My Type

The Good Doctor. Obvi. If you didn't already get that from this post and this post and that post. To loosely quote Outkast: He's my one and only forevah evah evah. Forevah evah evah? Forevah evah evah. And he's good at lots of things.

But come on, being married and monogamous and all the other m words doesn't mean you can't recognize hotness. Remember Number 9? I'm still looking for that motor skills ho. I will SHOW HER some motor skills.

Hotness comes in strange forms for me. But I have to tread lightly here. Not because I'm worried about being outed for recognizing hotness this week while on employment duties. And telling my friends who were all, "Umm, really? Hmm." That's the least of my concerns. I just don't want to be put in a WWF hold while being tickled within an inch of my life by The Good Doctor's other hand.

And really, is it so wrong to say other people are cute once you are married? I mean, I think honesty is the best policy, so I always tell The Good Doctor when I run across hotness. "I would totally hit that. 9 o'clock. No, MY 9 o'clock."

Kidding. It's much less polite than that.

No really. I do always tell him when I think someone is good looking. I'm a sharer. An over sharer even. But I definitely don't hide things. It's not in my nature. If I do think someone is goooood looking, The Good Doctor is the first to know. And be sent a Google image link of said person if said person is on the Internets.

What I do like is a smartie. Nerd smart. With glasses. I am thinking of cutting all Vitamin A out of The Good Doctor's diet so his eyes will age sooner and he will need glasses. He looks HOTT in glasses. No talking. Just look at me and smile.

And boyish. Not weird 12 year old boy-ish but devil may care boyish. Non-hairy arms and a nice sensible haircut. And short fingernails.

I'm not one for the gruff and grizzled. Although I will make an exception to say Mike Rowe is lovely to look at and listen to. He is a man's man and woman's man all in one manly package.  

And lanky. Some women go for the muscles. Now, I'm not saying if Daniel Craig showed up on my doorstep chins would not drop. But The Situations of the world need not apply. Brain muscles are so much sexier. 

And eye contact. Not stare me down like it's an interrogation. But pleasant, look-me-in-the-eye-not- boobs contact when you're talking to me and saying intelligent interesting things I have not heard before. Who doesn't think that is refreshing and appealing?

Inevitably when I meet people like that who are not wearing the wedding ring, I immediately think, "Why are you not snatched up by some ladyfriend?" And then I think, "Is my gaydar on the fritz? You can not be this cute and not married. Unless you are gay. Hmmmm."

So I told The Good Doctor about all these things I was reminded of and how he had all those things way back in 9th grade, on some nascent level, buried under the forest green "No Fear" hoodie and baggy basketball shorts when he was 6' 5" and 165lbs. Yes, I will dig up that basketball picture of Skeletor and post it here.

Happily I married My Type. I just like to point out to him that are others of his kind out there. In case Number 9 tries to bust out some motor skills in my vicinity.

Number 9

Does anyone know an Asian glamazon model about 5'11" who was modeling on Saturday at Neiman Marcus in Palo Alto?

I'm putting out an APB for this super tall beautiful Asian lady who had the nerve to stop and admire my baby. Can you believe some people?

My tale starts on the first floor. We were there to look for a nice hat for my mom, and one of these amazing tutus for Emmy to wear to her birthday party. It's a major splurge but since White Grandma and our friends and relatives supply pretty much all of Emmy's wardrobe, we figured we could go for some extra flair on her big day.

Anyway, we're on the first floor and The Good Doctor goes, "Check her out--in the purple." And I glance over to see Glamazon wearing a lavender skirt suit walking around with another lady, who turns out to be her handler or something. I'm like, "Yeah, she's pretty." The backstory--The Good Doc and I have an unspoken pact that we will point out people we think are good looking. Then we can stare at them all we want because we've already admitted to the other person that we think this person is HOT.

Hotness acknowledged, with my murmured comment of, "She's tall for an Asian," we move onto the 3rd floor, kids' apparel. No tutus fit Emmy, but happily, I find them, on sale, at Zappos.com. Score! Free shipping and the adorableness will be here in 1 business day. 

As we descend onto the second floor, I beeline it for some Diane von Furstenberg dresses on sale, but at "Needless Markup," the sales are still too pricey for Vicky McFrugal. Still, I'm just scanning the wares when I hear, "Awwww! She waved at me!" And I look up and see Emmy smiling and waving at some lady who just got off the escalator. I smile and keep looking at the wrap dresses, when I hear, in a deep Glamazon voice, "Just look at that pink leopard outfit, so coordinated." I'm like, "Is that who I think it is?" And sure enough, there she is, wearing a one-shoulder couture dress, cooing at my baby. Lucky us, we were at Neiman's the day gorgeous models were roaming the floors showing off the latest Armani collection.

Ghetto Vicky's like, "Oh HELL NAW!" And I casually lug my giant hat box over to where The Good Doctor is now surrounded by 3 women all waving and clapping their hands at Emmy. And he's like, "Oh and her outfit has this little hood too." "Awwww!" It's like a live Emmy infomercial and The Good Doctor is showing off our baby like "Look, she dices and slices and chops. BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!"

So then I join the convo, like, 'Ahem, Mommy here. This is MY adorable offspring. Back off. Mama Lion has arrived. I don't care if you're a foot taller than me and drop dead gorgeous.' I clear my throat, "Yes she IS cute isn't she? She's a very fast learner." Crickets. All eyes are still on Emmy and her strapping young dad, the whole "guy + baby = super cute" aura in full effect. Then Glamazon goes, "Such good motor skills." Who says that? Motor skills? And then we all politely carry on with our business, Emmy graciously waving goodbye. Glamazon and her handler continue strolling the store. Since when do models talk anyway? Aren't they just supposed to strut and ooze glamour and let the clothes speak for themselves?

We head out and I hear The Good Doctor joking with Emmy, "Good girl Emmy! Nice job!" And I'm shaking my head because I know, Mister, you got another thing coming.

I mean, I will admit I have a jealous and possessive streak. Definitely. Maybe it's the only child thing, maybe it's being a Leo, maybe it's just a character flaw. But I don't like when people mess with me, my stuff, or my people. I just don't. And my definition of 'mess with' has matured over time, and I'm not all irrational and hormonal like I was back in the day. But The Good Doctor definitely falls into the category of "my people." And I don't like super tall Glamazons making eyes at him. WHICH SHE DEFINITELY WAS and NO, I'M NOT OVER-REACTING. I have a good sixth sense about these things. She never made eye contact with me, the way normal people do when they admire your baby. She was all heart shaped eyes for The Good Doctor.

And I know tall girls like tall guys. And they especially do NOT like when tall guys are with short girls. It's like really upsetting because we've taken a perfectly good tall guy out of the pond needlessly when we could've just gone with a 5'7" dude or something. Plus when they're cute and smart, it's triply aggravating. Who knows what would've happened had Glamazon known The Good Doctor is also a real live doctor too? She might have flung herself at him right then and there next to the 2nd floor escalator. Yes, I'm being dramatic. 

So later when I was re-living the moment with The Good Doctor, I wanted him to rate her on a scale of 1-10. Because here's the thing, he is SO not that guy. He very rarely says, hey look at that chick. It's usually me going, that guy is HOT! So I was relishing the fact that we saw a very beautiful model chick, who was totally fawning over our baby and saying things like "motor skills" as if she were a kinesiology major. After MUCH prodding, he relented, "She's one of the more pretty people I've ever seen in person." Just give me a freaking number Good Doctor. FINALLY, and I mean like an hour later after we've had dinner and talked about other stuff and walked the dog, when I bring it up for the 11th time, he's like, "I don't know, a 9?" 

SCREEEEEECH. Record scratchy scratch scratch. 9? That is like the highest number EVER that I have ever heard him rate any man, woman or child. Little did I know my tutu hat search would be so game-changing.

So now I'm on the hunt for Number 9. Maybe she has 13 toes. That has to drop her rating to a more manageable 8.

How I Met Your Father Part 2

So after months of not talking...I'm suddenly on the phone with him.

And he's MISTER Chatty McChattingtons.  All friendly and cordial and how are you this fine day? It was like he didn't just shatter those pointy heels but he also cracked his fool head open and forgot about our two VERY AWKWARD conversations just a few months ago. I'm like, Who the... What the... OH NO YOU DI'IINT!

That was my brain talking. But my teenage fast pumping valley girl heart was all, Like oh my God! Cute boy you had a crush on last summer TOTALLY just called you and you are like TOTALLY on the phone with him right now Oh. My. God!

I'm standing in the kitchen all breathless about getting called by this boy who was a douchebag to me not once, but TWICE before, and what do I do? Do I exert my mighty Girl Power and go roaring into him and say, DUDE! Why were you so totally rude to me when I called you before? OR maybe I give him the same treatment and get all one word answer on his ass. OR, do I just blow him off and hang up?

None of the above. No. I just get all weak in the knees and sit down with my giant Uniden cordless phone and twirl my hair and chat with him about whatever it was teenagers talk about. Nothing. But the conversation lasted about as long as a conversation SHOULD last, and he was reminding me why I liked him in the first place. Charming, clever boy.

It ends with us planning to hang out again that summer, starting THAT evening, with an invite to his best friend's house. Where we would eat Keebler Fudge Stripes and drink Dr. Skipper and watch Leprechaun 2.

The classic mix tape below is the first one he ever made me. Remember those? MIX TAPES?! Where you had to push "Record" and "Play" at the same time and hope that you started recording the song off the radio after DJ stopped talking?! Sigh. This is one of the byproducts of this teenybopper crush turned love of my life Hallmark Channel made for TV movie.  Just found it after Asian Grandma brought over a bunch of my stuff that she's tired of hauling around.

Looking at that handwriting now, I see he was destined to become a doctor. Which I *totally knew* was going to happen when he was 15. Which is why I married him. It all comes full circle with Part 1, doesn't it?

How I Met Your Father Part 1

"Ohhhhhhhhh! So you're married to a doctor..."

The type of person who says this to me always does it with an eyebrow raise and a smirk. Indicating they know, and I know, that I married The Good Doctor, at least in part, because of his job. Riiiight? Wink wink.

I usually nod politely and change the subject. But here's what I'm really thinking. Are you effing serious? That's hecka rude, first of all. And secondly, HA!!!! Not that I don't appreciate his job, or his wonderful boss, or congenial colleagues, no, no, no. Please keep that direct deposit depositing. Student loans are a bitch.

But our history goes so far back it would take up an entire corridor at the Santa Rosa History museum. If such a museum were to exist. We met...prepare yourself...when he was an 8th grader and I was a 9th grader. I was in advanced math, not because I'm good at math, but because Asians are good at math and I got lumped in with them. He was in DOUBLE advanced math, because he is a freak. So there we were, on the first day of school, and since this is my blog, I can tell the story how I want and he can't dispute it, neener neener neener. I saw him, the tallest, whitest boy in class, with a giant head and a mouthful of braces. And for some reason unknown to man, I thought to myself, HE IS CUTE! He will say he noticed me on the first day, in my cheerleading uniform, Go Purple and Gold, one of the ugliest color combos possible. But I know he didn't. He was too busy talking to his surfer friend, the only other 8th grader in this class. They were both freaks.

Fast forward a semester, during which we had, oh...ZERO contact. Then Mr. Spillane re-assigned our seats. And put him right in front of me. Him, with the giant head, me, with the 5' 2" barely-see-over-my- desk-as-it-is body. And I don't know how or when he turned around, but that's where it started. The flirting over my brown Hello Kitty mechanical pencil. (I was obsessed with those mechanical pencils, always perfectly sharp!) Then there was the time he made some joke and I was laughing so hard my gum fell into, and got STUCK in, my hair. Like, had to cut it out with scissors stuck. Or the time I came back from a field trip to a water park and waved to him from the bus. Wearing my bikini top. What a little hussy I was! (Note: Emmy, you will not be allowed to wear a two piece bathing suit until you are 37.) Little by little, we started to fall into Like. That totally sweet, junior high, talk about him for 2000 hours on the phone with your friends Like.

That summer, a lot of things fell into place. His best friend lived right by me. So he was always there, and we would all hang out. Eating Keebler Grasshopper cookies and drinking grape soda and watching scary movies as an excuse to sit close to each other. It was the best summer. Just running into him sometimes when I was walking my dog in the neighborhood. Those little fleeting moments when your 14 year old self just gets all fluttery and giddy and out of breath. But then the summer ended. I went off to high school, and he stayed in junior high. And we sort of lost touch. It was during the time before every teen had a cell phone permanently secured to her palm with thumbs conditioned to text 35 times a minute. It was during the Jurassic period of teendom, when stegosaurs still walked the Earth.

And then he shattered his heels. Jumping off a roof. He didn't make it. Long story short, he and his friends were roaming around on the roof a local shopping center and they tripped some alarms near a bank. Instead of hanging with his hands from the roof and dropping the additional, oh, 8 inches, to the ground like his buddies did, The Good Doctor went for it, 007 style. But without the Daniel Craig landing. Crashing down on his pointy heels which then splintered into little itty bits that required a bunch of titanium to piece back together.

So when I heard about his accident, I called him. Like hey, remember me? We were mad crushing on each other last summer and now I hear you're in a wheelchair and doing homeschool. And the response I got was: uhh, hi.

Me: So how are you?

Him: Um. Pause. OK.

Me: I just wanted to call and see how you're doing. I heard what happened. I'm so sorry.

Him: Thanks.

Me: So what are you doing now?

Him: Pause. Um. Pause. Nothing.

Me: Well...um...okay. Just wanted to say hi. Hope you feel better.

Him: Thanks...(more awkward silence)

Me: (Thinking WTMF?) OK, well, bye.

Him: Bye (Click of the phone hanging up)

I was like, Well, that sucked. I felt like Sandy when she ran into Danny after their summer singing "You're the one that I want. One that I, one that I want. Ooo ooo ooo" and getting the royal DISS.

Two weeks later, I got the nerve to call again, thinking maybe I just caught him at a bad time. Reference the above conversation, add in a few more awkward pauses, and that's how the second conversation went. Not Good At All. 

I TOTALLY wrote him off after that. Nobody puts Baby in a corner. I vowed to never call that jerk again. I mean, what the hell? I thought we were at least friends after our summer of puppy love.

Months later, summer vacation again. My phone rings. It's him. I'm like, Oh, hi.