On Sexy Halloween Costumes

I know: this is not a new topic. It was covered in Mean Girls, it popped up on Sex and the City...we get it. Halloween is the one night (or weekend) of the year on which females are given a hall pass to dress less-than-fully. Fine.

I have gotten over the whole sexy storybook costumes. They've kind of grown on me and some gals actually look pretty darn cute in them. (I don't think they were going for cute, but if you've got bows on your knee-highs and in your pigtails, I'm calling you "cute.") I can even move past the sexy bugs. Shoot, if I had a body like some of those costume models, I might prance around in lingerie, too. (Ok, that's not true. Because sweatpants.)

Gals like to feel sexy and I get that. I personally would prefer some of these get-ups stay in the boudoir as I do not routinely enjoy seeing others' cleavage and butt cheeks displayed so generously. But maybe that's just a short-coming of mine. I will work on that.

Long-standing annoyance aside, I had to chime in on a few gems I discovered while costume shopping with the boyfriend over the past few days:

Photo: spirithalloween.com

 "Get it? I'm a bag of Skittles!" Oh...kay. Are the Fun Size packs not sufficient for fellas anymore?

Photo: spirithalloween.com

Nemo?! We couldn't spare an animated clown fish from the sexy costume action, huh?

Photo: spirithalloween.com

DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THIS.

Photo: yandy.com

Sexy fruit. Fruit. Honestly, I'm surprised it's just now showing up. Fruit is sexier than bugs, and those are practically an institution in the sexy costume world. 

Please let me apologize in advance for putting my foot in my mouth if you are sporting one of these get-ups for trick-or-treating this year. I bet you'll look great. Just do Mama Natty a favor and carry some mace in your knee-highs, will ya? Bunch of savages out there.

Whatever you decide to dress up as for Halloween (if y'all participate), have fun with it! Be safe and please remember to behave like ladies and gentleman. There is a lot to be said for a fun costume, hanging out with great friends, enjoying Halloween treats and spirits, and making memories to last you until the next wonderful holiday.

(To be fair, I will post a photo of me in my Halloween costume closer to the 31st. I'm super excited about our outfits! I'm a sucker for movie costumes and the chance to do some character makeup.)

What are you going to be for Halloween?

iLose

I was fairly disappointed in myself as I set out on the journey of a lifetime upon finding my baggage encumbered by a giant bag o' cords for all my contraptions. I should have just thrown machinery to the wind and vowed to commit 100% to the road, embracing the moments. (But then how would I have shared it all with you, right?)

I hate that I've become one of those people who can't be away from their Crackberry for more than an hour without having a meltdown.* I get the shakes if I can't find a WiFi connection for my laptop. (Starbucks, FTW!) It's sad that my local road-trips (1-3 hours in length) are dampered while waiting for my iPod to charge back up for use. (Seriously, turning the damn thing on drains half the battery. Where you at on that, Apple? And don't even try to talk me into buying a newer version. A contraption is a contraption, and I expect results, yo.)

I have a dear friend who refuses to give in to the iWorld, and I can't say I completely blame her. (Earmuffs, my sweet Mac.) In terms of contraptions, Apple is doing some nice work (minus the aforementioned iPod battery fail). But in creating such lovely machinery, they've made it far too easy for people like me to become completely reliant, even subservient, to my gadgets. And readers? I'm so not that girl.

I was the one who rocked the pager in high school...and wasn't a drug dealer. (My high school years were 1996-2000, by the by. I.e., way past the era of the pager's coolness. If there every really was one.) And while everyone else was in 2009 enjoying the awesome world of sweet apps and uber-fast internet via mobile phone, I was exploring the cutting-edge world of...wait for it...ringtones. Look. Out.

And now I have a GPS. My Garmin literally tells me what to do. IT'S A MACHINE. Now, granted, I bought this particular contraption because it tells me how to get places, which, that I am relying on a talking box is inherently sick. But it sasses me! The thing actually argues with me. Call me crazy, but I swear the tone changes from pleasant to pissed when it has to recalculate because I've (once again) chosen to trust my own sense of direction over its "short cut." (Things have actually improved with this contraption upon changing the voice from the American broad to the sexy Aussie. Chicken and I also named him "Chauncy.") (Indeed, I realize I named the robot. Which means I'll keep it forever. Or until the technology is defunct. Next month.)

So while my affinity for the gadgets troubles me deeply, I do justify it ("Danger, Will Robinson!") by insisting that such contraptions allow me to connect with real people: my phone to text and email (and occasionally even call someone), my camera to take pics to share, my iPod to reminisce, and Chauncy to get me to social gatherings. That's got to count for something, right?

...Bueller?

*Can you imagine if I owned an iPhone?!

Belly up goes the talent pool...

So I've begun the job search in preparation for my August move to Austin, TX.

(Oh, hi. I'm back, by the way. Ish.)

While combing through Craig's List, I've noticed a most unfortunate trend in job postings: employers seem to expect/hope/assume that job-seekers will meet a hefty barrage of requirements for any given job (and no, calling a receptionist a "Customer Concierge" does not warrant such demands), including the mastery of multiple languages, their specific computer software, and an advanced degree to boot. In return, they are willing to offer a whole nine dollars per hour.

Can you hardly stand it?

I know, I know, I know. "It's a rough economy."

And to that I say...

Maybe if employers kept all those hapless, careless morons off the clock (AND AWAY FROM MY COFFEE), they might have the spare cash and space for some over-qualified employees who would relish the chance to make ends meet on, say, a whopping twelve dollars an hour.

Employment or otherwise, you get what you pay for, yo.

Apparently there is no such thing as "off-book" in the customer service industry...

Earlier this week I embarked on the unfortunate task of informing all of Mom's credit card companies that she would no longer be needing their services. This was, in all fairness, a much easier process than I thought it would be (and it turns out I won't need the bagillion death certificates I ordered for said purpose), but there were a few comical hiccups along the way that I just couldn't resist sharing. Sometimes you just have to laugh.

I learned that within many credit companies, there are separate departments (often referred to as the "Estate Division") that handle closing accounts for deceased card holders. This is quite possibly the best idea ever. Not only do these customer service specialists (so to speak) know their stuff when it comes to closing accounts for real (there is nothing more infuriating than finding out an account you requested closed five years ago is still wrecking havoc on your credit report), but they also know how to talk to other human beings. They apologize, sincerely, for your loss and do everything they can to make the process easy, finite, and quick. (It's amazing how little patience I have for sympathy from strangers when I'm trying to take care of business. Maybe not so much amazing as sad, but whateves.)

However, the general customer service reps do not seem to know what to do when they get a question outside their purview; in other words, they pretty much shut down and turn into blubbering messes when they have to deal with something unpleasant...and not readily available in their binder of scripts. Not only was I asked why I wanted to close my account and "Did [I] know about all the benefits of being a (insert company here) card holder?" AFTER I had already informed them that my mom, the card holder, had passed away, but they also kept calling me "Mrs. Aldridge." Insult, meet injury.

I know that customer service people are a special breed and deserve all the cupcakes in the world for the verbal abuse they fall victim to on a daily basis, but sometimes (and I think that applies to us all, really) you just have to throw out the script, remember that you're talking to a human being, and be willing to connect.

I mean, it's not like you're face-to-face. Now THAT is cause for a full-blown come-apart.

[Women's Writes] Hormones are no joke, y'all...

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of May, we’ve chosen to write about Women’s Reproductive Rights and Issues. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read the first installment, click here.

This post is not going to be some diatribe about freaking the eff out on the boyfriend/husband/stranger on the bus because “he sniffed funny” in your general direction, and then blaming this behavior on the monthly cycle we ladies know and loathe. (Oh please, Gods of Foot-in-Mouth, don’t let anyone post about said bashed topic.)

Nay, I’d like to talk about the mother eff of a conundrum in which we ladies find ourselves when it comes to selecting a birth control method. I’d like to be PC and include the boys in this, but...well...y’all have the luxury of a fairly simple choice between one of a few birth control methods, none of which suck even an eighth as much as the choices with which we’re left. (Not hating on y’all. I speak the truf.)

It has been a while since Natty got her groove back, but after a few years (SHUT UP) of being pill-free, I am all sorts of pissed off about my options when it comes to keeping my body sans baby when the time does come to once again frolic among the birds and bees. Having been on the pill for almost ten years (stop doing the math...yes, I was young) when I discontinued, I didn’t realize how pervasive were the effects of those little bastards (God bless ‘em) on my body, my moods, my appetite, my sex drive, etc. It’s wacky, y’all! And after two years (and counting...) of being hormone-free (well, of artificial, elective ones, anyway), I’ve never felt better or more capable of keeping my shit in check. (Which is pretty huge considering my "mood moments" sometimes resulted in hurled books--preferably large hardbacks--and abusive behavior toward customer services reps at any given utility company. But seriously, aside from that, I was an absolute peach. Don’t know why things didn’t work out with the dude.) (/sarc)

See, most of the truly effective methods of birth control are as such because of hormones. (I’m not really including abstinence in my discussion of BCMs; though, obviously, I don’t discount that method. I mean, HELLO.) They alter the way our bodies work (by halting ovulation, thinning the lining of the uterus, thickening the cervical mucus...sexy, right?) to ensure that there aren't any unplanned, pigtailed, baby Hot Messes running amuck.

Moreover, I believe that many of the unpleasant side effects are intended to keep the sex from happening in the first place because, let's face it, folks, there is no better insurance against babies than proceeding sans sexing. (Unless you're the Virgin Mary, in which case hormones are likely the least of your worries, Mommy Jesus.) I mean, being an emotional A-bomb is a sure fire way to keep from getting pregnant seeing as how NO ONE WANTS TO BE NEAR YOU when you're vacillating between tears and rage every two minutes.* I swear, it's a conspiracy that the no-baby pill/device-makers have expertly designed, making us ladies look like total basket cases so that we (a) don't steal their jobs (which we could likely do with our eyes closed and in five-inch Christian Louboutins) and (b) don't call our boyfriends/husbands/friendboys on their idiotic behavior. Clearly, we're hysterical. (/sarc) (duh.)

What the hell was I talking about?

Oh yeah, so it totally sucks that in order to utilize safe, effective birth control, I pretty much have to sacrifice my sound mind and lovely countenance. OR! I could use one of those hormone-free contraptions and only risk sacrificing the walls of my uterus.

Oh, the joys of being a lady. (Do I even need to tag this?! Me thinks not.)

*I realize that not everyone experiences the emotional ups-and-downs (to put it really effing mildly) that I did while on the pill, but none of the side effects are generally enjoyable. Except for the bigger boobs. Which I never got. Sonofa.

No wonder everyone has resorted to text speak...not that it's OK, BTW

Have you ever noticed that there seems to be a disconnect between the spell checking mechanisms available in most online resources? Like, depending on whether you're checking the spelling in a Word document, a Hotmail draft, or even a Blogger post, there are apparently variables that exist in each arena that will yield different misspellings.* I mean, we're talking words, people. Are they really that capricious?

Granted, I do on occasion just straight make up words (usually faux expletives), and I'm not surprised when the spell check doesn't know what the french toast to do with those. But adverbs? Uncommon verb tenses? Come on!

(Somewhere, some brilliant code writer is cursing my name for whining about some insignificant detail of their masterpiece. Do I have any idea what it takes to make a functioning system? Nope. Does this mean I can't thrash about over a sub par spell checker? Noooo.)

And, to be fair, the English language is inordinately cruel. I could barely get my near-genius high schoolers to understand half the rules of grammar in my SAT prep classes; how can I possibly expect a series of codes and equations to correctly identify what it is I am doing with my words?

But I am a Wordie. (For sure just made that word up, so I won't hold that against you, Spell Checker. It's like Foodie, see, but I am ardently interested is in words. More specifically, grammar, but I didn't want to walk around claiming to be a Grammie. That's just awkward.) And thus I get worked up about situations such as these.

Except when it comes to the LOL Cats. That's just good, clean fun.

*To demonstrate my point, I have taken the liberty of making red all the words that Blogger does not recognize in its spell check. They are, in fact, actual words. At least they are according to Dictionary.com. I heart Dictionary.com.

[Monday Rant] I am an artist, people!

I realize there are many aspects of the acting/modeling biz that people don't understand. This is one of the primary reasons that I maintain (and I use this term loosely as of late) this blog and share my experiences from the casting couch (so to speak...I'm a lady!) and on set.

Nevertheless, there is one comment in particular that always gets under my skin...

"You made how much doing that gig?! Well hell, I can sit in front of the camera and look pretty. Where do I sign up?"

(...or some variation of this.)

I do realize that the income I make from acting and modeling is pretty sweet given the relative work that is sometimes required on a gig. I have spent many an hour on set with the most enjoyable, accommodating people I've been fortunate enough to meet, all the while having my makeup and hair perfected every moment, and often doing little more than smiling at the camera and moving around. (I mean, what's not to love?)

But I don't think people have any clue what it takes to get there. There is a huge misconception in terms of what we go through as actors to land a gig. It is so much more than simply securing a decent headshot, waltzing into a talent agency, and watching the Benjamins roll in as I sip my Perrier.

This business requires 24/7 commitment and effort, yo!

For example...
~ As sick as it sounds, I'm a product. Period. This means I'm responsible for maintaining flawless skin, perfect smile (well, as close as one can get when you've got Chicklets for teeth, big bastards), clean hands, slender frame (epic fail), marketable look and dress, and top notch memorization and improvisation skills.
~ I have to hustle for every dime I make. There is one person responsible for my success: moi. The mere mention of "networking" makes me cringe, but it's a necessary evil in this biz. Lucky for me, I am in a market that is chock full o' awesome folks who make this aspect of work very enjoyable. These southern folks know how to have a good time. Just sayin.
~ If I make any sort of travel plans, I have to accept that I will likely be turning away whatever jobs are coming down the pipe around that time (for which, it never fails, I totally meet the specs and the rates are great). The alternative is being super last minute in making/booking plans, which means more moolah and stress for a vacation. In short, it's not worth the hassle.

Not to mention, for every sweet, simple gig, there are about five gigs that push me toward the brink of insanity. Copy changing at the last minute, conflicting direction coming from five different people, hideous wardrobe/hair/makeup, ill-prepared co-stars (don't even get me started on working with animals)...all must be endured with a willing attitude and a smile on my face. (Hey, I am an actress, after all. There is no greater performance than this.)

I don't take a single moment in this crazy industry for granted, and I hope it never comes off otherwise, but I just can't help but feel frustration when people (usually unintentionally) belittle what it takes to make this lifestyle work.

I mean, you don't see me underestimating the sheer willpower it takes to sit in an office for 8 hours a day, dealing with idiot bosses and drama-loving coworkers. I don't know how y'all do it, to be honest. I'd for sure be taking handfuls of lithium and pounding coffee on a regular basis. (Well, more so than usual.)

[Monday Rant...a day late] - Sealtbelt Safety is a Sham!

Dear Seatbelt,

I know we've already had beef in the past given that I don't think our government should mandate grown adults to wear you. (I mean, I get the spirit of the law, but I just don't see how it's anyone's business if I want to risk flying through the windshield into oncoming traffic should I get into a collision.)

But now, I officially hate you. And I just think it's better to come straight to you about this, versus sullying your name all over town behind your back. I think we're both mature enough to handle direct confrontation, especially given our recent run-in.

I am diligent about wearing you on a regular basis (which may or may not have something to do with the fact that my uber-safe vehicle will not stop pestering me if I don't), but when my lovely gentleman and I smacked into a median this past snowy Saturday evening, you straight up screwed me. Not only did you give me a nice shiner on my chest and hips, but you did a number on my sternum as well. In fact, you gave me a straight up panic attack yesterday morning when I supposed I was bleeding internally. (I do accept some fault for this assumption. It was a bit unfounded, but I was scared. Leave it alone.) Your actions resulted in worry for my friends, my family, and the aforementioned fella, and for that, I could punch you in your shiny, smug clasp.

Had the accident been worse, we may well be having a very different conversation (if at all), but it wasn't. And so you remain on my Shit List.

I just wanted you to be aware.

I hope you're happy with yourself,
Natalie Cottrell

[Monday Rant] Free Clinic or Bust

Dear BC/BS,

I have paid my health insurance premiums diligently for, oh, a decade now. Having been self-employed for the majority of my adult years, I nevertheless always found a way to pay for my individual policy. And regardless of the fact that I am a very healthy young lady and never plan on having children (ergo saving you, like, a bagillion dollars...you're welcome), I never bitched about paying premiums, nor did you ever have to pay more than a few hundred bucks each year (as most visits went toward my deductible).

And yet, despite all the effort on my part to be a good "member," you have denied me coverage. DENIED. ME. COVERAGE. And your "reasoning?" Because I had some pre-cancerous moles removed.

First of all, I apologize. Yes, that's right. I. APOLOGIZE. profusely for being super pale and having ever stepped foot in the sun. (Don't worry, I also intend to write a very strongly-worded letter to the sun. It's only fair.)

Secondly, my bad for going to my yearly dermatology appointments (which is an absolute treat, let me tell you) and ALLOWING this health care professional to remove these dangerous spots from my skin. How selfish of me to not just take one for the team and let them progress to full blown melanoma so that you're gazillion-dollar company doesn't have to process the claim, seeing as how it's not like y'all actually paid toward that visit or anything. But I understand the administrative burden and it really is a lot to ask, dear Insurance Carrier.

Third, I am sure it is no big deal at all that you've cast me out into the world with no coverage whatsoever. BUT! I appreciate you referring me to the Texas Health Insurance Pool, seeing as how I'm most definitely a "high risk case." Sure, I'm unemployed and doing everything I can to keep gas in my car, but I can TOTALLY afford $500 a month. I think that's more than fair given that I go to the doctor twice a year for preventative care. I'm sure it balances out. Again, those administrative costs are a bitch, eh?

In closing, I understand the profound burden you bear as a ginormous conglomerate. I clearly asked way too much of you in my application for coverage, and I guess I really am just too much of a high risk for y'all. I would be happy to offer up my uterus in return for consideration of an appeal as a good faith gesture that I have intention whatsoever of using it, and therefore will never incur the cost of all those silly medical expenses associated with the children.

Regardless though, I totally hope you sleep well and don't at all dream of zombies eating half your organs, only to find out that you don't have a "zombie snack" clause underwritten in your own health insurance policy.

Happy trails,
Natalie Cottrell

I'm on to you...

I observed an interaction as a young girl that informed at an early age what I believe about men and how they operate...

My dad was sweeping our kitchen. Badly. He was dusting crumbs to and fro, and basically making a bigger mess than we started with. So Mom grabbed the broom and shooed him right out of his chore. He shrugged his shoulders, said, "I tried," and plopped down in front of the TV to watch the hockey game.

Fast forward to the very next day.

Dad, broom in hand, is sweeping the sidewalk outside of our business. (Yes, we sweep sidewalks. Publicly shared concrete. We like it tidy, folks.) His technique? Perfect. Never once having to backtrack, no wayward scraps, solid coverage, etc.

What I learned from Dear ol' Dad? If you don't want to do something, pretend you don't know how.

My brother was also a big fan of this technique and used it on more than one occasion growing up (apple, tree). He would do friggin' donuts with the vacuum so he wouldn't be responsible for this duty again, seeing as how we Cottrells are not fans of jacked up carpet patterns. (If you don't understand where my OCD comes from by now, you probably never will.) But after living with him in college, I learned that he is diligent about making sure all the carpet fibers are laying the same direction once he's vacuumed a room. Interesting his sudden skill, no?

The point: most men (see how I avoided the absolute there...even though it felt correct) apply this same strategy to dating/relationships. If you don't want to do something, pretend you don't know how. Don't want to commit? Come up with a myriad of excuses for why you're not ready (as a man) to put a ring on it. Not sure if you're really interested in someone? Cough up a laundry list of "issues" that render you ill equipped to get involved at the moment.

And ladies, for sobbing out loud, this is not a cry for help to which only you can respond by ushering them through this difficult time. THEY'RE FULL OF IT*. If you aren't there to hold their hands, guess what? They'll survive. Even if you are there to hold their hands, they will likely maintain the same stance they told you from the get-go (some call them "red flags," I call them "turn ons"), and remind you of said issues when they break your heart and go marry a twenty-two year old fresh out of college. (Nothing cures a crisis of manhood like a recently sprung co-ed. Bottle it up.)

So what are we NOT twenty-two-year old co-eds to do? Dunno. But I will say that we should at least acknowledge what is likely going on and stop being so willing to accept the crap that is spoonfed to us by these very tasty losers. If you want something, ask for it. If your dude can't deliver and it's something you truly deem important (like, say, monogamy), it may be time to start looking for a guy who can. (Now, after a dozen or so attempts, it may be wise to re-evaluate what you're asking for. Like, a proposal within six months of dating? Maybe not.) But if every time you explain to your friends/family/therapist why you're unhappy with someone, you fall back into a script of excuses, maybe you take a look at all the stuff you are juggling to take care of this basketcase and realize that life (for the most part) should be enhanced by your relationships. Not drained by them.

In short: give 'em the damn broom and make them do it right. Or no dessert.

(You know..."dessert." You probably got that. Just checking.)

*To be fair, it is possible that guys have real, legitimate issues when you come into their lives. For the most part I am saying that guys make up a lot of crap to justify not having to do anything, but they're not always deceptive. Nevertheless, my point stands. Justifiable issue or not, you can't take responsibility for or owndership of an issue that isn't yours. How you respond to what those hurdles mean you are likely going to get out of this guy? That's on you.

How NOT to get strangled by a cancer patient (or by one of their loved ones with the strength to do so)...

I almost had to get ghetto on a few people in the waiting room of the cancer center while accompanying Mom to her treatment appointment today. Now ordinarily when it comes to visits to the cancer centers, I am a perfect angel: opening doors, offering to help out in the clinic (they never take me up on it even though I am more than capable of taking vitals and turning over rooms so people can lay down and get the H out of there in a timely fashion), patiently waiting (-ish....see previous aside), fetching water and snacks for those without a buddy, etc. However, there are some people (cancer patients included, believe it or not) who don't seem to understand what will and will not make a person suffering from this disease (or someone supporting one with this disease) lose their effing minds. I'm talking circus-freak crazy, going postal, los-ing my mind.

But then I realized that not all people suffer from this disease the same way. (And thank God for that.) Therefore, not all people really know how to act around someone who clearly isn't having a good day (i.e. curled up in a ball, brow furrowed in constant unrest, shivering and sweating, looking like a wee bag of bones). Now you'd think some things would be pretty obvious. (CELL PHONES SHOULD BE BANNED FROM ALL HOSPITALS, CLINICS, MEDICAL OFFICES. PERIOD.) But others are less obvious.

And so it occurred to me that this might be a good opportunity for me to share a few of the things that I've picked up over the past few years during Mom's battle that may come in handy. We're all touched by this disease in some way, and you never know when having a little insight might spare someone battling cancer from even a moment of additional discomfort.

(In no particular order...)

1. Hold the onions. If you are eating around someone going through chemo (this includes cancer center waiting rooms, for Pete's sake), please be mindful of smells. Cancer patients are usually battling nausea and upset stomachs 24/7, and the slightest smell can set off a very unpleasant bout that can last long after your hoagie. And yes, I'm asking you to alter your life for that of another. You can eat a fistful of onions when you get home to your well-ventilated kitchen. There's a time and a place...that's yours.
2. Old lady, put down the eau de parfum. For the love. In line with the smell issue, perfumes and colognes can bring on the nausea and epic headaches like no other. I mean, this is irritating when you're perfectly healthy. Why would you roll around in flower-scented oil before you go to a medical clinic? The doctors don't care...but everyone else around you certainly will. It is good practice to avoid perfume for a job interview, and I would advise the same for any medical setting, particularly if heavily populated with cancer patients. (When in doubt, don't.)
3. 'Maybe she's punk.' No. If you see someone walking around with a bald head (or they are clearly bald beneath their scarf, cap, sassy wig), it's OK to acknowledge that they're probably dealing with cancer. Once Mom got over her first round of cancer and had her adorable little curls back, she was forever stopping bald ladies in the grocery store and asking how they were. I know most of you are thinking, 'Gah! Stranger Danger. With cancer. Scariest thing ever.' But without exception, the stranger really appreciated Mom checking in and asking how they were. I think it was therapeutic in a way from Mom, too. But even if you're not in the club and haven't personally dealt with cancer, it's cool to be frank about the situation and not play dumb when it comes to their shiny little dome. Just remember that it's not about you. If you want to say, "Hello," do so because you care about that person, stranger or not, and not because you want to do a good deed.
4. Mmmmm...Jello. Many chemo drugs have the very unpleasant side effect of changing the patient's taste buds. Sucky, right? Adjustments can be made and stockpiles of "safe" foods become common. However, there is no easy way to tell your super sweet neighbors (hypothetical...I don't even know if we have neighbors out here in the sticks) that their homemade chicken casserole tastes like it has been infused with Costco-sized salt licks. I mean, I like salty snacks, but that's just not cool. And the sad part? The dish probably isn't salted at all. Obdurate reality has little impact on the perception of tastes, smells, sounds, etc. when you're going through chemo. It's all subject to suck, and that is subject to change day by day. So, if you are providing meals or snackage for someone going through chemo, don't hesitate to ask what they can eat and/or what sounds good. And know that by the time you get it to them, that all could have changed.
5. Does this look like effing social hour? On a good day, there is nothing better than having those eager guests come by for a visit, catching up with friends, and having some belly laughs (that hopefully won't lead to a coughing fit). However, on bad days (or even so-so days), the best thing you can do is leave him/her alone. When someone is going through cancer (and/or chemo), there is nothing better than to know that someone is available 24/7...in the other room. It's OK to be pleasant and not treat the home like a mortuary, but short of that, don't bust out the balloon animals and try to elicit smiles and laughs from your friend/family member. If you can't handle the fact that it is not going to be an uplifting visit, keep your happy ass at home. Simple as that. Again, it's not about you.
6. It ain't always sunshine and rainbows, kids. No matter how close you are to someone who has gone through this, you still cannot possibly understand all the havoc this disease wrecks on a person's mind/body/psyche/soul. Having said that, please remember that we could all use a little grace here and there. If someone you know is dealing with cancer and they seem unpleasant, short, or distanced, let them be. It's not about you. Their universe as they know it sucks. Every second. And they are dealing with pressures and pains that I pray you never have to know. So give them a less-than-pretty moment. Or two. Or twelve. But don't ever stop loving them.

I hope that helps y'all get a better grasp on how you can make things a little more bearable for someone dealing with cancer. I am sure there are a dozen things I've forgotten, and some people dealing with this disease may not have the same complaints that I've outlined here, but that's what I can offer on behalf of our battle.

I know we've all dealt with this in some capacity, so please feel free to add your suggestions, tips, insights, etc.

[Monday Rant] Don't think I don't see you creeping up...

Dear adorable, disgusting candy hearts,

I hate you.

The very sight of your distinctive, chalky shape makes me feel all violent and stabby on the inside. Even if I do have a Valentine. Which I don't. But I'm OK with that. Really. I am.

You should be ashamed of your unabashed declaration of sweet sentiments. I mean, you're just giving the goods away. You're setting an unnatural precedence given the current state of dating. (Hello, have you been out there lately, dear Conversation Hearts? It's madness. And innuendo. Bad innuendo, at that.) I sincerely think you should reconsider your message.

In fact, I have to give props to your uber-angry cousins: sweet little hearts with statements like "Hate You" and "Go Away." I know this seems counterintuitive to the Valentine's Day vibe, but I don't see that whole charade lasting much longer anyway. Perhaps you should get on board.

Like now.

Suck it,

Natty

We the People....are over it.

So I had my first jury duty experience today. Great times.

Highlights?

- There were some power issues this morning in areas of Rockwall County, and the A/C in the court house was not working properly. Chubby bumpkins corralled into a very small, sun-drenched room? Awesomeness.
- Once the A/C kicked in, it was apparently thrown off from the abrupt power outage and its damn belt blew. Not only were we now sweating in close proximity to country strangers, but the smell of burned toast permeated every square inch of the dinky room.
- Being called "Lady Drinker" by a fellow juror. It was a DUI case. There were some questions asked of the class. Long story short: honesty gets you nowhere.
- After one of the two hundred breaks (in a three hour span), being asked by aforementioned fellow juror if I got drunk during our recess. Not nearly enough, Sir.
- My dismissal. At noon. Just in time to change and go in to work. Sa-weet.

I honestly don't take my civic duty lightly. I also imagine the woman charged wasn't enjoying all the hijinks as nearly as much as the rest of us. (Seriously, where do these damn lawyers come up with their make-the-jury-like-our-team jokes?) Part of me would have enjoyed being selected, if for no other reason than I really, really wanted to know what homegirl (at the age of 45-ish) was up to when she got nicked for being crunk.

I'm easily amused.

Don't make me drop kick you with my adult-sized foot!

Why, pray tell, is it an act of congress to order something off the damn kids' menus in restaurants? I don't understand why I must relegate myself to only ordering plates bigger than my head, often overflowing with food I wouldn't even begin to know what to do with (unless it's pizza...or french fries...or pasta. I've got those.).

Yes, I understand these happy meals are cheaper than the "adult fare," but it's not about that. I don't want food that I'm not going to consume. And I don't eat leftovers (unless, of course, it is of the aforementioned delectable food variety). However, while we're on the subject, how does the fact that I'm old enough to make all matter of legal (bad) decisions change the preparation cost of the mini food goodness? Is there an Old Broad Tax I'm not aware of?

For example: why, oh why, Burger Joint must you deprive me of the minuscule soda (seriously, makes a Dixie cup look generous....AND they don't even have lids that size) that should come with the kid's grilled cheese and french fry combo because I'm NOT 10 years old? (If you've seen me throw a hissy fit, this is likely a point of contention.) Who made the arbitrary decision that the smallest soda known to man is the deal-breaker when it comes to equalizing a scrumptious $4 meal? Way to stick it to your small-stomached patrons. Gah!

Perhaps there wouldn't be so many overweight, pill-popping Americans with high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes, etc. if it weren't such a whip to order the adorable little portions offered to the small people.

Not to mention, there is usually also a cookie and/or toy involved. Holla!

A parka doesn't go with my LBD, dammit!

It should be a rule that weather cannot suck on a national going-out holiday such as New Years Eve! Ordinarily I would welcome this cold, rainy day with open, Snuggie-clad arms, but today? Color me ticked off!

It's not enough that my beautiful girlfriends and I will spend half the night wading through drunken D-bags? Now we have to teeter Bambi-style in adorable heels to our destination, all the while praying the wind won't steal our fabulous fake lashes (that's probably just me) or blow up our skirts. (The breeze between skyscrapers in downtown Dallas has been known to provide complimentary peep shows here and there. Ladies, never leave home without proper underpants. For the love.) Not to mention, there's a chance of ice. Alcohol + cute shoes + icy sidewalks = busted ass. (At least Gofahne already promised she'd pick me up if I fell...all the while laughing. I heart her.)

But you know what? In the spirit of new beginnings, I am going to walk it off. Here ends my ranting! (Well, for today. I mean, let's not get carried away. It's a new year. Not a lobotomy.) Tonight will be a blast, come what may, and I am going to get my glam on, weather be damned!

So when you're out and about tonight, children, look for the white girl in the sassy dress, acting out lyrics to awesomely bad pop songs while shaking her frizzy, bat-shit-crazy-lookin' mane to-and-fro, and send a glass of bubbly her way. (But, whatever you do, don't talk to her. No, no. Bad.)

Cheers to all my fellow hot messes out there! Hope you all ring in 2010 with style and grace...or something.

With your donation of an extra large bottle of red wine and a dozen cupcakes, you could save millions of people from witnessing me LOSING MY SHIT.

I want to take a moment to tell you about a horrible epidemic that is sweeping our fair, feeble country...

It's called Head Up Your Assness, or HUYA (hoo-yah).

HUYA affects millions of Americans, particularly around the holiday season when people are gathered en masse. If there is a sale or limited parking involved, HUYA can flare beyond control and may result in riots or even death.

You may observe someone who exhibits symptoms of HUYA: the guy walking aimlessly right down the middle of the walkway and thus preventing anyone from passing at a reasonable pace; the woman who has stopped her car at a green light for no apparent reason. HUYA sufferers have been known to slam into you as you stand patiently in line to purchase some shiny baubles for your favorite blogess (diamonds, if you please), mutter a sorry excuse for an apology, and wander away as screaming children swing from their appendages. (This may also be a symptom of Your Child Needs a Spanking, so check with your doctor before beginning any long-term treatment.)

Or you yourself may fall victim to this insidious disease. Do you find yourself asking, "Now what was I going to do today?" only to realize that you've forgotten socks (again) and can't recall the last time you took your birth control pills. (Oh. Shit.) Do you suddenly realize you've been watching the Oxygen channel for fours hours straight and have no explanation whatsoever for doing so?

If so, ask your doctor about an effective new treatment for HUYA called Get Your Shit Together. This groundbreaking solution will have you feeling like your old, attentive self in no time (or, if that has never been you, someone who is not annoying).

Side effects of Get Your Shit Together include not losing friends, avoiding public beatings, headaches, peace of mind, and better, restful sleep.

You should not use Get Your Shit Together if you cannot make lists and stick to them, if you have uncontrolled ADD or ADHD, or if your doctor has recommended a full-blown lobotomy.

Don't miss your chance to participate as an appropriate, non-infuriating member of society. Get Your Shit Together today and don't let Head Up Your Assness steal another moment of bliss from your holiday season!

This message brought to you by the Coalition of Citizens Against Rampant Idiocy.

The Borgs are Winning

(I'm going to make this snappy as I've been listening to screaming tweens for the better part of the day...)

Dear Captcha,

I hate you.

I can appreciate your general purpose, and I understand that by nature you must be tricky, but how the H am I supposed to prove I'm a human when I DON'T EVEN KNOW THE WORD I'M BEING ASKED TO VERIFY? I swear, you're just making shit up. Oh, I didn't correctly identify the word selection? Probably because IT'S NOT AN ACTUAL WORD. Strung together letters do not a word make, dammit.

And all the squigglies and smushing going on? I about give myself a stroke trying to figure out the phrase following the fraction. (Fractions, for crying out loud!!)

I get enough attitude from humans. I really, really don't need this grief from the machines I've come to rely on with a very unhealthy zeal. Every time I get whammied for screwing up one of your cruel little riddles, scenes from I, Robot come flashing back and I'm pretty sure you're about to red light my ass.

Please don't.

Smell You Later,
Natalie Cottrell

P.S. I'm not even going to go into how wrong it is that I've come to seek permission to carry on my business about the internets from a cyber bouncer.

Thanks for the Memories

Since I held out on y'all yesterday (and I know you simply cannot go on without an installment of me throwing a hissy fit over absolutely nothing), I give you a Tuesday morning rant...

There is a dance of sorts that takes place when you split from a longtime boyfriend/girlfriend. It's called the "How Much Communication is Kosher?" dance. You exchange a few text messages, boo-hoo through the phone as you break down and call because you had a rough day (i.e. "your" song came on the radio, hot mess ensues), or partake in the oh-so-dangerous "friends getting together over drinks to catch up." (Which, by the way, is probably the worst idea ever. Alcohol + ex-whatever + fragile emotions = worst hangover of your life, in so many, many ways.)

But nothing cures my forlornness quicker than those lonely damn text messages that continue long after they're acceptable (or welcome). After years and years of partnership and love, it's nice to know that you still think of me...at 2am. What. The. Eff. Now, I understand the power of some good lovin', but give me a break. It's never, "Hey, hows ur mom?" or, "Hope ur well. Parents n dog miss u." (Get it? It's text shorthand. I'm so clever.) That, I'd probably at least appreciate. I wouldn't respond, for sobbing out loud, but appreciate for sure. I do NOT, however, appreciate you texting me because you had a saucy dream about hot tubs and sexy time in public places. 'Oh really?' I think to myself. 'Because I had a dream that I could sleep through the night without the annoying bing-bong of a lonely message. Hello, four hours of sleep.'

In other news: I could barely sleep last night due to the intense throbbing of my right knee. I might need a cane. That, coupled with my out of control deadpanning as of late, probably means I am watching way too much House. I blame you, DVR.

[Monday Rant] ...Not!

I can't do it! I simply cannot rant on so lovely a day. (Crazy, I know.)

This is the first truly blustery day of the season, and I am much too jazzed about that fact to complain (even about, say, the idiotic patients who think a pimple constitutes an emergency; it does not). It was a cool 48 degrees during my glorious morning commute, beautiful fall leaves dancing through the sky as Vivaldi filled the Volvo with jovial sounds. My seat warmers toasted my buns as I relished the thought of finally being able to sport my adorable new coat this evening to the premiere of Eveline. (Cold weather be damned, I will still look fashion-forward and worthy of the big screen!)

It may seem silly to get this wound up about dropping temperatures, but I simply adore seasonal weather. This is the girl who moved from sunny-and-perpetually-75-degrees Southern California clear across the country to New York City, just to enjoy the fabled winter (well, that, and pursue my dream at a gorgeous art institute). While Texas has only mild versions of most seasons--with the exception of the hellacious summers--it does at least provide lovely days such as these to traipse around in fluffy, handmade scarves and UGG boots.

What is your favorite cool weather accessory?

Photo of author by Hansel Dobbs

Platonic, My Ass

Ok, so I alluded to this topic in my last blog, and I feel it's only fair to elaborate on my feelings about "platonic" relationships...especially since a few of you insisted on it. (Have I told you lately that I love you?)

Disclaimer: I am very well aware that most hangups when it comes to relationships, romantic or...otherwise, are a product of the opinion-former's experiences. I have to agree with this and am quite certain an understanding of my history would inspire anyone to cast aside my stance as a reaction to having been burned by The Lie. But I have tried very diligently to employ the scientific method when developing this theory, and I still conclude I am correct.*

My theory: there is no such thing as a close, platonic relationship between a heterosexual man and a heterosexual woman (who are not related, though let's hope that is assumed).

"But Natalie," you say, "I have a guy friend who has been there for me for years and years and has never tried anything. My husband/boyfriend/current loser has met him and everything."

My reply: "He's secretly in love with you, dear, pining away while you carry on with Mr. Semi-Wonderful."

First of all, calm down. Put down the torches, dear villagers.

Second, think about it. Just for a second. I am not necessarily saying that all guy-girl friendships harbor a watch-the-kids-grow-old-together kind of affection, but I do think this arrangement can be very dangerous. I think any time a man/woman is close with a member of the opposite sex, they leave that unspoken door open to all sorts of mixed emotions and bad decisions. It seems that one person in the relationship inevitably feels more than the other. It could simply be a misguided "I've never been able to communicate with someone of the opposite sex before, ergo we have to get married" situation, but there's an inequality there nonetheless. An ulterior motive is present which will undoubtedly taint every action and/or piece of advice coming from this cherished friend. And, generally speaking, these feelings are unknown to the unsuspecting friend, which is where things go from subtly complicated to total disaster.

Please keep in mind, this theory is specific to close relationships. Catching up via Facebook with the cutie you sat next to in high school? Not a big deal (...for now). Having coffee with your long-time BBF (best boy friend) because you and your current flame got into another argument? Oh nelly...

I once heard on a radio station that some chef (citation is for shame, Nat) said that cheating is anything that dilutes the relationship. I couldn't agree with this more, and it really captures the spirit of my theory. If you have such a close bond with someone outside of your relationship or marriage, I think it is very easy to lean too heavily on that other person when the going gets tough, which it often will if you're doing it right. (This also goes for activities or social commitments that take away from QT, but that's another blog, too...)

Now, I am definitely a firm believer in same-sex close friendships and bouncing ideas off people, so I don't advocate enduring in silence until your partner can handle a good heart-to-heart. (I would have already been institutionalized had it not been for my amazing girlfriends.) But talking to someone of the opposite sex--whom you already deeply care for and trust--when you are vulnerable, sad, less-than-satisfied with your current mate (or just life in general) is a recipe for disaster and regret.

Since I wholeheartedly enjoy playing Devil's Advocate, I can acknowledge that sometimes the best relationships grow out of such troublesome circumstances. But go through the proper checks and balances before flipping the switch. If your mate isn't meeting your needs, give it an honest try so as to avoid nagging regret, maybe even seek counseling (nothing like an expensive, objective dose of reality), and if it's still a hot mess, be brave, know that you deserve better, and move on. Then, maybe you and your BBF can see if you are MFEO. But on your terms, in your time, and only because you can't imagine going through your current predicament without them, not just without someone. It's OK to be alone for a while. Because even if you're "alone," i.e. without a significant other, you're not really alone. If you don't have any one to call but your BBF, fix that. Don't be with someone by default. Everyone deserves the divine gift that is choice.

OK, I am sure that is enough babbling to effectively piss off everyone who read this. But I stand by my theory. I have observed it and experienced it sufficiently to hold strong to it. If you've been fortunate enough to have a successful BBF (or BGF, for you gents) relationship, my hat goes off to you and I would certainly love to hear how you've managed. But I do believe you and your friend would be the exception, not the rule. A beautiful exception, for sure, but an exception nonetheless.

*Though, who doesn't think they're correct? Being right is just more fun, yes?