I met my husband in Taco Bell. In Hollywood. On my way to the gym. (Yeah, I wasn’t so interested in nutrition back then. But then again, I could get away with it in those days.)

I had worked a little late that night so I didn’t have time to go home and grab some dinner before my Step class (no one rocked the Step like I did. I’m kinda sad that old-school step classes aren’t cool anymore), so I stopped by the Taco Bell near my gym. The drive-thru line was kind of long—because really, who wants to sit alone in a fast food place in one of the skeeviest parts of Hollywood?—so I parked and went inside.

The store was fairly empty. I think there was one person sitting in a corner but other than that, I was the only customer inside. I placed my order, got my food and sat down at a table near a window so I could kind of see everything through the reflection. I didn’t want to face into the store because apparently there’s something about me that drives every freak in a 5-mile radius to walk up to me to chat. I try to wear my Fuck Off face in situations like that, but I must let my guard down for a second because I seem to be a magnet for psychos and stalkers.

As I’m eating my tostada someone walks up and puts a bunch of binders and paperwork on the table next to mine. Seriously? The whole damn place is wide open and you’re going to sit here? Six inches from me? Asshole. Same thing happens in a movie theater, by the way. The whole place will be wide open but some 6’7″ dude will sit right in front of me.

I felt pretty uncomfortable and physically turned my body away while I snarfed up the rest of my food so I could get the hell out of there.

Binder Guy realized he creeped me out and tried to apologize.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But I work here. I do security and I can see the whole place from here.”

I looked up to tell him to fuck off, but I found myself gazing into the deepest, most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I was momentarily speechless. Then I recovered and snarked back something rude to him and gave him the stink eye.

Then he told me again that he felt bad for making me uncomfortable, that he really wasn’t trying to get in my space. He reiterated again that he was security there—he didn’t have any kind of uniform or anything—and when I rolled my eyes at him, he told me that he was also a cop. There was more eye rolling on my part and he suddenly felt compelled to convince me that he was, that he wasn’t some lame-ass security guard. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

“Really, I’m a cop. I’m a detective with LAPD.”

“Let me see your ID,” I demanded. (Where did I get these balls?)

He pulled out his badge and business card. Nothing with a picture.

“How do I know this is you? Let me see your picture ID or driver’s license.” (And apparently the balls are brass.)

He must have felt really bad because he pulled it all out and showed me. I took a look and nodded and he put everything away except the business card. He left that on the table in front of me.

Once I confirmed he was indeed a cop, I read him the riot act. “As a cop you should know better than to sit down next to woman whose by herself. Especially in a place like this.”

Once we got all of that out of the way, he asked me what the hell I was doing in there alone to begin with. Touché.

We talked for a few more minutes and I found out that he was working there off-duty job because he was going through a divorce and needed to make some extra money. I found him charming and sweet and smart. And the eyes. There was something about his eyes. They were both profoundly sad (and tired) yet full of life.

Somehow in the few minutes we spoke we realized we had common acquaintance. My rule of thumb then was Serial Killer Until Proven Otherwise. Knowing we knew someone in common, someone I trusted, made me feel better about talking to him. I relaxed.

I still had to get to the gym so I finished up and said goodnight. I grabbed his card, still on the table (never know when you’re gonna need one of those, right?), and shoved it in my purse and left.

The next morning, I called our mutual acquaintance to ask about Binder Guy. She laughed and told me she had just gotten off the phone with him, that he called her to ask about me. (I found out later that he ran me to see if I had a record.) She had nothing but wonderful things to say about him. He was the nicest man she ever met.

And up until that point, I hadn’t exactly dated a whole slew of the Nice Guys. So I drove by the Taco Bell a night or two later to see if he was there and when I saw him I parked and went in. (Now who’s the stalker here?) We laughed about checking up on each other and chatted for a bit. This continued a few nights until I finally gave him my phone number.

We spent about three or fours months talking, either in person or on the phone, and I feel like we really got to know each other. And as much as we liked each other, we both had reservations. Me: he’s a cop, he’s been married and divorced, he has kids. Him: he’s a cop, I’ve never been married and I didn’t have kids. Plus, there was that 15-year age difference that seemed to be a big obstacle. So we didn’t date.

But we talked about dating. And we talked about all the reasons we probably shouldn’t date. Then we agreed that it would be okay to meet for coffee when he was near my office for work. (His work brought him to the building next door to my office on a regular basis). But I’d make a million excuses about why I couldn’t possibly meet him and bail right before he showed up.

And then he stopped calling.

I had stood him up so many times that he got the message that I wasn’t interested.

Except I was.

And after a couple of weeks of not talking to him, I very much wanted to talk to him. So I drove to Taco Bell one night and asked him why he stopped calling. And when he pointed out the obvious, I realized how stupid this whole thing had become and we agreed that it was okay to hang out because we obviously liked each other and had fun when we talked and it didn’t have to be anything, right?

So we made plans to go out one night. But it wasn’t a date. In fact, we went out of our way to make sure it wasn’t going to be date-like. We went to a Cuban restaurant in town that’s famous for its garlic chicken. It’s so overpowering, that the garlic comes out of your pores for days. And there were black beans and, well, you know how THAT goes. We were that committed to making sure it was just a casual un-romantic dinner.

After dinner we went back to his apartment and talked until 4:00 in the morning. I was supposed to meet a friend at 8:00 a.m. in Orange County to go for a bike ride, so I reluctantly got up to leave. He walked me to my car, told me he had a great time and…nothing. I got in the car without so much as a goodnight kiss.

Because it wasn’t a date.

But a few weeks later, we were both over the not-dating crap and decided to date. And we did…until we set the date. And got married four years later.

Check out more Spin Cycles on Dating over at Sprite’s Keeper.

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Posting has been a little light around here the past couple of weeks and I apologize. I’m trying to get my shit together over here in Snarkville and will hopefully start dumping my crap writing my scintillating prose again soon.

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This is a real IM exchange between me and Lesley at Um…What???:
SNARK: Believe me, you’ve been there for me through a lot of crap. We’re pretty even. Except you won’t go to dog shows with me for some reason…
UMWHAT: Dude. For real! I will go! I told you that! You know how I get my jollies being helpful and being there for you. I’M NOT JACKING OFF ANY DOGS THOUGH. KNOW THAT. Oh my god. I cannot believe I just typed such a thing.
SNARK: Oh! I totally have to find a way to get that on my blog!!!
UMWHAT: You really do.

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Last week was exceptionally crappy. I don’t really talk about my job in detail here and I still won’t except to say that I’m concerned about job security. The recession is hitting my industry a little, and I had one of those really uncomfortable conversations that started with my bosses asking me to justify my salary. Not in a You Aren’t Doing Shit Around Here way; it was more of a We Want to Keep You Around kind of way. That’s obviously the good news. The bad news is, I just don’t know how this will play out. I’m hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.

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I watched the season premier of Jon & Kate Plus 8 last night. I used to love the show–those kids are adorable—but I wasn’t sure if I was going to tune in because of all the drama. But I did and it was pretty heartbreaking actually. And uncomfortable. They showed footage of one of the little girls hugging her dad and telling him how much she misses him at home. There were scenes where Jon and Kate were about 2 feet away from each other and wouldn’t acknowlege that the other person existed. I know they want to depict a real family with real issues, but I think there’s a line that got crossed. I’m not sure I really want to watch the meltdown of that family. Both Jon and Kate said in separate interviews that they’re putting the kids first, but when they’re old enough (and, honestly, the two older girls are) they’re going to hate hearing about how the implosion of their family was documented on TV.

Anyone watch? Thoughts?

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For more randomness, check out The Un Mom. She’s as random as they get!

I spent the weekend at a dog show. If you’ve ever seen the movie Best in Show, then you have a pretty good idea what my life is like a couple weekends each month. Occasionally, I run around screaming while looking for Gracie’s Busy Bee, but most of the time I try to contain myself. (The same can’t be said of others. I’ll have to write a post about the drama one of these days.)

But this was a good weekend—Gracie won another point, which puts her just 5 points shy of being a champion. Then I think I have to either bow or curtsy to her and give up my spot in the bed to her. I’m not sure; I’ll have to check the show dog handbook.

No, this isn't animal porn. This is Gracie passed out after her big weekend. (Sorry, it's taken with a crappy camera phone)

Next weekend, we have four days of dog shows. That means an awful lot of dog hair in my martinis.

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I live near a Six Flags park. I hate amusements parks (except maybe Disneyland, but that’s only fun if I’m with my granddaughter). I hate the long lines in the heat, the crowds, the rude people and the bad food. And I’m not a big fan of roller coasters.

This time of the year around the time I’m driving home from work, I seem to get caught between cars of kids who are cruising to the park. They honk at each other two lanes away on the freeway, speed up and/or slow down to cut you off to catch up with their friends and chat while their cars are thumping with bass that drowns every thought in my head.

But the thing I really don’t get? Magic Mountain seems to be a magnet for gang bangers. I guess they’ve gotta get their coaster on, too, but it seems like a lot of money to spend just to walk around and eye fuck other bangers (my knowledge of slang is so off the chain, yo!). They walk around in groups of 5 or 10 with their saggy pants, wife beaters or oversize T-shirt and just stare each other down, freaking out everyone else in their way.

When I was in college I went to Magic Mountain with some friends and while we were in line, the group of bangers in front of us got into it with the group behind us. Before you know it, they were all climbing over the railings to get at each other. That’s when I swore I’d never go back.

However, years later, we (meaning Bill) thought it would be fun to take my youngest stepson. Because I wouldn’t go on some of the rides, I ended up sitting alone, waiting for them. Apparently, this was an open invitation for random groups of guys to fuck with me, harass me and totally scare the shit out of me. The second Bill and his son would walk up, the guys would disburse like the chickenshits they really are.

That was it for me. The last time I went to Magic Mountain was THE last time I went to Magic Mountain. That was probably about 12 years ago, and I will never go again. My blood boils when I just drive by the entrance.

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One of the great pleasures in my life is driving home from work with the top down and ’80s R&B or some disco blasting on the stereo.

Johnny Gill’s “Rub You the Right Way,” Patrice Rushen’s “Forget Me Nots,” and “Love Come Down” by Evelyn “Champagne” King are favorites. If I can play some Earth, Wind & Fire, ever better.

However, I seem to forget that there isn’t some kind of invisibility shield around me because I totally sing at the top of my lungs, and groove in my seat. I’m sure I look like an ass, but really? Don’t care.

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I don’t get it, but I like it.

At first I wouldn’t listen but it’s so god-damned catchy that I can’t get Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face” out of my head—or off my stereo.

It’s embarrassing, really.

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And in case I don’t already come off like white trash, I became a grandmother for the second time on Saturday. I’m 39.

Technically, they’re step-grandkids, but you’d have a hard time convincing me or them that there’s any difference.

The good news is, Little Miss Thang is totally excited to have a baby sister. She won’t put Baby Thang down. She loves holding her and doting on her like her own real-life version of Baby Alive (do they still make that?).

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For more Tuesday Randomness, check out Keely’s blog The Un Mom.

The 1980s was the era of Michael Jackson and Madonna, of New Wave and Hair Metal, Dallas and Dynasty, Princess Diana and Supermodels. There were so many over-the-top influences on such a decade of excess. More is More. Greed may have been good, but neon made everything better.

The ’80s were very schizophrenic when it came to fashion.

Personally, Madonna was a huge influence on me. I will never forget where I was the first time I heard a Madonna song (Hey, some people remember where they were when John Lennon was shot; I remember my first Madonna album). My friend Ann and I were 13 years old and her mom took us over the bridge to San Francisco for the day. We walked into the Tower Records in Union Square and they were playing “Borderline.” I was hooked and bought the cassette tape immediately (In case anyone reading this is younger than 30, tapes preceded CDs). I adored everything Madonna. I wore leggings under miniskirts with T-shirts and a low-slung belt, stacks of rubber bracelets up my arms and tied a big lacy scarf thing on my head just like she did. Much to my parents’ dismay and disgust I wore crucifixes like regular necklaces (I went to Catholic school for 12 years, I had some issues to work out with the religion thing).

When I was in high school it didn’t matter if your hair was short or long, you wore it big. I had a permed bob and I teased my bangs up and shellacked the whole thing with a gallon of Aqua Net. Once in a while my mom would be cool and let my buy the 18-inch-long can of Sebastian hair spray. It was a bitch to carry in my backpack but it was like a status symbol to a lame-ass high schooler like me.

I wore a uniform to school but they allowed us to show our personalities and fashion sense (or senselessness) with accessories. I’d roll that uniform skirt up so it was as short as I could get it without getting suspended. Under our skirts we’d wear leggings or bicycle shorts. With that I’d wear Capezio jazz shoes, and I’d throw on some leg warmers if it was cold. Docksiders/Topsiders, Doc Martens and Reebok high-tops (with multiple pairs of scrunchie socks, natch) were totally rad, too.

This was the decade of neon clothing, Members Only jackets, satin bomber jackets, denim jackets with lots of pins, parachute pants, Izod shirts (collars up), Swatch Watches, jelly shoes, Ray-Ban Wayfarers and Guess Jeans—bonus points for acid wash. And if you were really cool? You pegged your jeans. (Don’t pretend you never did that.)

So what’s the point of me giving you a history of ’80s fashion?

I feel compelled to explain what was going on in the world to bring me to this prom dress. I thought I was the shit—my shoes, gloves, and the bow on my BANANA CLIP (yeah, baby, I worked that) were all color coordinated. My eyeshadow, eyeliner AND mascara matched my iridescent blue dress. And those bangs? They were a work of art! It took me a long time to sculpt the right amount of height and curl.

My date was kind of a tool, though (cute, but a few sandwiches short of a picnic if ya know what I mean) — I bought the tickets to the dance (theme? I think it was Don’t You Forget About Me), paid for dinner AND the limo.

I had more fun with my backup singers girlfriends that night.

Bonus points for the matching background!

My explanation for this is that it was 1987.

The truth? I probably just had some shitty fashion sense.

This post was brought to you by Mary Anne at The Stilletto Mom and Jen at Blissfully Caffeinated. They thought it would be totally fun to get your prom on today. Check out their sites for more, like, totally rad prom fashion.

Yeah, that’s a pretty cynical statement, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s true.

I don’t know if I’m more aware of it or if I’ve just had enough of of people’s behavior, but I’ve conducted an informal social experiment and have determined that sometimes people just suck.

Take this morning for instance. I was walking into Starbucks (as I usually do on my way to work) and as I opened the door I noticed out of the corner of my eye a woman approaching The ‘Buck, too. I started to walk in, but I held it open behind me so she could come in—she was just far enough away that I didn’t want to stand there and hold it open but I didn’t want to slam the door on her either.

Suddenly, the woman sped up and ran past me, pushing me aside and tried to jump around me in line. Now, at this point, I’m already approaching the counter, and the employees know me and my drink so they’re already ringing me up. She starts to move in front of me while I’m paying and demands to be waited on. The girl behind the counter (bless her heart) tells her she’ll be waited on when it’s her turn.

Order placed, money paid, I walk to the bar to wait for my drink. I’m chatting with the Barista, and she hands my drink to me—to my outstretched hand—and the woman who pushed me, swooped in and grabbed my drink out of the Barista’s hand and started to walk out.

Dude, I was PISSED. I grabbed her arm, told her it was my drink and demanded she put it down. She insisted it was hers. “Really?” I asked. “Your name is Maureen and you ordered a Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte?” She stared blankly. “Sweetie, I heard you order a small frappuccino, which is a SMALL COLD drink. This is NOT yours.”

She slammed my drink on the counter, sloshing it everywhere, and leaned over the bar and asked the Barista where HER drink was. The Barista told her she’d start it AFTER she re-made my drink (have I told you how much I LOVE my Starbucks?). The woman starts freaking out about her drink, badgering the Barista, telling her to hurry up, she’s gotta go.

Of course, I can’t resist. “If you stop harassing the girl, she can focus and get us both out of here.” (Translation: Shut your fucking pie hole.) The woman just stared at me like I’m the biggest piece of shit she’s ever laid eyes on.

My drink comes up and the Barista puts it directly in my hand so no one can grab it.

As I’m walking out the door, the woman rushes up behind me, drink in hand, and tries to push around me. I swung around and hold her to back the fuck off. I walked out the door and slammed it shut (like I should have done to begin with).

What the fuck is that?

Yeah, I got pulled down to her level, and I’m not exactly proud of it, but I’m not all that upset about it either. Sometimes you need to treat people the way they treat you. It’s not my style to be a bitch for no reason (Shut up! It’s not!), but if you push me, I will definitely push back.

But I don’t get it. Why do people have to be like that? I know it sounds like a naive question, but I want to know. Are they really that clueless about themselves and their behavior? Do they just drift through life without any thought to anyone other than themselves, or do they just feel like being mean because they can?

The sad thing is, it makes me less likely to do something nice for someone again.