When I was a kid, those were my 3 favorite words in the world… but the rest of the sentence was really what was important. Whatever came out of my mouth following “Let’s pretend that…” would become my universe for the next three hours.

“Lets pretend that we’re mermaids. My mermaid name is Christina, what’s yours?… OK you’re Cynthia. Behind the barstools , that’s the lagoon where we live. The shark lives in the hot tub, so we only go in there when we have to. We have to meet Squish, the nice jellyfish, in 3 minutes for lunch. Come on!”

After that, the real world would cease to exist. I actually became Christina; I was her. It didn’t matter that I was once a 9 year old girl in a Tye-dyed one piece that kept riding up my left butt cheek. Once the three magic words were spoken, I became an 18 year old princess mermaid with perky boobs held up with a clam-shell bra. I would spend the afternoon fighting noodle-sharks and strangling pool-pump-eels. I made friends with thebubble-minnows that hung out near the drain. I lived by the law that if I stayed on land for more than five minutes, my fin would shrivel up and I would become a human for eternity. When the humans were on shore, they expected a show- so I would perform diving and flip shows where I would prove that I could do 15 or more somersaults without taking a breath.

It wasn’t always mermaids though. Sometimes I would pretend that I was a lion tamer who lived  in the jungle. I had a destiny to fulfill, and that was to ride the evil old Copper Spaniel lion that lived in the deepest depths of the trees. Other times I would be a mom who actually liked to cook.  Or if I was forced to clean, I would become a 19th century maid, mimicking the mannerisms of Cinderella. When I said I wanted to “draw,” what I actually wanted was to pretend I was a secretary. I would set up a nice little area with a stapler and a roll of tape, and I would imagine that I was completing highly important tasks. Every once in a while I would put down my number 2 pencil to answer an imaginary phone.

I continued playing pretend long after the other kids had given it up for spin the bottle and Girl Talk. Don’t get me wrong, I played those too… but when I was alone I would play out scenes with boys in front of the mirror.  I fantasized about being discovered and cast in Party of Five as the long lost Salinger sibling. I gave press talks and interviews about my rise to fame.

I know a lot of people have these sort of day dreams, but looking back, it feels like I took them to a ridiculous level. 

I realize now, that even when Idid finally grew out of 3-D fantasizing 24/7, I started to merge “pretending” into the real aspects of my life. In high school, I had several different groups of friends who were all very different. I had my dance friends, my theater friends, my cheerleader friends, and well… boys. It’s not that I was never myself around any of them, but I did learn how to pretend to be just the way they needed me to be. I don’t think this was really a bad thing though. I think I was just taking the idea of “fake it til ya make it”  and applying it to more practical aspects of my life.

For a while I thought that I was over pretending. After a college I went through a complete, life-changing transformation and for a long while I believed that I had finally found myself. I had taken up improv, which allowed me to fullfill the craving I had to “pretend;” and in my real life I was able to focus on who I really was.  I started finding music that I understood; I pursued interests that were mine, and mine alone; I lived alone and I ate what I enjoyed eating.

Somewhere over the last couple years I feel like I’ve let some of that “self discovery” disappear. I still know my passions, but I’ve found out that I’m still quite susceptible to slipping into pretend mode. I don’t do it on purpose, and Idont even realize I’m doing it, but I think I am.

Lately I find myself silently telling myself to “Let’s pretend that,” which is most often followed with “every-thing’s OK.” Whether it’s when I’m dealing with my family, my friends, or relationships- I feel like I’ve somehow trained myself  (as improvisers say) to “yes and” every situation that I’m in, until I establish what I’m dealing with. Once I know what role I’m supposed to play, I’m nice and ready  to take part in the newest “long form” improvised segment of my life.

I realize that everyone does this to an extent, after-all; we’re innately designed to adapt to our current situations. I just think that sometimes I need to completely remove myself from the stage so that I can reevaluate my real life.

I’ve found that over the last few years, I’ve started developing a habit of agreeing with peoplewhen I don’t really believe what they are saying to be true. Sometimes when I’m with certain people who expect me to be “on,” I put on a schtick because I know it will make them happy.

I still don’t think there is necessarily anything wrong with this. I’m a people pleaser. I’m a person of many faces. I enjoy being both ofthose things. The problem with my pretending is that at some point, if I ever want to keep moving forward in my starring role, I have to really establish my own character. I need to figure out the details of what makes me. I need to take note of what I love. Just as if I were performing in an improv scene, I have to ask myself these questions.

 If I’m going to go to the store to buy a bottle of wine, what wine would I  really want to drink ? If I’m going to spend $23.99 on an itunes audio book, what book would really make me happy? If I walk into a crowded coffee shop, where would I most likely sit, in a corner by myself, or would I sit down with a group of people?

Playing myself is a weird concept when I really start to think about it. I’ve started keeping a notebook with me again. This time, instead of jotting down ideas for sketches or blogs, I’ve just been writing down things that I like and things that I don’t like. I’ve already collected 20 pages that are now filled with phrases like “I could replace wine with grapes and be happy forever.”  Or “I really don’t like short shorts on men.” It’s been interesting really- recording facts about myself that I’ve never verbally admitted in the past.

I’m not sure what I’m planning on doing with my “Glossary of myself,” or my  ”Glossarme” as I’ve started to call it, but I guess I’m hoping that it will help me to move on. There are so many choices, so many options in this life- and I just have to gather up all the information I know about my character, and keep developing new scenes until I find myself in one organically progresses.

NOTE: *I’ve been in major self-reflection mode the last few weeks, so bare with me while I work some of this out on paper. I’ve decided that I’m not going to forwarn you or apologize anytime I feel inspired to go a bit sappy, it’s just where I am right now. And so is your face. So there.

Now, moving on.

Last night over dinner, my date and I played a little game that I love. It’s actually one of my most favorite games in the whole world.

Desert Island movies.

I know, it’s so simple. But it combines my two favorite pastimes- movies, and talking about movies. How can you go wrong with that?

Basically, you just go back and forth telling your favorite movies of all time and why. Sooo… errrmmm… maybe it’s not technically a game, but it turned out to be a really good ice-breaker. Plus, I’m much more inclined to like someone if they have good taste in film. What? Like you would date someone who claimed that “Wicker Man” (the remake) is actually a good film.

On my drive back home, I recounted the movies that I had said I wouldn’t be able to live without.

10. The Princess Bride

9. Back to the Future Trilogy (They all count as 1)

8. Anchorman

7. The Jerk

6. The Truman Show

5. High Fidelity

4. The Big Lebowski

3. Garden State

2. Big Fish

1. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I realized though, that I hadn’t included any movies from my absolute favorite genre of film. The Musical.

I know that for most people, musicals are either take’em or leave’em. And for me? I’ve always took them. I was raised on Musicals. I’ve can recite every word to the soundtrack of Hair. I’ve seen Little Shop of Horrors more than most men have watched Pulp Fiction. And I’ve wanted to BE Kim McAfee in Bye Bye Birdie for as long as I can remember.

Today I felt a little nostalgic so I decided to download the Bye Bye Birdie soundtrack to listen to as I worked. At first it made me happy. I was singing along jovially at my desk to “One Last Kiss,” and “Put on a Happy Face.” But when “How Lovely to be a Woman” came on, my attitude turned cold.

I realized that I was raised on a lie. I mean, the lyrics to this happy-go-lucky anthem about womanhood are complete and utter bullshit. I can admit that yes, it’s a musical… it’s supposed to be schmaltzy. But this? Is going overboard. IT”S LIES!!!! At least when you apply it to my life.  Take a look.

When you’re a skinny child of fourteen,
Wide with braces from ear to ear,
You doubt that you will ever be appealing.

It starts off OK enough. I was never a skinny child, but since I did wear braces and have the self-esteem of a leprechaun, I can let that slide.

Then Hallelujah! You are fifteen
And the braces disappear
And your skin is smooth and clear
And you have that happy grown-up female feeling.

There was nothing about 15 that made me scream Hallelujah. Except for maybe the fact that I was so inept at algebra that my teacher suggested I be the theater director’s assistant instead of receiving another F in math. I did lose the braces but they were replaced with a painful retainer. My skin was definitely not smooth or clear. And I’m pretty sure that ‘happy grown up feeling”  she’s referring to is said in sarcasm and is referring to the wrath of having painful cramps, mood swings, and the task of wearing a big bulky diaper between your legs for a week out of every month.

How lovely to be a woman,
The wait was well worth while;
How lovely to wear mascara
And smile a woman’s smile.

First of all, in what world does being 15 constitute being a “woman”?  At the age of fifteen I couldn’t even drive myself to the movies, much less pay for my ticket. I may have had a few weeks in my life where wearing mascara seemed glamorous, but it was only a matter of time before I found out that if you put it on, you have to take it off or you’ll end up looking like a drug whore; and that’s a pain in the ass.

How lovely to have a figure,
That’s round instead of flat;
Whenever you hear boys whistle,
You’re what they’re whistling at.

Who wants a round figure? I mean I get that at fifteen the boys prone to say things like “If you didn’t have feet would you wear shoes? Then why do you wear a bra?” But round? No thank you. I think that’s one of the things that we women tend to avoid.

And umm. Guys who whistle are just creepy by any account. I’ve found that if a guy whistles at you, he’s either:

1. A construction worker

2. A yard man.

or 3. A creepy old man.

None of those are men who I want whistling at me.

It’s wonderful to feel
The way a woman feels;
It gives you such a glow just to know
You’re wearing lipstick and heels!

I would die a happy woman if I could avoid ever wearing heels again. The only glow they give me is the glow of pain.

How lovely to be a woman
And have one job to do;
To pick out a boy and train him
And then when you are through,
You’ve made him the man you want him to be!

Now this part I can get on board with. I would love to live in a society where it was my job to pick out a boy to be perfect little slave gentleman. I would make mine cook me eggs every morning and give me 3 hour massages every evening. He would hate football and like to iron. He would like to dance, have a nice reading voice, and laugh at everything that I say. I wouldn’t stop at one. I would be really, really good at my job and train about seven of them. I would never have to deal with dirty laundry or dishes again.

Life’s lovely when you’re a woman like me!
How wonderful to know
The things a woman knows;
How marvelous to wait for a date
In simply beautiful clothes!

I don’t know about most “women,” but I’m a freaking wreck before a date. I run through every possible scenario and we’ve already broken up 4 times in my head before we even sit down for dinner. Plus, I’m too poor to have beautiful anything right now. My clothes are all 3 sizes too big and completely out of style.

How lovely to be a woman
And change from boys to men,
To go to a fancy nightclub
And stay out after ten.
How lovely to be so grown-up and free!
Life’s lovely when you’re a woman like me!

I really don’t get this one at all. This song was supposed to be written about a girl who was living in the fifties. Were times that much better back then? I know when I was 15, I didn’t get to stay out after 10 unless I lied to my parents. I wasn’t allowed to even enter a nightclub, much less a fancy one. And boys were definitely still boys.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bitter because it’s a certain time of the month. I think I’ll go listen to The Sound of Music. There can’t possibly be anything ion that soundtrack that could piss me off.

Except maybe “16 going on 17.”

Musicals suck.

The first pet that I (or technically my parents) had when I was a child was a Mutt named Mudd. I really don’t remember Mudd very well, but I have heard the story countless times of how Mudd bit me and they had to give her away. I never really held the fact that she bit me against her. The bone (haha) I had to pick with her is the fact that my “porn name” (first pet+childhood street’s name) was horrible, partly due to the fact that her name was “Mudd.”

Mudd Oakview, to be exact. Now that’s not very porny now is it?

But I digress. After Mudd, we had a Brittany Spaniel named Copper, who I loved dearly. She had a penchant for escaping our backyard and got ran over when I was still in Elementary school, and I was devastated.

After Copper passed away, my parents got another Brittany named Cedar, and I got a couple of my very own  mice- Hershey and Snowflake. It was around this time that I began to spend many of my afternoons hanging out at the neighborhood pet store- chatting with the owner and gazing into cages as snakes swallowed mice whole and Guinea Pigs hid in giant plastic tubes. My best friend and I even formed our very own “Animal Club,” where we would read books about animals and discuss our favorite species. I know what your thinking. And yes, I have always been this cool.

My pet “collection” began to grow at a very rapid pace. We got a Red Spectacled Amazon Parrot, who loved Cheetos but was bald because another bird plucked all of his feathers out. We got an iguana named Spike, who enjoyed whipping his tail at me if I tried to hold him. We had a box turtle (Strawberry Shortcake) who either got ran over in my backyard or eaten by my dog,  I can’t remember. We had an evil Sugar Glider named Sprite who would make this awful hissing sound every time I tried to get him out of his cage, and then he would proceed to fly on top of the curtain or to some other surface that I couldn’t reach where he would sit for days. On top of that, we had several frogs (I don’t remember their names,) a few other lizards, a couple parakeets (Blanco and Shreck,) a cockatiel, several hamsters that were all named Gizmo, a few fish tanks of fish both bought and caught with a sane at the farm.  Eventually the 2 little mice  procreated and so on, until we had at least 30. Needless to say, there were times when my room was quite smelly.

With each new addition, I would have a 3 month or so obsession over my new pet, until I set my sights on a new species and my attention would slowly wane.It wasn’t that I loved the pets any less, I just have always had a short attention span and I like to spread my love over a variety of different animals.

By the time I left for college, all of my pets with the exception of my sister’s beloved toy poodle with an under bite, BB, had either been given away, had died, or had been let go at my farm. I still remember the day that I looked around my room and noticed that my 30 mice and the many cages with plastic tubes connecting them were missing. I started crying and asked my dad what happened to them. He told me they had all died… which I believed for a few days until my sister told me that he had let them go at the farm. ***The same devastating thing happened with the rat that my parent’s inherited from me when I moved into a house with a bunch of cats, just a few months ago.

The first few years of college I was content with not owning an animal of my own. Most of my attention was spent on my new friends and drinking copious amounts of alcohol. There was no way I would have been able to remember to clean out a hamster cage or coddle a bird.

One day a friend of mine decided that she wanted a dog and recruited me to go with her to the local humane society to help her pick one out. A few of us crowded into her Jeep and got ready to talk her out of anything too crazy. It was my first time in a pound in many years, and I had no idea that it would hurt so bad to see so many dogs who needed homes. We walked down the caged hallways and I stopped at each cage to stick my fingers through and pet each puppy dog on the nose as I read to see how much time they had left before they would be put down.

This was when she was skinny.

I still remember the yelping. It was high pitched and painful. I looked around to see what kind of animal could be capable of making such a sound. I made my way down the row until I found her.

She was up on her short hind legs, and she was shaking… probably from the pain that her own screech caused her ears. She was skinny, and had a head that was much too large for her body. My friends all crowded around holding their ears, proclaiming that “that” was the ugliest dog they had ever seen.

As soon as we caught eyes I knew. It was an instant connection. I knew with certainty that there was no one else in the world who would want such a creature.

I asked permission to have a few moments with the Franken-puppy. The lady who worked at the pound seemed a little surprised, but she obliged. She told me that she was most likely a mix of Pit Bull and Dachshund, with perhaps a bit of Shar-pei. The weird little dog shook her butt violently as the lady put her on a leash and led her to the waiting area. After only a few minutes of holding the dog in my lap, I had made my decision. I told the lady that I needed to run out to my car to get my check book (yes check book) so that I could pay the $10.00 for the puppy. (What a bargain!!!)

As soon as I opened the door to go out to the parking lot, my new dog bolted and took off in a sprint across the field nearby. I took off after her, and yelled the first thing that came to mind: “STELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAA.”

Stella smiling with my sis

And so my new Picasso puppy had a name.

The first few months with Stella were a disaster. I kept her a secret from my parents while I attempted to potty train her and keep her from eating too many containers of roach poison. Stella ate everything and anything plastic, much like her momma. (What? I like chewing on pens!) She wet the floor every five minutes, and wouldn’t stop with the screech-bark. We had a couple close-calls with a razor and a few dozen Christmas ornaments, and I spent at least 30 minutes everyday chasing her around the neighborhood.

Eventually, as Stella and I grew closer and my patience grew stronger, she started learning how to behave- and I learned how to deal with her. We grew inseparable. She was literally my best friend.

My Stella bear and I on Christmas

A couple years ago I moved into a place where I couldn’t bring a dog. I had to take her back to my parent’s house for the time-being. I know, you are probably all thinking I’m a horrible Dog-Mom, but I swear to you this isn’t the case. I miss my puppy dog every day. More than getting home-sick, I get Stella-sick.

Lately, more so than ever. I had been contemplating bringing her to live with me when I move in a couple weeks, but she has spent the last few months out at the farm with my dad and her new best friend Penny, and now I think she really loves being a farm dog. Plus I think my dad really needs her right now.

My sister took this pic of my brave farm dog scaring off a cow!

I’m starting to have that “need-to-have-a-pet-itch” again, but now I’m worried that there are no other animals that will fulfill that void besides my Stella-bear. Who else could make me smile with their short little legs? Their Danny Devito body? Their dramatic personality!? (Stella cries like a baby when she gets a sticker in her foot, but I don’t blame her!)

What should I do??? Maybe get a Ferritt? A guinea pig?? Another pound puppy?

***SOBBB***

I  miss STELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

I think my dad and I are going to have to work out some sort of joint-custody arrangement.

Really my whole point is, there is a reason the Westminster dog show isn’t open to mixed-breeds… and that’s because Princess Stella Rosita Devito Tootsie Bertha Brown Jr. would win every year.

My boyfriend John Cusack would say the same, I’m sure.

I don’t know why I have such a hatred for these beastly animals. I think it may have something to do with the fact that every single day I come home, and the cup of water that I leave by my bed every night (bc I’m allowed to do that) is knocked over by one of my roommate’s cats who tried that head in the cup of water thing. I am telling you first hand that it is not cute finding water spilt all over my book, daily.

Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that last week I came home to find a cat locked in my closet, and I still haven’t been able to rid my clothes of that putrid nasty ammonia  smell of cat pee.

Or maybe the feeling comes from the time, years ago- when I came home to find my college roommate’s cat on the floor of my bedroom, pawing my Beta fish, which had been in a bowl on the very top bookshelf. My roommate, by the way; kept her Beta fish out in the open on the kitchen table- and it never got almost eaten.

It could just be from the fact that it really makes me mad that cats don’t let me hold them. How can an animal be considered “cute” and “a great pet” if it won’t even cuddle with you?If it won’t greet you at the door and pee on your foot in excitement?

Blerg, now I really miss my dog- Princess Stella Rosita Devito Tootsie Bertha Brown.

My Stella Bear

Now that is a cute animal. I’ll post some really abnoxious videos soon.

Now  PLEASSEEEE quit with the kitty posts!!! I’m losing my mind!!!!

And I do have a heart, by the way. Feel free to email me cute  forwards of dogs, monkeys, rats, snakes, zombies, or poop. I enjoy all of those.

Things have certainly changed in the life of BB over the last 14 years. She’s no longer the cute little poodle that we were so proud of. She has an extreme underbite and a huge… something… growing out of her forehead. She often gets looked over by members of  our family in favor of the other, younger dogs. The only way she gets a piece of table food is if it happens to drop and inch from her mouth, and the person who dropped it is too lazy to pick it up.  Instead of sleeping on pillows like a princess, the poor thing walks around with nuggets of poop hanging off her tail because the only grooming she gets is an occasional trim with the kitchen scissors. Sad, I know.

However, I have just found a really good excuse as to not feel so bad. In fact, I’ll be happy the next time someone asks what kind of dog BB is. Check out horrific article about a boy whose poodle got “fried to death” at the groomers…

BB