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f*ck you, fergie!

23 Jan

happy new year, y’all!  coco has been on a bit of a writing hiatus since the christmas holidays.  you see, i’ve been busy with very important activities, including:

(1) 6 hours co-refereeing a holiday cookie bake-off/sleepover for 7 year-old boys (inclusive of pillow fighting, tears, and coco hitting the sauce post-bedtime).

(2) 5 days back in the frozen tundra of the mid-atlantic (inclusive of daily nephew meltdowns and subsequent excessive personal consumption of spiked eggnog.  note pattern here).

(3) 30 hours in vegas (inclusive of having a hotel bar manager search my face for crow’s feet in lieu of having my ID and an aborted trip to a strip club).

(4) 3 days of nearly dying from a virus akin to ebola (inclusive of me feeling sorry for myself as it was apparent i may die from congestion (it could happen!) and subsequent nyquil abuse fondness).

so now that the holidays and my bout with ebola are a dot in life’s rear view mirror, it’s time for coco to take 2011 by the short and curlies.  and what this really means is allowing my liver to dry out, finding the strength to look at my credit card bills, and making all my dreams come true.

and coco’s first dream is to be able to get her skinny jeans past her knees and over her badonkadonk. you see, it appears that the aforementioned eggnog and christmas cookies and nyquil combo has hexed my scale and all my clothes.  and while i’m convinced it’s the devil’s work and/or my dryer that’s lead to the epic clothes shrinkage, i have decided to keep an open mind as to how to rectify the situation (especially as the “anti-hexing” spell didn’t work).  and that includes considering the dirty word that some refer to as “exercise”.

conveniently, i’m friends with the idi amin of calisthenics.  while complaining about my perplexing case of the incredible shrinking jeans over six a long island ice tea and plate of taquitos, he informed me that exercise might help.  and that he could help me as a personal trainer.  while i pshawed the notion, i couldn’t help but to think that mr. “i have a six-pack” might know what he was talking about.

crap.  i hate when other people are right…especially when it means i can’t sit on my derriere and eat bonbons all day while watching a paranormal state marathon.

acquiescing to the idea of working on my fitness (f*ck you, fergie), the baby doc of workouts has been training me for the past 6 days.

dear oppressor, i want to look like this. kthanxbai.

between the torture running, waterboarding leg lifts, walking a trail of tears hiking, and being starved healthy eating, i’m SO ready to give away any and all state secrets if it means i can have a cheeseburger.  but alas, for the past 144 hours, i’ve been sticking to the regime he’s set out for me. willingly, i might add…

which really means you should call amnesty ASAP cuz clearly i’m suffering from a serious case of stockholm syndrome.

here’s to a healthy and happy 2011, y’all!

bon jovi lied…you can’t go home

24 Mar

when coco was a tween, she found love in a god guy named rick springfield.  it was a beautiful, unconditional love.  and a silent one ‘cuz he was in poster form.  but rick was always there for me….especially in the awkward years.

sadly, however, there was little ‘awww’ to be found during coco’s awkward tween period.  you see, i was the skinny girl with the bad perm and great grades. the one with big dreams and little confidence. the one with shiny braces and a dull social life.

and i was content with a 2-D boyfriend.

but that all changed with a pre-teen boy with a blond mullet.

enter the new kid from the big city of burlington, vt. ice hockey was his game.  he played electric guitar.  the kid knew every word to every guns n’ roses song.  and he had twinkly blue-green eyes and acid washed jeans of a similar hue.

and from the moment i saw him, he had my tween heart.

there was, however, one problem with said crush.  he was exceptionally cruel in that 8th grade boy kind of way.  and even worse?  i liked it.

after months of hurt-so-good, my besty and her boyfriend somehow negotiated a double date with me and him to the biggest event at our school…the spring musical.   nothing says romance like a high school production of Fiddler on the Roof, right?  and gosh darn it,  it was going to be the moment when the beautiful boy would finally fall for the awkward girl.

i don’t remember much about the play due to that wonderful combo of nerves and excitement.  but what i do recall is sitting uncomfortably and amazingly near the boy…his forearm touching mine. and after a rousing rendition of “if i were a rich man” it was so decided.  coco was going to experience her first kiss (‘cuz poster kisses don’t really count).  upon leaving the theatreauditorium and sauntering through the double doors, i stopped dead in my tracks.  i looked him in the eye and did what i had dreamed of doing for months…i planted one on him.  it was the most exhilarating feeling i had ever experienced.  but then my sunrise turned into sunset when i realized that he didn’t want to suck face back.  it was devastating for tween coco, but at least she knew.  she would have to close the mullet boy chapter of her life and learn to love again.

many a few men, musical theatre productions and decades later, coco and her first crush were reunited this past weekend.  my perm replaced with non-poodle like strands.  his silky blond hair darkened with age and experience.  my unsightly gangly-ness replaced with my lovely lady lumps (checkemout!).  his five-foot-nothingness replaced with a striking 6’2″ frame.  after not seeing each other since the 10th grade, to call the experience surreal doesn’t do it justice.

we spent hours talking.  we giggled over over our old high school yearbooks.  we shared stories about our life’s epic travels.  we talked of jobs and school and life and love and art.  and we carefully examined each other faces to find any trace of the person we once knew.  and while i didn’t find many hints of the young man who unrelentingly teased me, i was delighted to find a lovely, dynamic person who reminded me of the importance of living for today.

thomas wolfe wrote,

“You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”

i’ve always taken this to mean you shouldn’t go back to living with your mother in a double-wide trailer in the back woods of the north country ‘cuz that would completely suck.  but now i think i know the deeper meaning of that passage.  fearful of tomorrow’s unknowns,  i’ve found myself wanting to run back to the familiar, the safe, the known.  and while you can’t go home again, sometimes home can come to you and remind you that being in the present and looking forward to tomorrow’s mysteries is kinda cool.

but if you’re reading this rick, please know that you can ALWAYS come home to your coco.



23 Feb

we all have a “thing”.  that thing we’d gladly change about physical selves.  mine has always been my hips.  and by hips, i mean anything above the knee and below the belly button.  i can thank my mother’s side for giving me the gift of the “pear shape”.  and it is indeed the gift that keeps on giving…

giving me grief, that is.

jeans shopping for pear-shaped coco is akin to columbus’ search for the new world, sans smallpox… long, painful, and with the ever-present threat of mutiny.  i’ve resorted to only going into high-end, fruffy shops and simply saying in an exhasperated tone, “hi, my name is coco.  i have hips.  big ones.  oh, and a butt that likely served as sir mixalot’s inspiration.  need jeans.  please help.”  the nervous size 0 sales associates then point me to the few brands that are designed for us juicy girls.  and the jeans usually have juicy names…like honey.  and somehow that’s supposed to make us feel better.  and in the rare chance that i actually find a pair that fits — i call them my ‘santo domingos’ — i usually begin crying like i, too, finally proved that the earth is round  (like my bumm).  but then tears of joy are often replaced with those of pain once i look at the juicy price tag.

so as we continue our voyage called life in a world designed for ironing boards, let’s keep our chins up, gals.  because we finally have a patron saint to rally around.  while explorers like columbus have saint christopher to protect them, we have own own divine guardian to watch over our bootyliciousness.

saint coco.  otherwise known as ice-t’s wife, the even more bootytastic coco has shown the world that a big bottom is a terrible thing to waste.

forget conan.  i’m with this coco.

now THAT’S something i can get behind.

here’s to celebrating our cocoliciousness!

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