So not worthy

Watch me slide this post in without skipping a beat and not giving any mention (other than this) to the fact that I've been missing in action for the past two months.

One day during that two month period (okay, there's another mention) when I was neglecting you dear Internets, I received a text from the Commish. He was standing at a bus stop in Seattle when a couple of teenagers passed him. And guess what? One of them was wearing a VINTAGE KARL MECKLENBERG JERSEY! Granted it was not the jersey I wanted, if I did want one, which I do but not the one that the kid was wearing, the one that exists only in my head, but still it's not everyday you see a vintage Karl Mecklenberg jersey walking down the street in Seattle. In fact I'm going on living here 10 years and I can quite honestly say that I've seen a vintage Karl Mecklenberg jersey a grand total of NEVER!

So the Commish, being an engaging fellow called out to the youth and asked him if he was a Broncos fan. He gives the Commish a puzzled look, glances down at his shirt, looks back at the Commish, shrugs his shoulders, let's out a non-committal "eh," and keeps walking. Walking down the street and all over my dreams. That's all I can say about it, I'm still too upset about the less than deserving kid sporting #77's orange and blue. Maybe that's why I've been radio silent for the past two months (third and final mention).

Smells like team spirit

I'm originally from Colorado, which means Sundays in the fall are Bronco Sundays; I bleed orange and blue and I will always and forever swear allegiance to John Elway. None of that makes me a super fan, it's just baseline behavior.

What might propel me to super fan status, however, is going to the Fair with friends yesterday and on a whim getting an orange and blue bronco tattooed on my face. Granted, it was an airbrushed temporary tattoo. We originally had visions of glitter and pixies and a special kind of awesomeness, alas, there was no glitter, and the pixies were not-so-awesome, but she found a unicorn, and I found myself a bronco.

Now I know that one temporary face tattoo does not a super fan make, but after I took one look at my face I was reminded of a scene from some 20 years ago. Growing up, we had Bronco season tickets and I distinctly remember one game when I made it my personal mission to get on the jumbo tron. What's the best way to do that? Paint my face and spray my hair with blue glitter spray, of course. Armed with my orange face paint, I attempted to replicate the "D" from the Denver helmet on my cheek. Only problem with this do-it-yourself face decorating is that I did it in the mirror, so what looked like a "D" to me in the bathroom, looked like this "(I" to everyone everywhere else in the world. I didn't, by the way, make it onto the jumbo tron.

I'm sure a true super fan would have factored in the mirror reflection, but how about an "A" for effort? The commitment is there--incidentally, so is a temporary scar from the temporary tattoo. We were given the directions to either scrub it off or use rubbing alcohol to remove it. Unfortunately, I don't have any rubbing alcohol so I scrubbed it off along with several layers of my face. So many layers, that it looks like I now have rosacea on my face in the shape of a bucking bronco. That right there might be the making of a super fan.

A card laid is a card played

I'm learning so much about myself this round of online dating--and I haven't even gone on a date with anyone, yet.

What I've found out is that I'm really not as inclusive as I like to think I am. I know the odds of me finding potential guys are better the wider I cast my net, and I also know that if I impose too many limits I might miss out on something good. But there are some things to which I have aversions and I just can't help myself. Things like:

• Height. I'm ruling out anyone shorter than 5'8". Why 5'8"? I'm not really sure. Marinara Jar was somewhere between 5'6"-5'7", but when we were getting set up I was told that he was 5'8" (and I also told the person setting us up that height didn't matter to me, apparently it does now). So maybe I've been conditioned to think that way from him and from thinking people always add an inch or two so 5'8" is the new 5'6". And I'm practically 5'10". It's not so much about the height discrepancy between us, but in our gene pool. The kids we have in my brain are tall and athletic. What kind of mother would I be, putting them at a disadvantage from before we even get started? Sorry, but shorties are out.
• Appearance. As lovely as it would be to say that I could become attracted to someone without knowing what they look like, I can't. Nope. I need to see you. If you don't have a picture on your profile, or I don't have a positive reaction to you based upon the pictures you do have posted, you're out, too.
• Spelling and grammar. This is your dating resume. You don't have to be the world's best grammarian (that position is already held by Monster), but you do have to at least proof read and use spell check. You wouldn't have typos on your work resume would you? Or use alpha-numeric text? Oh, you would? C U l8r.
• The wild card. There is something in almost every profile that I think of as the wild card. To be fair, the wild card can be either good or bad and the wild card can trump almost everything else in the profile. In fact, I may consider a shorty for the right wild card. What would the right wild card be? Well, someone who loves to golf, makes intelligent references to things I think are funny, interjects well played sarcasm, or has intense love for the Denver Broncos. Now the same goes for bad wild cards, they could certainly take an attractive man right out of the equation. Some bad wild cards include serious gamers, being too into cars or motorcycles, or showing zero personality.

I'm in the early communication stages with a couple of fellows, and I came across an interesting wild card on one of them tonight. We'll call this one Longhorn. He and I have sent some predetermined stock questions each other's way and so far so good. He's tall (6'3"), attractive and articulate and he's got several other positive traits. However--because you knew that was coming--tonight I was taking a closer look at his pictures, and in one of them I noticed he's wearing a Utilikilt. A UTILIKILT. Oh, Internets. Could I possibly ever be with a wearer of Utilikilts? Unless you are Scottish and at a formal event, you're not going to win me over by wearing a skirt. I'm sorry, but it's true. Apparently I am that superficial. I mean cool if you want to wear a skirt, I'll still respect you as a person, but if you think that you'll get to step into my dreams and father my tall athletic children, well, you might need to think again.

That being said, I'm going to give Longhorn the benefit of the doubt here. Maybe all of his reasonably-legged clothing was dirty that day, or maybe he lost a bet with a friend, or maybe there's some other perfectly good reason why one would need to wear a Utilikilt whilst on a winery tour with friends in Napa. Yes. Maybe so. All I know is that if he's of the mindset that Utilikilts are essential for him to express his personal sense of style, methinks I've found a wild card of the bad variety (no matter how tall those imaginary kids might be).

Note to self: If you start dating Longhorn and you tell him about the blog either come clean about your disdain for Utilikilts, or destroy this post. Or maybe both.

Upgrading life

Marco...?


Internets. You there? Bet you've been wondering the same thing about LMNT. Well, I'm here. Phew, am I ever! It's been quite a summer; yeah, yeah, the Shingles, but also I've been working hard. Hard. And I'm not talking about at my job, but about working hard on me and my life.


It all started back when I went on my fabulous retreat with fabulous women in the Spring. The retreat after which I attended I started manifesting chocolate left and right? Well, it turns out the chocolate just happened to be a faulty--nay, AWESOME--vending machine. But since chocopalooza, I've been manifesting other goodness.


And while I've been doing the work, I haven't been doing it on my own. I've been working with an amazing woman, and she's been challenging me to think differently and not letting me get away with my stuff. We are clearing out some of the clutter and transforming LMNT. New haircut, new clothes, including aaaahhhhhhmazing aubergine Italian leather boots. Thank you Mama M!


Labor Day weekend, I flew down to San Francisco for my cousin's wedding and it was LMNT at her finest. I made a conscious decision to do this trip differently. For starters, I only packed things that make me feel like a million bucks, including aaaahhhhhhmazing aubergine Italian leather boots. And wouldn't you know it? Even when I packed all my favorite things I was still captain of the "light packers" club.


There I am, traveling in all my fabulousness. By the way, Internets, do you know how many friends you make when you're fabulous? A lot. So, fabulous little me takes myself to the rental car counter, and would you believe it? They offered me an upgrade from a Ford Focus to a convertible Mustang for $10 per day. I'm not sure if old LMNT would have gone for that. In fact, I think old LMNT would have stayed practical. But not new LMNT, she went for it. Yeah, it was only $40, but still this is a huge shift for me. And do you know how much fun it is to drop that top and drive across the Golden Gate Bridge in the hot California sun? So much fun that this is what my mom did when we drove through wine country. It is so much fun that I am highly considering trading in my poor little Jetta for a convertible. Yes, I know I live in Seattle, where it's only sunny for 20 minutes every year, and I'm here to tell you that I would buy one and drive it around for those 20 minutes and it would be the best 20 minutes of the whole year (and I'd also be wearing my aaaahhhhhhmazing aubergine Italian leather boots). It's THAT MUCH FUN.


Note to self: when offered an upgrade, the answer is always YES!


And also, wind blown hair? It simply adds to the fabulousness.

LMNT's approach to wooing would be suitors

Internets, have I gone off the deep end? I need some affirmation from you (or confirmation, I suppose, if I have indeed gone off said deep end).

As I told you yesterday, I've stepped back into the realm of Internet Dating (I really like imagining you just read that in your mind with a big booming announcer voice... I can still hear it echoing). Every time I enter this territory, I feel like I do so with such gusto, well, let's face it that's kind of how I do life. I believe that it's important to be me and get that out there, like a giant billboard that screams, "HEY, WORLD! IT'S LMNT. LOVE ME. NOW!" Sometimes I wonder if the billboard approach is a little much, like maybe what's needed is the tiny little warning on your coffee cup that subtly reminds you, "The beverage you are about to enjoy might be hot."

Yeah, maybe subtlety works, but come on. You know me, subtle is not really my thing. If it were up to me, disposable coffee cups would be imprinted with the following statement, "Hey, idiot. This overpriced mochaccinodeleche you just purchased is burn-your-tongue hot. Don't be fooled by the foam. Consider yourself warned. Oh and you can't sue us now. Neener neener." Because even if I were trying to be subtle with the first statement, "the beverage you're about to enjoy, la di da," what I'm really thinking is that second statement, "neener neener." So why waste any one's time, right? Right. So, billboard it is.

Only when you go all billboardy on your dating profile, you are taking HUGE risks. Risk number one: you scare people away. Some may argue that the right person won't be scared off, but first impressions are everything here and it's a game of numbers. In order to play the odds I need more than one person to not be turned off by the crazy I'm broadcasting. Risk number two: crazy attracts crazy. I don't really want a billboardy person myself--let's face it, too many billboards might clutter this freeway of love; I don't need competition. I just want someone who is intrigued by my billboard and wants to learn more--kind of like how I feel when I drive by the Abercrombie & Fitch boys on the side of the building on 4th Ave in the south end of downtown Seattle. You Seattlites know the one. First you're like, "Ho hum, billboard." And then you're like, "Whoa! Hello, billboard! Can you even put pictures like that on billboards? And I don't see any Abercrombie & Fitch clothing on there. Come to think of it, I don't see any clothing on there." And then you're like, "Psst, billboard, I need to see more than what you're showing me. Agh! Eyes on the road."

Wait. No. I'm not talking about naked Abercrombie & Fitch models. It's not really like that billboard at all. I mean it is, but it isn't. I'm not talking about putting scantily clad pictures of me on the Internets and exposing my flesh in order to make people want to get to know me--it has NOT come to down to that, yet. What I'm talking about is exposing my dorkiness as my hook. Enough with the similes and metaphors. Here's the deal: I put a slew of pictures on the site to try visually create the story of me, and then when I went in to caption them I had a stroke of genius (or madness) to write each caption as if it were a fascinating part of the story. So gather round little Internets and I'll read you the tale I like to call, "The Day LMNT Used Children's Literature to Snag Herself a Fellow."

Once upon a time there was a girl named LMNT.

Sometimes she has long hair...

... and sometimes she wears hats.

Sometimes she does crazy things like guest grounds keeping at Safeco Field (read: smile and hold the shovel)...

... or running Marathons like this one in Vancouver, BC in 2006. She sure makes it look fun, doesn't she?

LMNT likes wigs, stage makeup, and rocking on (or hooking 'em horns?).

She thinks margaritas in paradise are grand. Zihuatenejo works for her (as do infinity pools).

She looks forward to the day when she meets her match and they live happily ever after. The End.

There you have it, Internets, my billboard. I was particularly proud of the last picture and caption and how it really ties the whole fairy tale together with a nice little bow--sigh, some day my prince will come. And in the meanwhile, hopefully someone or sometwo or somemany good ones want to get in on that kind of crazy/pure creative genius--as I continually and consistently demonstrate, the line between the two is very very blurry.

Bring on the small talk and courtesy chuckles

Dearest Internets, this weekend I bit the bullet and I'm dating you again. I'm throwing my hat back in the ring and resubscribing to a dating website. Lucky you, because we all know there will be plenty-o-stories coming out of this adventure.

However, this time it's going to be different. I've spent the past few months doing some really good work on me--getting crystal clear on what my heart truly desires way deep down there. In the past when I've dated the Internet, I've been an equal opportunity dater, maybe even a bleeding heart dater. But this time, none of my time will be spent on those who aren't simpatico with what's going on deep down in my heart, or on those who can't complement my already full and rich life and add to that, or those who I just keep around because they are like the sad little puppy that I hesitate to turn away.

Who knows what will happen. I'm keeping my mind open--to a point. I'm just ready to have some fun, put some good energy out there and see what comes back. One, two, three. Here we go, again.

Uncomfortably Numb

Twice. Twice today I've been injected with Novocaine. And neither one of those times have I actually had real dental work done. And, that might not be the fault of the official dentist of the blankity blankhawks. As it turns out, Internets, it might be me.

On my first trip to the dentist today, first I was told that the factory that makes the porcelain for the crown I had has reported that the cement used to attach it to the tooth doesn't always adhere well and there have been reports of them falling off, then I was told that she couldn't affix my crown because my gums were too puffy and bleeding. Actually, there was something really weird going on with my gums, they were covered in white bumps. She even showed me in a mirror--definitely weird, definitely white bumps.

Here's how that visit went down. She asked me sternly, "When did this crown fall off."

I responded, "Friday."

"Are you sure it fell off on Friday?"

"Yes," I said, even though it actually fell off on Thursday night.

"And how did it fall off?"

"I was chewing gum," I said, even though it actually came out when I was devouring a hot tamale.

INTERNETS?! Why did I feel the need to tell not just one, but two lies to the dentist? I don't know, but that was my initial story and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to stick to it.

One more time she asked, "Are you sure?" Persistent dentist, that one.

"Yes, I'm sure," ridiculously stubborn patient for really no good reason, this one.

Okay, so I told a little fib--or two--to the dentist, but as it turns out, that didn't matter at all, but the Commish would have skewered me for not coming clean to you, so there you have it. I lied. And je ne regrette rien.

As I reclined there, silently saying my Hail Mary and Our Father as penance for the pair of sins I had just committed, she informed me of my fate: she was going to shoot me up with Novocaine to try and stop the bleeding and affix my crown. Only the bleeding didn't stop, because, hello?
Weird gums covered in white bumps. So there I am, laden with guilt for lying, freaking out that something bad was happening in my mouth, and starting to lose feeling in my face. I kept taking deep breaths to try and keep myself as calm as I could when I g0t hit with another whammy. She's going to need me to come back later in the afternoon, fill me up with even more Novocaine, cut the gum away, cauterize it, and then affix the crown. I'm sorry, did you just say CUT THE GUM AWAY AND CAUTERIZE IT? Oh, you did? Oh, okay.

I head back to work trying to play down the fact that she and her team of hygienists are basically going to have a civil-war era reenactment in my mouth, wherein I'm given a shot of whiskey and a stick to bite on as they burn the open wound to stop the bleeding. You can imagine my excitement to head back for that second appointment. Trying to occupy my mind during the three hours between appointments was difficult. Work was not distracting enough to keep me from going worst-case scenario, so of course I went there. It must be cancer.

Thankfully, both AP and Coach A reassured me that I didn't have cancer--I didn't even have to tell AP that I thought I had cancer, I must have had the "I hate to tell you this, friend, but I'm pretty sure I have cancer" look on my face, because before I said anything she said, "you don't have cancer!"

And sure enough, I don't (at least I don't think so). It's not cancer, it's the shingles! The shingles is definitely better than the cancer. I'll take the shingles. But, awh man, I thought I had beaten the shingles. I feel great, but apparently, the shingles have overtaken my mouth. And by overtaken my mouth I mean the gums in the very back of the mouth have become so inflamed and have grown so much, they have grown over half of my crownless tooth. Gah.

How do I know it's the shingles. Well, I get to my second appointment (on the verge of tears because are they really going to CUT MY GUM AWAY AND CAUTERIZE IT?), and the hygienist injects me with a high dose of Novocaine and then goes to town on cleaning out the gum. She's really hesitant to cut it away, and I am thanking every known deity because, we don't want to cut that gum, right? So I begin yammering on about all the things I can think about, like, my jaw hurt a couple weeks ago when I was on vacation, but then it went away and I didn't think anything more of it, maybe that's related? And that I swear the crown fell off on Friday (liar!) even though it looks like the gum has been growing out of control for a few months now. And how this has been such a crazy month--especially for the right side of my body. I mean it's like the right side of my body hates me. First the shingles and now this--

"Wait a minute. I know you're whole face is numb, and you have a couple of cotton wads jammed in there, too, but did you just say shingles?"

"Uh, yeah, I had shingles three weeks ago."

Before I knew it, "doctor" was at my station, chastising me, "Why didn't you say that earlier? I was prying to get any information out of you and you didn't say anything about shingles."

Well, yeah, because I'm awesome and I got over the shingles in record time, so how could that have anything to do with the crown that fell out of my mouth last Friday when I was chewing gum? Only, apparently I didn't (no, I didn't chew gum on Friday and I didn't get over the shingles). Because the weird gums covered in white bumps? Yeah, shingle blisters. In. My. Mouth. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

So today there was no operating. No cauterizing. No crown replacement (but there were several rounds of "Me and My Llama" playing in my brain). Instead I have to try and treat this new and oh-so-awesome "rash" (the one IN THE BACK OF MY MOUTH), and then come back in a few weeks and see if we can do this whole thing over again (minus the operating and the cauterizing).

Note to self: Shingles in the mouth definitely NOT making the the list of "Top 10 Hottest Things About The Shingles."