Saturday, November 29, 2008

The Bigger - Albeit Uncomprehensible - Picture

I have a thing for history, and if you want to know the truth - I think maybe I, and people like me, may just have a closer connection with past lives. In this regard, I think this is the main point in which my Catholic upbringing is in direct contradiction to what I actually believe. How can souls not be recycled when space is definitive? Heaven being, in reality, climbing a latter in subsequent lives, and hell being forced to endure the same trials again, or trials even worse than before. And besides the fact that certain traits I know I possess must've come from somewhere other than genetics, I choose to consider my past lives in a simplistic, but romantic way. After all - if I am Christian at all, and I think I am, I must acknowledge free will. I know that I fought for the rights of women, and in fact, that I always have been a woman - and in that -I consider I have not been so bad in one life, as to be forced into anything less.

By the way - I am watching Pride & Prejudice for at least the umpteenth time while I write this. I love Jane Austen, though I refuse to read the "Jane Austen Book Club", and I doubt that Kira Knightly is part of a past life - though it would explain her lack of breasts - she is nonetheless younger than me. She would've stolen part of my soul - and so would not be able to act so well as Elizabeth Bennett. I still get lost in the rhetoric, mannerisms, and ribbons. I still wonder why society "et al" does not appreciate the rituals that once governed all interactions of substance.

There are certain time periods that draw me more than others, and I know there is some correlation between those, and who I am now. Or maybe - who I should be. I have always felt I was confused about things I couldn't explain. Flailing around in today's world with traits that don't fit - don't make me old fashioned, don't make me modern. Whatever the case, I don't always feel at home in the world in which I live.

I am an utter romantic.

But I don't believe love exists in it's purest form anymore.

I believe in propriety.

But I don't believe sin has anything to do with how people should interact (except that they should not kill one another).

I believe in looking at the past errors of humans to know what should be done today.

But I don't believe you can be dogmatic in anything. Our financial crisis of today may not end the way it did with the Great Depression, though I hope we have an equally fit leader, and no World War.

Maybe there are no answers in the past, and all I long for when reading old books, or watching The History Channel, or day dreaming of pinafores and butter churns - are honest and simple ways to cope. Back when people were more in tune with nature - at it's mercy even. The eloquence of the written word moved people to change. The harangue of a crowd, who could not read, told leaders of unjustness that required attention. The respect people had for things they could not be sure of. Ghosts. Saints. Love.

I think - as I sit here typing away on a laptop - conveniently expressing myself to anyone who cares to listen with the click of a button - I know we have lost much more than we've gained.

And if not - at least we'd do well to recognize where we are.

Some tiny dot in a larger matrix.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Can't Write On Fridays

I’ve come to the conclusion recently that I have the strangest, most perverted friends on the planet.

Birds of a feather, I know.

Anyway, I was looking for a certain reference, whilst blowing off large amounts of extremely dull work-related stuff, and went searching through my emails, texts and chats. I came to the above conclusion after noticing certain trends in communications with all of them, except the few who know so little about electronic devices that the most they manage is forwarding crap that’s been forwarded 10,000 times in the last minute.

In order to illustrate why I love the pool of genuinely amusing people I consort with (and also to continue blowing off work) I have compiled my favorite one-liners, or snippets for your reading pleasure. This isn’t exactly my idea, as a friend of mine used to do this on his MySapce profile, and they can be extremely hilarious when taken out of context.

I swear to you – I will correct no spelling.

“He said he broke his penis BTW. You might want to make note of that.”

“I read typoese quite fluently.”

Line 1: “my stil wrist hurts.”
Line 2: “proof that you haven’t been doing the hand technique correctly :P”

Line 1: “am i interrupting?”
Line 2: “interrupting me trying to cajole you into chatting?”

“its really a shame were not lesbians”

Line 2: "you have a third nipple?"

"asshats dont deserve my brainpower."

"there are worse men. hes not in prison after all".

"the click was NOT in my head."

"I am SO not going to muff dive for him."

"that would be impossible. but it would still be anal."

Line 1: okay...I PROMISE we'll talk at least briefly
Line 2: i hope that's a tightey-whitey reference ;)

"I kille brain cells by drowning them in Coors light."

Line 1: i know youre probably busy, and im bout to go to bed anyway, i just wanted to tell you i love you :)
Line 2: Awwww.... are yous drunk?

"good. now tell me why your avatar here looks like a diaphragm"

" wait - facebook? why? Are you going back to high school?"

"youre just thinking about my keychain, arent you?"

Line1: which end?
Line 2: the big pokey end

Line 1: i have nothing against strippers
Line 2: me neither, unless they have no ass

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Things That Go BUMP in the Night

I think my original decision to have a family bed may have been selfish, and now I can fully understand why pediatricians urge parents to tuck their little angels into their very own comfy little cement-truck-princess-plum-fairy adorned beds.

Sanity, and children who are not afraid to be alone. In the dark. At night.

Two nights ago I babysat for one of the doctors I work for, who has a 12-year old stepson, 3-year old daughter, 2-year old son, and 8-month old foster son. Oh, and one slightly crazy wife, who I “get” completely. My own toddler came with me, as she is extremely impressed with 3YO’s collection of princess-wear, mini kitchen appliances, books, and the full-sized bounce house in the basement – and because no one else will watch her while I babysit. The three youngest of their kids basically went to bed an hour apart, starting with the little one at 6:15, and they each went into their own rooms, and their own respective beds. (The 12YO basically put himself to bed, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t need me to check his pull-up). There was only a slight glitch in this, as my daughter and the 3YO, when left to their own devices in a small section of the house, cordoned off my multiple baby-gate barricades while I put 2YO down at 7:15 – decided to make a beach/castle out of all the bedding from the parents room, along with a couple sections of the newspaper for blankets, and Mom’s 10 pound hand weights for beverages. (I later tried to convince them their sippy cups would work too and that 10 pound tropical umbrella-ed drinks may hurt when dropped. I listened from 2YO’s room as they screamed and giggled with delight, obviously buzzing from the weights, and oblivious to the fact that sleeping was going on elsewhere in the house.

Not the point. I get home from an evening meeting last night, grab some dinner, slump my exhausted self onto the couch and immediately begin the Shower-war with my 11 –year old son, who for whatever reason, thinks being dirty and stinky constitutes some new “grunge” look. He balks, and starts looking for clothes in the downstairs bathroom, thinking again he’d wear whatever he took off this morning and left crumpled on the floor.

“Those clothes are in the washing machine A, go upstairs get some from your room.”

He walks out of the bathroom, and turns as if he’s going to the laundry room.

“No A, go upstairs! There’s nothing clean down here”, I said, a little more firmly this time.

“I don’t need to. I have some clothes down here”, he says, going to retrieve the backpack he brought to sleep over at his cousins over the weekend. He sees the bag has been emptied, and comes back to the living room.

“A, just GO get some clothes and get your BUTT in the SHOWER.”

“Mommy, can you just go get me some underwear.”

“No. YOU go get you some underwear. And get moving because if I have to tell you again, you will NOT go to practice tomorrow.” There was a small gasp as he processed this threat, aware that I am 75% likely to follow through, even with that most heinous of punishments. But he is obviously more nervous about going into the dark abyss of the 2nd storey than he is about not starting a game because he missed a practice.

He turns to his 2YO sister, who sits in her recently dumped toy bin watching Dora. “C, will you go get Bubba some underwear?”

“Okay, Bubba”. And she climbs out of the bucket, and heads upstairs.

“A, GO WITH HER! She can’t even turn the lights on by herself!”

He takes her hand and heads up the stairs with her. To get his underwear.

I called after him, “What in the world kind of boogeymen is SHE going to protect you from?”

He yells back, “She’s not, but if they eat her first, maybe they’ll be too full for me!”

Friday, November 14, 2008

Pinata of Nada

I’m sitting here. Just waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Break the monotony of the day, brighten my outlook, maybe even make me laugh. It’s been hectic at work lately, and the halls and faces and emails whiz by in a hurry for diagnosis and completed follow ups. I can safely say, I’ve done much, and absorbed very little of it. Some days just go unnoticed.

I wish I were on a plane. A plane to anywhere or nowhere at all – just loving the anticipation of the destination. There’s something intrinsically exciting about travelling. The hubbub of the airport, the beer before boarding, the detailed checklist of what to bring. Do I bring my hair dryer – or hope that the hotel has an ionizing (or whatever the hell it is) one like mine? Do I attempt to smuggle in my toothpaste, or just bring a lot of Trident? Do I smoke 6 cigs before going into the airport in hopes that I can make it through the connection without walking 10 miles to the nearest designated smoking area?

It’s been a boring day in reality. Reality being where I live begrudgingly. Luckily I can drag my camping-tent sized umbrella outside every now and then to chat and puff - not in that order. Today at least I had a couple amusing stories come across my path to keep me from puking up tedium.

They’re not my stories, but I’ll share them anyway.

A doctor, who is insanely good at his job and does it with a passion, has no time for the small details of his life, and can be called ditzy at times. He’s good natured, so he doesn’t mind that we call him that. He flies home to see his parent’s last weekend, and accidentily leaves his keys there. It’s not the first time he’s done this, so he has an extra set. He calls his dad when he gets home and requests he overnight the keys. His father runs to the post office and sends them Express Priority. The package is delivered into the large metal box that houses the mail for all of his posh neighborhood’s residents. The doctor realizes then, standing in front of the large, fortified receptacle that the only key he never made a copy of was the one he needed to access his mail. No key. No package. No clue.

A coworker talks about the Paula Abdul workout video she found, and is very into. It has dance moves that make it much more engaging than plain old aerobics or tai-bo, and she swears she’s firming the gut, toning the butt and losing a couple pounds. She loves this video so much, she convinces her fiancĂ© to do it with her. Because their living room is so small, she stands in front of him, and a little to the left, so he can still see the TV, but they won’t collide while sweating to Straight Up. She’s into the movements when his shirt flies by, landing in front of the TV. No big deal, he’s getting hot. A few minutes later, his athletic break-away pants drop onto the pile that is his shirt. Okay, this really IS good exercise. But when his boxes join the heap of clothes, she finally turns to find him still moving in unison with the figure on the screen. Butt. Ass. Naked. I told her I understood completely why she was marrying him, and that if she took his lead, they really wouldn’t need to watch the video at all.

Moral of the stories? You can fly to California and back for a butt-naked man in your living room but you’d better have a key to get to his package.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Top Floor Please: Revisiting SBT

I was nervous, or excited, almost impossible to tell which now. Maybe a little of both. So I crossed and re-crossed my legs a dozen times, the sweat from my half-full glass of beer raining tiny droplets onto my bare legs that stretched out from beneath the thick wool of my coat. It was crazy to wear a dress in the throes of winter, but the bar was warm with the body heat of out-of-towners who filled the room with clamor of holiday shopping, tonight's football favorites and diminishing gas prices. The waiting was almost too much, and made it almost impossible to sit, still and serene, leaning with one elbow on the sleek wood of the bar, as if it would keep me in my skin.

Sitting with a head-dotted view of the door, I saw the moment he came in. My belly stirred, but I didn’t get up. Watching as he walked, his eyes smiling, looking for me among the faces, I held my breath when he finally met my gaze. Anyone watching would’ve blushed, not at the expression, but because the room became noticeably warmer. Like someone had finally got the fireplace lit, after dumping in wadded newspaper page after page. Maybe it was just me.

I continued where I was, unmoving, like an Italian marble statue in a museum, afraid of what I’d betray if I rose to meet him. Or that my knees would buckle.

He didn’t speak, only reaching me and taking my hand in his, motioning to the bartender, a cute girl with a blonde ponytail, for one of the same. He winked at me, not missing that I’d ordered his favorite. And then he pressed into me, wrapping his arms around me, brushing his lips against my neck. He obliterated everyone in the room, and I pulled him closer, spreading my knees just enough to accept one of his legs, bringing his body to me, cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt, arms under his cost, around his waist. His leg, my leg, his leg, mine.

No one saw, or even attempted to see what his hands did. No one even turned as we continued the embrace just a little too long. The trembling of my bottom lip as his hand moved swiftly from just above my knee to just between my thighs, the cold from outdoors still on his fingertips. I could feel the pounding in his chest, and his face showed nothing but happiness to see me.

He turned suddenly. Flipping a bill on the counter, we left the glasses as they were to make rings on the surface for the girl to wipe up after we’d gone, the only sign we’d even been there. His hand in mine, we made our way through the quiet of the nighttime lobby to the elevator, and gave the impression of complete calm as we watched the numbers light one by one.



As the doors slid closed, what seemed an eternity, I listened as the regifting-quarterback-3-dollar-a-gallon chatter became a whisper and then nothing. And when his hands slid firmly around my waist, I was glad for once to be going to the top floor.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Keep Your Ass Next Door

I’ve written before about my religious beliefs, briefly, and that if anything – while I believe in God, I can be considered more an agnostic, or existentialist than anything. I am jaded on the subject of organized religion, and sadly disappointed in the Catholic Church in which I was raised, possibly because I am offended that priests don’t like girls – and they always seemed to stick us with the Nuns, who had no urge to touch unless using a large paddle.

Yes, I was a Catholic school girl at one point. Go figure.

Anyway – for those who will choose to be offended by the sacrilege I am about to spew forth, go quietly, or rant – whichever you choose. Either way – I am going to thoroughly discuss the last, and my favorite, of the ten commandments.

10. You shall not covet your neighbour’s house; you shall not covet your neighbour’s wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbour.

Let’s start with thy neighbor’s house, shall we? Let me see – if we want to get into that, we’d have to thoroughly pick apart property values, quality of lawn care, and age of the roof of the house next door. And since I know little about value, and cant see mine neighbors lawn or roof, what with all the crap they sell at continuous weekend tag sales piled everywhere, let’s just say this is not a problem for me personally. I’m not even sure why you would want to own your neighbor’s house unless they have a really big yard and an equally hot lawn boy.

I’m thinking this applied more back when homes were made of mud and thatch and the guy next door had better mud. Or a good wheel barrow with which to haul it.

The next part is important.

If you’d seen my neighbor's wife, who is a slovenly, ill-educated young woman that seems to own an endless number of sweat pants, you’d realize why I cannot force myself to covet her. Standing outside smoking one day, I heard her, from across both yards, hock a loogie and spit it into the street with an audible “splat”. Besides, since her name is apparently “You Stupid Bitch”, I have to assume even her husband doesn’t covet her all that much.

My neighbor’s male calls his wife “Stupid Bitch”. Need I say more?

As for my neighbor’s female slave, I believe he calls her “Mom”, and likes her more than Stupid Bitch. I don’t envy her, and certainly don’t want her for my own. She walks past a couple times a day, apparently in a mad dash for her understandable smoke fix, and I wonder at the fact that her family drives up and down the street like Earnhardt at Talladega and no one can give her a ride. She's very scrawny, and I wonder sometimes if they even let her eat.

So far, I think I am less of a sinner.

As for the ox and the ass, well – let’s just say that seems to be redundant - as mentioned under "wife" and "male". Even if they really had these beasts of burden, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least given the full set of living room furniture in their driveway – I am almost certain I would want them more than anything else my neighbor has to offer. I wonder sometimes, if they did have an ass, if I could obtain it fair and square for a case of Bud and carton of Lucky Strikes.
When it comes right down to it - if I did want anything that rightly belongs to my neighbor, I'm quite sure I could buy it for $1.50 this Saturday.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Chitlins and Caviar

I grew up in middle-class suburbia, the child of working-class parents who did well enough, and not more. I had everything I needed, and have very fond childhood memories, replete with bikes, a boom box, and the essential collection of Garbage Pail Kids. I have not improved my lot any, but do not regret the lack of rise to a more enviable social status. Needless to say, the black tie events were nil, and I needed less grace and etiquette than energy, and good old American know-how. However, I pride myself in being decently able to carry off a semi-classy moment when I need to.

So, now that I’m working for a group of people, that especially for this area, make more money than the President, I come across times here and there where I am not exactly in my element. For instance, every month we have an evening meeting that ends with a dinner at some posh-ish restaurant or another, where I watch in amazement as they order a couple $200 bottles of wine, just to make sure everyone knows they can. And while deep down this squandering of money for show hurts my sense of altruistic social responsibility, I ride their coat tails to a good buzz, and enjoy the extreme superiority of the flavor. I'm like their little charity case. Poor Jessica, can't even afford something better than Kendall Jackson. Poor thing.

Because of this, I am now in the midst of planning the group’s private holiday dinner, which is to be held at one of the loveliest, fanciest “mini-mansion turned hotel/restaurants” in the area. You see, back in the late 19th century, this area was popular with jet set (like the Rockefeller family), who built splendid “cottages” to rival the greatest homes in America. We still cater to a large NYC second home-owner population, and if you can ignore the overwhelmingly large number of poor people and drug dealers, give plenty of basking in culture opportunities in the summer. Anyway – so I’m talking to the catering manager for this hotel, and she instructs me to choose the allocated number of selections for each course, or to give her specific instructions for the chef and sommelier.

“You’ll need to choose several canapĂ©’s, and alert me to any vegetarians, or other dietary constraints”, she says, moving on to the entrees, which are apparently prix fixe – which I assume means they are endorsed by NASCAR.

I want to say, “Lady, it’s going to be the middle of December in New England, I don’t think we’ll be outside under a canopy, no matter what it looks like.” But, assuming by context she meant something more like appetizers, I just make note that chips and salsa are not an option. Then I google it. Why the hell isn’t horsdourves good enough? Its hard enough to spell to make it sound all special and stuff. No matter, I just murmured my assent, and assured her I’d have our selections to her well in advance, and that I was sure we’d want plenty of goat cheese and whatnot.

It’s possible that this planning will be good for me. Even with the plethora of events I’ve planned in the past, including various company Christmas Parties, cookouts and team building days –this will be by far the most elegant event. But given my knowledge consists more of barbeque's, clam bakes, and tailgating - I'm not sure I'm prepared to face this challenge without severe Internet usage, and over-googling. I feel obligated to take out a small loan to get a mani-pedi and a sleek new hair-do. I may even need to accessorize just to avoid looking like Elli May Clampet in a Beverly Hills Boutique.

In fact, I am considering skipping TJ Maxx and getting my dress from JC Penny.

Now that’s class.

Friday, November 7, 2008

Lamentations of Boredom

I love the big city.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in the bustling outskirts of Atlanta, and being the largest growing city in the US during the 80’s, there was no end to the vastness of the place and the beauty of the rising skyline.

And I miss the city. I long for the height and breadth of it. The flowing of people on the sidewalks like the quickening of a pulse….hot blood in your veins. Feeling alive.

So I am planning to go to the only place one can go to quench a thirst like this.

The Big Apple.

I don’t know how exactly I’ll make it happen, but in my mind – I am already there. My desire to be there swirls around in my head, making me giddy, depriving me of oxygen, and I want to stand on Broadway, peel off my clothes and feel the movement of the city against my skin. Melt into it.

And if I don’t get arrested for that – I’ll dance down through Central Park, oblivious to the danger, rebelling against constraints, and find a place on the grass to lay, looking up at the stars, drunk with the freedom that is the night sky, walled in by the steel and glass and noise. I want to wake wrapped solely in the ribbons of exhaust, energy and the sweat of the place. Watch the sunrise over Manhattan, and pause again to breathe in the vivacity of the city that never sleeps.

I don’t think I should even need to stop at one of the many exotic little restaurants, gorging myself with the fare of other cultures, or sipping the deep red wine I love. I want intoxication from the place itself. Pure, unadulterated life. I don’t want to shop, or waste a quarter in the viewing machines atop the Empire State Building. I want to take it in whole, instead of bit by bit.

If you’ve never been there – the place is like Gulliver in Lilliput – a body of living, breathing flesh laying itself in the harbor, cells darting from here to there to work or play or paint the world with graffiti. It is personified, and doesn’t hold itself to the rules of inanimateness – but flaunts itself in its virility. It makes me want to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

If I can’t get there soon, I think I should die of craving for its splendor.

Anyone want a postcard?

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

One Way Streets

I think I’ll write a book.

101 Mistakes People Make in Marriage

It sounds kind of silly coming from someone who thinks so little of the whole institution - and has never even tried it, but hear me out. I ask questions, I take notes. I delve into the married lives of my friends, family and strangers who find it irresistible to tell me everything about their private lives over a glass of wine.

It happens.

I think about this topic often, and mull it over like some cow’s cud of a subject - swallow it, regurgitate it, and consider it again. But for blog’s sake – I’ll just summarize one of the scenarios some couples use as a reason to take the plunge..........

Society’s Norms
Let’s say relationships are a road – a journey of some sorts. You begin the way you should, with dinner and movies and a cute little peck on the cheek in your doorway. Things are new and fresh, and get to know each others’ friends and relatives. Time passes; you move in together, you get a dog. And one day you look up and realize this road is a dead-end alley with only one option ahead. Marriage. Since you also picked up a house and a set of matching snowmobiles, and the journey has been a long one, you take the plunge – because it’s what everyone else does. It’s what your parents did. It’s what the Cleavers did. You have kids, refinance the house so you can buy a big-screen plasma, and you become each others’ beneficiaries for your 401ks. Turning back and starting the journey over isn’t an option because it’s impossible to break up a good pair of snowmobiles.

So even though you were happy when you turned the corner and started down the road, you can’t really remember what that feels like because your adjustable mortgage rate just went up and the pinch has made you a bit forgetful. You’re not even sure you know as much about this person anymore, because they’ve changed. They become domesticated, and can’t seem to laugh like they used to. But heck, you’ve got kids with braces.

You did everything you were supposed to do. Everything everyone else on the block did, only half of those people have filed for divorce. You jumped off a bridge because Dad did, and Billy did, and so did Pete.

What’s worse is that you were probably young when you got married. She was hot and energetic, and he was full of optimism and had great abs. 10 years pass, and you can still see why you did this. It hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten what you wanted back then, but his naked ninja trick isn’t quite so funny, and her self-consciousness is at an all-time high since she noticed a gray hair growing from her areola. The most you can hope for is that the kids are in bed early so you can watch the game uninterrupted while she reads the latest Oprah’s book club novel in bed, rubbing Oil of Olay on her breasts.

Another 5 years, and the house is almost paid off. The kids are heading for college, and the dog is buried in the back yard with a cross made of ceiling trim, “Buddy” written in large letters with a Sharpie. She spends most of her time with her book club, and he works late with the excuse that he needs to put a little more into the 401k to make up what he lost. You remember each other’s names, but the rest is all routine. Like some mechanical iRobot man and wife, less the extra chick in black leather cat suit or Will Smith’s sense of humor. It’s bland, but you can’t complain. You never argue and your old neighbor Billy’s wife took half his paycheck when she left.

And above all – you’ve got his and her helmets for the snowmobiles.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

A Little Like Leap Year - For Dating

It’s not a secret around here that it’s a terrible place for young (and youngish) single people. It’s almost impossible to meet someone, especially someone with any sense, and there’s no where to go to try. Coming from a big city like Atlanta, it can be very discouraging, and the deadness of the social scene is downright depressing. For the past couple years, I’ve been sitting patiently, avoiding dating anyway - so what of it.

But this morning, much to my surprise (thank God I wore my cute pants) – I found out where all the smart, good looking guys hang out.

Apparently, every four years they all come together in some ceremonial rite, passed down from generation to generation – bright eyed, and glowing in their sense of togetherness. They trail in and out of their gathering place like its some highly-clothed male revue stage, and nod politely to each other, avoiding any sobering discussion, happy to be where they are. It’s mid blowing how appealing this is for a girl like me. Someone who didn’t realize the social importance of this day. Someone who was anxious for it without even knowing it could mean meeting the man of her dreams.

So, I saunter proudly up to the crowd – blushing in my womanly pride, and begin my very best mating rituals. Leaning up against the large window frame, crossing my ankles below, I set my eyes on a particularly juicy one, and give him that “come hither, you hottie” look.

“Well hello there handsome, I’m a Libra, and a liberal. Are you ready for change?” He looks away and, obviously rushed for time, proceeds to talk about dogs with the guy next to him.

Fine. He must own guns or something.

Spotting another even better candidate, I make my move. He’s handing out some sort of propaganda, probably advocating something really sexy. I take the proffered pamphlet, and bat my eyelashes just a bit - so as not to be all, stupid-hooker like.

“So, you come here often? I’m voting “yes” on question 3. I love dogs…….”, giving him a little wink.

Unfortunately, he’s feverishly trying to share his wares with the people still spilling in through the double doors.

Okay. Not as easy as I thought.

I make my way slowly through the line, scanning the faces in front of me and behind me, sure that I’ll find some new love. Some well-informed guy that spends just enough time gleaning information from all the best sources, but not so much that he forgets to build muscle, and drink a beer or two.

Feeling a little discouraged, I do my duty, and start towards the door. There’s always next time after all.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn to find a tall man of good stature, the most beautiful puppy dogs eyes I’ve ever seen, and a neatly shaven swatch of hair on his chin that makes me wonder if it tickles when he kisses.

“Hello”, he says, “Your Woo-Hoo-Obama sticker seems to have fallen off. Here, let me put it back for you.”

I know at once he’s a closet Republican, but I say nothing, knowing damned well that sometimes opposites, and opposing parties, do attract.

ELECTION DAY! Don’t forget ladies – women and men have fought for our right to do it. (WOO-HOO!)

Monday, November 3, 2008


I have no idea how this happens so often, but once again – I am amazed at how school-yardish work can be. When you look carefully, or think about it even briefly, we don’t change much socially from pre-school into adulthood. And proof in point?


I remember as early as elementary school swapping chairs when no one was paying attention, because I preferred blue to orange, maybe one of the metal disc thingies on the feet were missing and it wobbled, or possibly a much more prestigious (and larger) 5th grader-chair had been secretly installed here to impart a manner of favoritism for one special, alert child – who would obviously take possession of the chair by knowing it was meant for him or her. Some chairs had initials, or bad words like “fart-face” or “dummy” carelessly carved into them, leaving little scrolls of barbed plastic that ripped the tender skin under your knees or caught your new fall tights and made them holey. And then of course – there was the chair that everyone avoided but Snot-faced Stevie – who was constantly picking boogers and then conveniently had to adjust his seat. There were chair arguments. Chair fights even. And no one looked forward to coming back from the holiday vacation to realize they’d all been rearranged.

It’s my stinkin chair Billy, now get your nasty scuzmitts off it before I show you how I get my saddle shoes so shiney.

So a few years ago, back in Atlanta – I walk out of my hole (office) into the large room of 100 or so cubicles on the collection floor – to find about half of the employees snarling at each other, while a dozen of the managers are pushing around black leather chairs in a procession to rival any reverent funeral. They were doing their best to ignore the raucous of the inferiors, and gathered the chairs in the conference room. The black chairs, with much higher backs, and comfier cushion, were originally meant for managers only, but through time had filtered into the room, being given to “favorites” of the managers, who would steal one here and there when someone else left. To make a long story short – the chair-fight had escalated to the point that the owners of the company deemed it necessary to remove them all, and have no one chair be better than another.

I laughed hysterically. One lady – I believe in her late 50’s - had even written her name in white out on the arm of her chair, and refused to go back to her desk until it was returned to her.

This morning, in a far different setting, the chair-fight was relived. The doctors I work for have gone through a myriad of chairs, trying to decide which model they would be willing to sit on to best perform their duties. The guy in charge of buying them has had loaners from various furniture stores for months now, and with no indication on which the doc’s feel most at home in. He has asked over and over, politely, and more urgently – with the sales people hounding him for the return of their chairs – or payment in any case. With a hint of defiance, he finally sent the group an email threatening to remove every chair, without so much as a milk crate in replacement, if they do not decide today.

Needless to say, the black leather one won again.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

Dust to Dust

I’ve mentioned my cycles before.

And as much as I’d love to discuss my claim to womanhood, I do not refer to that cycle – I mean the death of contentedness, and rebirth of folly. Over the length of perhaps a year, or less, I go from an antisocial, gloomy constant – who focuses on what she should do rather than what she wants to do – to a severely ADD fanatic who would chose controlled vice and inspired madness over the nunnery that is my reality. It’s not so bad that I become dangerous to myself, or my family, but it tugs at the deep-rooted Catholic guilt I so love to stroke like a long-haired cat, curled up on my breast as I try to sleep. Sometimes there is an overwhelming desire to analyze right and wrong, and others I simply want to wallow in wrong and hide behind my mask of comfortable servitude.

I am currently in the latter stages of distracted ill-humor, and though I wear my happy-mask well – I go from one task to another without really noticing a thing. I work, cook dinner, and wait for the time when the kids are in bed, or watching whatever has replaced MLB, and I slip into bed with my book and my bottle of wine, not knowing which I want to escape to more. (I’ve made that easier lately, on my British Monarch kick, which involves so much debauchery and vice – I feel like I have everything I need and more). I wander though the day, seeming cheerful and energetic to most, even sometimes fooling myself, and then I think of him, or notice where I am – and I run hiding into the closet inside my head.

My God. It’s not really as bad as it seems. I am convinced I can rationalize almost anything, and do so adequately enough that I really am NOT a bad person. And besides, while I love drinking, smoking and having sex – at least I confine myself to only smoking regularly, drinking in spurts, and sex in my head. The way I see it, I could easily be sainted for less in today’s world. I’m like one of Henry VIII’s wives – but without someone to pull my sweatpants on for me or fetch my horse from the stables.

If I don’t make any sense, excuse me please. I am on the third day of a weird high-alcohol, low-sustenance diet – and have found the most expensive bottle of cheap wine for my daily ration.
Maybe I should go to mass in the morning.