The Wrong Right Fat English Chick?

My professions of love for Anderson Cooper are inevitably met with the comment, “You do know he’s gay, right?” To which I always reply, “He’s not gay, he just hasn’t met the right fat English chick yet.” But, alas and alack, I cannot say that anymore because… he has met the right fat English chick. Or has he? 

What constitutes a meeting? Dictionary.com’s first definition of it is the act of coming together. But does there have to be eye contact? Handshakes? Hugs? Hot sweaty sex? I need to know because I need to know if I met Anderson Cooper or not. 

Background: In the run-up to the Nevada caucus, Bernie Sanders held a rally on campus. He used the office building in which I am located as his base camp. The team from 60 Minutes was there to interview him. The room they used is less than 10 feet away from my desk. You all know where this is going, right? 

Anderson walks in the lobby, passes my desk, I say “Hello”, he says “Hello” back, he goes into the room… That is it. That is the sum total of my interaction with the love of my life. (I saw him leave but I was further away and he was in a hurry.) 

But does that I mean I met him? There was brief eye contact but no touching. Words were exchanged. There was no hot sweaty sex. BUT DID WE MEET??????? 

Because if we did, then, well, he has met a fat English chick but I am obviously not the right one. 

I’ve polled many people on whether or not we technically met. One co-worker (who then later bought me the Starbucks hot chocolate pictured above) asked if, after this encounter, could Anderson have picked me out of a lineup. That is a difficult question to answer because I am so memorable, what with the chins and ass situation, but I truly don’t think he would have, the encounter was so brief. 

So, readers, the question is… did I meet Anderson Cooper? Do I have to accept the fact that he is indeed gay, and no fat English chick is going to turn him? Or do I need to revise my comeback when I am told he is gay? Because “No, he just needs to meet me again” is rather lame. 

When this picture was taken he was in that room. So close... yet so far...

Oh, Anderson, did I meet you?

Just California

 

I love the ocean and I love movies, so it should come as no surprise that for as long as I can remember I have always wanted to go to Los Angeles. Well, thanks to a rare stroke of luck, I got to do exactly that just recently!

 

There was a free raffle at work for Southwest Airlines tickets. Once I checked that they flew to Denver and Santa Ana (only places I want to go to, except London), I entered. And I won. Weird thing is, I knew I'd win. Don't know why, didn't hear voices like I did when I predicted the winner of the ninth season of American Idol (Lee DeWyze), didn't have a dream about it like I did for that horse I bet on; I just knew. And, no, I do not want any of you Yanks telling me that it was the result of positive thinking - I think positively all the time about being five-foot-eight, weighing 110 pounds and being married to Anderson Cooper and none of those things EVER come true.

Financially it would have made more sense to go to Denver but timing was not on my side as several people I wanted to visit there were also out of town the same weekend. So California it was. My dearest friend L. lives in Orange County, so I flew into Santa Ana. It was a whirlwind weekend - we took in some Laguna spots (there are a lot of places in the area with Laguna in their name); drank cocktails; checked out beachside and hillside homes and wondered how in the hell people can afford to live there; ate yummy fish (why does fish taste better by the seaside? It can't just be a vicinity issue); pissed off some Germans when we got the last ocean view table at a bar; walked on the beach; and drove to Los Angeles and spent some time there.

Tinseltown. La La Land. City of Angels. The Big Orange.

To say visiting Hollywood was a dream come true is no exaggeration. Longtime readers know I am not a fan of bucket lists but even I have to admit, visiting Hollywood would be very near the top if I kept one.

 

I can't believe I finally made it there. Being such a movie buff, I have long been a fan of Hollywood and all that it entails. And I was such a clichéd, cheesy tourist - I bought some Oscar statue souvenirs, took pictures of the Hollywood sign, sought out certain stars' stars on the Walk of Fame (didn't get to see Frank Sinatra's star because it was a bit of a hike but that was no biggie because I was once in the same room as him (well, hockey arena)). And at Grauman's Chinese Theater (where the concrete stuff is) I even got a little teary. We drove past Rodeo Drive, but I couldn't bring myself to check out any of the shops there because I have panic attacks when I see the prices in the OUTLET stores of high-end retailers, so I think seeing Rodeo Drive prices might have sent me over the edge.

I also had an idea that could make someone a millionaire: I was looking for a group souvenir to take back to my co-workers, sort of like those chocolate-covered macadamia nuts EVERYONE brings back from Hawaii. I couldn't find anything. Someone should come up with Oscar statue-shaped lollipops or gummies or gold foil-wrapped chocolates, something like that, because I know I can't be the only person who wanted to show off back at the office. Obviously, you'd have to tweak the design a little so you don't run into copyright issues, but still...

I didn't do everything I'd have liked; the weather was not cooperative so I did not get to see a beach sunset; I never saw anyone famous  - not that I know of anyway - some places were so crowded there could have been an A-lister slumming it; and I wasn't discovered - seriously, how did that not happen? I have the fat-chick-with-an-English-accent market cornered.

And I did realize that my dream of one day living in California might never come true because the drivers are maniacs. My three previous trips there - San Fran (30th birthday), somewhere in the Silicon Valley, and Anaheim (both business trips) did not involve much traveling by car and so this was the first time I was exposed to how effing crazy Cali drivers are. So, yes, only way I could ever live there is if I could afford to be chauffeur-driven everywhere.

And for those of you keeping stats - yes, this was the first time I have left the state of Nevada since moving here 10 years ago (and no, the two minutes I spent on the Arizona side of the Hoover Dam does not count). And this was the first time I'd flown in over 10 years - a fact I shared with everyone I came into contact with at the airport, from the Lyft driver to the cocktail server to the flight attendant who brought me a seat belt extender (surprised I didn't have to buy a second seat actually, size of dat ass).

 

 

 

 

 

Balcony Blues

I do not watch Anderson Cooper 360°. I have no idea what channel it is on or what time it is broadcast. I had to look up its correct title too, that is how removed I am from it. Huge surprise, right? Because of how deeply in love with him I am. (And, no, he is not gay - he just hasn't met the right fat English chick yet.) But I cannot watch his show because it is too painful. If I can't be with him, I don't want to watch him - I avoid the emotional trauma.

 

Every morning, I sprinkle birdseed on my balcony, attracting lots of pigeons and other birds. (And I think word has gotten around because when I open the blinds in the morning, there they are, waiting for breakie.) Sammy, of course, is glued to the scenes that follow. He sits there, sometimes chattering, sometimes crouched in a pouncing position and occasionally he even launches himself at the window, which scares the crap out of me, it is so fast and so sudden and makes such a loud noise, windows rattling and birds scattering.

 

I am probably going to have to move in December (bear with me, these disparate subjects will come together shortly). Obviously, my financial situation and fear of driving means that cost and location are my top priorities but after that a view for Sammy is the most important thing. But should it be? What I mean is, is watching those birds frustrating to him? Does it depress him that he can't get through the glass and be outside chasing them?

 

It has been proven that animals experience emotions similar to humans, but do they know they can avoid emotional pain like humans can? If I move to a place that does not have prime bird-watching space will he be depressed because the daily avian feeding frenzy is no more or will he be happier because that which caused him emotional trauma has been removed and as an animal he is incapable of avoiding it himself? In other words, are those pigeons his Anderson Cooper?

 

 

Are you Anderson Cooper, pigeon?

 

The Leadership Chronicles: Platitudes with an Attitude

Three things not brought up that I thought might be, but it is a good thing they weren’t because they would have not liked my responses:

You can be anything you want to be if you put your mind to it.

Really? Well, I want to be five-foot-eight, weigh 110 pounds and be married to Anderson Cooper, so why don’t you go ahead and tell me how positive thinking will bring about any of those? OK, no, I am being unfair because I guess with two surgeries for me (spine lengthening and stomach stapling) and one for him (a frontal lobotomy) I could achieve that.

Live every day like it is your last.

Um, no. Because however much I love my job I am not going to go to work on my last day and well, I think I’d probably get fired after a week or so, so, no, not possible. Plus I’d eat a lot of chocolate and bread and fried potatoes and drink a lot of alcohol and… oh, yeah, then I guess as far as this part is concerned, I do live like it is my last day. But the going to work part, no.

There is no “I” in team.

True, but there is a “me” and me hates this.