, him, and his EGO. Wow . . . so I'm 0 for 3 in the dating bonanza. The next one is a lawyer. One of my own. That will break the streak of bad luck surely.

Not . . .

This one was my first encounter with . . . THE METROSEXUAL.

My favorite on-line dictionary defines the "metrosexual" as:

"a usually urban heterosexual male given to enhancing his personal appearance by fastidious grooming, beauty treatments, and fashionable clothes".

I'll say . . . . Denver is rife with metrosexual men. Now, being from the South, I have not encountered this breed of men too often. I've seen them when traveling, especially in New York, D.C., and San Francisco . . . but I've never dated one. And the last three men I dated seriously were all sophisticated, intelligent men, but they would (and did) bristle at the mention of ever going to get a manicure or a facial.

Well, Denver "date no. 4" was a full and proud metrosexual. The perfectly coifed hair and the white, perfect teeth (think Tony from "Dancing with the Stars") should have tipped me off. Within 10 minutes of sitting down to dinner, he felt the need to share with me that he:

• preferred Armani over all other labels
• regularly tanned
• liked facials, manicures, and pedicures
• and . . . this was the pièce de résistance . . . for some odd reason he felt I would like to know that he . . . regularly got his back waxed (at that point, the Cajun food I was eating started to crawl back up my throat at a rapid pace).

This guy even referred to himself as a metrosexual and said his children called him that all the time.

I'm sorry . . . it is not a turn-on for me when a guy has more salon/spa visits than I do. I mean, I can be all girly girl . . . I regularly get manicures and pedicures (and being from the South, it was engrained in me that one always gets a pedicure before visiting her gynecologist . . . it's simply not proper to put one's feet in the stirrups without silky smooth legs and painted toes). I periodically will buy the Crest Whitening Strips to make my smile a little brighter. I like to do my hair and make-up and dress up to go out, but this guy made me feel like a backwoods mountain girl. I had flash forwards of him using my facial muds, my exfoliating products, my concealer . . .ugh . . . I had a sudden desire to find a man who burped and scratched or at least didn't "WAX"!!

That was my last date. I went on a self-imposed moratorium after that. Admittedly, my life started falling apart at the seams at that time, which required all of my waking hours to address, but I put the dating game WAY on the back burner.

Shortly after that, an article came out in the little area newsletter about metrosexuals and how men in Denver were turning to not only manicures/pedicures/facials/spa treatments, but also makeup. Yes, makeup. Heterosexual men wearing makeup. I can honestly say I never want to date a man who wears makeup, and I'm a fairly liberal girl. I want a manly man . . . not a gross one . . . I truly don't want a burper or scratcher . . . I love sophisticated, well-groomed, nicely dressed men with clean fingernails but . . . no makeup please.

On Saturday, my daughter and I visited a local salon for full spa pedicures, including salt scrubs and hot paraffin treatments. As we're sitting there in the vibrating/rolling massage chairs . . . relaxing . . . talking girl talk . . ., in come a father and son, who take the 2 massage chairs next to us . . . and who are there for their full spa pedicures. !!!!!!! My dad and brother would have taken bullets to the head before ever even walking through the door of a salon, much less to go there for a father-son pedicure day.

An investment banker from Boulder has indicated he would like to have dinner when he returns from overseas travel in June. I'll be checking his hands and hoping for hang nails or bitten cuticles.

Learning to be grateful

I haven't written in a while. Exhausted and overwhelmed are the pity party emotions I've allowed to consume my past week. On May 11, 2008, Mother's Day, I awoke before my daughter and decided to spend some time reading a book she had given me for my birthday. The name of the book is "This Is Not the Life I Ordered". I know . . . an odd present for a 10-year-old to give her mother . . . but . . . this 10-year-old has lived a lot of life in those 10 years and, unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, has seen her mother through the up's and down's. I had bought the book for a friend of mine going through a divorce and read a bit of it before putting it in the mail. My daughter remembered me commenting on it and bought the book for me. She even wrote an inscription on the inside of the book, and the date, as I always do with books given to her as a gift, and signed it "Bug", my nickname for her since she first learned to read --- the book was "A Boy, A Bear, and A Bug" . . . or was it "A Bug, A Boy, and A Bear" . . . or . . . well something like that. Anyway, she was only 3 and somehow, through her reading that book to me, her nickname became first "Buggy Bear", then "Buggy", and finally "Bug", which has stuck throughout the years.

I digress . . . .

So, I'm reading this book, and the portion happens to be on "gratitude". . . . how important it is to be grateful. How taking time out of your day to write down in a journal what it is you're grateful for is supposed to change your life. And they were words I needed to read. I've been through a period of looking at the glass "half empty". Master event planner for "The Pity Party". So, just as I was deciding I would start writing the life-changing gratitude journal, in comes Bug from her night's sleep with a beautiful homemade card and a box wrapped in shiny blue paper and a rose-colored ribbon. It had a picture of her taped on the bottom and an attachment that read:

This is a very special gift
That you can never see.
The reason it's so
special is
It's just for you from me.

Whenever you are
lonely
Or even feeling blue,
You only have to hold this gift
And know I
think of you.

You never can unwrap it.
Please leave the ribbon
tied.
Just hold the box close to your heart
It's filled with love
inside.

Yes . . . a very cool way to start Mother's Day. We decide our day. . . . First, a long bike ride, to be followed by lunch at a favorite restaurant, and, finally, a movie. We eat a quick breakfast, throw on some biking clothes, and hit the trail.

By 10:30 that morning, our Mother's Day plans were derailed . . . literally. Bug was riding in front of me on the bike path. I saw her tire veer off to the right into the grass and then, all in seemingly slow motion, I saw her try to correct and get back on the pavement . . . the tire caught at the pavement, throwing her off to the left. I couldn't get to her, damnit . . . why was everything in slow motion when I needed to reach her?? She landed on both arms, with her body propelling forward and to the left, and her head was scraping along the pavement. My first thought was "WHY COULDN'T THAT BE ME???" My second thought was . . . "the right side of her face will be destroyed from the pavement." I jumped off my bike and gently lifted her. She was screaming, but miraculously the helmet had taken all of the brunt of her fall to her face. Without it, I can't imagine. . . I don't want to imagine. Her legs were scraped and bleeding, but . . . her beautiful little arms . . . they took the hit. Both of them . . . . broken.

I managed to lift her off of the trail and onto the grass, and move both of our bikes so that no one else would be hurt. It was stunning to see the number of people who just whizzed by us without so much of an offer to call for help. Here I was at the side of the path holding a hysterically crying child . . . . and probably 10 people rode by us. Finally, an elderly gentlemen stopped and reminded me, in my distraught state, that I should call for help -- I had forgotten about my phone. But I didn't know where we were . . . we had just taken off on a path and were miles from home. Luckily, this gentlemen knew the cross streets and I was able to give the directions to the 911 dispatcher. Before I could even get off of the phone, I heard the sirens. Within seconds, literally, a fire truck, an ambulance, and 2 police cars were at the top of an embankment . . . it seemed like hordes of uniformed people were headed our way . . . I can not explain how wonderful they looked, all coming down that hill so quickly . . . just to help my Bug.

I had no i.d. on me, no insurance cards, but luckily my BlackBerry held all my pertinent information. After a traumatizing splinting of both arms and insertion of an IV, Bug and I were headed to the emergency room. Our bikes were left with the firemen, who said they would take them to the station. The x-rays confirmed the bad news. Both arms broken. (Along with the summer dreams . . . .)

I can not appropriately describe the past 8 days. But . . . it's not easy for a 10-year old to adapt to life without the use of her arms or hands, for the most part, for 4-6 weeks. It's not easy to have to give up soccer camps and tryouts and pool parties and riding your bike and not being able to play softball on the team you just made. For me, it's not easy feeding and bathing a 10-year old, brushing and flossing her teeth, taking her to the bathroom. Her school has not been the best to work with through this process, so I've been leaving work every day to drive back to the school and feed her and take her to the bathroom. She can't write, so she reads her homework assignment and I transcribe her answers. The teachers give her oral examinations (which I think has to be much more difficult). She's slept with me every night since the accident so I can make sure her arms are properly elevated above her heart like the orthopedic surgeon said they should be . . . which means I don't sleep much. It's hard not having Bug to help feed and walk the dogs or help carry in groceries or plant flowers or go jogging or start the tennis lessons that we were both supposed to start last Saturday. . . .

But you know what . . .

I am SO GRATEFUL!
I am grateful for that helmet. People who ride without them are certifiably insane.
I am grateful only her arms were broken and not her legs or her collarbone or her HEAD!
I am so grateful that this is going to make our strong relationship even stronger because we're both learning patience and appreciation and, yes, gratitude.
I am so grateful for the incredible friends who email and call and have sent cards and gifts --- you have no idea how much every little gesture means (even when I've been too tired to call back or reply to an email).
I am so grateful for our friends who left their family outing on Mother's Day to come get us from the hospital.
I am so grateful to the paramedic who gave Bug a stuffed teddy bear in the ambulance to help divert attention from the needle going into her arm and the nurse at the ER who splinted both of the bears arms so he would look like my daughter.
I am so grateful to the fireman who took care of our bikes and who all came out when we arrived to pick them up ---- 4 of them loaded our bikes on the racks and made such a big deal over Bug. (And, yes, there is a reason that "Fireman" was voted one of the sexiest professions. I can personally attest to this.)
I am grateful for casts that now come in colors that make little girls feel less like a freak -- Bug has one pink and one purple.
I am grateful for straws that allow a person without use of their arms to be able to drink from a cup. (This is what a difficult situation allows . . . you appreciate things you never think of.)
I am grateful for a job and a boss that allows me flexibility to be able to care for my child.

I . . . am grateful for the opportunity to learn from life's challenges.

Ice cream . . . . yum!

My daughter and I are on a quest to find the best ice cream in the city. We love independents, whether they are bookstores, restaurants, ice cream parlors, pet stores, whatever. We much prefer to support a local proprietor over the big chains. (Not that we haven't had our share of Haagen Dazs and Cold Stone Creamery, which both are within a few blocks of our townhome.) Anyway, the Daily Scoop is a very strong contender, and actually they sell frozen custard as opposed to ice cream. But this is good stuff . . . usually they only serve 3 flavors per day, chocolate, vanilla, and one that changes daily . . . with a multitude of available toppings and a side of waffle cone they put in for garnish. There are strong competitors for the title of "Favorite Ice Cream" place. The gelato place across the street from my hair stylist and the ever favorite Bonnie Brae Ice Cream shop in Washington Park are STRONG contenders. We'll just have to keep testing!! :):)

Go Rapids!

Attended a Colorado Rapids soccer game today. They beat D.C. United 2-0. The games are great. Held at a beautiful new stadium, Dick's Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City, Colorado. My daughter's favorite player is Christian Gomez, no. 10. I still haven't decided on my favorite player, but do love to watch them play. I will no longer get to see Razorback football, so I needed a new "home favorite". After being told of a 12-15 year wait for Broncos season tickets, I turned to the Rapids --- good decision. I'm still psyched about getting to see the occasional Broncos, Nuggets, Avalanche, Rockies, or Mammoth games, but the Rapids are now my #1 team for which we have season tickets.

Was thankful for the game today. The weekend started out badly. First with a phone call that my storage company had to move all of my things to a new unit because of a water leak --- now I've got to determine what might be damaged/missing (as if I have time). Then, when we got home Friday, there was a nasty letter in the mailbox from the city stating that someone complained about my dogs barking and that if there are further complaints, I get to look forward to: (1) impoundment; (2) fine of up to $1000; and/or (3) jail up to a year. The thing that really tears me up is I know it's not my dogs --- I just don't know how to prove it. I do know that the "uppity ups" in this townhome complex weren't thrilled that "renters" moved in (everyone else owns), that I had a child, or that I have dogs. I'm hurt and angry over the whole thing --- if someone thought my dogs were barking, why wouldn't they have the common courtesy to come talk to me first? And why do bad things always come in the mail on Friday afternoons when you get home from work, it's too late to call anyone, and then you have to stew about them all weekend? This is the downside of living in this neighborhood --- the residents are extremely wealthy and intolerant of outsiders. Lots of "trust fund babies" and retirees. I should have known when, in the winter the other dogs had designer coats and boots, and I was out walking mine in 10 degree weather with just their dog fur. Guess it's time to start looking for a new place to rent. I do not want to give up my dogs.

A Snowy May Day

I wish I had stuck my camera in my purse this morning, but it was one of those mornings. I found my daughter's monthly lunch form that was supposed to be turned in . . . . yesterday ("no late exceptions" in bold on the form). So, I not only had to make a lunch at the last minute, but now also was required to go to the office and plead for "the exception" so she could actually eat for the next month without suffering through my homemade lunches. And it's SNOWING, yes snowing, on May 1st. Actual snow. Huge white flakes. Which means traffic into downtown will be a bear. I'm already late before I even leave the house . . . . and, the icing on the cake, I have a trial today . . . my first trial with my new employer . . . in a town in Colorado I've never been to . . . and it's friggin' snowing . . IN MAY!
I race to school and park . . . oops . . . that's a fire hydrant (isn't there a law about that? . . . oh well, I'll just find another spot). My next spot invokes the wrath of the "carpool police" (this is only for people dropping off their children, you can't park here ). WhatEVER! At least my child can get into the school at this point . . . I still can't. So I drive and park . . . 2 blocks away . . . and now I'm running in my skirt and heels with the lunch forms . . . IN THE SNOW. I plead my case . . . whew! . . . they actually made an exception. Good, good, my daughter can eat, so now off to work . . . except the nice Catholic school office workers tell me I can not leave because it's time for morning prayer and the pledge of allegiance. (Are you kidding me? . . . No, I can tell by your stern looks that I, in fact, am under Catholic house arrest until we pray and pledge. ) Finally, I'm off and running . . . again in the skirt and heels . . . again IN THE SNOW . . . and wow, it's really cold and I left my winter coat at home . . . huh . . . why did I do that? . . . oh yeah, BECAUSE IT'S MAY!



My office is downtown on the top floor of a building. My back wall is nothing but windows overlooking the city. And once I had caught my breath, warmed up, and dried off, I was able to appreciate the snow. I have never, ever, ever seen such large, beautiful flakes. Some were as large as half-dollars. So sad I did not have my camera. Interestingly, there is a huge Four Seasons going up across the street from me (where, for just a few million dollars, I too could live in one of the penthouses and just walk across the street to work every morning), and the guy in the crane was working --- he has to climb an unbelievable amount of metal steps every day, higher than my 14-story building, and get in the crane to work. And he climbed those steps and operated the crane in that incredible snow storm. My colleague who grew up in Michigan said he'd never seen such a thick snow storm before . . . and he's from Michigan!



I reviewed my case, returned a few calls, and had to head out in the snow storm to a town I had never been to, to try my first case in Colorado. When I was driving into the outskirts of the town, I saw a Starbucks sign . . . aah . . . good . . . it's a civilized place. :):) I looked at my watch . . . yes! . . . . I had made good time despite the storm, there was time for a mocha . . . not my usual Starbucks drink, but I needed the combination of chocolate and caffeine to get through the rest of the day. When I arrived at the courthouse, I had to go through metal detectors, and something I was wearing (unknown) set them off, which meant I got to spend an inordinate amount of time with Barney Fife running the scanner up and down me. Finally, I was deemed safe to pass. On the way to the courtroom, I passed windows overlooking a courtyard with the most wonderful sculpture entitled "Called to Jury Duty" --- it was a huge bronze sculpture of ordinary men and women contemplating their call to justice. It really was riveting . . . again, remorse over not sticking the camera in my purse. Oh well, it was time to focus on business at hand. Upon arrival in any courtroom, my usual practice is to approach and shake hands with the opposing party and lawyer . . . there's no reason not to be civil, even if you're about to do battle . . . but, for the first time in 18 years of practice, the plaintiff refused to shake my hand . . . just looked me up and down with disdain. I simply smiled and lowered my hand (and muttered under my breath as I walked away, "that's fine because I'm about to squash you like the bug you are"). His unmasked anger throughout the proceeding worked in my favor with the judge. I prevailed, thankfully. My client was very happy. The day was looking up.



I drove back to the city, this time in rain. It rarely rains here. This is only the second time I've seen it since I moved to Colorado. Because I had left my umbrella safe and dry in the car, I was quite damp for my drive back. Ended up picking my daughter up on the way and just calling it a day. I was cold and tired. When we got home, I treated myself by actually cooking dinner. I had been saving some lime cilantro fettucine purchased from my favorite Italian boutique, Bella Pasta, for a special occasion. Tonight was it. I sauteed some diced chicken in olive oil, threw it into a sundried tomato alfredo sauce, tossed it with the fettucine (which gives off the most amazing citrus smell), and . . . aaaaaaahhhhh . . . it was good, and it was warm. I was so proud of myself for making it, I took a picture with the camera I had wished for all day.







It was raining and 38 degrees outside . . . no cycling or jogging tonight. So I grabbed a blanket, snuggled with Chloe, and watched Grey's Anatomy . . . thank goodness the writers' strike is over!