P.S. ...

By Mahlia Lindquist

Readers who have been following the Rocky Mountain Miamian (RMM) from the beginning, this post is for you -- a quick  postscript to some of the 2014 RMM stories. 

The RMM blog started as a creative exercise to get my creative juices flowing for a simmering book idea (see Hardness, Testosterone and Bookcovers,) and my first post was  I’m Not Unemployed, I’m a Writer. Unfortunately, I have so much fun writing for the RMM blog that it has been more of a distraction than inspiration for the book.  Consequently, six months later all I can say is "I'm not unemployed, I'm a blogger, which doesn't have the same ring to it as "I'm a writer."  

With regard to the Pleasure and Perils of a Pink Pet,  Zoe decided that if a pink Willow was a good idea, a red, white and blue one with with a mohawk would be even better. Willow was not amused. 

The real pity was that between the freakish hairdo and Willow's now sullen demeanor, pedestrians no longer stopped to chat and admire him on our walks.  Our family new year's resolution is to resist any impulses to decorate our dog. He is adorable all on his own.

This is a photograph of me with a quasi-celebrity. It was published in Ocean Drive magazine and taken during the 100k charity ride, for which I was training when I wrote about Biking In Miami. The photo suggests I am happy, healthy, and perhaps even socialize with the rich and famous.

Nope. The photo actually demonstrates that the adage of a picture being worth 1000 words is complete hogwash.

At the moment of the photo, I was hating life and praying for the ride to end which, for me, it did in short order. Moments later I crashed and broke my collar bone in a spectacularly painful and humiliating fashion.

As for the quasi-celebrity, I am certain he would be unable to pick me out of a line up if asked to identify the person who almost died shortly after being photographed with him.

By the looks of news that came out after my Open Letter to A-Rod, he has not changed his ways, nor has he made amends to my niece. The A-Rod letter is by far the most read of all of my posts, which I initially attributed the celebrity name in the title. So, to attract more readers, I put Oprah's name in the title of a later post. However, it was not nearly as popular as the A-Rod letter. It seems that most  people prefer to read about a rich baseball player who one commentator said has "been shamed into silence, relegated to cowering behind lawyers and liars"  over a rich superhero of a woman committed to making the planet a better place.

The creator of the famous Hot Crazy Matrix A Man's Guide to Women wrote to say that he is glad I enjoyed his YouTube presentation. He did not mention my describing him as a troll who has to pay for sex, so I assume there were no hard feelings and he appreciated my Hot and Crazy, It's in Our DNA essay. At least, I hope so.

The My Backpack is Butch post is officially obsolete. Zoe has deigned to use the Patagonia backpack for school, so I guess it's no longer butch. Or maybe the backpack is butch, and butch is cool. Or, maybe she's using it because her old one is ripped and I refuse to buy another one. Or, maybe she is exercising the prerogative of all 17 year olds to be utterly irrational.

I would like to acknowledge Zoe for being an awesome sport.  She previews my posts that poke fun at her and has given each one the okay. She even posed for this photo with the now acceptable backpack.  Her sense of humor and self-deprecating nature are two of the zillions of qualities that make her an exceptional person.

Exhibit A

In response to Miami, My Crazy B*tch, a few Boulder friends were skeptical that some women actually want bigger butts. Accordingly, I offer  Exhibit "A," a "butt plumping system," for sale in Miami retail establishments.  I really don't make this stuff up.





This blog has had the unfortunate effect of highlighting that I don’t have an actual job. Two of my more practical and highest earning friends asked what, if I make no money from blogging, is the point? To that, I say, in the 6 months since I started the RMM blog, it has had a total of around 5000 page views.  It takes 100,000 views per day to earn $100,000 per year blogging. I've had 26 so far today, so with just 99, 974 more views, I will be in the money.

Thank-you to everyone who has provided positive comments, “likes,” and shares for my 2014 Rocky Mountain Miamian (RMM) efforts. With your continuing support I will reach the goal of 100,000 views before my 80th birthday, which would be a great way to say  Happy Birthday To Me.

A super special thanks to readers who haven't had anything nice to say but heeded their mother's advice and chose not to say anything at all. 

Miami, My Crazy B*tch

By Mahlia Lindquist

Carlos, a trainer at the gym, recently remarked that living in Miami is hell. His fantasy is to live in Colorado and he asked why on earth I moved from Boulder back to Hades. I get that question a lot. Boulder friends who have never been to Miami are mildly curious, while most Miamians are, like Carlos, incredulous. 

“Are you crazy” they ask? I didn’t think so, but then I have never been able to explain my attraction to Miami. As it turns out, I am a bit crazy, which I discovered while researching for my post on the Hot/Crazy Matrix. The epiphany that I am actually crazy helped me to understand why, for me, Miami is like the Hotel California -- I can check out but I can never leave.

It’s like this…

If Boulder was a woman, it would be beautiful, wholesome, reliable, cheerful, organized, great with kids and a gourmet cook. The sort of city you feel proud to take home to mom.

As a woman, Miami would be an ignorant slut who leaves people wondering, “are those real?” Miami has a nasty temper and won’t think twice about taking a key to your car. If Miami had kids, they would be in foster care. If your son came home with Miami, you would change the locks and disinherit him. If Miami was a woman, my ex-husband would move her in and later have to obtain a restraining order and hire a mover to get her out.  

In terms of the hot/crazy matrix, Boulder is a unicorn or maybe even a transexual while Miami is a 10 crazy. While I love and respect Boulder, I spend an inordinate amount of time hating on Miami. That I left Boulder for Miami can mean only one thing: When it comes to cities, I am irresistibly drawn to crazy bitches. 

Admittedly, whether we are talking people or cities, having an affinity for crazy bitches is messed up. Yet, I can’t deny that when it comes to places I am drawn to the off-kilter. It would take too many years of therapy to get to the root of why I get the chills at the thought of suburbia. Or why I have chosen to reside in the Twilight Zone that is Miami. 

Instead of overanalyzing, I have simply accepted that I live in a city that exists in an alternate dimension and that, inexplicably, I like in a sordid, sick sort of way. 

Take butts for example. The female buttocks situation in Miami is different than anywhere else. In the rest of the US, big asses are generally considered to be inferior to ones that are more compact, the famous song “Baby Got Back”  and J.Lo notwithstanding.  This is why over my lifetime, in order to keep the size of my rear end in check, I have tortured myself with thousands of squats and lunges. 

In Miami, bigger is better when it comes to cars, houses, jewelry, hair, boobs and now butts. Boob jobs are a Miami staple, and even post-menopausal women proudly display theirs in outfits that would make a Victoria Secret model blush. However, surgically enhanced breasts are passé compared to Brazilian Butt Lifts. 

The lift procedure rounds and enlarges the butt, so that it juts out like a window ledge. I learned about the Brazilian Butt Lift recently while viewing the local wildlife at the Fontainebleau pool on Miami Beach. I commented to my friend Jackie that a lot of the women around the pool looked like the Jessica Rabbit character in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. She explained that’s what happens with the boob/butt plastic surgery combo. 

I was simultaneously shocked, horrified and fascinated. Just to make sure I fully understood, I clarified, “do you mean they made their butts like that on purpose?” Jackie assured me that, yes, women actually pay a doctor to enlarge and enhance their butts, which is accomplished by liposuctioning unwanted fat from one body part and injecting it into the rear end.

I reflected on what getting a butt lift means. It means going to a doctor and actually asking for a bigger butt. It means researching the best butt doctors, making an appointment, driving there, getting naked in front of someone who injects fat into asses for a living, measurements, perusing before and after photos of other butts and then finally deciding, “That one. That’s the rear end I want.” 

Weird. 

The other bizarre part is men who choose to be with butt enhanced women. They seem proud. I saw a guy at the Fontainebleau encouraging his girl to pose for photos. She struck various poses in and out of the pool, all of them akin to cheesecake shots that grace the pages of men's magazines. After they finished taking photos, the couple spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool sucking face and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. 

I saw the same scene play out at a bar last week. A woman in a tight red dress, tits and ass protruding, lifted her butt up off the barstool and looked back over her shoulder demurely as her boyfriend took photos of her ass from various angles. They cozied up to review the results afterward, perhaps debating which ones to put on Instagram and which ones to use for their Christmas cards. 

Neither of the couples were self conscious. Dozens of people milled around the pool and in the bar, and the couples posed just as casually as sneaker clad tourists in front of the Eiffel Tower.  While I was agog, no one else seemed to even notice. 

So, what do brazilian butt lifts have to do with an irrational attraction to Miami?

The ass-enhanced women at the Fontainebleau and bar are nothing like me. 

The same goes for the cross dresser who loiters on “crack corner” near my house. Nor do I have much in common with the WASPy members of the nearby yacht club where my friend Mary occasionally invites me to lunch. Ditto for the many latino parents at Zoe’s school who speak broken English, and whose teenaged children drive Mercedes and wear Tiffany jewelry. 

They are all foreign to me. I can’t fathom what they talk about, or what type of movies and books they might enjoy. We are unlikely to ever be close friends, but for some reason I like that they are part of my community.

I also like to complain about them (and the withering humidity, mind-numbing traffic, homicidal mosquitos, lack of recycling, lack of civility, and political corruption.) Every day, to whomever will listen. 

I have never seen anyone like the women with the surgically enhanced butts in Boulder. Nor have I seen anyone like the cross dresser, prim yacht club WASPS or conspicuously rich latinos. I have a good idea what the people in Boulder are reading, watching, and doing for fun. And I like that too.

Even though I also complained in Boulder (about the homogenous population, political correctness, tameness, brittle weather and restaurants that close at 9.) Every day, to whomever would listen. 

I get a lot of satisfaction from being outraged, scandalized and amazed, and Miami provides that in spades.  Only one thing compares to the pleasure of living in a bizarre alternate universe. That’s living among healthy, happy people with shared values in a beautiful place.

After spending a month in Boulder this summer after a year in Miami, I felt the remorse of a guy who has gone on an extended midlife manic bender, and discovers that he has abandoned his wife and kids for Jessica Rabbit. 

Fortunately, unlike a wronged wife, Boulder will take me back when I'm ready. And, if worse comes to worse and I can't stay away from my crazy bitch, when it comes to cities, polygamy is perfectly legal.