Red and Yellow, Black and White...

According to my employer, the EEOC recently decided their definitions for military status and ethnicity were insufficient, and all Equal Opportunity Employers (which I'm guessing is government-subsidised in some way, though I haven't done the research to find out) needed to re-register ("re-identify") their personnel according to the new definitions.

It would seem to me that the way to best manage not factoring race or ethnicity into the hiring/promotion/compensation equation would be to not address it whatsoever. Imagine my surprise, then, when I got an email from our Human Resources department this morning stating, "Our records show you have completed the military section of the self identification process but have not completed your ethnic designation. I've attached instructions for reference purposes." The instructions she referred to were a memo we all received in our Inbox two weeks ago stating the following:

-------------------------------------------------------------

Action Required

Reminder all associates are required to re-identify both ethnicity and military status during the period, August 1-24, 2007.

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Only problem with that, of course, is that there was no option in their drop-down list for, "I decline to answer this question because it's none of your freakin' business."

The email actually caused my breath to lodge in my throat. I read and re-read the corporate email, making sure I understood what I could potentially be getting myself into before I shot off at the mouth (or, in this instance, fingers), then ever-so-politely responded, "Stuff it." Okay, it was actually something more like, "Is this meaning to say that RBFC is requiring me to identify my ethnicity as a condition of my employement here?"

Moments later, my phone rang. I spent the following ten minutes listening to a corporate PR rep try to smooth my ruffled feathers. No, of course the information would never be used to determine eligibility for promotion or pay (all of these are, of course, merit-based). No, they didn't want to use the word, "require", and didn't I want to be a good little employee and just fill out the form? The HR person assured me the information would never be linked to my social security number, my employee ID number, my name, or any other identifying information.

Why, then, did I get an email, specifically addressed to me, informing me of what I had and had not registered for? If the registration isn't in any way linked to my employment information, how would they even know I hadn't registered my ethnicity? I call bull-shit.

The problem, of course, is that the deadline is tomorrow. There's no way I can even scratch the surface on the information I'd need to thumb through in order to clarify whether they can, in fact, enforce the policy that all employees must identify themselves by race.

I guess tomorrow I'll phone up the local EEOC branch and spin a couple questions past some unsuspecting office clerk. Poor thing.

Wish 'em luck, won't you? I'm going on the warpath...

Death and Taxes... and a 300-pound banana

"It's vulgar," says Lucy, an aging woman across the row from me on the KC Transit bus home. Her blue eyeliner was melting into the crows' feet that have been cut at the corners of her eyes by years of hard work and harder living. "I'm gonna write somebody about it. Don't know who, exactly, but somebody."

"It's art!" exclaims a man with silver at his temples in a business suit and an obnoxious tie that seems to perfectly compliment his obnoxious personality.

"Art my ass," retorts Lucy with a snort. "Art's supposed to be inspiring. All that's inspirin' me to do is blush. Ain't no sense in them makin us pay more taxes fer that sort'o mess."

"You don't find a fourteen-foot banana inspiring?" I ask, mirth playing at the corner of my mouth, which seems to be drawing itself into a lopsided smirk of its own accord.

Lucy smiles tenderly at me. I think she likes me, but it's hard to tell with that tough exterior of hers. "It oughta be taken down and burned, I say."

"Well, lucky for you, then - it's temporary. I think it's supposed to come down at the end of the summer."

"God works in mysterious ways," she trails off, turning to look out the window. Sometimes I wonder if Lucy is sane.

Half an hour goes by, and the men in starched white shirts behind us are still talking about the giant paper mache` banana protruding proudly from the side of The Folly Theatre. The piece is called, "Staying the Course" which you may recognize as the ultra-naive anthem sung by our current president and his cohorts. One of the men in white collars finds the name in the article he's been passing around, which brings about a whole new round of argument over the attributes and atrocities of the incognizant fruit.

"All this fuss over a banana," mutters Pea, shaking his head at the noise a few rows back.

"Yeah, but it's a really big banana!" I joke, elbowing him gently. Pea just rolls his eyes.

Like it or not, the banana's not going anywhere for awhile. May as well make the best of it - anybody up for fruit salad?

The New Colossus

"WASHINGTON, Aug. 9 — The Bush administration plans to announce numerous steps on Friday to secure the border with Mexico, speed the expulsion of illegal immigrants and step up enforcement of immigration laws, administration officials say."

Why all the hustle and bustle about illegal immigrants and "securing our borders" just as the campaigns are revving up for the 2008 elections? Don't we have bigger fish to fry? Like um... an imminent energy crisis, or a couple thousand US military personnel shucking around in the desert being shot at? Why here, why now, when the number of Mexican and South American migrants have been steadily increasing over the past three decades? Why do our political elite only seem to want to "crack down" on the number of brown-skinned rice-eaters sneaking through our back rivers and over our arid plains?

Because finding a bad guy makes our politico mass seem like a white knight riding into battle for our salvation. Because targeting the scapegoat in your back yard that has no voice and no rights is easier than to zeroing in on a well-armed, well-funded enemy half a world away.

It's obvious why the US political machine (that's both parties, boys and girls) is aiming at migrants from south of the border. The real question is, why are Americans buying it?

"They're not paying taxes!" you squeal.

This is true - for the most part, illegal workers are paid under the table, in cash, at the end of every work day. Sure, some back-of-house restaurant staff may use false identification so if the kitchen gets raided the business doesn't get shut down, but a large portion of the illegal workforce in America is completely off the books.

The cool thing about that is they're also not collecting Social Security, Welfare, WIC, or Americans with Disabilities checks. They're not using Medicaid and Medicare (though ERs are required to treat injury of all patients with or without documentation). By and large, they're not using the systems we create and fund with our taxes. Why should they have to pay into services they aren't drawing from?

"They're taking American jobs!" you might protest.

Yeah, because you really wanna prune bushes and mow lawns and pick apples in 100 degree heat for $2 an hour. Because your "when I grow up" aspiration has always been to labor through 16 hour days in a sweat shop at 10 cents per production piece, right? The argument stacks up to a big pile of manure. "Illegals" take the jobs we don't want, and are grateful for the jobs we're too proud to work.

Do you really think you'd be able to afford those designer blue jeans you wrap around your ass if the Gap had to pay the woman who made them union wages, health benefits, and vacation time? Of course not.

And what happened to the American idea that all people, regardless of race, color, creed, or gender, have the right to work hard and earn a better life for themselves and their families? I wasn't aware that the color of your passport was supposed to matter more than the color of your skin.

Maybe we should change the plaque at the feet of The Mother of Exiles: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free... as long as they have proper documentation."

An apple, by any other name...

"This is your captain speaking. We will be landing in New York in approximately 7 minutes. Please, enjoy your stay, and thank you for flying XYZ Airlines."

All I could think, looking out the window down on the "greatest city in the US" was, "Man, there sure are a lot of baseball fields down there." Baseball, apparently, is a much bigger sport in New York than it is in Kansas City. We're pretty much all about football down here. Go figure, the farm boys are more interested in a game where you can beat the hell out of your opponent, and get patted on the back for it.


So what's in New York, you ask? Well, let me explain...

Two weeks ago Mister M and I are sitting around one evening, shooting the electronic breeze. Pretty much out of nowhere, he pops up with, "Hey, I was thinking about going to New York this month. Wanna come with me?" And that was pretty much that. I scheduled a long weekend from work, hopped on a plane, and the next thing I knew I was listening to the Fasten Seat Belts sign ding and that dripping-smooth captain's voice crackling overhead.

The weekend went by in a blur as we bustled from tourist trap to tourist trap. The most interesting, of course, was Bodies... The Exhibition. If you haven't heard of it, it's an amazing look at the human body and all its inner workings. It's something like walking through a cadaver disection, step-by-step, except that the cadaver is doing things like playing baseball, conducting a symphony, or crouching in the famous "Thinker" position.

Central Park, of course, was gorgeous. I found it absolutely amazing that a city stuffed to the brim with the bustle of human life would reserve such a large swath of peace. I'm very glad the city hasn't encroached on the solitude of the park. It's really an island of sanity amidst the noise of the city.

Most ironic during the trip was the positioning of St. Patrick's Cathedral, which is nestled among gaudy boutiques and over-priced super-yuppy glamour stores, right there on the infamous 5th avenue. I got my own personal chuckle at contemplating Jesus in Gucci sunglasses. The cathedral, which lies somewhere between beautiful and gaudy, will soon be offering candle-lighting oportunities via the web. Faith by distance, conveyed through the most convenient means. Not exactly what I'd call supplication and sacrifice.

Back to the vacation... We trotted by the Ellis Island building, which I'm only assuming runs (or used to run) a ferry to our lady of perpetual welcome. Unfortunately, because of construction, we weren't able to see so much as the tip of her lamp. It was a bit of a let-down. I mean, who goes to New York City and doesn't see the Statue of Liberty?

Apparently, I do. Ah, well... there's always 2008.

Death by Ice Cream

Pea tried to kill me.

Okay, not really. What he did do was poison me inadvertently, which could, in fact, have led to my early and untimely demise. Pea's "mutiny" began with one small, simple action: he fetched me a glass of water.

Completely engrossed in whatever I was reading, I took a sip without looking at at the glass. One would think that when somebody you're seeing brings you a drink of water that it would be in a clean glass - one would, in this instance, be wrong.

There was ice cream on the rim of the glass - although how you get ice cream on the rim of a drinking glass I have no idea. Ice cream, unfortunately, is my mortal enemy - it's practically all milk. Dairy products cause me to go into anaphlactic shock. I've been that way since infancy.

So, upon taking a sip of what should have been a cold and refreshing glass of pure, untainted water, I realized that I had instead taken a sip of cold and refreshing liquid death. At the time, I didn't know the sticky substance on the lip of the glass was ice cream - only that it was setting off a reaction in me that could be a very bad thing if left unchecked.

We recovered, of course, by pumping me full of pulverized antihystemines, followed shortly by an overwhelming Benadryl coma. The night's shot, of course, but all parties involved survived.

I don't think we'll be making that mistake again.

Mr. Nice-but-Dull

"How long have we been talking, Gerry?"

"Oh, I don't know. A couple years, I guess. Why?"

"When are you going to ask me to dinner?"

Thus the initiation of my first date with Mr. Nice-but-Dull. We had, in fact, been conversing via the internet for over two years (if you include my 12-month stint in the Middle East). He had always been polite, but brief, and very reserved. Turns out he's precisely the same way face-to-face.

We talked about his job and about the upcoming Dave Ramsey live event that's coming to Kansas City in May (we're both fans). We talked about his family. We talked about decorating my apartment. We talked about everything that could possibly be discussed during a meal without actually saying anything of relevence.

After the date, a friend of mine asked how things went. "Fine" was the only adjective I could come up with. It wasn't that he wasn't a nice man - sweet, courteous, thoughtful, all those things. He just wasn't stimulating - which didn't make any sense. He's attractive, intelligent, articulate, has a good job and plenty of confidence - there was just no spark.

And then there's Pea. Sweet, simple, bashful Pea. He's a librarian and legal researcher by trade, which is just about as yawning of a profession as one could draft, yet he excites me. He's quiet, but I enjoy him immensely.

Ah well - so much for mom and dad's idea that I'd marry a doctor or a lawyer. I think I'll stick with what makes me happy, rather than what I'm "supposed" to do. I was never very good at following the rules, anyway.

What have you done for me, lately?

"What happened to your blog?" a buddy of mine asked.

Ever sharp-witted and quick on my feet, my immediate response is, "Huh?"

---------------------------------------

Has it really been a month? Oh yes, I think it has. Let's recap, shall we?
In the past thirty days I have:
Worked fifty to sixty hours a week consistently.
Planned two vacations (neither of which rolls around for another month or so).
Been on sixteen dates (yes, it's possible - I don't recommend it).
Completed two new pieces of furniture.
Slept (I think).
Eaten (not as often as I should have).

Basically, I've driven myself completely to the brink of insanity. I'm slowly stepping away from that ledge. Why, you may ask?

Well, tax season has played a part. My employment with RBFC goes into hyper-drive in April, and this space cadet got sucked into the black hole that results from the effort to keep up.

Because I refuse to allow work to dominate my life, I've also attempted to retain my grip on the last remaining threads that make up my social life. I've become more active in my local community, which probably would have been an activity best left for next month. I've also been looking for that ever-elusive other-half. It's been interesting, to say the least.

It has, however, generated some mighty interesting stories. I'll work on getting a few of those posted. In the meantime....

"I'm baa-aack!"

The Quote of the Day

Mister M and I trade funny snippets from our day back and forth. It helps make work go a little faster, and adds brevity to what can be a very plodding existence in cubicle-land. Recently, we've sent a string of unconscious, yet hilarious, grammar slips zipping back and forth across the wires. Who ever is monitoring my e-mails at work must be getting a chuckle.

Quote 1: one of mine
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mandy, a co-worker with a proud-to-be redneck flair, sighs heavily.

"Everything okay over there?" I ask over the padded five-foot grey wall.

"This hold time is inconvincable!"

"Huh?" I lose track of the beat in The Girl from Ipanema.

"You know, like, outrageous. Inconvincable."

Riiiiight....
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quote 2: one of his

"We've had a grub worm problem for the last couple weeks out on the estate," Mister M explains. "The moths see the landscaping lights in the lawn and are sucked in. They lay their eggs, then out come the worms.

"Now some sort of animal has been rooting around out back, looking for a meal. The housekeeper thinks it must be an 'Amarillo'. You know, one of 'those things they have down in Texas'."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And the winner is...
Quote 3: one of mine

"Ug!" My boss fans herself rapidly, then starts alternately lifting and yanking down her cowl-necked sweater.

The office is noticeably over-warm. She's flushed. Her stringy, over-processed hair has gone flat. There's a light sheen on her upper lip.

"You okay?" I ask, ever the helpful employee.

"This heat!," she gasps. "I'm sweating protrusively!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I've decided to give out dictionaries for Christmas.

The Girl from Ipanema

I was sitting in my cubicle, in my standard-issue wanna-be-ergonomic office chair, listening to the forth round of "The Girl from Ipanema". I was very glad, at that point, I was wearing a headset instead of holding the receiver. No doubt the company big-wigs issue them with the understanding that even the most die-hard Sinatra fan can only take so much. The cost of handsets being thrown through the window could get a little pricey.

I'd been on hold for 27 minutes, last check, and was on my forth transfer. All four phone reps claimed I was in the wrong department, and thus began the "Tall, tan, young and lovely..." assault . I wonder, sometimes, if there's life on the other end of the line.

Finally, success! A human being answers the phone:

"Great-Big-Financial company, Jane Doe speaking. How may I assist you today?"

'You could drop the cheesy phone voice,' I think to myself.

"Hey there. This is Mouth from Another-Great-Big-Financial company, calling in regards to the requested transaction for our mutual client, Mr. Bigbucks."

"And is Mr. Bigbucks available for me to speak with?"

Damn. A strike-out. "No, he isn't, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mouth," chirps Jane, dripping with vicious sarcasm. "I can't discuss the transaction with you unless Mr. Bigbucks is there to give his permission."

Jane and I both know her company has already spoken with me three times regarding this particular transaction. We're also both aware that she's going to do everything in her power to hold on to that particular quarter-mil for as long as possible, and that it's my job to get her to release it and send it to me.

I imagine Jane and I as two knights, squared off against one another in a jousting ring. We straddle our chairs, keyboards tucked snuggly under our arms, and stare intently into one another's monitor-reflecting eyes. Suddenly, the flag drops, and we lean forward at a charge. The keyboards collide in the center of the ring, Ps and Qs flying hither and yon. Jane is dazed, but not down. Swinging my mouse overhead like a mace, I deliver the death blow...I smile, batting my eyes. "Well, Jane, if you would be so kind as to review your notes, you'll see that John Smith and I conference-called Mr. Bigbucks just last week on such-and-such date at so-and-so time, and that he indeed has given his permission for you to discuss the transaction with me." I'm a meticulous note-taker. It's what makes me good at my job.

Choking on her final breath, pencil skirt and suit jacket smudged and torn from taking her spill into the dirt of the jousting ring, Jane resorts to her final tool in the financial world arsenal - the hold button. "It will take me just a moment to review the account, Mouth. Would you mind if I place you on hold?"

'YES!' my subconscious screams. "No, Jane, that would be fine. Take your time." My voice drips with honey-coated barbs as we start The Waiting Game. It's something like The Price is Right, except there's no smiling Bob Barker, no television cameras, and nobody goes home with a new bedroom suite.

Something inside me dies as Sinatra croons yet again, "... when she passes, each one she passes says, 'Ahhhh'."

The Old Gray Mare

I hit the snooze button six times before I finally dragged myself out of bed this morning, cussing and rubbing my eyes. One pounding shower and a quick kiss of the toothbrush later, and I'm standing before the mirror, wondering why my breasts suddenly seem less excited than I am about facing the upcoming day.

That's when it caught my eye. One shining white streak among a field of crimson.

My first gray hair.

At least, the first one I've noticed. I plucked at my scalp, miffed. 'How is this possible?' I thought to myself. At my age?

I took a closer look. Deep, dark blue shades the inside corners of my eyes, and fine creases have developed there, and around my mouth.

Then I remembered my grandmother admonishing to my mother, "Don't go pullin' at thim gray har. You'll git three in 'er place." This from the woman who insists coffee tastes better with a little bourbon, who has to retrieve her teeth from her purse every time we want to take a family photo.

Now, I'm not buying into that whole wive's tale about hydra-style grays that split into themselves when they're severed, but why tempt fate, right?

Anyway, I've earned the gray. You don't have the kind of year I just had and come out completely unscathed. I guess I'll keep it.

Maybe I'll name it Harry.

In the House

"A meshugga madam who taught people how to be sex slaves turned a stately $3 million Westchester home owned by an ultra-Orthodox rabbinical school into an S&M dungeon, police claimed yesterday. Mistress of "The Sovereign Estate," Sandra Chemero - who advertised the manse online as a place "where submissives and slaves are immersed in training" - was busted on charges of prostitution and weapons possession for having a stun gun."

A friend linked me to the New York Post this morning.


"Can you believe this?" she said.

No, honestly. I can't.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again:

What goes on behind closed doors between two consenting adults is nobody's business but theirs.

You'll notice, please, that the report did not define which "sex acts" she agreed to. I'm sorry, but how, exactly, do you define a sex act?

I'm patronizing a restaurant, and up saunters my waitress. She's got a killer body, legs all the way to the floor, and I become aroused. Are she and I committing a sex act?

What would have to happen in order for it to count as one? Would we have to have contact?

So I stand up, shake her hand, and introduce myself. Are we going to be arrested on the spot because I'm aroused and we're touching?

In order for it to count as prostitution (which is actually the illegal part of this story), money (or goods) has to exchange hands. So, if I tip her heavily because of those curves, we're both going to jail?

Were this the case, cell block 7 in the women's ward would look like a Hooter's reunion.

It's like the city of New York banning the "N-word". How can you ban the use of a word, and still tout the United States as a country with the right of freedom of expression? How could the bill not have been laughed off the floor?

It's a sad state of affairs when Americans don't stand together against the loss of their basic rights.

Is the Dominatrix's behavior offensive to most Americans? Yeah, probably. That doesn't change the fact that by allowing her to be imprisoned for her activities, you open the door to your own bedroom for inspection.

Is the "N-word" offensive and derogatory, with or without the "R"?

Absolutely, but I'll support some one's right to use it with my dying breath. Why?

Because by protecting his right to say it, I'm also protecting my right to tell him just what I think about it, and that is something worth fighting for.

Life's scars

"We're running late, Mouth." My mother's voice crackled, indicating the car she was calling from was closer to her home in the country than mine in the city. Towers, after all, can only cast clear signals so far.

"How late?" I asked, eyes darting to the clock on top of my refrigerator.

"We'll be there in an hour and fifteen minutes."

"Are you in the car?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Smalltown."

"You'll be here in 35 minutes."

"Alright. Well, we're on our way."

I hung up the phone, sighing. I remember a voice in my head, a year ago.

"Don't be dramatic, Mo. It'll pass. You don't really want to give up your family." L had said that to me, sipping a drink he'd fallen back into after 10 years of sobriety, sitting across a table we'd come to argue over like a judge's bench a few weeks later.

Months later, by another more settled voice rang clearly:

"I can't believe you tolerate it."

-I can't, either- my heart cried.

They picked me up from home, all bluster and noise, disturbing the quiet peace in my apartment.

"Let's go!" mother cried, flipping her sunglasses off. "Are you ready?"

"I've been ready for hours." I sat in a wing chair in my living room, my book in my lap, my packed suitcase at my feet.

"Oh." Mother looked deflated. "Well, get loaded up, then. Where's the cat?"

"In the bedroom." I knew what was coming.

"Well, go get him."

"Mother, it's six degrees outside. I'm going to be in the hospital for hours. You cant leave him in the car."

"You don't think he'd be okay with a blanket?" I raised my eyebrows. We'd gone through this same dance earlier in the week. "Oh, alright. We'll come back for him."

On the way to the hospital, both Jenny and mom complained about how hungry they were. "It's lunchtime," mother announced. Neither one of them seemed to remember that they'd had a full breakfast only hours ago, and that I hadn't eaten since dinner the evening before. "Oh, I can't wait. I'm getting sick to my stomach!" Mother tore into a pre-packed BLT in the backseat.

After I got to the hospital and got checked in, the nurse asked if I wanted my family to join me in the pre-op room. "Honestly?" I chuckled, then shook my head. "It's alright. Send them in."

-They need to see you- I told myself. -Nevermind the noise.-

Mother immediately began fussing with the blankets, asking over and over if I was warm enough, bumping my IV and snagging the tubes on the pressure monitors. Jenny sat in a chair, visibly stirring some internal pot. Finally, mother sat down. It took only a moment for Jenny to pounce.

"I've been going to group. I've been going to group twice a week. We all had to write letters to our families." She began fishing in her bag. "I wrote one for mommy, and one for daddy, and I wrote one for you."

"Jen, do we have to do this right now?"

My mother looked up from her magazine long enough to chastise me. "Oh, Mouth, stop. It's a nice letter. The least you can do is read it."

Jenny stuffed the letter in my hand. I worked my way down the page, deciphering child-like handwriting saying how much she admired me, and how much she is inspired by me. The last sentence hung like grease dropping from the bottom of the page:

"You love me and never gave up on me."

Guilt.

Guilt wielded like a weapon. Guilt that was used to pin down, to hold, to restrain. Guilt that shackled me to a life I didn't want, and refused to accept. I smiled at Jenny. "Thank you," I said. -Thank you for reminding me. Thank you for letting me see, one more time, that you'll never change, because you don't want to.-

I heard his voice in my head. "I don't accept guilt I didn't earn." I'd read that same line in the book he gave me, which was resting on my chest like a plate of armor.

"You know, Mo, I need your support now more than ever. I know you don't believe me that I didn't mean any of it, the cancer and all that. I'm sick, you know. The voices. I know you don't agree with the medication, and I know you don't believe I'm really sick, but I am."

"I don't want to talk about it, Jenny. I'm not going to say anything you want to hear."

"But I need to know you're going to be there for me! I need to know you're going to be there even if I have to go back to the hospital. I need to know you'll be there no matter what."

"I won't."

"What do you mean you won't? You weren't there the last time because we were fighting, but we're not fighting now! Why wouldn't you come?"

"Because I refuse to support your self-destruction."

"It's not self-destruction! It's part of the healing process!"

I eyed her arms, and her jean-clad legs. "Taking a razor blade to yourself is part of your healing process?"

"I make mistakes. I'm not perfect like you," she snapped. "If I can only stay out of the hospital for six months..." she trailed off.

"You can, but I'm not sure that you will, and I'm no more likely to visit you the next time than I was the last time."

"Why are you so terribly mean?"

"Because I'm laying in a hospital bed connected to machines, hoping to God and anything that will listen that when I wake up, the doctor will tell me everything's okay. Because I refuse to accept steps backwards as progress. Because I'm not going to tell you what you want to hear, just because it makes you more comfortable. I've told you I have nothing nice to say on the subject. Now, we can talk about this later if you'd like, but I would really appreciate it if you'd leave it alone for now. You'll have me trapped at mom's house as a captive audience all weekend. Surely it can wait until then."

"Now girls, let's not fight," mother jumped in, after the argument was obviously over to all parties involved.

Just before Jenny's mouth twisted open to lob another missile, the anesthesiologist peaked around the corner. "All ready to go, Miss Mouth?" I could see in his eyes that he'd heard it. I smiled weakly, both in embarrassment and in thanks.

"Yeah. I'm ready." He and three male nurses each took a corner of my bed, and wheeled me away from Jenny's steely glare.

"Wanna take a nap?" he laughed down at me.

"More than you can imagine," I sighed, watching him compress the plunger into my IV line.

I awoke to a militeresque post-op nurse barking orders for painkillers, telling me to sit up but not too far, take deep breaths but not move my abdomen, and try not to vomit. The doctor came by after I was awake enough to string two sentences together.

"That mass in your ovary? It was scar tissue. I removed it, but any idea where it came from?"

"Life," I snorted.

After an hour of recovery, they released my shaky, still-groggy body to my mother and sister, who whisked me into the car and headed back to my apartment. I vaguely remember laughing in half-sleep at my mothers report that my 'stupid cat' had peed on her when she tried to take him to the car.

I came to full consciousness somewhere between the glittering towers of the city and the rolling hills around my parents' farm. "There you are. What do you want for dinner?"

"I don't know, mother. I don't care. What's convenient?"

"Anything you want!" My mother beamed.

"Okay. What's thawed out?"

She thought for a moment. "Well... nothing."

"So there's nothing thawed out, but I can have anything I want?" Mother's mouth twisted in a humorless snarl.

"I didn't mean it like that. Look, we're about to drive through a town. There's food places there. Pick one."

I sighed and requested a tasteless glob of soyburger in a styrofoam box from any of the chains along the side of the highway. I remembered my dad asking me three weeks prior what I wanted, so they could grocery shop and have it ready when I got there. I'd listed two or three meals that were favorites of mine, and that the rest of the family enjoyed. Cardboard-packed fast food wasn't on the list.

We ate in silence, Jenny using her knees in an attempt to keep the car between the lines, cussing and making obscene gestures at the other cars who honked at her when she crossed the yellow center mark. I realized I was holding my breath as we crossed a narrow bridge that spanned a busy train-track.

"Doug's there," she said to me.

"Okay..." I wasn't sure where she was going with it.

"So we've got the couch all made up," she spat through her burger-stuffed mouth, "for you."

For... me?

Months ago, I'd sent my bedroom suite to my mother's house at her request, because she'd volunteered her home for entertaining family over Thanksgiving, but realized after the fact that she didn't have beds for all the bodies that were attending. Mr. M had come up over that weekend, as well. We'd slept on two twin mattresses pushed together in my bedroom floor.

She said she'd wanted to keep the bedroom set, "for when you visit, Mouth." My visits out to the farm were becoming less and less frequent. The twin mattresses are now stacked on one another in a corner in my room. I'm still sleeping on them.

"Is your friend coming out this weekend?"

"Pea? Yes." I didn't ask where he would sleep. I knew they didn't know.

Three nights, I slept on the sofa. Two of those nights, Pea slept by my side, curled in fetal position on a love seat. Sunday morning, I awoke to my family standing in the kitchen yelling at one another about whether or not they were going to church. Embarrassed, I turned my face away. Pea was woken up by the commotion, too. He was watching me.

I looked into his dark eyes, and saw an emotion I detest - Pity.

I stood up and started shoving clothing into my suitcase. Pea readily followed suit.

"What are you doing?" my mother asked.

"Packing," I answered.

"Where are you going?" asked my father.

"Home," I answered.

"I thought you were staying all weekend?" My sister demanded.

"I'm going home to sleep in my own bed, in my own home, with my own food and my own clothes, where it's quiet and I can rest."

My family blinked at me. Suddenly, as if called to action, they began bustling around, going through the motions of helping me pack and get ready to go. In reality, they were moving things from place to place, with no progression towards the car.

They each hugged me in turn, admonishing me to take it easy, to rest, to call if I needed anything. The unspoken, already-broken promise hung silently in the air - call if you need anything, but don't expect us to answer.

And so I'm home, and healing - in more ways than one. I told Pea I wanted to change my name, move, and start over. I don't know that I'll do it. I only know that I don't want to go back.

The fear associted with the past months has been like an alarm clock screaming in my soul. "Wake up!" it's saying. "Wake up and live!"

And that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Moolah & Smooches

The flowers and candy passed around this time of year are nice, but I'm still not buying into the V-day hype. Why should some obscure day in the middle of February be touted as the most romantic day of the year? Why , today, are men and women alike willing to drop a couple hundred bucks doing something special for their other half, when any other day of the year they'd sniff that it's too expensive, or takes too much time.

Why, for so many people, is a "good" Valentine's day associated with the price tag attached to it?

I remember last year's elaborate plans gone awry. I remember how mortified L was that things didn't work out, and how concentrated he was on doing something nice for me, because I'd had such a rough time the months before that. I also look back at the plastic poppy on the chipped laminate table, the hot, steaming buffet line stuffed full of chinese food, and remember it as the best Valentine's day I'd ever had.

The Waiter, from waiterrant.com commented on the vicious weather we're having in this part of the country:

"The horrible weather the Northeast and Midwest experienced today meant many couples stayed home and had candlelight dinners– and that’s because they’re snowbound and without power! I’m sure nine months from now the maternity wards will be hopping."

Gets me thinkin about how many sideline markets could jump on the Free Love bandwagon. Why should florists, chocolatiers, French restaurants and Hallmark get all the dough? Think of it:

Pet stores: They could start selling fish to empty-headed up-and-coming yuppies trying to Woo that girl from accounting into a white picket fence. How sweet! And after the wedding, as the husband flushed the bloated, floating fish body down the john, nobody would mention that the fish survived longer than their love did.

Cel phones: little pink and red mini-phones that only work for a 24 hour period. Instead of ringing, they would erupt with annoying little pull-cord voices asking, "Will you be mine?" and proclaiming "I love you!" Usage would run $14 per minute. The cost of the phone? $140. How romantic.

Credit Cards: The Valentine Visa! It would come with cute little haulographic hearts all over the front of it, which you could special order in 14 different designs (additional fees apply, of course).

Now if I can just figure out how to market a Valentine's Day car....

Sweethearts

"I'd like to cook you dinner on Valentine's day," he said.

"Um, Pea? You don't cook." I smiled. He cringed.

"All the same, I'd like to make you dinner."

"We'll see." That was three days ago.

Last night, I stayed up late baking a beautiful four-layer chocolate/strawberry cake with pink frosting. This week, two of the gals at work had birthdays, and somehow I've been nominated as the official birthday-cake maker. The idea was to swirl white frosting around the base and stick little conversation hearts in it. Gravity, apparently, had other plans.

Did you know that if you forgot to frost the cake to the stand, then tip it at a 45 degree angle to frost the side, the cake will slip off the stand and onto the countertop? Did you know that said cake will also bounce, breaking in half, and that the spongier half will careen to the floor and land on your foot, decorating it in lovely black and pink cakey crumbles? Did you know that cats like pink vanilla frosting?

These are the things I discovered.

I got over it, of course. Eating nearly the entire portion that could be salvaged from the countertop helped.

Fast forward to the following morning, after I finally came down from the sugar high and got to bed. I got a call from the downstairs security desk. "Ma'am, you have a delivery down here."

No one had mentioned sending me flowers, but my dad had called that morning to wish me a happy Valentine's day, so I thought maybe they were from him. He does that sometimes.

Instead, Pea was standing in the lobby in full winter garb, carrying a sack of books and puzzles, and a fistfull of daisies. The books, of course, were naughty, and the flowers were gorgeous.

Despite the sudden joy of my special delivery, I spent the remainder of the afternoon periodically hugging the toilet in the ladies' room. Nerves, I'm sure, but it certainly didn't make the experience any more pleasant.

Tonight, Pea and I took it easy. We decided to forgo the fancy restaurants or an elaborate dinner at home, and opted instead for fast food burgers and fries in bed, watching a DVD on my laptop. Nothing fancy, but it was exactly what I wanted.

The calm of today helped alleviate some of the trepidation associated with tomorrow. Wish me luck?

30 minutes - 30 lies

It was 6 degrees when I walked in to work this morning. Six degrees.

As in six degrees above zero.

Fahrenheit.

Yeah. Cold.

Typically, the sun would be up and the birds would be out chirping. Icicles would sparkle like glass ornaments on leaf-bare trees. I'd pass the other city people I see every day, walking the opposite way into work. I'd walk under the wind chime, three stories up, hanging outside some one's window. I walk under that wind chime every day. It's just the perfect pitch - that happy, light, melodic tinkle that brings a smile to your lips and adds a spring to your step.

This morning, the chimes were frozen together. The birds were nowhere to be heard or seen. The city people all had their faces covered, trying to protect their eyes and ears from the blistering wind.

This morning, I felt like I was making a death march into Hell frozen over.

It isn't that I don't like my job - the job is fine. I make enough money to pay my bills, I work in an office at a desk and I don't have to clean somebody else's bathroom or say, "Do you want fries with that?" to put food in my mouth. It's somewhat dead-end, and I certainly don't intend to spend the next decade of my life holding down that desk, but it's doing a fine job of getting things settled before I dive back into school.

The problem, of course, as with any low-end cubicle job, is the people. People hired in off the streets (yeah, just like me) without a college education (yeah, just like me) who can't form a proper sentence without saying "ain't" or forcing a double-negative (not-so-much like me). People who don't bathe every morning. People who are missing their teeth. People who's idea of "business casual" is stretching the 1970's polo they wore in high school over their protruding beer belly. "People" people.

I've been asking my boss for months now about getting some extra training. I have an idea what I'd like to do and where I'd like to go, and although I don't intend to stay with the company forever, I intend to stick with it for a few more years - certainly long enough for them to utilize whatever new-found skills I may acquire in the near to immediate future.

"After tax season" she keeps telling me. She's been telling me this since November. Finally, one of the big-wigs in an office across town decides our whole division needs a bout of training. Finally, my pleas of, "I've got to learn something new or I'm going to go insane," were heard (or at least executed, albeit without registration). Finally!

So the boss comes up with the training schedule. Everybody is supposed to be set up for two separate days of training, one month apart, so as not to leave the entire department without bodies to do the work. The training I'm scheduled for, unfortunately, are things I already know how to do. I mention this to her, and remind her of the things I've been asking to learn for going on three months now.

"Yeah, that's not really what we had in mind. After tax season. Guess that means I can cancel your training days, huh?"

And I can't post out until March 28th.

I thought we abolished slavery like, a century or so ago. What do I know?

Fresh Air

Pea and I are laying in bed, quietly enjoying listening to the conversation of two drunken revelers outside my windows. Suddenly, I get that tell-tale rumbling in my gut. That bubbling, unmistakable pressure in the lower abdomen. I'm gonna rip one, and there's no holding it back.

I shift and turn, trying to adjust, trying to pinch tight enough to keep a seal. It's no use - the dams break. The tiniest hint of a toot leaks out, and I'm absolutely mortified. I hold my breath and wait for the laughter.

Pea doesn't utter a sound. Seconds stretch into minutes - minutes stretch into eternity. Finally, Pea makes a sound - he snores. He was asleep the whole time.

The problem, of course, is that the miniature release offered no relief to my overall problem. Now I'm faced with a much larger issue: the four horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding through my intestines, and I've got a boy nestled into my shoulder, sleeping soundly. I can't conceivably sneak out of bed without disturbing him, and there'll be no release if I don't do something. Time is of the essence, of course - eventually, the sea will fold in on itself and swallow the Pharaoh's army.

I wiggle just a little. Pea grunts. I wiggle a little more. He sniffles a little and rolls half-way off me. Success!

Sort of.

I try to carefully slide my arm out from under his head, but he whimpers and digs his fingertips into the covers, holding on tighter. The horsemen's hooves beat steadily towards the light of day, and I hear imaginary alarms going off in my head. Time's up.

My gentle nudging becomes an abrupt drop. Pea rolls over and starts snoring again. I'm free. I shoot into the bathroom, grasp the countertop for support, and let 'er rip.
Thing is, I don't think men actually feel this way. I mean, sure, on a first or second date they might avoid horking and snotting and the release of toxic fumes, but somewhere around the one-month mark, they seem to let go of all pretense. Suddenly, you come home to a man laying nearly naked on your sofa in two-day-dirty BVD's with one finger in his belly button and one finger in his nose.

Women, on the other hand, are expected to be pretty and feminine and all rosey-smelling delicacy. God forbid we should get ahold of a bowl of Tex's Killer Chili for lunch.

We do, though. Oh boy do we! I guess we'll let that be another one of our dirty little secrets, though. We'll describe the ins and outs of our mensus, go into an in-depth discussion on acne, but the functions of our back-side junction are strictly off-limits.

So much for equal rights. Ah, well...

Goodbye, my friend...

Tax season is in full swing. That doesn't mean much to most folks, other than that they're reviewing their W2 statement, wondering how they spent their entire salary and have nothing to show for it. For those of us who work in the financial world, it means working long, thankless hours for months on end.

It also means that those closest to us get shuffled to the back of the deck.

Yesterday, Mr. Puffy Pants was in his kennel for 12 hours. This has been a regular thing for three months or so, and apparently, it finally got to him. He chewed a hole in his hind side about a quarter inch deep and as big around as a dime, and took the skin off all around it about three inches in diameter. This morning, he's refusing to eat.

I called my mother and told her what he did. "Well, Mo, he's bored. Why don't you bring him out here til things calm down at work?"

The problem, of course, is that things aren't going to calm down at work. We're short-staffed and mis-managed. There's no light at the end of this tunnel.

Jenny and her friend will be down this afternoon to pick him up and take him out to the farm. It's distressing that I'll be without him so long, but I can't bear to keep him locked up all the time. I'll miss him terribly - he's such a good dog. It really is the best thing for him. I just wish it were easier.

Mass and Prayer

"Full bladder?" the technician asks me. I nod emphatically. "Yes, I thought so. I think your eyes are floating." She laughs. I groan and try not to leak. I've finished off around fifty ounces of water in the last hour and a half. I'm about to burst.

"This won't take long, then we'll let you go, mkay?" I shrug my pants down to my hips and pull my shirt up under my pits. She squirts KY all over my tummy and proceeds to run the scanner back and forth, pressing on my over-full bladder. We chat a bit - I know she's trying to distract me, and it's welcomed.

Finally, she labels the last image. "All done, sweetheart. Bathroom's around the corner."

After I relieve my bladder, they show me into the doctor's office. Dr. Gyno dances in, chart and sonogram images in hand. He plops down in the chair. "So, what's new?" He's comfortable and casual.

I smile to myself and think again, "He's a good doctor." I give him an update on the abdominal pain from the journal he had me keep. He reviews the images the technician gave him. "Alright, so you've got a mass in your right ovary. Probably a cyst. I'd like to give you another sono before we do your surgery to see if it resolves itself. If not, I'll go in and remove it while you're out. You also probably have some endometriosis, which can cause a lot of pain. While we're in there taking care of that ovary, I'll remove as much of that as I can. There's a chance that I won't be able to remove the mass without taking your ovary, mind you, but you'll still have one good ovary left. If I get in there and there's something else going on, something that requires more extensive surgery, we'll button you back up and talk about a game plan before we do anything major. Deal?"

I nod. He purses his lips. "I was reviewing your lab results this morning from the biopsies Dr. Lee did. One of the samples they took that tested positive for abnormal cells was actually up inside your cervix. We may have to go deeper than I originally planned to. We're also going to have to be very aggressive with your follow-up. I don't want anything sneaking up on us."

I asked him about the possibility of children in a few years. He sighed. "Honestly? I don't know. I'll be able to answer that a little better after the surgery."

So that's that. Surgery's scheduled for the 15th of February, which means no candle-lit dinner for me on Valentine's day. I'll spend a long weekend recovering on my parent's farm, letting mom and Jenny fuss after me.

It's gonna be a long three weeks.

January 17th

"Mo? Mo, honey, you gotta wake up." Pea nudged the slumbering lump he assumed was my shoulder under the mountain of covers in the middle of the bed.

"Groway," I growled, cinching the sheet down around my head.

"C'mon, Mo. We gotta go to work." He nudged me again. I flipped the sheet down, scowling. Pea knelt on the bed, holding a lit candle. "Happy birthday, Mo."

I smiled, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. "Make a wish." I thought of all the things I could possibly wish for. Settling in on the thing I wanted most, blew out the candle, grinning at Pea.

"You're too sweet," I said, leaning up for a kiss.

When I got to work, my fellow cubby-gophers had strewn my desk with streamers that reached to the ceiling. Kay, the gal who sits next to me, laughed as I shook my head. "Happy birthday, Mouth." She'd baked me a dairy-free birthday cake, which sat on my desk amid the crepe paper.

"Thanks guys!" I beamed. At nine, my mom and sister called to sing me the Happy Birthday Song, completely out of key, with my sister catching on every third word or so.

Pea sent me an email saying to expect a FedEx package, which showed up shortly after lunch. It was full of all sorts of lavender-scented bath products. The night before, he'd run me a bubble bath, complete with candles and music. The disc was one he'd recorded - music he knew I'd love, and in between songs he was reading poetry. He'd sent it to work with me so I could listen to it over lunch.

L took me to dinner at a great local Italian joint over near the River Market. The last time we'd gone there, it took us nearly an hour of driving around to find the place. He'd driven down there during his lunch hour, so he could drive straight there that night. We laughed for hours over ravioli and gave the waiter absolute hell.

"What's that island down under South America?" L had asked him.

"I have absolutely no idea!" We'd all three laughed. A few minutes later, he practically ran back to the table. "Madagascar!" he crowed.

"See, I told you there was an island down there!" L squinted at me, playing the part of the all-knowing teacher.

"I didn't disagree. I simply said you didn't know which island it was. And you, young man," I said, turning my attention to the waiter, "have just cost me bragging rights." He bowed, grinning, and trotted back to the kitchen.

A year ago I resolved to take better care of myself. I've cut ties, trimmed fat, and discarded dead weight. I've removed obstacles and jumped hurdles. I've streamlined and minimized and toned down. The people in my life now are those who contribute positively, those who support me, those who love me. The things in my life are things I enjoy. M and I have fallen into a happy friendship. Despite the physical difficulties I've recently encountered, life is good.

The resolution for next year? Health and education. Seems like a cakewalk, comparatively speaking.

Happy Birthday, Twenty-Something!

Well, it's official - I've been doing this for a year now. I went back through and read some of my earliest posts - my how time flies. It's amazing how much can change in a year.

If you're new, welcome. I'm glad you found me. If you've been reading the whole time, thanks. I appreciate all the emails and IMs. Sometimes they make me laugh, sometimes they make me cry, sometimes they make me think. I'm just glad to know I've got friends and strangers out there sharing my life with me. You guys are the best!

Round 2

The announcer screams into the microphone, "In this corner, wearing the white lab coat and completely unnecessary stethoscope, we have Doctor Gyno! He's spent the last 15 years staring down the gaping holes of women all over the city in preparation for this very moment. In the opposing corner, wearing the exceptionally revealing paper gown and complimentary threadbare lap sheet, we have the increasingly suspicious Mouth! She's spent the last month worrying about the turnout of tonight's fight. Let's get ready to rumble!!"

And the crowd goes wild....

-------------------------------------------------

"Mouth?" The nurse standing in the door way looked expectantly over the crowded waiting room. I'm not sure why I feel this way, but a crowded waiting room at a gynecology office is usually a good sign. "Mouth?"

The nurse is smiling, revealing braces with multi-colored bands. She's not much older than I am. It takes guts to sport a hunk of metal in your mouth at that age. She's got a no-fuss ponytail and generic, single-colored turquoise scrubs on, with bright pink tennis shoes. She's carrying a laptop, which probably has write-ups of every patient in the place and then some. I like her instantly.

She extends her hand to me, balancing her computer on her hip. "Heya Mouth. I'm Doc Gyno's nurse, Sporty. Nice to meet you." I smile and accept the handshake. "Wanna follow me?" I look at the wall clock before we disappear down the hall. Ten minutes before my appointment was supposed to start. That means they're running on time, which means that the waiting room isn't crowded because the office is late. They're just that busy. It's a good sign.

She shows me to a room painted in a subdued blue and plops her laptop down on the countertop. We chit-chat about weather, what I do for work, if I'm dating, her fiance, and somewhere in there, she manages to squeeze my medical history out of me. Just about the time Nurse Sporty breaks into overwhelming laughter from my dry sense of humor, there's a knock at the door.

A man with spikey hair and glasses perched on the end of his nose peeks his head in. "You ladies mind if I interrupt?"

"Of course not!" chirps the nurse. "Mouth, this is Doctor Gyno." The doctor shakes my hand and smiles at me.

"So, what's up? I hear you're having some problems."

I hand him the copy of the medical record I carried from Dr. Lee's office. I tell him that I only vaguely know what's going on, but that they want to do surgery next month. He flips through the chart, taking note of the diagrams and lab results from the past few months. We chat briefly about my sexual history. He gets out a marker and starts drawing all over the examination table paper. "This is your cervix. These are your problem areas. All this needs to be removed." He draws a circle around the bottom third of the illustration. "If you were in your forties and I knew you weren't planning on having any children, we'd take all of it - cervix, uterus, the works. Because you're so young, and there's still a possibility you might be able to carry a child, I'd like to take a more conservative approach. I still think you're borderline pre-cancerous, rather than cancerous. I don't think at this stage that you're spreading, but I don't want to mess around with this thing. We need to get this taken care of as soon as possible, so no flying off to Europe for the winter until we're done, okay?" I laugh. He's a good doctor.

We talk about pregnancy, and my previous miscarriages. He mentions nine months of bedrest and a few stitches in my cervix. I ask him if he thinks it's possible. "Possible," he says, "yes. But not likely. We'll see how the surgery goes, okay?" I nod. I had already braced myself for that.

I mentioned that I'm in pain, that it flashes off and on throughout the day and night. "Well, then, that's something different altogether, isn't it? We'll want to take a look at that before I get you under anesthesia. Can you schedule an appointment for an ultrasound first, then we'll do the surgery to take care of the other, okay?"

When I leave his office, I'm all smiles. I feel like the Governor just called in a reprieve. The ultrasound is scheduled for the 22nd, with the surgery to follow shortly behind that. I'm nervous, but at least now I have a firmer grasp of what's going on. I hear the remake Cake did of "I Will Survive" playing in my head. Guitars whine as the singer breathes over the mic, "I will survive. I will survive! Hey, hey!"

To every thing there is a season...

"Ten minutes!" a dippy blonde cried. Black mascara was smudged under her eyes as she swayed on unsteady feet, trying to take a drink from her bottle of beer and not dump it down her shirtfront. Ashes from the end of her forgotten cigarette floated from her hand to the floor.

Ten minutes, and a new year. A fresh start? Not for me. Ten minutes before I got to dive right back in. I sat on the sofa, wondering what I was doing there. What had driven me out of my house at 11pm on New Year's Eve, when I didn't at all feel like being around people.

I wondered where M was, and what he was doing. He'd graciously allowed me to beg off on the Tennessee trip. I didn't have it in me to be bright and shiney.

"You okay?" Pea asked me, his brows knitted in concern. I've been seeing Pea for a few months now. He's quiet, and thoughtful, and mindful of my space. He knew I wasn't in the mood for people, but I didn't want to be alone, either.

"Yeah, sweetie. I'm okay." I leaned over and kissed his cheek. He sighed and laced his fingers through mine. We sat on the couch in silence while the rest of the party danced around counting the seconds to midnight.

The ball on the television reached it's final destination. The party cried simulntaneously, "Happy New Year!" Somebody blew a horn. Somebody else spilled their champagne.

Pea looked at me furtively, a small smile playing across his lips. "Happy New Year, Mouth."

"Happy New Year, Pea." We kissed briefly, dryly.

I lost myself over the next few hours in contemplation. I don't know what the next year will bring, only that it won't be like anything I've yet experienced. Life is changing for me at an alarming pace. I feel like I'm on a speeding train, heading towards a tunnel. I have no idea where I'm going, and there isn't any way to see from where I am. I guess I'll just have to try to be patient, and wait to see where this ride takes me.

House Call

"Gynecology office!"

"Hello, Perky. Is Doctor Lee in?"

"No, I'm sorry, he isn't. May I help you with something?"

"He was supposed to call me an hour ago to discuss treatment options. When will he be in?"

"Let me check." She shuffled around on her desk a bit, clicked through a few computer screens, then chirped, "In about an hour. He's going to want you to come into the office, though. Can you be here in thirty minutes?"

"No, I can't. It'll take me an hour and a half to get there. I'm at my parents'." That information wold have been extremely helpful before I'd driven out there. I resisted the urge to bang the receiver on the countertop and scream, "Hello, you empty-headed twit! Why didn't you tell me that yesterday!?!"

Nurse Perky, of course, was oblivious to my rage. "Well, get here as soon as you can, then. I'll let him know you're coming."

When I arrived at the office, I was ushered to a room. No need to undress this time - it was just a consultation. Dr. Lee rushed in, chart in hand. He looked at me, eyes wide open behind his heavy glasses. He pursed his lips, then took the glasses off and sighed heavily.

"It's worse dan we thought, Mouth. You have three places dat are bad." He showed me a sketch he'd done of my cervix during the last visit. "Dis one and dis one, day not so bad. Dis one, dough," he tapped his pen on some boxes with a big X over them, "dis one cancerous. We need to wemove it. Schedule surgery with Perky on you way out."

So that was it. No explination. I knew where it came from, of course. There are commercials all over television right now talking about cervical cancer caused by a virus, how you can have it and not know it, and now they have a vaccine for it. It's too late for me to be vaccinated, of course. I've already got it. It's already doing it's damage. The surgery is scheduled for mid-February. My appointment for a second opinion is in one week. We'll see how that goes.

The C Word

"Good morning! Gynecology office, how may I assist you?"

"Hello, Perky. Did you get any results for me yet?" I'd called every day this week.

"Dr. Lee isn't in until tomorrow," Nurse Perky responded.

"I understand that, but I'm travelling tomorrow at noon. I just want to know what the results are."

"He'll call you in the morning, then, and you can go over treatment options."

"Perky, I don't want to discuss treatment with you - I just want to know the results of the test. What did it say?"

"You have cervical cancer, Mouth. Dr. Lee will call you in the morning. Cheer up, though. At least we caught it."

I wanted to scream at her to cheer up while I shoved the receiver through her ridiculously broad smile and down her choking throat. Instead, I very politely said, "Thank you," and gave her my mobile number.

I don't know how bad it is, or how long it's been there. I don't know what the coming months will bring. All I know is that the new year is four days away, and I'm supposed to get on a plane bound for Tennessee to meet M's family tomorrow. I'm supposed to go down there and smile. I'm supposed to be gracious and charming and fun. What I want to do is crawl under my bed and sleep through the weekend, until the bells at the cathedral sound midnight on Sunday.

What I'm going to do is somewhere in between. I'm going to charge my phone tonight to make sure it's got power when Dr. Lee calls in the morning. I'm going to go pick up a new prescription from Dr. Internist - some new wonder-pill he's found for chronic pain. I'm going to call and confirm my appointment with the other GYN's office, so I can get a second opinion on Dr. Lee's treatment suggestion.

After all that, I'll probably sit down and have a nice, long cry.

2007, here I come.

Seven to ten business days

I sat on the examination table, swinging my naked legs, wondering just how much some one walking through the door could see through the gaping back of my hospital gown. Finally, a nurse peaked in. "All finished?" she asked, entirely too perky for my mental well-being. I nodded as she opened the door wide to let in the doctor.

"So, wha's dee pwobwem?" Dr. Lee squinted at me through thick glasses. I explained that I believed I had an infection, that my abdomen hurt, that I was tired all the time and had aches and pains everywhere. "I see. Lay back and le's take a wook."

There's nothing more uncomfortable than laying on a clinic table, legs spread, with nothing between you and the world but a see-through cotton sheet and a paper gown that doesn't close in the back.

"Oh yes, definitely infection. Wen did you have you last annual pap?" It had been two years, with my trip overseas. "I give you medicine for dis infection, you come back in one month for pap. He snapped off his gloves and walked out. I was still sprawled on the table when he pulled the door closed.

One month later, I was back on the table, spread-eagled and exposed. "You wiw get notice in two weeks of wesults." I asked him about the abdominal pain. I'd already been to see an internist about the other symptoms. "You just adjusting to birth control." He was gone before I had a chance to question him further.

Two weeks went by. Two weeks of checking the mail, two weeks of waiting for the postcard with a smiling woman saying, "Your OB/Gyn cares about your health!" Two weeks, and nothing, and then it was three. At the end of the third week, I called the office.

"Let me grab your file!" chirped nurse Perky. When she came back on the line, she wasn't nearly as excited. "There was a problem," she said. The news wasn't good. There were some abnormal cells in my pap - possibly pre-cancerous. "We'll need to get a closer look and possibly take a biopsy." I set the appointment for a week later, and sort of dazed through until it was time.

Dr. Lee showed me a five-step scale for the levels of cervical cancer. "I think you awound level two," he said. That gave me a 70% chance of recovery within twelve months, without treatment, and a 30% chance of developing cancer over the next five years. The plan was to do a visual inspection with a magnifying device, then take a biopsy if it was needed. They wound up doing a scraping of my side wall, a tissue sampling from behind the cervix, and two cervical biopsies. When he was finished, the doctor told me to prepare myself for the results. I was closer to a level three or four than a two, which gave me somewhere between 60 and 75% of developing cervical cancer in two years, if I didn't already have it.

"How long?" I asked, shaken, but still in control.

"Seven to ten business days," he said over his shoulder as he walked out the door again. I made a mental note to change doctors, and marked my calendar for the results.

Freedom

6am - December 23, 2005

I woke up to the clang of the phone ringing. Eyes closed, I fumbled on the nightstand, looking for the receiver.

"What time is it?" I grumbled, my voice muffled by the pillow.

"I don't know. Are you up?" My mother. One of two people audacious enough to call me at that hour.

"I am, now."

"Look, when you get up - well, when you get out of bed - and you go to check your email... I just want to tell you I'm sorry. Mo, are you listening? You need to be prepared when you see it."

"Prepared for what? When I see what?"

"George sent you an email this morning, Mouth. He wants a divorce. I'm so sorry."

"What? How do you know that?" I asked, eyes opening painfully against the morning light.

"He sent a copy to your father and I."

"Why would he do that?" I frowned.

"I don't know, Mo. Call me if you need anything."

-click-

I laid in bed for about an hour, thinking about why we'd decided it was best that I leave Bahrain, why I'd come home, and why he'd ask for a divorce two days after I'd had a third heart-breaking miscarriage. Then I thought about money - or the lack of it. It was the end of the month. There was $500 in my checking account, and I didn't have a job. My mortgage was due in less than ten days. I heard his voice in my head, a conversation from three days before.

"I think you should wait to get a job. Get your classes started, figure out how much time and energy you'll have after you're established in your coursework. Then, if you still want a job, get something part-time, on the weekends."

At the time, it had seemed like he only wanted me to be successful. Had he planned it? We'd argued the next afternoon when I came home from the hospital. He perfunctorily asked if I was alright, and moments later laid into me. It hadn't occured to me at the time that the argument meant the end of us.

"It's them or me, Mouth. You canbe faithful to your husband, the man you pledged to love, honor, and obey, or you can keep hanging out with your friends. Them or me, Mouth. Which is it?"

I hadn't answered him. All I'd said was that I wasn't going to let a man dictate to me who I could or could not spend my time with, husband or no. I didn't think it was fair for me to have to give up my support group, people I'd known for years, because of his insecurity. He thought surely a woman couldn't be surrounded by men all the time and not give in to temptation. I'm made of stronger stuff than that. The argument didn't end well, but I didn't think he'd leave me. Not so soon after the baby. Not two days before Christmas.

I called him. The phone seemed to ring forever on the other end. Finally, he picked up.

"Are you sure?" was all I said.

"I'm sure."

"What do you expect me to do about the mortgage payment? It's going to take me a little while to get a job."

"Gee, Mouth, I don't know. Since those friends of yours are so great, why don't you ask them for it?" The line went dead.

... a few months later...

"I miss you, Mo, and I love you. I think I made a mistake."

"Is that an appolagy?"

"No, I still don't think I was wrong, I just don't want to be without you."

"Then we're no better off than we were in December, George. I tell you what: I'll give you a year. One year to the day after you told me you wanted a divorce. One year to figure out what you want, and to get it right. After that..."

I didn't finish the sentence. It didn't seem necessary.

... today.

A year ago, today, I obligated myself to waiting for a man who didn't want me. A man who didn't love me because I wouldn't obey. A man who made our private life public to my family and friends.

Today I got my freedom.

It's a strange feeling. Strange, but welcome.

"Free at last, free at last,
Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!
The very time I thought I was lost!
Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!
My dungeon shook and my chains fell off!
Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!
This is religeon, I do know!
Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!
For I never felt such love before!
Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!"

The F Word

I've never had a tremendous immune system - I get sick at the drop of a hat. Things have been a lot better since they took my tonsils, but I still seem to develop pneumonia every time some one around me gets the sniffles. M calls me a walking pre-existing condition - not a very flattering pet name, but it's unfortunately reasonably close to accurate. For the past eight months or so I've been down more often than usual. I'm having all sorts of strange symptoms: numb limbs, strange aches and pains not related to injury, fatique. It's been nearly impossible to carry on a normal life - I constantly feel like I have the flu.

After a forth bout of missing three consecutive days of work, feeling lousy every day for a month straight, and not having the energy to even visit the grocer, I finally broke down and made an apponintment with another doctor's office - an internist. It was my third appointment for the same problem - the previous two doctors had sort of patted me on the head, prescribed ibuprofen for the discomfort, and told me to take it easy for a few days. I didn't think he'd take me seriously. In all honesty, I thought I was buying a one-way ticket to the looney bin. One thirty-minute consultation and seven vials of blood later, the doc called me at work.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, but I can tell you what isn't." We ruled out some of the major illnesses that have symptoms similar to mine. It was a big releif.

"Okay. So we know what it isn't," I said. "Any idea what it is?"

"Well, given your family history, your symptoms, the duration of your complaint and the bloodwork, I believe you have fibromyalgia. I'd like for you to go see a specialist. I'll perscribe some medication to help treat the symptoms in the meantime."

So now I'm loaded up on pills - for pain, for sleep, for fatigue - and I have an appointment with another doctor on February 5th. Both my aunt and my grandmother have it. I called my aunt, so I'd know what to expect when I got to the specialist's office. "Incurable" she'd said, "but managable."

I'll have it for the rest of my life. It's regulated by diet, stretching exercises done twice daily to keep the muscles from breaking down, medication, and careful, constant inspection for things not quite right with the body.

Incurable, but managable. I hope she's right.

Tryptophan... mmmm!

You'd better watch out! You'd better not cry! You'd better not pout! I'm tellin you why - Mister M is comin' to town.... along with 20 or so of my family and their friends.

As we gathered around the table(s) to celebrate a few thousand buckle-shoed pilgrims living in wood huts way back when, I smiled at M over a deliciously fattening plateful of everyone's favorite holiday foods. he flew up to spend the weekend with my family and me, and what a brave soul he was! He handled my psychotic sister deftly, withstood my abrasive aunt's sarcasm, and made my mother melt with his culinary skills. Who could ask for a more perfect introduction to the family? I knew he was in like flint when mother asked him to make the gravy - she won't even let me in her kitchen.

The kicker, though, was when they giggled conspiritorily together around the stove.

Mother: "You know, you're welcome back any time."

M: "Madam, don't you think we ought to, at the very least, invite Mo out for dinner during my visit? It's really the least we could do."

Mother: "What for?"

Are mothers allowed to like the people we bring home with us more than they like their own children? Isn't there a law against that somewhere?

20 Questions

I recently applied for a promotion in Cubby-Gopher Land, which may seem a bit ambitious to some, given that I've only been there since April. No sense wasting time about it - I'm more than qualified for the supervisory position I put in for, and there's really no good reason I couldn't feasibly be bumped up.

No good reason, of course, except that I interviewed with Corporate Barbie herself. Daphne sat across the table from me, fresh out of anorexia rehab (quite literally), fidgeting with her pen and nervously asking generic, straight-off-the-page questions.

"How do you deal with conflict?"
"What do you say to an employee who you believe is calling in sick, but who you feel is lying."
"How will you handle a situation that could arise if your co-workers believe they should have been promoted instead of you."

I nearly fell asleep in my chair, it was so dry.

She just sat there, batting her Maybeline lashes and twittering prettily, as if it'd have some effect on me. She tried to read the page seamlessly, which I'm sure she was coached in during some corporate training program. Unfortunately, it made her look more like a stammering idiot. She did, however, get the cutest little wrinkle between her brows - practiced, I'm sure. It was all I could do not to reach over to pat her on the head, and coo, "There, there, sweetheart. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it. Mouth's gonna make it all better." Ugh.

I'm supposed to find out by the end of November whether I got the position. Wish me luck?

The Next Generation

Court and I went shopping for holiday foodstuffs straight after work a few weeks back. It was late, we were both beat, and thank God we only had a few armfulls of junk to buy, cuz I think blood would have run from my ears if I'd have had to wait in line. We hit the Express Lane behind a hottie Latino. Shaved head, high cheekbones, big, gorgeous brown eyes. Definitely the type you don't mind seeing naked in your bedroom with the lights low.

As he's turning to leave the register, he runs smack into the empty shopping cart parked behind him, nudges it out of the way, and keeps on walking.

"Um, excuse me," I say, hands on the cart, moving it towards him. The implied message, of course: Aren't you forgetting something?

He spins around, flashes a million-dollar smile, puts his hands up on the classic I-didn't-touch-it move, and says,"Oh, that ain't mine," then spins again and keeps on walking walkin. He didn't even break his stride.

I sigh, shake my head, and continue on behind the guy out the sliding glass doors. He watches me walk over and put the cart away, then flashes that smile again. I curled my lip and snorted at him, thinking, "Sure, it's easy enough to look at, but I bet it leaves its underwear in the floor."

Don Juan sort of raises his brows - surprised, I guess, that I don't turn into a puddle of girl-goo right there in the shopping mart entrancyway.

When I got back in, Court was laughing. "So, what did he say?"

"Nothin'." I shrugged. "Not a damn thing." As we walked out to the car, we both laughed about it. "And you wonder why I date older men? They don't do things like that."

"Yeah, but most of 'em are old enough to be your dad!"

"True," I concede, "but at least they're not completely unconscious."

Court stopped dead in her tracks, grocery bags dangling at her sides. "You're gonna blog about this, aren't you?"

Yup. I sure am.

Dangling Chads

--------------------------
The true greatness of a nation depends upon
the character of its ethical ideal
and the energy with which it pursues it.
(Jacob Gould Shurman)
--------------------------

"I need to leave work by ten to 6 tonight." I stood next to my boss's cubicle, peering over the squat gray wall into her little box of self-expression in our cookie-cutter cubbies.

"Why?"

"I need to drive out to the 'burbs to vote. The ballots close at 7, and it's a 45 minute drive."

She smiled at me. "We plan to let every one out by five so they can go vote."

And let us out at five they did. Awfully surprising, given the overtime we've been pulling lately. It's good to see that the bosses haven't completely lost sight of supporting grunts like me.

Some of the girls and I walked around the corner and dropped into our Happy Hour bar for a cold one before we headed to the polls. I had, by far, the longest drive of the four of us. We toasted a birthday, hassled a waitress (she deserved it - more on that later) and generally laughed off the day. The clock struck 5:45 (yeah, I know - it's an odd hour. What do you think this is, Cinderella?) and I upended my glass, waved good-bye to my fellow cubby-gophers, and started the walk home.

The old gals at the polls seemed deliriously happy to see me. It didn't occur to me that I'm probably a rare sight. I hate the fact that people actually thanked me profusely for voting, because so few people in my age group actually do it.

I signed the book, showed my ID and registration card, and waited for instruction. The last time I voted (which happened to be the presidential election), the county was still using #2 pencils and bubble forms. I remember feeling like I was retaking the SAT.

This time, they'd brought in some new-fangled machines, where you had to push in this cassette to activate it, and walk through the auto-prompts for all the different provided selections. Half the elections on the ballot were positions I didn't even know existed, much less recognizing the names listed. Some of the slots only had one name, and then a section where you could enter the name of your choice that wasn't already listed.

I contemplated voting for myself as Secretary of Treasury for Paperwork and Filing, but decided against it. I didn't have an acceptance speech prepared.

Letters to God

I saw this on the news popup when I went to check my email this morning.

News Story: Unanswered Prayers

Letters to God, tossed into the ocean in a garbage sack. Person who did it had the best of intentions, no doubt, but sad, all the same.

Apparently addressed to some priest who died a few years back. I'm no Catholic, but I'm pretty sure he was supposed to actually do something with them, rather than just let 'em sit around and pile up. Didn't even open 'em. Maybe he got too busy.

Then again, we're all too busy any more, aren't we?

Story says the guy plans to sell 'em on Ebay. Seems a shame. You shouldn't sell things like that. Just isn't right.

So I wrote to Frank, the guy who runs Post Secret (if you haven't been, stop reading this and go now).

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Frank:

... maybe you could contact the guy, get him to let you have the letters? Maybe you could post them (or some of them, anyway) one of these Sundays. Maybe you could put them in one of your books.

I don't know. Just seems like, with what you do and all, you'd be able to help.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe Frank's too busy, too.

Damn shame.

Goblin-less

"You goin' to the boss's Halloween party?" a co-worker asked me.

"Nah."

"Why not?"

There are all kinds of office stories about Halloweens past, where so-and-so got too drunk to walk, then fell down a flight of stairs, and this and that person snuck into the toilet together and locked every one out for two hours. There's no telling which stories are true and which ones are just passed around for ease of boredom, but I certainly didn't want my name inserted into any of them.

"Mister M's flying me down for the weekend. You'll all be getting sick on Jell-o shots, and I'll be walking on the beach, watching the sun set." I smiled. I was looking very forward to the weekend.

And it was lovely. We had breakfast with a friend of his, dinner with some family, and spent the rest of the time loafing around and relaxing. I suppose the introduction to family and friends is a major milestone in a relationship. The last time he was in KC, he met my parents for a few brief moments. Then again, we've been seeing each other, at least casually, for around eleven months. Time flies, I guess. It seems a long time, when you put a number on it. I haven't noticed.

I spent Halloween evening at my parents', just like I do every year. It isn't really a family thing; it's mostly just dad and me. He loves to see the little ghosts and goblins parading up and down the street, giggling and running and having a good time. This year, thought, my folks are in an apartment. They didn't close on their farm til the day after Halloween. Unfortunately, that meant my dad spent the majority of the evening sitting in front of the open door with a bowl of candy in his lap, looking forlornly out at the parking lot, waiting for even one child to scamper by.

None did.

When 8 o'clock struck, I asked if he wanted to pack up and drive to his church, and pass out candy there. He sighed, saying no, he'd rather wait here, just in case. His porch light was the only one on in the entire complex. No children were going to stop by, and we all knew it, but none of us had the heart to discourage him.

Mom got the brilliant idea that we should drive out to the farm so I could see it. I hadn't yet been out, what with the family feud and all. We tried to get dad to go, but he was determined to stick it out by the door. When we got back about an hour later, he'd gone to bed.

He never did get any trick-or-treaters.

Stand Up

I suppose it was bound to happen, eventually. Every one goes through it, at one time or another. At least, any one who's on the market for any length of time.

I got stood up.

And we're not talking one of those corny, "I'm sorry, my grandmother's uh... sick... yeah... she's sick," and then he goes slinking off to the game with his buddies. We're talking the classic no-call, no-show. Didn't even deign to make an appolagy until late the following evening, and that came by email.

It probably wouldn't have bothered me in the least, had I not been looking so forward to it. We'd been out to coffee before, which spilled into a leisurely lunch and a few hours of engaging conversation. That was about a month ago - our schedules just didn't line up. So finally we work it out that we can meet up for dinner last week, but neither wanted to nail down a place.

After a long and drawn-out back-and-forth, where he was cheerfully unwilling to offer suggestions, and I was ridiculously indecisive (not unusual, when it comes to me and food), I made the call the night before, and shot him an email with the time, place, and my phone number - just in case he'd lost it in a blizzard or something.

I rushed home on date-night, a fire lit under my ass to shave enough time out to get cleaned up and changed, and low and behold, the boy hadn't responded to my email. Being the thorough young lady that I am (and thinking that with his terrible internet connection, perhaps he hadn't been able to get the note), I called - three times. Three times, I got the annoying beep-beep of a busy line. I sighed, set the phone down, and looked at my watch. We were supposed to meet up in ten minutes.

The question was, did I drive down there and sit and wait, hoping he just hadn't reponded due to time constrictions, and risk looking like Little Miss Lonlihearts, or did I blow it off, and risk beng the one standing him up? I figured without a response on his part, I was under no obligation to show up, and figured he had the number, and he could call if he found I wasn't there. It was, after all, a mere five minute drive from my apartment, and about two from his (chosen more for location than ambiance, I'm afraid - what can I say? I'm a hopeless romantic).

So as a last act of courtesy, I shot him another email, saying that I'd called and hadn't gotten an answer, so I wasn't going to sit and wait, and that was that. Slight blow to my ego, for sure.

Can't get a standing ovation all the time, I guess...

"Houston, we have a @$%#ing problem!"

-----Email-----

Mouth:

Want to know something mindblowingly weird? I'm 90% certain I'll be moving to to a job in KC next February.

How @$%#ing weird is that?

-Doc

PS: How ya been?

----- Response -----

Doc:

90% certain, huh? And yes, very @$%#ing weird. And exciting, if you're a girl who happens to actually be in KC. Plan on asking me to coffee? Bringing Mrs. Doc with you?

And I've been fantastic. Fan-@$%#ing-tastic!

-Mouth

-----No Response-----
One month later...

Mornin Doc!

Whatever happened to you heading towards KC?

-Mouth

-----Response-----

Mouth:

May 2007. But as far as you're concerned, nothing, after your foul-mouthed, ill-judged reply awhile back.

-Doc

-----Response-----

Doc:

I'm sorry?? I thought perhaps I'd let a word or two slip, but when I went back and re-read my last several emails to you, there was nothing in them that I thought you might find offensive.

You sure it was me?

-Mouth

-----Response-----

Doc:

Nevermind, I found it. If seeing the word @$%# disturbs you, then I'm certainly sorry to have offended. It wasn't my intent.

I think you're being over-sensitive, and it probably would have been more effective to say, "Yanno, that really bothers me. Please don't do it," but whatever works for you, man.

Funny thing is, that word isn't even a part of my regular vocabulary. I was having a great day, and was elated about some life goings-on. It came out a bit over-exhuberant, I'll admit, but I'm not certain it's something I'd break contact over, were it me.

Enjoy the day!
-Mouth

-----End Communication-----

I swear all the men I know are ragging right now. What the hell? Can't a girl get a break for just a week or two? Please? You guys are killin me....

I don't know whether I'm confused, offended, or hurt.

Okay, nix on the hurt. I'm confused and offended. Why is it okay for a man to use that type of language in casual communication, but not a woman? It isn't something I say every day, and it's certainly not something I let slip around folks I'm not comfortable with.

I don't get it. I just don't get it...

Follow the Leader

A friend sent me a link to a CNN clip about a school near Boston banning Tag! as a recess activity. The school claims it's an unsupervised contact sport, and that children can get hurt.

Other schools have also banned games where contact is involved, specifically dodgeball, which was deemed, "exclusionary and dangerous."

I remember moving every 10 months growing up. I remember always being the new kid. It didn't help that I was overweight and awkward. I was always picked last, and often not picked at all. I remember standing alone on the sidelines, or with one or two other "unwanteds" - kids nobody wanted on their team because they weren't fast enough, or couldn't hit a ball hard enough, or were just plain unpopular. How I wished that some one would have come along and told the other children, "You can't play that game any more. If every one can't play, no one can play."

The memories of that period are still painful, but looking back as an adult, I wouldn't change them. I'm glad no grown-up came to rescue me. Through difficulty, I learned resourcefulness. Through loneliness, I learned how to be aware of others' needs for interaction.

Children of my generation didn't suffer micromanagement by school officials. Our nation was still under the impression that parents should be allowed to... well... parent their children, and that school was a place for book-learning and studying. The "do-s" and "don't-s" of day-to-day interaction were expected to be taught in the home.

My generation was also the first to have children mass-murdering other children in schools. We were the first to have classmates strap explosives to themselves and walk into a crowded gymnasium. We were the first to take bitterness and anger from being excluded from recess games and twist them into justification for revenge. Because of my generation, the children of today aren't allowed to decide what games to play during their breaks.


"What's next?" My friend queried. "A ban on hugs?"
"A ban on smiles," I said, sighing heavily.
"I think they're trying to ban contact," he chuckled.
"Sure, for now. Eventually, though, smiles will be seen as a distraction."
"Your probably right," he agreed, heavy-hearted.

Said one parent, "Playing tag is just part of being a kid."

Even the PTO is at odds with the ban. " I would say it's kind of silly, and there's no reason for it- for them not to be able to play tag." (PTO President)

Why, then, has the ban not been lifted? Parents disagree with it. Teachers disagree with it. Surely that counts for something? Apparently not, when their voices are out of synch with the school principal's agenda.

I'm sure, at this point, you're thinking I'm a bit over the top. Inferences to conspiracy theories and likening the school principal to a Nazi leader probably doesn't sit well with most folks. In truth, it's only a vague musing. Think on this, though:

When the German leadership decided to move in the direction of what we now call the Holocaust, they didn't start out by blazing in with guns firing and mass-murdering people. They started out by smiling at the children. By molding and sculpting young minds as they grew to follow the crowd instead of think independently, they convinced an entire nation to participate in genocide. It all started with one simple phrase:

This is for your own good.


---------------------------------------
First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.
(Pastor Martin Niemöller)
---------------------------------------

Foot-in-Mouth Disease

I spent the weekend in Austin, attending a wedding for my Bohemian cousin. All her hippy friends flew down from Portland to spend the weekend in drunken revelry.

I'm sitting on a barstool in a dive on the infamous 6th Street, talking to a gal who's got to be eight months along. The bar's so full of smoke I can barely see to the opposite wall, and she's sucking cigs down like they're candy straws. Despite the fact that it breaks my heart, I hold my tongue.

The waiter comes by. "Can I get you ladies anything?" he says, sweet southern drawl melting us both like butter.

I order my customary beer. She follows with, "I'll have the same." He returns in a few minutes toting two perfectly poured, frosted mugs. Finally, I pipe up- I just can't hold it in any longer. I know, I know - I'm a judgemental bitch. I have theories about why I feel justified in saying something to a gal I've only just met, but we'll go into that another time.

"That's healthy," I say as she takes her first sip.

"What?" She blinks at me, all wide-eyed and innocent.

"The beer," I say, nodding to her glass.

She frowns. "You're having one."

"I'm not pregnant," I quip. She raises a brow.

"Neither am I."

Ouch.

Stage Fright

You know, being female has it's advantages - the inability to poop in public places is not one of them. There are any number of places a girl can't drop a brick. They include (but are certainly not limited to):

Friend's house
Boyfriend's house
Parent's house
In-Law's house
Sibling's house
Shopping Centers
Hotel Rooms
Bars and Nightclubs
The Office
The Grocery Store
The Woods

Pretty much anywhere anyone may be even the slightest bit exposed to our utter lack of femininity while we're grunting one out. Pooping is a gal's dirty little secret. I've had more than one male friend comment that his girlfriend never poops. Hate to break it to ya, guys... she does it, she just waits til she gets home.


Ever have your girl stay the night, and go to bed frustrated because she won't put out? She doesn't have a headache - she's carrying a load, and is worried that she might fart while you're smackin her ass from behind... or worse, that she might pinch off a pill during the yoga you like to call sex. Ever try to hold one in when your ankles are up by your ears? And you thought that was her O-face...



The bottom line is (yeah, sorry bout that pun), while men seem to feel free to share the product of their bowels with the rest of the world, women would be mortified if the next person in the powder room caught a whiff of anything other than roses. That's just how we are.

For a lot of us, there's a "Poop Threshold"- a time when we determine you've been around long enough that the sound of a splash on the other side of the bathroom door isn't going to make you run screaming. We'll still lock the door, turn on the water, and fog the bathroom with air freshener, but at least there's some relief.


I pity the woman who goes out of town with a boyfriend before she reaches the Poop Threshold. If she keeps sending you to the store for "forgotten" toilettries, or asking you to go pick up dinner instead of calling room service, you can bet she's overflowing. Do be kind enough to ignore the overwhelming scent of perfume permeating your hotel room and spilling out into the hall, and God save you if you mention that you know what she was doing while you were out. Better invest in Vaseline, that's all I'm saying. You might be takin care of your own business for awhile, and I'm not talkin bout squattin on porcelain.

Pipe Dream

"I had something I wanted to tell you all day, and now I can't remember it." I sighed heavily, laying down my knife and dumping onions into a stew pot. I was half-way through putting together a batch of chili for a work-sponsored cook-off, and the day was wearing on my stamina.

"You can't remember at all?"

"No... I really can't.... Oh wait, yes! I remember!" I slapped the cutting board down on the countertop, triumphant.

"Well?"

"Oh shit!"

"What?"

"The sprinkler head just popped. I gotta go!"

I don't know if I hit the off switch on the phone, or if I just dropped it and ran. All I remember is hearing a boiler letting off steam, checking the pots, then realizing there was water pouring through the doorway of the pantry. It wouldn't be at all surprising for the sprinkler in my apartment to go off. I'm notorious among family members for burning water (literally).

It only took a moment to realize it wasn't the sprinkler, but the connecter hose to the washing machine that had torn. Using the lid of my chili pot to deflect the scalding water that was spraying from the hose like a geyser, I cranked the spigot handle down as hard as I was able, then stepped back to assess the damage.

I stood in about an inch and a half of water. All my stores of paper towels, most of my small appliances, and the kitty litter box were all soaked. I sighed, getting down on my hands and knees in the pool to fish wads of cat hair from the floor drain so the water would run off. That done, I rescued what I could of the paper towel rolls, and started pushing the flood towards the drain.

Half an hour later, the water is mostly cleaned up. The airline kennel that houses one of the cats has been upended to air dry, and what remains of the kitty litter has been salvaged as well as can be expected. It's too late to go to the store to retrieve new litter - the babies will just have to wait til tomorrow.

In between battles with the tidal wave in my laundry room, I've managed to finish my chili and bake a double-decker pineapple upside down cake for my boss's birthday tomorrow.

Some time tomorrow, I have to call and negotiate a carpet installation, get the service folks for the apartment complex to come out and fix the washer hose, get the parking company to reimburse me $80 they docked from my pay without permission, and sing the Happy Birthday song to a gal nearly old enough to be my mother. I've spent two weeks on my hands and knees, tiling my kitchen and bathroom, mending a fence, repairing a wall, painting, spackling, sawing, drilling, nailing, and plain old tearing out pieces of my house out in the 'burbs. My body's exhausted, my mind is exhausted... I could really use a break.

Anybody feel like taking over for awhile?

Sister Act

"A younger sister is someone to use as a guinea-pig in trying sledges

and experimental go-carts.

Someone to send on messages to Mum.

But someone who needs you - who comes to you with bumped heads,

grazed knees, tales of persecution.

Someone who trusts you to defend her.

Someone who thinks you know the answers to almost everything."

(Pam Brown)

--------------------------------------
1986 - in a clinic for developmentally challenged children

"I don't know how she did it. but somehow, she got Jenny to talk to her," my mother stated.

"Well, she did something. Jenny seems just fine now." The doctor eyed my sister and I, playing quietly in the corner together.

"How can a four-year-old teach a three-year-old how to talk?"

The doctor smiled. "They're sisters," he shrugged. "No one knows what goes on between them but the girls themselves. Is she potty training yet?"

"She'll go with Mouth," my mother said, shaking her head, "but refuses to even get near it when there's any one else in the room.

"That'll pass," the doctor reassured. Give them time. She'll come around."

--------------------------------------

1990 - Driving cross-country from Alaska to Texas

"We can't eva let them sepawate us, Mo." She blinked straight ahead into nothing with big, liquid-blue eyes. Her teeth were bucked just enough to give her a little bit of a lisp.

"I won't let that happen," I said, petting her head. We sat like that a lot - Jenny's head in my lap as I sat on the sofa in our Winnebago, watching the American scenery cruise by at 55 mph.

"Weally?" She turned her head so she could look up at me. I smoothed her hair behind her ear and smiled at her.

"Really. Promise." She turned back to stare into nothing, satisfied that I wouldn't let any one take her away from me.

-------------------------------------

1992 - New York

"Mo, stop reading to your sister. Make her do it herself."

"She can't."

"It's only because she doesn't try, Mo. You have to make her do it or she'll never learn."

"Mom, she can't!" I put the book down and walked over to my mother, all ten years of my life experience weighing heavily in the grave expression on my face. "Jenny can't see the words like I can."

a few months later...

"Ma'am, your daughter is dyslexic. That's why she can't read. It's also why she writes most of her letters backwards."

"Dyslexic..."

"Yes ma'am. She doesn't see words on a page the way you or I see them. Her brain processes them differently."

"I see," said my mother, eying me suspiciously.

-------------------------------------

1994 - Pennsylvania

"Mo, look! We got our tests back!" Jenny ran up the driveway waving two big, white envelopes. She thrust mine at me as she frantically tore hers open.

"See!" She crowed. I told you I'm a genius!" She waved her score page in front of my face, not holding it anywhere near still enough for me to see.

Mom laughed. "Quite an accomplishment, Jenny, coming from our family." The score was no surprise. Both my parents, all my grandparents, all my aunts and uncles, and all my cousins rate above the genius level on IQ tests. Since they'd figured out she was dyslexic and enrolled her in classes to overcome it, Jenny had done nothing but absorb knowledge.

She took off down the street, score sheet in hand, ready to rub her friends' noses in her superior aptitude.

"And what did yours say?"

I grinned and gently began working the flap of my envelope open. "Oh, just open it, Mouth!" Mother took the envelope from me and tore it open. She pulled out the pages and flipped through to the last sheet. Her brow furrowed, then she forced a smile. "That's good, Mouth. Very good." She handed the papers back to me and walked inside. I watched the screen door slam, then looked down at the score sheet.

Slightly above average.

--------------------------------
1996 - Kentucky

"Hey Mouth, wait up!" A classmate chased me down the hall. "Is it true what they're saying about your sister?"

"What's that?" I asked, slinging my pack over my shoulder and trying my best to adopt a 'cool' stance. Other students milled around us, strutting and preening in the halls of the high school.

"That Jenny slept with the quarterback and got pregnant. That your dad flew into a rage and now your parents are sending her away to boarding school, and that they're going to make her have an abortion. Is it true?"

My parents don't believe in abortion. Nor was it likely that the quarterback, who's dad happened to work for mine, would have any interest in my sister. She was only 12, for crying out loud, and he was the quarterback!

"Of course not," I snorted.

"Well, that's not what they're saying. You'd better talk to your sister. Everybody's talking about it. You'd better talk to her, like, now!"

Being the well-behaved child that I was, I told my parents. My parents decided not to say anything to Jenny. A few weeks later, at the Sunday breakfast table, Jenny proudly announced that she had, in fact, bedded the quarterback. Dad pushed back from the table, walked out of the house, climbed into his truck, and drove off. Mom went to the phone and made an appointment at the local clinic to get Jenny on birth control. Jenny went back to eating her pancakes as if nothing at all had happened.

I sat quietly, watching her.

------------------------------------
1998 - Tennessee

"Why won't she just get up!?!" Jenny yelled, slamming the phone down.

"Shhh." I tried to get her to calm down. Jenny was having none of it.

"I don't care if she hears me. I hate her!"

"You do not. Stop it. Mom will get up when she feels like it. Look, I'll get the water." I hauled myself off the couch.

Mom had been in bed for months. She wasn't sick, exactly... she just couldn't seem to muster the energy or drive to get out of bed. A few weeks back, she'd had a second phone line installed in her bedroom, on a different number than the house phone. She used it to call us, from her bedroom to the living room, to ask for food and drinks. She never had to raise her voice to get us to hear her, and she never had to leave her bedroom.

"Hey, Mo? I didn't mean to scream at you. Will you take me to the doctor, later? My stomach hurts." Jenny made a face.

"Sure, tweet. I'll take you. Lemme take care of mom real quick, then we'll go, okay?"

She smiled at me from the sofa and went back to watching cartoons.

----------------------------------

1999- Kansas

"Your nephew's adorable."

"My what?"

"Dink. Your nephew. His name is Dalton, right? Y'all call him Dink? He's super-cute. It's nice that Jenny's able to keep in touch with him."

"I don't have a nephew."

"What do you mean? Jenny showed me a picture."

"Cute little blond kid, brown eyes, about two years old?" I ask.

"Yeah... Dink."

"Dink is my sister's ex-boyfriend's nephew."

"That's not what she said."

later that week...

"Why would you tell them that!?!"

"Well, because it's the truth."

"So? Do you know how embarrassed I was?"

"I'm not going to lie for you, Jenny."

"I hate you. I fucking hate you!" She slammed her bedroom door. At that moment, I honestly believe she meant it.

--------------------------------------

2001 - Kansas

"I don't believe it," my mother huffed. "I just don't believe it. How could she do this?"

"What are you gonna do?" I asked, staring up at my bedroom ceiling as my mother rambled on into the phone.

"I don't know. I just don't know! I mean, he could go to prison! He could be court-marshaled. It's the end of his career, at the very least."

"Alright." The military police had just left my parent's house (MPs because my dad was still active-duty Army at the time).

The reason for their visit? Jenny had told several of her classmates that my dad had pushed her down the stairs, and beat her regularly. She also inferred that he molested her. Apparently, it got back to one of the teachers, who called the cops.

None of it was true, of course. My dad may have been absent through most of my life, and maybe he'd spanked us harder than he should have sometimes, but he certainly would never violently attack her, and he definitely wouldn't have laid a hand on her in any way that could be anything but fatherly. They'd argued about something, and she concocted this story as a way of mentally retaliating. I don't think she meant it to ever get back to him - she just didn't think about those things.

"Hey Mo?"

"Yeah, mom?"

"Can she come stay with you? At least until she graduates? She's only got six months left."

I was eighteen years old. I'd just closed on my house a few months before. I was barely able to make ends meet as it was.

"We'd make sure you weren't put out, Mouth. We're not just going to dump her on you. We just need some... space." She waited a while before continuing. "It's either that, or we're sending her to military school."

I couldn't help but thinking back to the little girl with her head in my lap. -We can't eva let them sepawate us, Mo.- I promised I wouldn't.

A few weeks later, Jenny moved in with me. It wasn't long before her homeless friend, who's parents had kicked her out and who had been living out of her car for a month, moved in as well. Both the girls worked and went to school. My parents stopped calling. Jenny and I argued and made up, we screamed, we yelled, we threw things at each other, but we finally reached our goal - she graduated from high school.

The day after graduation, Jenny moved in with her boyfriend. Her final statement of gratitude as she drove off with a pickup full of stuff?

"Man, am I glad to be getting out of here!"

------------------------------
2002 - Kansas

"What do you mean, she left?"

"I don't know. She went to California." My dad sounded tired. He was to have retired a few months ago, but was being held because of 9/11.

"When is she coming back?"

"I don't know."

"Well, how far behind is she?"

Dad sighed. "Three months."

"And they're just now calling you?"

"Yes."

"Alright," I breathed. "Alright. I'm coming."

We met in front of the house she and her old homeless friend had rented together. Neither one of them had any credit, so my dad had called in a favor with a friend of his to get them the lease. I unlocked the door and walked into the house. Dad was right behind me. The sick-sweet smell of mold and decay hung heavy in the air. Dad spun, ran out the door, and got sick in the yard. 31 years of military combat training, years of being a Ranger and going to war and teaching soldiers how to kill, and the smell of that house was overpowering to him. It was making my eyes water.

Inside, we found dishes that had sat with food on them so long that mold grew up over them like a carpet. Two bunnies were in a cage in the kitchen. One, very thin and barely moving, laid dying in the corner. The other wasn't breathing. The cat box was filled to over-flowing, and the cat had started to use the furniture, rather than the dirty litter. Windows were broken, the carpet was stained with who-knows-what. The floor was strung with a variety of trash and broken objects. We literally cleared several of the rooms out with snow shovels and garbage sacks. There was nothing worth saving.

Two days into the cleaning process, Jenny came back from California and shacked up in my parents' basement. There was still a lot of work to do at the house, but she never showed up to help. She did, eventually, call and yell at me for throwing her mementos and keepsakes away. Photographs, trinkets, things of that nature. Things that mixed and mingled with the trash in an indecipherable pile of rubbish. I tried to explain that there was no way we could have known, but it didn't matter. She just wanted to unleash on some one. I let her scream. When she was finished, I hung up and went back to helping dad haul out the rest of the trash.

----------------------------------
Eight months ago...

"Mo, my hair's falling out!" Jenny sobbed into the phone.

"What do you mean, your hair's falling out? It's supposed to. I'm sure it's fine. Calm down."

"No, I mean, like, in clumps. It's just falling out into my hands!"

I knew what was going on. I'd started showing for alopecia while I was overseas. When I came home in December, I still had some leftover bald patches that hadn't quite filled in.

"Alright. Well, calm down about it. Stress is only going to make it worse."

Later that day, she showed up at my house. Sure enough, there were several large, bald patches missing from her head. Problem was, the bald patches had stubble.

When alopecia makes your hair fall out, the skin is slick because the hair falls out at the root. Jenny's spots were shaved.

I wrote to my parents, who were in the Middle East at the time, explaining the situation to them and asking for guidance. I told them I thought her shaving her head was the first stage of self-mutilation, and that I was worried it would progress into more serious issues if it wasn't dealt with immediately. I thought if the three of us could address the issue together, maybe we could figure out a solid way to manage the situation.

My parents' answer was, "We're sorry, but there's nothing we can do from here. You'll have to figure it out."

So, I did the best I could. I had breakfast with her every Saturday morning. When she started talking about how sick she was, or her hair, I simply got quiet and ignored her. It wasn't theatrical, but it definitely coaxed her away from those topics of conversation. I honestly thought she was doing better... for awhile.

-----------------------------------
Six months ago...

"I'm so sorry to hear about your sister, Mouth." Dee, my neighbor, laid a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. "It's so sad, and she's so young. Give my best to your parents, won't you?"

I stood in a daze. I'd heard rumors Jenny was telling people she had cancer. She'd started shaving her head a few months before, just after telling me she thought she had alopecia, claiming it was just too hard to watch all her hair fall out slowly, and she just wanted to get it over with.

I started asking around. It's a small town. News travels fast, and tongues wag freely.

From the boytoy: "Jenny? She's got a big bottle of diet pills she pops almost constantly. She really ought to stop that. Between that and the chemo, she's starting to look gangly."

From a gal at the local diner: "Yeah, Jenny told me about the bone cancer. It's really sad. It's nice of you to take off every Monday and come drive her to chemo, though. Real nice."

From her boyfriend: "She called in the middle of the night last week, drunk as hell and trying to drive. Don't know what she was thinking. She knows she's not supposed to drink, with the radiation and all that. She doesn't even have a license any more, since she passed out behind the wheel a few months back."

So that was it. Jenny had thoroughly convinced every one in town she had cancer. She'd taken off work, been toted around and waited on hand and foot by friends and acquaintances, been pitied and cared for and looked after for months.

On top of that, she and her friend were renting my house. I couldn't afford to ask them to leave - I needed them to pay the rent, because I can't afford both the mortgage and the rent on my apartment in the city.

It made me sick, and there was nothing I could do about it.

----------------------------------
One month ago...

"Where's your sister?" My parents stood in the airport terminal, bags in hand, waiting for me to pick them up.

"Well..." I started. "Let's walk out to the car."

We stopped at a local pub and had some appetizers and a drink. I explained that Jenny had told every one she had cancer, and that her room mate had found her out. Jenny's boyfriend broke up with her, she got fired from her job, she lost all her friends. Every one hated her, and no one trusted her. She'd checked herself into the hospital on suicide watch three days prior.

"Is she okay?" mom asked.

"I don't know." I didn't have any desire to see her or talk to her. I handed them a sticky note with the phone number to the hospital, and took them to their hotel room.

"We're going to go visit her tomorrow. Do you want to go?"

"No, I'll stay at home. I'll see you guys in a few days." I kissed them both and drove home. She was held in the hospital for five days, then released with a sack full of anti-anxiety and anti-depression meds.

------------------------------------
Two weeks ago - 3pm - in the middle of my workday

TEXT MESSAGE: TAKE CARE OF MOMMY AND DADDY. I'M SORRY.

I contemplated calling 911, then dialed Dad instead. I told him about the message.

"I'm on my way over. I'll let you know how it goes."

He called back an hour later. Jenny had taken all the medication she'd been prescribed during her hospital stay, along with any other pills she'd found in the house, then laid down in the bathroom floor and text messaged me. When I didn't respond, she text messaged her entire phone list with a dramatic good-bye message.

"You know that means she didn't really want to kill herself," I said.

"Mo, she took a dozen bottles of pills. She didn't mean to not kill herself."

Two hours later, he called back. Jenny had a seizure and rolled off the bed in the hospital, smashing her face on the concrete floor. She'd broken a tooth, given herself a black eye, and fractured her nose. Dad said she looked like she'd gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson.

All I could think was, "Good. I hope it hurts."

---------------------------------

This morning...

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm in the middle of something, Mom. Can I call you back?"

"Sure. Of course you can. You need to know that your sister had a stroke last week."

"What do you mean she had a stroke?"

"Well, she has somewhat limited mobility, and she keeps having seizures. She's shaking - it's a form of palsy, and she isn't able to speak the same way any more. She can't eat without spilling half of it down her front. It also gave her turrettes. She makes humming and growling noises now, and she has a tic."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" A whole week? And nobody called me?

"Well, we wanted you to have a good week."

"I see. Is it because of the pills?"

"Yes."

"Is it permanent?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"She's nervous about seeing you."

"She's got nothing to be nervous about. I don't intend to see her."

"At all? Mouth, she just had a stroke!"

"I know that. I'm not saying never, just not right now."

"Well, think about it."

"Mom, I have to go. I'll call you back."

-------------------------------

1,000 Marbles

I got this from my cubby-gopher neighbor today. It's about the only worthwhile piece of junk mail I've received at work thus far.





Oh, and just in case you were wondering - 2668.




--------------------------------------------------
1,000 Marbles
-Author Unknown-

The older I get, the more I enjoy Saturday mornings. Perhaps it's the quiet solitude that comes with being the first to rise, or maybe it's the unbound joy of not having to be at work. Either way, the first few hours of a Saturday morning are most enjoyable.

A few weeks ago, I was shuffling toward the garage with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other. What began as a typical Saturday morning turned into one of those lessons that life seems to hand you from time to time. Let me tell you about it:

I turned the dial up into the phone portion of the band on my ham radio in order to listen to a Saturday morning swap net. Along the way, I came across an older sounding chap, with a tremendous signal and a golden voice. You know the kind; he sounded like he should be in the broadcasting business. He was telling whom-ever he was talking with something about "a thousand marbles". I was intrigued and stopped to listen to what he had to say.

"Well, Tom, it sure sounds like you're busy with your job. I'm sure they pay you well, but it's a shame you have to be away from home and your family so much. Hard to believe a young fellow should have to work sixty or seventy hours a week to make ends meet. It's too bad you missed your daughter's dance recital." he continued. "Let me tell you something that has helped me keep my own priorities."

And that's when he began to explain his theory of "a thousand marbles".

"You see, I sat down one day and did a little arithmetic. The average person lives about seventy-five years. I know, some live more and some live less, but on average, folks live about seventy-five years. Now, then, I multiplied 75 times 52 and came up with 3700, which is the number of Saturdays that the average person has in their entire lifetime. Now, stick with me, Tom, I'm getting to the important part. It took me until I was fifty five years old to think about all this in any detail," he went on," and by that time, I had lived through over twenty-eight hundred Saturdays. I got to thinking that if I lived to be seventy-five, I only had about a thousand of them left to enjoy, so I went to a toy store and bought every single marble they had. I ended up having to visit three toy stores to round up 1000 marbles. I took them home and put them inside a large, clear plastic container right here in the shack next to my gear.

"Every Saturday since then, I have taken one marble out and thrown it away. I found that by watching the marbles diminish, I focused more on the really important things in life. There is nothing like watching your time here on this earth run out to help get your priorities straight."

"Now, let me tell you one last thing before I sign off with you and take my lovely wife out for breakfast. This morning, I took the very last marble out of the container. I figure that if I make it til next Saturday, then I have been given a little extra time, and the one thing we can all use is a little more time.

"It was nice to meet you, Tom. I hope you spend more time with your family, and I hope to meet you again here on the band. This is a 75 year old man, K9NZQ, clear and going QRT, good morning!"

You could have heard a pin drop on the band when this fellow signed off. I guess he gave us all a lot to think about. I had planned to work on the antenna that morning, and then I was going to meet up with a few hams to work on the next club newsletter.

Instead, I went upstairs and woke my wife up with a kiss. "C'mon, honey, I'm taking you and the kids to breakfast."

"What brought this on?" she asked with a smile.

"Oh, nothing special, it's just been a long time since we spent a Saturday together with the kids. And hey, can we stop at a toy store while we're out? I need to buy some marbles."



-------------------------------------------

American Idol

"Hey, this your sister?" I ask, picking up a photograph from my boss's desk. Lonnie nods her ascent, completely absorbed in the glowing comp screen in front of her.

"She looks like that gal on your desktop."

"What?" Lonnie's brow creases. She looks at me, looks at the photograph, looks at the background on her computer. "She does not!"

Ah, denial - what a friend you are to the insecure. There's no denying the resemblance between Lonnie's sister and the spit-shined super-star mug of Jessica Simpson. The funny part is that Lonnie and the rest of the self-titled Plastics absolutely worship Jess. They'd pay top dollar for used toilet paper on EBay if they could find it. It's more than a little ridiculous, given that they're all in their mid-twenties.

"Why do you like her so much, anyway?" I ask, wrinkling my nose. Jess has a lazy eye and a callogen smile. Her features are too sharp, and her overall look is too manufactured. I don't think she's beautiful at all.

"Oh, she's so pretty, and so talented!" Lonnie gushes, turning her star-struck eyes back to the glowing image of Jessica in daisy dukes, car-wash sponge in hand and soap suds up to her elbows.

"Okay, so she's pretty and she can sing. Lots of pretty people can sing. What makes you choose her above every one else? I mean, I understand she's this mega-super-starlette and all that, but does she ever do anything worthwhile with all her celebrity and money? Does she ever do anything for any one other than herself??"

Lonnie pursed her lips, no doubt mentally sifting through all the recent In Touch articles she could remember, searching for some shiney little tidbit of humanitarian activity stored back in her memory banks. It's funny - Lonnie could probably tell you what color shirt the star was wearing in last month's fashion rag, but can't seem to remember anything of import Ms. Simpson had actually accomplished since becoming America's sweetheart.

"She did some stuff in Africa. You know, read to starving children and stuff." She nodded, assuring herself that her demigod was worthy of attention, affection, and loads and loads of cash.

"I see." Because starving children really need to read The Cat in the Hat before their bodies start digesting their internal organs in a desperate bid for calories. Pretty big accomplishment. Lonnie had already become re-absorbed in the glowing box, Jessica Simpson dancing happily in still in the background.

Lonnie's a sweet gal, she's just... empty-headed. It's a shame she spends so much time looking at Daisey Duke posters, wishing she looked more like her idol. She really is an attractive girl. Too bad there's not more going on upstairs. Ah, well... She'll make somebody a great trophy wife some day.

Get Down with the Sickness

I've been on my deathbed since Monday. I had to leave work two hours early. Apparently, pitching my stomach into my desk wastebasket was disturbing my neighbor.

Unfortunately, I'm one of those poor fools who was cursed with a weak immune system. I get just about every bug that rolls through the office, and I seem to get it before any one else does. Most of the time I suck it up and go in anyway, but I'm not much use to any one when I'm blowin lava in both North and South America.

So I'm laying here in bed, wishing there were some type of super-antibody out there I could infuse with my bloodstream. Something that could come in and kick the living shit out of all the icky virussy things attacking my poor defenseless bod.

I thought of all the horrible, awful diseases that could be prevented. Then I remembered an article that was posted to a message board I frequent a few months back.

-------------------------------------------------------

Viruses May Be Fattening

Scientists find evidence to suggest viral infection may be cause of human obesity.
January 30, 2006

For years, scientists have wondered whether viruses should shoulder some responsibility for the wave of obesity sweeping the planet. On Monday, a U.S. medical journal released a study establishing such a link in chickens.

In all of human history, obesity stands alone among chronic diseases for the rapidity of its spread. In fact, the pattern of its quick rise looks very much like that of an infectious disease epidemic.

Six viruses have already been shown to produce obesity in animals, but University of Wisconsin, Madison scientists have now shown that a human virus can cause obesity in chickens, a strong suggestion that it could make people fat, too.

(posted on Red Herring)

---------------------------------------------------

First, Americans were fat because we inhaled fifteen Big Macs in a week. Later, we sued McDonalds for not telling us deep-fat-fried foods were unhealthy

Then Americans were fat because we were clinically depressed, and the anti-depressants and memories of our traumatic childhoods caused us to overeat.

Then Americans were fat because we had "fat genes", and it was hereditary.

Now we're fat because of a virus.

Are you kidding me?

I can see Merck having a field day with this one...

====================================================================

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Just come by our office for the new anti-viral FAT SHOT! We'’ll pump your veins full of the best antiviral concoction your money can buy!

Disclaimer: The FAT SHOT should not be used in conjunction with personal responsibility. The FAT SHOT is not right for every one. Some patients may experience a loss of accountability, motivation, inspiration, perspiration, or drive, laziness, listlessness, loss of appetite, and low self esteem. The makers of The FAT SHOT are not responsible for death in association with the use of this product, when death is brought on by stomach rupture due to over-eating. Ask your doctor if The FAT SHOT is right for you.

===================================================================

Civic Duty

"Jury duty!" Mister M snorts. "Of all the things I didn't have time for this week... Jury duty."

"I take it things didn't go well?" Thankfully, the phone muffles enough that he can only faintly here the smirk in my voice.

"The prosecutor's a damn idiot," he huffs. "A damn, raving idiot. Trying to pervert the definition of 'intent'. I'll show him intent!" I can almost see him shaking an angry fist in the air. "Hopefully I made enough of a stink today that they'll release me tomorrow, though."

I execute one of my patented pregnant pauses. He continues.

"I asked if they'd dismiss me, before it all started. They were having none of it. 'If we excused every one who worked, Mister M, no one would ever serve on a jury.' Well, it's not exactly like I'm flipping burgers at McDonald's! I'm a productive member of society. I don't have time for this! Surely they can get somebody else."

That did it. My tongue slipped from it's firm grip between my teeth.

"What if it was me?" I ask.

"Pardon?" Ever so polite.

"What if I were the defendant."

"My dear, I'd storm the prison."

"Ha. You're very cute, you know. Seriously... What if it were me?"

He stops for a moment and thinks. "What are you getting at?"

"Well, what if you were the only sane, rational, mature individual in the line up. What if you were the only thing standing between that prosecutor and the herd of cows sitting in the jury box with you? Would it still be too inconvenient?"

He sighs. "Do you have to be right all the time?"

Hey M?

Yeah... I do.

------------------------------------------------------
I am only one,
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything,
But still I can do something;
And because I cannot do everything
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.
Edward E Hale

Pour Me a Cold One

The Quaff is seated on prime real estate, wedged under some apartments on a main stretch of downtown. Half the city pours down that street as they commute to and from work every day, so it makes sense that the bulk of The Quaff's business stems from the worker bees who support the downtown honeycomb. They buzz in and out all day for lunch, then head back at the end of the day to quench their thirst.

Every Friday, a group of cubby-gofers I work with kick up their heels at a local pub's Happy Hour. The service sucks, but the beer's cheap, the music's loud, and the pool's free. This week, however, one of the gofers gets the bright idea to patronize The Quaff, which has $4 draws (that's a lot for the Midwest, folks). It's the guy's birthday, so nobody puts up much of a fuss. The whole group heads down after the 5 o'clock whistle blows.

I stroll in late with a gal pal of mine after running home to freshen up and walk the dog. The Quaff is split into three rooms; the center portion is the largest, sports the most floor space for large groups, and holds the dart board and some pool tables. They're not super-busy, but the place isn't empty, either. Our party is taking up a good third of the center portion. The table's crowded, but they nudge around and make room for two more. We grab some chairs from an empty table nearby, and slide 'em over.

Seconds later, we're accosted by a tiny sprite of a waitress. "Those are my chairs," she spits, hand on her hip, other hand lofting the tray at her shoulder.

"What do you mean?" my buddy says.

"Those chairs are from my section. You have to put them back."

My co-woerker shrugs and starts pushing hers back to the table we nabbed 'em from. Keep in mind that the table was empty. It was completely bussed and wiped - no evidence of occupancy whatsoever. In fact, that entire half of the room was empty, aside from an older couple playing pool, who were very obviously occupying a smaller table in the pool corner.

"So where do we get chairs?" I looked down at the top of the snippy gal's head, who happens to be sportin' a major camel toe in her too-tight white denim short-shorts.

"Ask your waitress," she snaps, before spinning and stomping off. What a brat.

Thankfully, this adorably sheepish busboy swooped in just before I gave in to the impulse to reach out and snatch her ponytail.

"I'll get you some chairs. Where would you ladies like to sit?" We indicate the table and stand at the end while we wait for him to return with the chairs.

"What are you doing?" one of the girl-gofers asks.

"Waiting for chairs, I guess." Maybe there was a party coming in or something, and the table was reserved. It sure wasn't marked, but ya never know. It became less of an issue when the busboy returned a few seconds later hulking two chairs. He pulled them out for us with a slight bow. Cute kid.

"So which one's our waitress?" I ask the gopher-boy next to me.

He points. She's got an ultra-dark fake-bake tan and long, dark, over-processed hair framing a face that mildly resembled a rat, hammered-to-center teeth and pinched expression included. We're there for a good ten minutes before she realizes that more have joined our party. She wanders over to my gal-pal and I.

"Can I get ya somethin?" she asks my friend.

"No thank you."

"Yeah, I'd like...." I trail off. She's already walking away.

Another ten minutes go by. She returns with a pitcher and some cups of beer. I sit and wait patiently for her to make it to my end of the table. She drops her load and goes to walk past me. No eye contact.

"Excuse me? Miss? Can I please get a beer?"

"Sure. Whadya want?" She smacks her gum, disinterested. I order a bottle. Before I can pull anything out of my pocket, Super-Waitress is gone.

Fifteen minutes later, she's still giggling with a high-top full of frat boys in the corner. She's been to the bar twice. I still don't have my beer. Frustrated, I scoot back my chair and head into the next room to the bar. I order a longneck. The owner/manager, who recognizes me (because I go often enough and have one of those faces people don't forget) snags my elbow. "Aren't you at a table?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, takin a pull from my beer.

"You have a waitress."

"I know. And if I could get her to wait on me, I'd use her." I walk off, and see him out of the corner of my eye making a b-line for Super-Waitress. I wouldn't have said anything had he not stopped me and questioned why I'd gotten my own drink.

I head back into the other room and rejoin my party. The gophers were laughing. Apparently the waitress, who'd been completely inattentive up until that point, noticed I'd gotten up and walked to the bar, and had come over to ask what that was all about. "She wanted a beer," a gopher had shrugged.

They claimed her response was, "Well, fine, then!" Sounds about right.

Couple seconds later, the owner/manager walks up and puts his hand on the back of my chair. "You guys make sure you're letting your waitress handle your drink orders. They get in trouble if y'all get up and go to the bar."

"If she'd come around, we would," I say. He walks off. No apology, no assurance of better service.

Just after he leaves, Super-Waitress swings by and asks if anybody needs anything. "I'd like another," I lift my bottle so she can see what I'm drinking.

"You already have one," she answers.

"I'm sure I'll be done with this one by the time you bring it." She rolls her eyes and takes off for the bar, presumably to retrieve the drink orders she just took from our table. Sure enough, about twenty minutes after I ordered, I drained the last of my drink as she was setting another one in front of me.

Now, I'm not a serious drinker. I'll have a beer or two every other week or so, but I don't drink fast, and I don't drink heavily. This gal was slow, and there was no way around it. To top it off, she definitely wasn't interested in waiting on anything that didn't have meat and potatoes in it's shorts.

Our party started breaking up around midnight. Had I been there alone or with one or two friends, we'd have left, but I didn't want to be rude and bail on the guy's birthday.

Yanno, about thirty minutes before we left, some folks finally wandered in and took that empty table we borrowed the chairs from. Super-waitress was on for the rest of the night, making sure everybody got what they needed and actually doing her job for the most part.

Honestly, I didn't mind getting up and getting my own beer. I do it at our regular place all the time- like I said, the service sucks, but at least they know it and make up for it in the price. Sometimes a bar gets busy, or the waitress knows the customers at another table will drop a load of cash if she pays special attention to 'em. It's not a big deal, but don't chastise me for taking matters into my own hands. I wasn't pissed about it... I just wanted my beer.

As I left, I passed by the table full of frat boys she'd been hanging around most of the night. I slipped a few bucks in front of her.

"Thanks," she said, barely turning her head enough to see who left it before diving back into flirting with the frat boys.

"No problem, hot stuff," I thought to myself. "I won't be back."

Damn shame, too. They have good chicken, but I can get shitty service anywhere.

Movin on Up

So I finally mustered up the courage to move downtown. Big step for a small-town girl like me. I still walk around gawk-jawed in typical tourist fashion, but I'm sure that'll wear off in the next couple of years.

The new apartment is right smack in the middle of downtown within walking distance of work. It's actually pretty cute: vaulted ceilings, top to bottom windows, open floor plan for the main living areas. It's also on the ground floor, which has its ups and downs. I like being able to watch all the foot traffic go by when I open the blinds, but it makes for a lot of noise on Friday and Saturday nights when everybody's down in the district tying one on and walking the streets of our fair city.

Three days ago, I had my first face-to-face encounter with an "urban personality", as I've taken to calling them ("them" being the folks I watch through my window - it's like my own live-action reality tv that stretches across the entire front of my apartment).

I heard her coming from nearly a block away, slurring and cursing at some one who wasn't talking back- which meant she was really, really drunk, insane, or talking on a phone. I was laying in bed, trying to get some sleep, staring at the ceiling and praying to the Sandman, "Please, oh please let her just keep walking."

See, part of the benefit of my ground floor apartment is that I have direct street access with a set of double-doors and a concrete stoop. I also have deep-set windows with handy little ledges for sitting and chatting, stopping for a cigarette, rebalancing groceries and the like. There are always folks hanging around outside, which is fine during the day. It's not so fine in the middle of the night.

"You never loved me!" She was sobbed into her phone. "You never loved me and you never appreciated me and you never, ever loved me!" I heard her heals click unevenly on the sidewalk as she tried to sit on one of the ledges. I waited a few minutes to see if maybe she was just catching her breath. She wasn't, of course. I mean, where else would she sit in the middle of the night on a weekday, but directly outside my bedroom?

When it became apparent that she'd grown quite comfortable on my window sill and didn't intend to leave for awhile, I hauled my tired ass out of bed, climbed down the front steps of my apartment in my pajamas, holding the door for quick escape in case she got belligerent, and said, "Ma'am? It's 11:30 at night on a Wednesday. I have to get up in the morning to go to work, and you are right outside my bedroom window. Think you could move it down a block?"

Her hair was bleached a tacky, yellowing platinum. She'd stuffed her sagging breasts and ass into clothes two sizes too small, and way too young for her. This one was pushin thirty and trying to look nineteen. She blinked back at me, mascara pooled around her eyes, making her look something like an aged clown.

"Ma'am?" I asked again.

"Oh... um... yeah... Sure sugah. Sorry bout that." She lurched off the window sill, regained her balance by hugging a nearby light post, smoothed her skirt, then staggered down the street. About half a block away, she stopped, turned around, and said, "Yanno, good for you, stickin up fer yerself. We should all be like that, us wimmen."

I nodded, waved, and went back inside. Then I double-checked the lock. Then I went to bed.

Livin down here... yeah... it's definitely different.

Oh, and I've made plans to line the window sills with broken glass tommorow.

My way, right away, at UHaul now

Now that I've bitched about the shit service I got from Nokia a few weeks ago, I thought I'd go the other route and give credit where credit's due.

I moved downtown this weekend (more on that later). Because the buggy isn't much for totin' furniture, I made arrangements with the local U-Haul dealer to get a truck a week in advance. He called me the morning I was supposed to pick up the truck to tell me that the starter was out, but he was going to try to get it fixed.

A few hours later, I get a voicemail from a different man, saying that the truck was ready for pickup. He happened to call again when I was in the car, and I assured him I was on my way to pick it up.

When I got to the dealer, the man looked at me from across the counter. "Didn't you get my voicemail?" he asked. "You were supposed to call before you came out here. The trucks' down. They're holding another one for you at a different store."

Things started falling into place. The second man I'd spoken with had been from another dealer, but I hadn't realized that when we were talking.

"I don't have time to drive out there," I said, eyeing the clock and mourning my diminishing lunch hour. Eventually, he helped me make arrangements with a third store in the town I was moving from, so I could pick up the vehicle there and drop it off in the city. Now all I had to do was get some one to take me out there.

"Don't forget to call that 800 number," he admonished. "I don't want 'em to charge you for not pigskin' up that other truck."

So I called, navigated through the automated system, and sat on hold for 20 minutes. Finally, frustrated, I hung up. I tried again Monday morning, thinking they couldn't possibly be busy at 6:30 a.m. They were. Thirty minutes later, I had to leave for work, and I still didn't have the issue of the pick-up failure fee resolved.

Still gun-shy from my experience with Nokia, I sat down and tapped out an email, explaining what had happened and asking for assurance that I wouldn't be charged for not picking up the second truck. It was, of course, followed up within a matter of seconds by the "We'll respond within 48 hours" email that's so common among service centers. I figured if nothing else I'd have it as documentation, and that I'd call again when I got home from work.

Instead, as I sat down at my desk, the mailbox icon was blinking. UHaul had already responded to my inquiry, including apologizing for the inconvenience, stating that they'd credited me any service fees that may have been charged, and asking if there was anything else they could do to assist me and make the experience better.

That is the way it should be done. Life is fluid. Things can't always go as planned, but when the unexpected happens, you do whatever it takes to keep your customer. UHaul has a client for life in me, and you can rest assured I've told everybody I know how great they were at handling things when life threw 'em a curve ball.

Way to go, UHaul. You're a shining example of what the service industry should aspire to be!

No-No-Nokia

"Thank you for calling Nokia Customer Service. How can I help you?"
"I need to order a new part for my phone, please."
"You can do that on our website at www dot nokia dot com."
"I looked, but I can't find the phone I have."
"What's the model number?"
"3230"
"I don't show that model has been released in the US yet, ma'am."
"Well, I bought it overseas. All I need to do is order a part."
"You'll have to go back to the website, and go to the page for the country you bought it in."
--momentary pause--
"Okay, I'm there... Where do I go?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Isn't there some one who can just contact your Middle Eastern service center and order a part for me?"
"No ma'am."
"So you can't do anything for me at all, is that correct?"
"I can sell you a new phone."
"I don't want a new phone. I like the one I have, I just need a new display."
"I'm sorry, ma'am."
"So you have no correspondence with any of your other offices whatsoever? There's no one I can speak to?"
"No, ma'am."
"Right, then. Thanks for um... answering..."
"Thanks for calling Nokia Customer Service."
--click--

---------------------------------

Dear Nokia:

I have damaged the screen on my phone (model 3230) that I got while in

Qatar.  The US support can't help me; they have no information that the

model even exists.  I need to purchase a new display screen for the

phone, but I don't know how to do that.  I am now back in the United

States.  I would like very much to simply purchase the part and continue

using my Nokia phone.  Please let me know how to proceed in purchasing the

part.

Thank you

Mouth

------------------------------

Thank you for contacting Nokia.



You will be receiving a reply from one of our Customer Care

Representatives within the next 48 hours.



Have a good day.



[This is an automatically generated acknowledgement. Please do not

reply to this e-mail.]

--------------------------------

72 Hours Later....

----------------------------------

Dear Mouth,



Thank you for emailing Nokia Careline.



With regards to your enquiry, kindly be informed that this is the link

of our Authorized Service Centre there in USA:

http://www.nokiausa.com/support/repair/asc/1,2854,,00.html?no_zip=1

Please

contact them they will definitely help you about the it.



Should you have any further enquiries, or if we can be of any

assistance, please do not hesitate to contact the Nokia Careline via 'ASK Nokia'

located at www.nokia.com.



Register withections and you will receive a monthly fun newsletter

about the latest products and events. Click below to register.

www.nokia.com/connections



Kind regards,



Berthe Alassane

Nokia Careline

-----------------------------------

Berthe:



As I stated in my original email, the American service Center told me

they couldn't help me, since that model wasn't released in the US "yet"

(so the customer service gal said).  Apparently, if they don't sell the

phone stateside, they can't order parts, either.  She had no record

that the model even exists.



It's alright, though... I just got another phone, from a different

company, and signed up for wireless service with them.  It was a little

more expensive, and I don't like it quite as well, but at least when I

call and ask them a question, they don't ignore me or make me wait over a

week to give me an answer.  I donated my old Nokia phone when I bought

the new one.  It'll wind up in the trash, which is where it belongs,

since it cannot be repaired.



I'm glad Nokia is so big that they don't have to attend to each

individual customer.   It made my decision to switch brands very easy.



Have a nice day!





Mouth

----------------------------

Thank you for contacting Nokia.



You will be receiving a reply from one of our Customer Care

Representatives within the next 48 hours.



Have a good day.



[This is an automatically generated acknowledgement. Please do not

reply to this e-mail.]

-------------------------------
96 Hours Later...
-------------------------------

Dear Mouth,

Thank you for emailing Nokia Careline.



We sincerely regret to hear that





With regard to your enquiry, kindly be informed that we are a technical

support center, providing our services to all Nokia customers from the

Middle East and North Africa, who are facing difficulties with their

Nokia mobile products.



Should you require any further assistance, please do not hesitate to

contact the Nokia Careline and speak to any of our Customer Service

Executives on +44-207-365-5309, between the hours of 9am and 8pm (local

time), Saturdays to Thursdays. For online assistance, please visit ASK

Nokia at our website www.nokia.com.



Register with Nokia Connections and you will receive a monthly fun

newsletter about the latest products and events. Click below to register.

www.nokia.com/connections





Kind regards,



Liyth Nissirat

Nokia Careline

---------------------------

I know I'm only one client, and I know my situation was unique. I've also worked in service positions since I was 14 years old. There's always going to be one customer with a unique situation. There will always be problems you don't have the answer to, and always situations that are difficult and uncomfortable. You take care of that person as best you can, regardless of how many hoops you have to jump through.

Why?

Because when you work in service, the only reason you have a job is because that one person with the unique, pain-in-the-ass situation decided you were the person who could help them.

I'd like to thank Nokia for reminding me of that. Now, when Agents are screaming at me, and customers are sobbing into the phone, and I just want to throw my hands up and walk away, I have a glaring reminder of what it feels like to be the person on the other end who just wants to hand over their cash in exchange for a little bit of attention, courtesy, and a genuine desire to make it right.

Scritch

I haven't spent much time outside lately. Haven't walked through the woods. Haven't explored the rural expanses beyond the suburbs. How, then, did my usually smooth, rounded, sun-dappled shoulder wind up mottled with a nasty, bubbly, itchy rash?

Despite the smokin hot Jessica Rabbit lookalike from the Batman series, there ain't a damn thing sexy about Poison Ivy.



"Did you do any yardwork this weekend?" asked the too-cute pharmacy girl in her little white lab coat. She blinked at me over her wire-rimmed glasses.


"No."

"Take your dog to the lake?" I thought about Mister Puffy Pants... he's not a lake kind of dog.

I haven't had much of a chance to get outside since coming city-side.

I eyed the librarian pharmacy girl. I know exactly where I picked up contamination from the noxious weed. The boytoy's been working with a contracting crew lately, tearing out an overgrown greenhouse near the old downtown district. I told her so.

"Maybe you got it from him?" she said. "You should wipe down your car seats and any surfaces in your home he may have touched. He may have had it on his pants or work boots or something."


"... or under his nails," I smirked.

Her eyes popped and a sweet blush spread across her cheeks. She stumbled through a recommendation for hydrocortisone cream and Benadryl, and I chuckled to myself.

I'm currently laid up on the sofa, sipping a cream soda and watching television, laying on a towel so as not to infect the furniture with the oils from the rash. At this point, I'm definitely open to suggestions on how to clear up a feisty bout with the lady in green.

Just to See You Smile

------------------------------------------
“Yesterday I knew just what you wanted
when you came walkin up to me with him.
So I told you that I was happy for you,
and given the chance I’d lie again just to see you smile.”
(Just to See You Smile, Tim McGraw)
------------------------------------------

When he told me, I thought I’d been hit in the chest with a brick. That tender bud of confidence I’d been nurturing since my return to the United States curled in on itself and went back into hibernation. Three months later, there’s still a vague ache somewhere near the vicinity of my heart.

He was so excited when he told me, so proud. He sounded happy. I couldn’t take it away from him, so I just smiled and murmered something politely congratulatory. What else was there to do?

Scream? Stomp my foot? Cry and tell him I’m sorry and that I didn’t mean to hurt him and that she’d never make him as happy as I could have? I couldn’t, of course… because it wasn’t true.

Almost three years to the day after we broke up, Bentley told me he was marrying the gal he left me for.

She’s cute and blonde and energetic and fun, and unlike me in almost every way. In fact, she’s a near cookie cutter of every other pre-me girl he dated. I was a bit of a step off the beaten path for him.

The strange thing is, I really am happy for him. I don’t begrudge him his joy. I can’t fathom rekindling a relationship with him. The pain, I suppose, is more a mourning for the closing of a chapter in my life; the end of something beautiful and dynamic; the drawing-to of a period of growth and learning and self-realization.

There’s no way to turn back those pages, no way to un-live the years, and I’m glad for it.

With all sincerity, I wish Bentley and his soon-to-be bride the very best. May you always be kind to one another, and live in inspiration and joy together.

Rueda del muerte

I was thumbing through the channels at L's place (because L likes to step outside the box, and happens to own a television). There's this guy named Deutsch on the screen, nearly bouncing up and down he was so irate. So what gives?

Apparently, some ghetto-fab mamma put her six year old son in the swinging bucket of a Ferris wheel alone. The operator smiled at them as she strapped him in, and she moved behind the cattle fencing with the rest of the family members, waiting for their loved ones to make their way around the jerky, start-and-stop ride. When her son made it to the top, he started waving frantically out the barred window.

Ghetto-mama pushes through the crowd, past the gate, and tugs on the sleeve of the operator.

"My son, he's afraid. Bring him down."

And then she heard the word that would be the death of her son. The operator blinked at her, brow furrowed...

"Que?"

He didn't speak English. Not a word. The frantic mother squinted up to the rocking carriage that housed her little boy. She watched him climb over the plexi-glass wall and slip through the bars. Ghetto-mama screamed - screamed at her son to get back into the car, screamed at the operator who only shook his head with his mouth open. The little boy hung from a spoke for a few moments before his little hands couldn't grip the bar any more; finally, when he could hold on no longer, he let go and fell to the ground.

Resilient as they are, six year old boys don't stand up well to a fall like that. The little boy died.

Ghetto-mama intends to sue the company that manages the carnival, of course. She claims that the reason her son died is because the operator didn't speak English. Nevermind the fact that she loaded her pint-sized kindergartener onto an adult ride by himself. Nevermind that she didn't teach the kid enough to sit tight when he was scared or confused. Nevermind that she let him watch shows and movies on television where it's funny and cool to climb out of a box on a carnival ride and hang from a spoke (think: that first date asking in The Notebook) - most likely completely unsupervised and without the guidance from a parent to say simple, logic-based things like, "People don't really do that."

Please don't misunderstand: I'm not saying it's okay to hire imported labor that's nonfunctional just because it's cheaper. What I'm saying is that Ghetto-mama needs to be jailed for negligence, and that her six month old needs to be taken away from her before she decides to let the baby try his hand at driving the car... by himself.

Under where?

I went to work without underwear on today.

Not for any reason in particular... I really did mean to stop by the laundry basket and pick some up on my way out. Somewhere along the way through my morning routine, I forgot altogether that I wasn't wearing any, and wound up leaving without them.

I also happened to be wearing a rather flowy cotton skirt, so as I walked around cubby-land I got little whooshes of air curling up and tickling the insides of my thighs. It was quite pleasant.


And, of course, it got me to thinking - as these things so often do:

Are underwear just a formality?

I mean, why do we even wear them? It isn't for coverage... Especially not given the way they're cut nowadays. Is it a hygiene issue? Is one layer of clothing not enough to keep the bacteria at bay? Am I going to die of bubonic plague for going commando? Will I be accosted by the Panty Police for forgoing my Huggies in favor of a cool breeze?

It isn't that I don't like underwear... I've got my share of pretty, frilly, lacey, see-through numbers... Granted, I typically bypass these and go straight for the classic cotton thong, but I do have them. I've noticed, though, when I wear them, it isn't typically because I'm going to visit the boytoy, or that any one at all will see them... There's just something that makes you feel pretty when you're wearing girly panties.

Is that it, then? Maybe underwear are designed to be a secret giggle during the day. My boss is being a raving bitch, but because I have on the pink polka-dot g-string, I'm still smiling?

Hardly.

Maybe I'll start a Panty Protest. I could round up some other folks who like the little chafe of denim. We could picket outside Victoria's Secret. Talk about giving the Angels a scare.

"Under-wearers are going to Hell!
Repent! The end is near!"

Okay, maybe not. I guess I'll keep my anti-panties mentality to myself, for now, but if you see me walking down the street and I'm smiling like I've got a secret... well... I probably do.

Naked is a State of Mine

--You going camping with us this weekend?-- Mitch IM'd.

I was supposed to spend a woodland weekend with another friend out in the middle of nowhere, but that turned out to be way more trouble than it was worth, and the plans fell through at the last minute.

--You really should come. It's gonna be a good time.--

The "good time" he was referring to was a three-day weekend at a 145 acre, clothing optional retreat out in the rural reaches of the city. The campout, which ran $25 a night, came with demos and games, swimming and community-style meals at a banquet table with 25 of the nicest friends I'd never met. After about an hour-long Q&A session, Mitch finally convinced me that I'd be just fine lounging in the brush with the rest of the group, and I was welcome to wear as much or as little clothing as I liked.

See, as open and liberal as I am about sex, and as comfortable as I am with my body, I'm still a bit modest about baring my big white ass to a field full of strangers.

When I pulled into the campsite, I smiled inwardly. Less than half the group wore any type of clothing at all, but those that were in the buff seemed comfortable and happy. The trees overhead filtered the midday sun, and all the faces that turned towards me as I approached were smiling. It was a good feeling... a comfortable feeling...

... maybe a little too comfortable?

One of the demo's for the weekend was a photography how-to. They'd hired a professional photographer to come in with his camera and explain lighting, filter, and poses.

"Will you model for us?" he'd asked. I laughed. Surely he was joking. Me?

"You should," said Mitch. He smiled. He knew I wanted to, but I was being tugged under by a river of trepidation.

Then I heard a voice in my head: a deep, strong voice that resonates in that barrel chest of his. "You know, that's one of the things I like the most about you. It's not that you're fearless; you have fear just like every one else, but when you come up against it, you grit your teeth, take a deep breath, and dive in head-first. Damn the fear - full speed ahead."

I thought about that as my jeans hit the ground beneath me and the shutter of the camera winked.

---------------------------------------

"Wearing nothing is divine.  Naked is a state of mind.
I take things off to clear my head, to say the things
I haven't said." (Naked Eye by Luscious Jackson)

---------------------------------------------

The Beautiful People

My boss, Lonnie, her boss, Daphne, and three of my co-workers (Kristie, Jo, and Amy) are the blonde, blue, and beautiful wolf-pack of my personal daily hell in cubicle-land.

They call themselves The Plastics, which they got from some teeny-bopper film that was in theaters a few years back. They're cliquish, snotty, and very, very shallow. They all have pictures of Jessica Simpson as the backdrops on their computers. They all gather around in the morning and discuss what happened the night before on their favorite show, American Idol, and what they saw in the latest fashion rag they thumbed through the night before (keep in mind they were talking on the phone with one another while paging through said magazine). They get together on the weekends and have "beauty parties" and sleep-overs. It's like High School all over again.

This was my work-week... Pity me?

MONDAY:

Lonnie: "Is that the newest issue of In Touch?"
Daphne: "Yes."
Lonnie: "Does it have the new look in it?"
Daphne: "Yeah."
Lonnie: "That's not a new look. I've already had that look."
Amy: "You do need a new look though."
Lonnie: "Ugh! I know. This look is so tired."
Kristie: "I like your look."
Lonnie: "That's only because you copied it."

TUESDAY:

Me: "Tim's all dressed up today. What's that about?"
Co-worker: "He's got an interview with Daphne for that Supervisory position that just opened up."
Me: "Maybe I'll put in for one here in a few months."
Co-worker: "They'll never hire you, you know. You're not blonde enough."

WEDNESDAY:

Lonnie: "Mouth! Mouth! Come here! Look!" (insert twittery giggle here)
Me: "Yeah?"
Lonnie: "Look!"
She shows me this strange tie-on plastic belt with a bright red plastic crotch, which she happens to be wearing over her dress slacks.
Me: "It looks like one of those belt-on maxi pads like our mothers had to wear, before they started gluing the back of them and giving them wings."
She looks down at her strap-on underwear, nose wrinkled.
Lonnie: "They're edible panties.
Me: "My, aren't we classy?"
I snort and walk balk to my cubby-hole.

THURSDAY:

Heading down a ridiculously slow elevator shaft after a long day...
Daphne: "So, are you coming to Happy Hour this week?"
Me: "I might."
Lonnie: "You should! We'll be there."
Me: "I'll think about it."
Like their presence alone should be reason enough to inspire desire to attend.

FRIDAY:

Lonnie: "So are you coming to Happy Hour?"
Me: "Yeah, I think I will."
Lonnie: "Daphne doesn't want to go to the deck. She doesn't like it. We're gonna go down to the Market."
Me: "Alright. I'm heading out. I'll meet you there, I guess."
I met up with in the parking lot and we drove over to the Market. Typically, the whole office goes to Happy Hour Fridays. L and I were sitting at the table, sipping a cold one each, when Lonnie and Daphne strutted in; no one else came with them. Lonnie sat down and engaged L and I, while Daphne meandered around the bar, saying hello to people and completely ignoring us. After making small talk with a few acquaintances, each getting to the end of comfortable "How's your wife? How're the kids?" conversation and eventually turning back to the bar, she came and sat with us. She turned her most winning smile on L and laughed prettily at all his jokes.
Daphne: "I'm sorry we crashed your table. Do you want us to move?"
L: "What do you mean?"
Daphne: "Well, we just sort of came and sat at your table."
Me: "No you didn't. Lonnie invited us."
Daphne's brow creased, as if she couldn't quite figure out why Lonnie would have invited us. We're not office elite. I think L lost his fashion sense somewhere in the 70's, and I never had one. We stayed for half an hour, then I elbowed L.
Me: "You ready?"
L: "Yup. It was nice to meet you, ladies."
Daphne: "Aw, you're going already?" She batted her lashes at L.
Me: "Yeah, we both have things to do. See you Monday."
L and I walked out of the lounge and into the sunshine. We both breathed a huge sigh.
L: "Ah, freedom!"
He grinned. We drove home.

Intolerable Cruelty

Apparently, calling some one vain and relaying an unflattering (but true) story on the internet to a generic audience full of people the subject doesn't know is considered mean. Apparently, I hurt somebody's feelings. Apparently, because it doesn't deeply upset me that said feelings were bruised, I'm cold and uncaring. Apparently, things like that are demonstrative of one's character.

In case it wasn't clear before: I'm not always nice.

Does that mean I'm the walking definition of bitch? Nah. What it means is that I have a tendency to be sarcastic, blunt, and a bit caustic. Those traits are inherent in my personality. They're part of what make me who I am.

Blogging is a forum I use to relay stories of the happenings in my life... kind of like a live, public-access diary. Sometimes I'm going to write things you might not agree with, about subjects that might make you uncomfortable, and people who might be a little too close to home. That's just part of it.

I call 'em like I see 'em.

You're so Vain

I was in the middle of making pasta for dinner last Thursday when the phone
rang. It's Mike, a co-worker/friend of L's.

"I don't want to go home," he tells L.

"What do you mean you don't want to go home?"

"I just don't.  Ya'll wanna go out?"

L and I have been going out with Mike quite a bit in recent weeks.  L
asked if I minded, since I'd already started dinner.  I shrugged, stuck
the sauce in the fridge and put my shoes on.  I don't mind tagging along
so L can console his friend after what seemed to be a rough day,
and whatever I'd already done as far as dinner prep goes would keep
overnight.

Half an hour later, Mike swung by to pick us up, and the three of us
popped down to a little Irish joint we like.  The waitresses are cute
and perky, the food's good, and the drinks are cheap.  Can't beat that.

We're sitting around a small table, picking at appetizers and nursing
our respective drinks: Mike's a beer man, L likes his Jack and coke, and
I tend to go for a Long Island Tea.  The boys, of course, are oggling
every piece of girlflesh that walks through the door.  Nothing unusual
there.

Mike sets in to complaining (again) about how he can't find the  right girl.

"I'm at the point now that I'd even go for that," he tips his beer
towards a slightly busty brunette.  She's absolutely adorable: dark hair,
flashing eyes, bright smile.

"Well, what's wrong with her?"  L asks.

We already know the answer.  She isn't "perfect".

perfect: adj. five foot tall, blonde hair, blue eyes; weighs no more than
100 lbs.   (Definition by Mike)

I roll my eyes.  I really don't care if the guy's picky, I just wish he
wouldn't complain so much that he can't find a gal who's fun to hang
out with, smart, funny, and meets his outline for drop-dead gorgeous.  At
35 years old, he's still crushing on Barbie.

Mike's cel rings.

"Hello?... No, we said six... What do you mean six thirty? I was there at six, where were you? ... No, I left at six twenty. You were late... Now?!?" He looks at us, then away. "Sure, I'm on my way."

"What was that all about?" L asks, sucking a drummie dry.

"I was supposed to meet up with some people, to meet this girl, and she didn't show up."

"She didn't show up, or they didn't show up?"

"Well, none of them did."

"But they want you to go now..."

"Well, yeah," he says, upending his beer.

"You taking us with you, or dropping us off?" L's place is only a few blocks from the pub.

"Y'all can ride along. She's supposed to be hot."

Land I are sold.

The three of us pile into Mike's pickup and head to the city, to a little hole-in-the wall bar with a rooftop deck. Mike was right: the girl's amazing. Bright, funny, adorable, "perfect"... she's so put together, I can't imagine why a girl like her would let a friend hook her up.

Mike's falling all over himself. He's so nervous, he winds up ignoring her altogether. Eventually, the friend she came with and myself manage to shift around enough that the two young prospects wind up engaged in reasonably in-depth conversation. The entire time, she's got a glazed, bored-to-tears look. Maybe it was that third gin and tonic?

Finally, the friend stands up, brushes his hands down his trousers, and does the, "Oh, look at the time" bit. The group leaves, and it's back to the three of us.

"So," Mike says, eying me over the rim of his beer glass, "d'ya think she's out of my league?"

"How honest, exactly, do you want me to be, here?" I ask. We're all three drunker than we should be, given that we have work in the morning. I don't have a problem holding my tongue sober, but there's not even a slow-down when I'm sloshed. I figured I'd give him the chance to back out.

"As honest as possible, of course," he replies, diving head-first into a can of worms he didn't even appear to notice he was opening. He felt nervous, unsure. Obviously, not all of us are imbibed with confidence while searching for the bottom of a bottle.

"She's out of your league," I shrug and go back to nursing my Tea.

"What a bitch," he says to L.

"I told you, man," L says with a chuckle, "she's brutal!"

"Yeah, no kidding," Mike says, and goes back to sipping his beer. After a few seconds of thought, he turns back to me. "Yanno, I bet she wouldn't be out of my league if I got her to come to my place and showed her how much money I make."

He just doesn't get it...

"My Roommate's a Girl..."

I decided some time ago that I needed to move closer to the city. An hour one-way is entirely too long a drive if you want to have a life, too. I found some renters for my little house, and started looking for an apartment.

Apparently, one-bedroom apartments are hard to come by in the area I'm looking. Super-L to save the day (again).

"I wanna move to the city."

"City's expensive."

"I know. It won't cost me any more than it is right now to live out here and fill my tank up twice a week."

"If you say so."

"Suggestions?"

"Yeah. Don't move to the city."

"I'm doing it, L."

"Fine. So do it. But come stay with me for a few months, first... see how you like it, put a little money back in case something happens with the house."

So that's where we are. I've been camping out in suburbia for the past three weeks, occupying L's spare room and generally trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Aside from the awkward, "You're living with him, but you two aren't dating?" questions I get grilled with from friends and co-workers, so far, so good (I think). The commute's a hell of a lot easier on me, and I can look at places at my leisure, which is a definite bonus.

After that concert a few weeks back, L's been playing the opening band pretty much non-stop. There isn't much funnier than watching a 40-something suburbanite rock out to indie-pop. Funniest part by far is that they have a song called "Girl Roommate". Say it with me, now:

Irony.

-----------------------------------------------------

"My roommate's a girl; she puts me through hell.
When I tripped on love, she never fell.
My roommate's a girl; I can tell you, the fun never ends.
My roommate's a girl; she's my very best friend."
(Girl Roommate, Anything but Joey)

--------------------------------------

Anything but Joey

My friend L is an Everclear fan. I'm not.



Like... at all.



In fact... I'm probably nearer the opposite. (What's the opposite of a fan? An anti-fan? That's me.)

So we're sitting in the top row of the balcony in the VooDoo Lounge, L talking to an old work buddy of his we happened to run into, the man's silent (shy?) wife sitting mute and staring straight ahead, me trying my very hardest to enjoy the company of my friend, despite my head being in a completely different place. The lights dim; the lounge is about half-full. We're in the wrong seats, but nobody's noticed, so we stay. Five rough-and-tumble, hyper/grungy kids come rolling out onto the stage, laughing, talking, and generally having a good time.

They start up, and I have to tell you, they have, by far, the cleanest live performance I've ever seen. L, of course (being old, as he is) has seen a lot more live shows than I have, and he said they're the tightest performance he's ever seen. The work buddy agreed that they're the tightest performance he's ever seen, too. Those guys did an awesome job. At first we thought it was just the lounge: great sound system, decent acoustics. Until Everclear came on sounding like a cat being run over by a truck. The opening band was just that good.

The coolest part? Anything but Joey is local (and apparently unsigned). Who knew? I mean, KC has some decent sounds, but every now and then you trip on something surprising. Something that makes you grin. Something you find yourself humming for the rest of the week.

The guys finished their set, gave a big wave to the audience and laughed about every one staying and gambling with them when the show was over. Had I been walking, I'd have tripped on my lower lip, it was pouting out so far. The adult in me won't stay out that late. I have to eat, which means I have to work, which means I can't run around in some casino spending money I don't have with people I've never met until the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes I hate being responsible.

So the headliner comes on. The crowd's all excited. The lead singer horks and coughs his way through the first few lines. He does a really bad acoustic cover of Brown-Eyed Girl with an out-of-tune guitar, and I swear he was trying to shred my eardrums. Two mousy blondes wiggle up to the top row. We're in their seats. Down we go. Row 2, seats 15 and 16. Right in the middle of a pack of toasted college kids. They were a little riled up, but reasonably easy to ignore.

That is, until their Goliath-sized, completely blitzed frat-boy buddy came tottering up with a shit-eating grin on his face. He spent the next hour alternating between climbing up and over the backs of the first three rows of seats, and moshing all alone on the main aisle at the front of the balcony. We moved. He followed us. We moved again. Again, he followed us. Apparently, we weren't moving far enough (not that we could, the place was packed). Eventually, L got tired of it.

"You ready to go?" He knows I'm only there to be with him. He knows I'm not having a good time. He knows that strained look on my face, that mix between tired, hungry, and outright bitchy. He's trying to do the right thing. Thankfully, I didn't have to answer. Four security goons nailed the durnkards a hair's breadth after L asked. They were being removed.

"Nah," I said, in my most benevolent, selfless voice. "Let's stay. They're almost done, anyway."

L got to see the rest of his concert, unmolested. The drunks got a not-so-friendly conversation with the police. I got to stick it out with my buddy and heard a great "new" band.

All-in-all, a damn good night.

The Shell Game

Last week I had the great fortune of hosting Mister M, a very dear friend of mine from down South. We talked about politics and religion, about weather and economics and geography (namely, the difference between his and mine). We toured a great old Victorian house-turned-restaurant in a quaint little town nearby, walked through several of the downtown districts, lunched and supped with some local friends of his, went to a small downtown theatre, and generally were out on the town for five days straight. It was wonderful.

I have to say, though,that by the time the week was out, I was ready for some down time. Ready to curl up in a wing chair with a book and my cat with the dog at my feet. Ready to sit and do nothing. Ready for silence. As beautiful and wonderful as Mister M is, five days of (rather intense) 24-hour interaction was nearly overwhelming... nearly.

He called this afternoon to check in, thank me for the "lovely time" and generally shoot the breeze. I could hear it in his voice, that strained, impolite, but very real: - I had a great time, but man am I glad to be home! -

Mister M and I are what he calls "solo acts". We're both reasonably used to being the center of attention. We're both used to shining in public, both used to practicing and enacting the emotional shell game. You know it, you probably do it, at least to some extent, but there are those of us out there who have crafted it into art. Those of us who have let it become more than a first line of defense, and slipped into an entire lifestyle of it, where everyone is on the outside.

You're the street-gamer, hiding a ball under shells and flipping them around on the table. "Guess where it is and you get a prize!" All along, the sucker feeding you dollars thinks that somehow, if he tries hard enough and is patient long enough, he'll find it. You, of course, know there's never any danger of that. The ball isn't even on the table any more; it's tucked safely away in your pocket. You're at no risk of losing, so it's easy to play on and on. It isn't difficult to put all your money down when you know the deck's stacked in your favor.

Until you get bored with it. Until you're ready for the next mark, the next person you can suck in, the next person to play along. Tam calls it a drug, that euphoria associated with a new interaction. And he's right. A lot of the behaviors associated with it are those of an addict. Riding the wave long enough to convince yourself you don't need it, don't want it, and it isn't long before you get that itch, before you go sniffing around for your next fix.

So what happens when something inside clicks, when a switch flips and the lights come on and you can finally see? When, in the harsh light of day, you don't like what you're looking at? When you don't want people to be disposable, and you're tired of life being transient? When you'd really like to be able to make a real connection with some one, but you've been so far removed from it for so long that you don't even know how to begin?

What happens when you've been operating on auto-pilot for a seeming eternity, and you don't know how to turn it off and actively engage any more?

It'd be nice, I think, to do that. To be able to pick a would-be mark and say, "You know what, man? Keep your money. The ball's right here," and hand it to him. I'm not quite sure how to get there. I'm making the first steps, though. I've upturned all the shells and emptied my pockets. Nothing in my hat. Nothing up my sleeves. Nothing to hide.

Predator

The wolf crouches in it's den, lying low in shadows and mist, calm, but alert. A rabbit hops gingerly into the clearing, dappled sunlight dancing patterns over it's fur. The wolf lets out a low, smooth growl, and the rabbit's ears perk.

--What was that sound? I don't know that sound...--

The wolf growls again, louder this time.

--Don't come near!-- the growl conveys. --Don't get any closer!--

Curious, the rabbit hops forward, towards the the entrance of the den. Brown eyes meet flashing gold. The wolf curls it's lip back, baring it's teeth at the rabbit.

--Such a pretty smile,-- thinks the rabbit, --and such flashing eyes!--

--I'm dangerous, you know,-- thinks the wolf, matter-of-factly.

--Oh, but certainly you're not all that dangerous. See how soft your fur is? How broad your brow? You're too lovely to be dangerous. May I touch your fur?-- thinks the rabbit, crossing the barrier between light and dark,entering the den.

--I told you not to come any closer,-- thinks the wolf, with only the slightest pang of remorse. --I did warn you, you know.--

--I don't know what you mean,-- thinks the rabbit.

--You will,-- thinks the wolf.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Recently, a friend told me I'm a predator. He isn't the first, of course, only the most recent. I disagreed with him (them)... surely I'm not so bad as that. "Predator" conveys that I hunt, that I seek things out to maim or kill. That isn't the case at all. And then he told me the story of the wolf in the den, and the rabbit who just happened by.

"Do you think the wolf would be any less likely to kill that rabbit, than it would be to kill one it had hunted down?"

No, of course not. It's in the wolf's nature. The wolf is a predator.

I don't mean to be, certainly, but intent doesn't negate behavior. I'm not entirely sure it's my fault that I've been draped with this mantle.

"You lure men in with that laugh and those flashing eyes, with that wit and that charm, and that smile that lights up a room. You look at them and talk to them and laugh with them and make them feel like they're the only man on the planet, and the only man for you." Which is rarely, if ever, the case.

Should I be penalized for giving some one my undivided attention? Should I be punished, branded a predator for making some one feel special? Should I tone down my enthusiasm, the appreciation with which I meet daily life? Should I hide it? To do so would be to give some one the complete wrong impression of me, which doesn't seem fair at all.

Better, I think, to shine. Better to be who I am.

It's hard, though, when you see them welling up with tears. "I don't understand! You made me feel like I was everything to you. I could see it in your eyes!"

And then, of course, it comes full-circle. Then I have to explain, again, what I've explained so many times. "Oh, sweetie, don't you understand? I look at every one that way. I smile at every one that way, and laugh at every one's jokes that way. That uniqueness, that "special", that well of joy you see lighting up my face? It isn't you. It's me."

Apparently, it still counts as predation, even when you warn them.

Random Insanity

I got off work today and headed to the store. I was checking out some produce in the fresh foods section, minding my own business. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the guy next to me fondling a bunch of asparagus. He turned it end over end, pushed at the stem, flicked at the heads, and overall made it reasonably apparent that he wasn't certain just how to determine whether or not he'd picked up a decent bundle of edible mini-trees. Suddenly, he stopped, looked up from his inspection, and asked, "Are you single?"

Eyebrows up, I shot him a half-cocked smile. "Well, yes," I answered, waiting for the terminal carry-over.

He nodded, pursed his lips, and went back to groping his asparagus, seeming completely engrossed in determining if that was, indeed, the most perfect bunch of the group. After a few seconds, it became obvious he wasn't going to say anything more. I shrugged, dropped a few potatoes into a sack, and wandered off.

On my way out, I was walking behind this tottering old broad, leaning near as heavily on the basket as she was on her walker, which was nestled beneath the push-handle. Trying to do the right and noble thing, I dropped my sacks in the trunk of the buggy and headed back across the aisle to help her out.

She stopped, smiled at me, and said, "This is one of the few things I can do any more on my own." I smiled back, nodded, and walked back to my car.

I was still smiling whistfully as I pulled up the ramp to get off the highway, thinking of the woman and her fragility and tenacity. A semi-truck barrelled past me on the perpendicular road, effectively snapping me out of my reverie with a couple blasts from his air-horn. Pressed against the window was the trucker's hand, first-finger and pinkie up, thumb extended in the classic sign of "I love you!" Grinning ear to ear, I beeped my little VW back at him and waved.

All-in-all, a strange and interesting day.

Flowers in the Doghouse

I'm sitting at my desk, face to face with the shining visage of a salmon-colored Gerber Daisy, which was brought to me by a lovely man I had a date with last week. So here I go again with that thinkin thing...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Great Reasons to Bring a Gal Flowers

• She makes you smile.
• You want to make her smile.
• You love that little girly squeal she makes when you show up at the door with a fistfull of her favorite blooms.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Terrible Reasons to Bring a Gal Flowers

• You thought she'd be more likely to sleep with you.
• You thought she'd be less likely to make you meet her parents.
  
• You did something stupid, but can't swallow your pride enough to tell her, "I'm sorry," so you try to make up for it by stopping off at the gas station and springing for the $1.99 wilted wonder in a cellophane diaper.

------------------------------------------------------------

I remembered a spot on my local radio station a few weeks ago, about men who bring women flowers when they've done something wrong.

I really don't know what most women think about that, but I can tell you, for myself, that flowers will absolutely not get you out of the doghouse. In fact, it's not even a good idea to think about flowers when you're contemplating sleeping on the couch. Here's why:

1. You make a habit of bringing me flowers when you're "in trouble". Today, you were driving home from work, thinking of me, and struck with the brilliant revelation that it'd be a stellar plan to do something simple and sweet and totally out of the blue. You swing through the local florist and pick up a fist full of fragrance, then come sweeping through the door with them, grin firmly plastered across your mug. My first reaction? "Okay, what'd he do this time?"

2. I'm not for sale. If you wanted to make nice-nice and crawl into the bed with some one, you'd have been better off hittin the corner and picking up some leggy blonde in torn fishnets and red lipstick. Instead, you came home to a leggy brunette in torn fishnets and red lipstick. I'm still pissed, and you're still not gettin any, but I know what the outfit does to you, so yeah, I'm gonna wear it while I put together a pot pie.

3. When FTD claimed, "Nothing says -I'm sorry- like roses!"... They lied. You can't make up for being an asshole with a dozen long-stemmed buds. Try this novel concept on for size: the next time you do something stupid, apologize. That's right, just come right out and say, "Yanno, that wasn't the most brilliant thing to do. I really didn't mean to hurt your feelings." You don't need to self-depreciate. I don't want to emasculate you, or bludgeon you over the head with it. You're human. You make mistakes, just like every one else-- except me, of course... we all know I'm perfect!

-------------------------------------------------

Don't strew me with roses after I'm dead.
When Death claims the light of my brow
No flowers of life will cheer me: instead
You may give me my roses now!

(Thomas F. Healey)

Belting thy Neighbor

One of L's neighbors died. The remaining three were standing on the porch last night when we pulled up, watching a storm roll in and talking about Heaven.

"Charlie died," said the ringleader. "I went to his funeral, and now he's in Heaven... up there!" He pointed to the sky, excited.

I smile. "Yes, Charlie's in Heaven now. You should pick out a star for him." They didn't hear me. They were too busy laughing about the lightening. L's neighbors are what the politically correct would call "special". They all have Down's Syndrom.

I stood there in the driveway, watching them laugh with each other and look up in wonder at the stars, and thought of a story L told me.

--------------------------------------

A month or so ago, L was vaccuuming his living room (which he does compulsively... L's a bit of a neat-freak), and one of his neighbors came knocking on the door (beating it down, if you ask L). He doesn't recieve many visitors, I guess; at least, not many unexpected ones. When he opened the door, he was face to face with a very agitatated neighbor, who happened to have his pants around his knees.

"It's broken!" he scowled, thrusting a belt at L. After a few minutes of trying to mend it, L realized he wouldn't be able to repair whatever damage had been done to the belt. He went upstairs to his closet, and came back with one of his own belts. The neighbor simply stood there, holding his shirt up, so L knelt down and actually threaded the belt through the pant-loops, then fastened the buckle.

Pants safe and secure around his waist, the neighbor waggled a finger at L. "You fix that, okay? You fix it!" he admonished, walking back towards his own door. That afternoon, on his way home from work, L stopped at the store and bought another belt.

When he knocked on the neighbor's door, the caregiver, who lives with them, didn't have any idea that some one had L's belt. "Hold on for just a moment," she said, disappearing into the house. She returned with a shopping bag filled to overflowing with belts. "Is it in here?" she asked, holding the sack out for L's perusal.

I don't know if they purchased all those belts, or if it was a collection of other peoples' belts that the guy showed up at home with, and she just collected them in a sack, thinking their owners would come in search of them later on. L didn't think to ask.

----------------------------------------

I'm unsure if Charlie was the belt-bandit, or if it was one of the men standing on the porch laughing at Nature's fireworks. I don't know, if he's alive, if the man who stood on L's doorstep with his pants down even remembers it. I guess there isn't any way of knowing. At that moment, I simply appreciated the innocence and wonder with which they view the world, and made a mental note to remind myself to appreciate the beauty around me.

I've got the Blues

They closed Parker's. They'll re-open again in a few weeks in a different town (which happens to be closer to me, luckily), but I have no idea if they'll continue with the Sunday Night Jam Session. I certainly hope so... it was uplifting at the end of a long week to be able to go and sit and listen to some one pour their heart out into the mic.

Damn shame, though... for now, I guess I'll have to sing 'em myself.

Broadway

As is habit on Saturday morning, I scheduled breakfast with my sister at the local greasy spoon. I was driving down Broadway (which is Broadway in the way only a Broadway can be in a small midwestern town), enjoying the trees with their vibrantly green new leaves, the daffodils coming up in the gardens, the precision painting that decorates the old Victorians lining both sides of the street. The sun was shining, there was a crisp breeze tousseling my hair through the sunroof, birds were singing their spring song.

A sense of peace flooded over me like a tidal wave. It isn't something that struck me, like the slap of cold water in the face. It was sort of an enveloping warmth, a realization that's been creeping in for awhile. Life, somehow, has righted itself. I am in awe of the methodical, plodding way in which order and sanity have been reestablished in my life.

I thought of some of the people I know: friends and acquaintances for whom I wished the same sense of peace, the same feeling of calmness and the strength that comes from knowing that everything is as it should be. I thought of people falling on hard times, of long-standing relationships crumbling, of family members passing on. I said, "Thank you," to whomever it is that I thank when beauty strikes me, and wished with the deepest part of my heart good things to those I know deserve a bit of respite.

Today was a beautiful day. I can't wait to see what comes with the sunrise tommorow.

-------------------------------------------
"God never slams a door in your face
without opening a box of Girl Scout cookies." (Elizabeth Gilbert)
-------------------------------------------

Reverse

The parking garage at my new job has a strange setup. The entire garage is double-parking, so that one person pulls in behind another person, and then leaves his keys with an attendant, who will move the car if the person on the inside needs to get out.

I don't mind so much leaving my keys with a stranger. I'm not worried that the man in the booth will steal my little Volkswagen with the busted headlight. I am, however, concerned about my clutch. The car is a 6-speed, and the gears aren't situated on the column the way most standards are.

When I dropped my keys off with the attendant this morning, I tried to explain to him that you have to actually push the stick down and in, and past first, in order to put the car into reverse. He laughed and shook his head, saying, "I been drivin' longer than you been alive." And you know, he's right, he probably has. The man's got to be at least 65. I shrugged it off, left the keys, and went on about my day.

When I went to pick the keys up from the booth, however, the man met me with an altogether different laugh. "You know, you was right," he said, grinning at me with stained teeth. "Couldn't get that thing to back up. Had ta move the other one."

Luckily, I'd parked down the center row, where the cars are three deep, with an aisle in front of the first and behind the last. Both the first and the last car leave their keys, and the man was able to move the car on the front end.

I wonder how often it is that we refuse direction from some one out of ego. "Surely this other person, this stranger, doesn't know better than I do how to do this thing I'm so very sure I know how to do!" We've all done it at one time or another. Not every one is able to admit to it after the fact, though. The man was humble, but not in a kicked-dog sort of way.

It reminded me to be conciously humble, as well... to not let my ego get in the way of learning in this new job of mine. Sure, there are things I'll be able to figure out if I hack and slash at them long enough, if I'm persistent enough and determined enough, but I bet if I take the role of student, instead of conquorer, that there are others who have been there longer who can show me ways to do things without getting my feet muddy in the pits.

I look forward to the experience.

The Dating Game

Why is dating so difficult? I remember hearing my mother talk about dating when she was younger. There were hard-and-fast rules for her... things like, "Nice girls don't." We still hear that, of course, but we also get the message of, "Liberated women can sex up whomever they want, whenever they want. Any one who disagrees is a misogynistic caveman."

I think, any more, that each woman must develop her own rules... her own system of deciphering what she'll do and what she won't, what's tolerable to her and where her red flags are. I've hacked and slashed in the dating world long enough that I have a pretty decent grid layed out, complete with landmines and water obstacles.

For example, I don't ask for the first date. In fact, I've never asked for a first date. That doesn’t mean I’ve never asked a man to dinner, just that I typically leave the initial request up to him. I know, I know, it’s a bit old-fashioned, but I can’t help the feeling that my grandfather would roll in his grave if he found out I asked some strange man to dinner. I will, however, say something like, “Hey, wanna do dinner Thursday night?” to a man I’ve already seen a few times. That’s just my style.

Pick-me-up

For a first date, you should offer to pick me up, but don’t be surprised if I tell you I’ll meet you somewhere. I don’t know you well yet, and I may not feel safe climbing into a stranger’s car. Regardless of how we’re meeting up, you should be a little early (“a little” = 10 minutes), so that if I’m early, too, I’m not sitting alone in a restaurant somewhere, looking like the girl who got stood up. If you’re picking me up, wait in your car down the block until its right at the designated pick-up time. Punctuality is great, but I’ll be mortified if I’m still in my curlers when the door-bell rings.

Your Cel Phone

Unless you’re a doctor, turn it off. That’s right. O-F-F… OFF! I’m a special person. I deserve your undivided attention. If you’re looking at your hip every two minutes to see why your phone is vibrating, you’re not paying attention to what I’m saying. It doesn’t make you look important or popular, it makes you look rude and egocentric. I’ve been known to refuse a second date with a man because he answered his cel during dinner.

The Dinner Debate:

On the first date, you should pay. I’ll offer to either pick up the tab or pay half, but I’m expecting you to say “no”. For subsequent dates, if you ask, you pay; if I ask, I’ll pay. Once you initiate “Dutch”, where you pay half and I pay half, it’s thereafter the established form of dinner transactions, and you can expect to hear things like, “I can’t this week. I’m broke.” Another acceptable way of handling the dinner transaction is to say, “Hey, you wanna leave the tip?” It’s a less analytically-intense form of Dutch, it lets me know that you’d like me to throw a little money on the table, and neither one of us have to feel cheap sweating over how to split a nickel. We can switch back and forth that way indefinitely… you buy this week, and I’ll tip… next week I’ll get the bill and you can leave the tip.

The Tip:

If there’s a way I can sneak a peak on the sly, I’m going to. I won’t be obvious about it, but don’t think that I won’t know how much you leave. Being cheap with wait staff (unless they did an awful job) is a total turn-off. If you can’t afford to leave a decent tip, you can’t afford to eat at that particular restaurant. Blowing money you don’t have isn’t sexy, it’s stupid.

If you can’t afford to wine and dine me at that super-expensive restaurant, let’s go to the local BBQ joint, or the cute little fish and chips place that was your favorite in high school. I’m out with you for the pleasure of your company, not so I can sink my teeth into a top-choice steak. If you’re really, really broke, why not invite me for a picnic at a local park, or have me over and cook for me? Both activities are special and intimate, and even though you’re not dropping half of your paycheck on them, I’ll appreciate the effort you put into the interaction.

Date-drop

If you picked me up, at some point, you’ll have to drop me off. You should definitely walk me to the door, but if we’re in the first few dates (“few” = 3 or 4), leave your car running. That automatically takes the pressure off of me to invite you in (unless I’ve done so already), and I’ll be much more comfortable.

The Kiss

Some people play with their keys. Some people bite their lip. Others watch the lips of their date. Any of those are reasonable indications that I’d like a kiss. You should lean in slightly, and I’ll either stand still (meaning you’ve read me wrong) or lean in, too. Mirror-leaning means its okay to pucker up, but don’t go overboard with it. A quick kiss is nice, or a closed-mouth kiss with a bit of a linger, but don’t try to take my temperature with your tongue. If there’s gonna be tongue, let me initiate it. I can’t tell you how gross it is to have a perfectly nice date ruined by a guy who got greedy with the smooch at the end.

The Thank-you Call:

As far as the “call-back”, it’s perfectly appropriate (and appreciated) for you to call the next day and thank me for the evening. Don’t be long-winded, and it’s better if you can catch the machine instead of me personally (hint: call when you know I’ll be at work). I don’t want to talk about my manicure appointment or your dog in first grade, it’s just a simple, polite measure that gives our date that little spin, that little bit of extra that helps you stand out from the crowd. Leaving that information on the machine gives me the benefit of answering it at my leisure.

The Second Date:

After the thank-you call, it’s alright to wait a few days before you call again (“a few” = 3 or 4). When you do, try to be respectful of my time; I’m a busy girl. Be straight-forward and direct. A great opener is something like, “Hey, I just wanted to thank you again for the great evening last weekend, and I was wondering if you had time to get together again maybe next Tuesday?” Now you’ve not only thanked me (thereby complementing me), but you’ve gotten straight to the point of the call. Know what we’re going to do before you call, and give me a general idea of the activities for the date. If I need to dress up (more than I did for the last date), you should let me know. If you’re taking me paddle-boating and haven’t mentioned it, I’ll be pissed when I get splashed in my strappy sandals and sundress. Second dates are hard, because they’re awkward. We don’t know each other tremendously well, so we haven’t quite gotten to the point of “old friends”, and there’s definitely that new-person tension going on. The more relaxed and good-humored you are, the better the date will go. I’ll be taking my cues from you, and if you’re uptight and nervous, I will be, too.

The Re-Emasculation of Western Women

There's a thread going on an online bulletin board I participate in, on how to be a "girly girl". It's surprising to me, that women nowadays have become so engrossed in empowerment, in equal pay and equal rights and clawing their way into the position of Head of Household, that somewhere along the way we've forgotten the inherent strength of femininity.

In the Arabian Gulf, they say the most beautiful parts of a woman are her eyes, hands, and feet; this is based largely on the fact that through cultural dress, those are the only parts exposed. There is, however, a unique beauty in these women. Through their veils and habaias, they express a subtle grace that is unmatched elsewhere in the world.

It got me thinking, though (as these things so often do), about the measures I learned from my Oma about beauty. She was never "pretty", by runway standards, yet when she walked into a room, every head turned. She posessed a quiet confidence that made her stunning.

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Eight Rules in Beauty:
Things I learned from my grandmother about
grace, refinement, and poise
(modernized for your reading convenience)

1. Black looks good on every one. Maintain a wardrobe of versatile mix-and match tops and bottoms (slacks and skirts)... blacks and creams and shades of grey, with a few solid-color brights to mix it up.

2. Keep it subtle. You can wear heavy eye make up at night, or dark lipstick, not both. Skirts that ride just below the knee are flirty without being too conservative, and can tease with a bit of leg without showin off the cottage cheese that's accumulated on your thighs over the years. Polkadots, checks and stripes are for children; patterns are best left for those trying to distract and hide.

3. Punctuate. Find some accent pieces to add to your semi-mono-chromatic wardrobe. Get a great true red leather purse to carry at night. It adds a little punch, but still lets you maintain that sleek, put-together look. You can throw a bright scarf on, or a single heavy bangle, or even a thick, chunky necklace if you're feeling feisty... something that works as an accent without being too distracting.

4. Wear practical shoes. I'm not talkin about your mother's sturdy loafers. Shoes that are slinky and strappy are hot, but if you can't stand and walk in them without hobbling, you've ruined the sex-appeal. Practice walking in a pair of shoes before you buy them. Watch your gait in a full-length mirror. If you can't pull off a smooth, graceful strut in those slinky sandals, try something with a slightly lower or broader heel, or a shoe with a similar heel but more support up top. Often, you can get away with a high, skinny heel if you've got more strap to stabalize the shoe and your ankle.

5. Quit with the bling. You're not a rap super-star. One piece of statement jewelry is plenty. There isn't any reason to have diamond chandeliers hanging from your ears, a chunky necklace, four bracelets, and glittering gemstones and gold all the way across your knuckles. If you must accent with jewelry, choose something simple and subtle that doesn't detract from the two-hour hairdo you're sporting.

6. You're going to dinner, not a photo-shoot for Vogue. Trends are... well... trendy, but the refined beauty of a woman who's confidently classic never fades. Stick with what works for you, and leave chasing down the latest fads to teenyboppers who have nothing better to do with their time.

7. Posture is 95% of your first impression. It's impossible to ignore some one who walks with assured confidence. By throwing your shoulders back, holding your head up high, and letting yourself glow, you'll attract and hold more attention than any ruffle-wearing trollop could possibly hope to acquire.

8. Focus on your best asset. Looking sharp is all well and good, but really, he's taking you out to spend time with you, not your Coach handbag. Dressing with quiet sophistication lends itself to highlighting your best attribute... your personality

Twister

I woke up this morning to the scream of tornado sirens. Always starts the morning off right, being forced down to the basement before I've had a chance to pop my morning squat. Nevermind trying to herd together a neurotic dog and two cats, one who thinks she's the devil's own spawn, the other who's afraid of every bump and squeek that goes on in this old house.

Round about the time I'd gathered the phone and the beasties and checked the weather radar on the computer, hail the size of doubled peanuts started sheeting down, covering everything in a layer of pebbled white.

Two minutes after they dragged my groggy butt out of bed, the sirens quieted. The hail stopped, the sun came out, and I heard the safety signal: a bird started singing in the back yard. I'm watching through the front window now, as the kids from the house opposite mine play in the street, throwing bits of hail at one another in between pushing twigs and branches off their dad's car. They're safe in the knowledge that the threat has passed, that life has returned to normal and that there's room again for laughter and games.

This morning's frenzy is a lot like my life's been for the past few months. All hustle and bustle, all bracing for and recovering from disaster. Four months after reconnecting with American soil, life is finally calm more days than it isn't. The worst is over. I've survived the storm.

"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best, knows the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat." (Theodore Roosevelt, Citizen in a Republic, Sorbonne, Paris; April 23, 1910

The Rag

Disclaimer: For all the guys out there who get squicked every time they hear the word, "menstrual", I'd suggest you skip this post.

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If I hear one more male friend say he wants to be a woman, I'm going to scream. We're not talking a squeeky lil squirt of a squeal, here... we're talking all-out horror-flick-style burst-yo-tonsils SCREAM!

"But if I had boobs, I could sit at home and play with them all day! You guys have a clit AND a G-spot! And women get multiple orgasms!"

Let me help y'all out a little with this...

1. Boobs: Boobs ain't all they're cracked up to be. They get grabbed, groped, fondled, chewed on, pinched, poked, and generally abused for the amusement of the opposite sex. They cause stains across the front of our blouses from food and beverage, and they're the first part of a sweater to ruin from snagging. They're trophies and bragging rights for our boyfriends, and the topic of conversation among his friends entirely too often for our comfort. We have to wear rubber band harnesses that squeeze the rib cage all day long, in a desperate attempt to keep them from becoming prematurely un-perked. We're expected to let another human being draw their life substance through them, after which they'll be saggy and wrinkly and of absolutely no use or desire to any one, anywhere. And, if we're really, really lucky, every 28 days we get to feel like some one used our chest as a punching bag.

2. The Vagina: Forget the vagina monologues. Vaginas are hell, wrapped in pretty pink skin, given a mucous problem, and planted between our legs. They're messy, complicated little things with mile-high attitudes; they don't do what they're told, when they're told to do it. Over half the population doesn't know how to operate them, and a lot of the ones who do are too impatient or self-revolving to take the time to do what needs to be done to make them functional. On top of that, for a handful of days every month, our uterus goes into seizure and spews blood all over everything we own. The one and only way to prevent this is to stuff the vagina with wads of cotton and walk around with a maxi-pad the size of a telephone book glued to the inside of our underwear; it's similar to wearing an adult diaper, but without the protective elastic legbands. During this time, we feel like the mass of our lower organs are trying to claw their way to the outside world, straight through our abdominal cavity. One of the best cures for this gnawing, consuming pain is stimulation (that means sex), but guess what? YOU, who think you want one of these natural miracles so you can sit around and diddle it all day long, have this concept that periods are gross, and won't bring your brick within 20 yards of us while we're under current.

3. The Myth of the Mulitple O: I know you may find this hard to believe, but if your girl's having an orgasm every time you two jump in the sack, it's not confirmation that you're Superman in bed... it means she's faking it. The female orgasm is a complex, slow-building thing. On top of that, it's 80% mental, which means that just because you're pushing the right button(s) doesn't mean she's gonna climax. Does that mean you need to give up on the clitorous and g-spot? Absolutely not. What you need to understand is that a lot of us have a hard enough time having one orgasm with you (a huge distraction) in the bed, much less one after another after another. If we are fortunate enough to have the ability to multi-O, it's usually something we can only draw out of ourselves alone at night, shrouded in complete darkness, while fantasizing about your best friend.

The Love Wisdom Project

A friend of a friend is doing a thing for NPR. They're going around the city asking random strangers one simple, complex question:

"How do you know when you're in love?"

In order to answer the question, one must first secure a definition of love.

Love n. 1. A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.
2. A feeling of intense desire and attraction toward a person with whom one is disposed to make a pair; the emotion of sex and romance.
3. Sexual passion. Sexual intercourse. A love affair.
4. An intense emotional attachment, as for a pet or treasured object.
5. A person who is the object of deep or intense affection or attraction; beloved. Often used as a term of endearment.
6. An expression of one's affection: Send him my love.
7. A strong predilection or enthusiasm: a love of language.
8. The object of such an enthusiasm: The outdoors is her greatest love.

Katherine Hepburn said, "Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get, it's what you are expected to give -- which is everything." So love is when you feel the need to give everything you have, everything you are, to another? According to the Joyce Brothers, "The best proof of love is trust." In order to love, we must trust, but does trust always indicate love?

Lydia Maria Price touted love as a miracle drug. "The cure for all ills and wrongs, the cares, the sorrows and the crimes of humanity, all lie in the one word 'love'. It is the devine vitality that everywhere produces and restores life." Love, then, lightens the burdens of life, and allows our cares to slip away. This hasn't been my experience. There are moments of elation, moments of soaring exhuberance where all is right with the world, punctuated by ache and sorrow and need and longing.

Do we love through nature, or, as Albert Ellis put it, is "[t]he art of love... largely the art of persistence"? Is love merely an extension of need? "Immature love says: 'I love you because I need you.' Mature love says, 'I need you because I love you.'" (Erich Fromm) Are we defined by love? As stated by Charles Augustin Sainte-Bueve, "Tell me who admires you and loves you, and I will tell you who you are." Before we love, are we nothing? No one?

I'm reminded of a scene from a touching movie, about an obsessive-compulsive composer and a waitress, who fall in love. She demands that he say something nice to her, to which he responds: "You make me want to be a better man." This, to me, defines love.

In response to the question: How do you know when you're in love?

"I know I'm in love when the presence of another inspires me to be a better person."

So... how do you know when you're in love? You're welcome to leave a comment here, or you can mail a narrative response to:

The Love Wisdom Project
PO Box 721
Smithville, MO 64089.

That's a Spade!

In some restaurant, somewhere near you:

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"I'm sorry, but I can't serve you."
"What? You've got plenty of tables. Of course you can serve me."
"No, I really can't. You'll have to leave."
"Why?"
"Because you're African."
"I'm not African, I'm American! I was born and raised here!"
"Well, you're black."
"That doesn't make me African!"
"It's close enough. You look African. AIDS came from Africa, and you probably have AIDS. I can't serve you. You have to leave."

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No American in their right mind would sit by and allow this interaction to take place.

Let's call a spade a spade, shall we?

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Bigotry

n : the intolerance and prejudice of a bigot

Bigot
n. One who is strongly partial to one's own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Intolerant
adj: Opposed to the inclusion or participation of those different from oneself, especially those of a different racial, ethnic, or social background.

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Right then... now that that's out of the way, and we're all on the same page...

Why is it okay to express bigotry towards Arabs, but not blacks?

Why can't we say:
"You're black, so you must have AIDS!"

but we can say:
"You're Arab, so you must be linked to a terrorist organization!"

I don't intend to put a lot of political garbage on here, because if you wanted to read that type of thing, you'd be somewhere else. This Dubai Ports mess bugs me, though. Racism is racism, no matter what the politics are. No one should feed people's real fear of harm to further their own position. It's just wrong.

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"There are plenty of good reasons for fighting," I said, "but no good reason ever to have without reservation, to imagine that God Almighty Himself hates with you, too. Where's evil? It's that large part of every man that wants to hate without limit, that wants to hate with God on its side. It's that part of every man that finds all kinds of ugliness so attractive." (Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night)

Good Vibrations

Found out a couple weeks ago that a local group I dig is "on hiatus". We all know what that means... they're probably not coming back, which is a damn shame. Apparently, they just couldn't get along.

The singer, though, has gone off and done some of his own accoustic stuff, which I really like. The recording isn't terribly fantastic, but he makes up for it. Beyond that, the music's downloadable for free... can't beat that. I'll hit one of his local gigs here within the next few months, to lend support and all that.

Gotta support the local music scene, yanno?

Subtle Sacrifice

I heard on the radio today that Lent's about to kick in. I'm not terribly aware of these things, since I'm not the church-going sort. However, an idea came to me as I listened to people in New Orleans discuss what they're giving up for Lent. The #1 thing mentioned in the interview?

Alcohol.

They're giving up feul for the fire of misery that threatens to consume them every day. That isn't to say it isn't difficult, only that what they're sacrificing is something any loving diety would gladly have them give up forever.

It got me thinking, though... what if, instead of looking for something we could easily do without, we all gave up something that's subtle, but damaging. (Hey, if Christmas can be a non-religeous, commercial holiday, why can't Lent?) I'm not talking about smoking or alcohol. We all know those things are bad for us, and, despite your best intentions, you know by the end of tommorow you'll be sucking down twice the nicotine you would have yesterday. Here are a couple of things that would fit into what I'm talking about:

• Self-depreciating language: a lot of people I know (especially women) say things like, "Man, my butt's big" or "God, I'm stupid". When you hear something over and over, it becomes true... at least in your head. What if this month, you made specific effort to say, instead, "I'm not going to eat out this week, and by Sunday, I bet these jeans will fit better!" or, "Well that wasnt the brightest thing I've done all day! Won't be doing that again!"
  
• Treating service staff like they're machines: If you've ever been in the service industry, you know that there are customers who are ass holes because they really do mean to go after you, and there are customers who are ass holes because they just don't seem to realize that you're a human being. Sure, leaving a solid tip is a compliment to wait staff, but nothing makes up for treating a person like they aren't worth the effort to make eye contact or speak directly to. When you're going through the checkout line at the grocery store, make a specific effort to look up from your wallet, smile at the girl, and respond to her, "Have a nice day!" with a, "Hey, you too!" It takes minimal effort on your part, and it might make her day.
  
• Saying, "Because I said so, that's why" to your kids: I'll never understand why parents do this. It makes sense to me that you'd want to encourage your children to ask questions when they don't understand something, rather than just blindly obey. It also makes sense to me that when they say, "Why?", that if you don't have an answer, then maybe you should rethink your initial response. There's a reason they can't do something, or should do something. Telling them the reason helps them develop their logic and reasoning skills, and it makes them free thinkers. Which sounds better?
• "I can't ride my bike through traffic because cars can't always see me and I could get hurt." OR
• "I can't ride my bike through traffic because mom said so... but she's not looking right now..."
• Not taking the time to kiss your spouse good morning and good night: If you're not doing this you should be. Did you know that couples who kiss each other "hello" and "good bye" live longer? A quick kiss conveys so many things: I love you, I appreciate you, I'll be thinking of you while I'm gone/I thought of you all day. It's so important, and so easy... there's really no reason not to.
  
• Not waving to your neighbors when you're both in the yard at the same time: Again, how difficult is it to raise your hand, wiggle it a little, smile, and say, "Hey, Bob!" Do you even know your neighbor's name? If the only time you talk to them is when their dog is barking, you're missing a golden opportunity. People are much more apt to be courteous of your space, physical and mental, when they have a connection to you. I bet if you'd taken the time to get to know Bob a little, to stop and talk to him, ask him about his wife, congratulate him for his kid getting accepted to that prestigeous college, that he'd be a lot more inclined to bring his dog in when it barks, BEFORE you have to ask, simply because he knows you. Today's a great day to make that connection, don't you think?
  
• Telling your dog, "Go lay down" every time he comes up to be petted: Dogs are physical manifestations of unconditional love. They are always happy to see you, always content to listen to you babble on about how difficult your day is, or how much of a pain in the butt your significant other is being today, or how worried you are that you're going to get laid off. They never judge, even when you're wrong. All they ask in return is a warm, safe, dry place to sleep, enough food and water to sustain themselves, and a little attention now and then. Beyond that, playing with dogs makes you live a longer, happier, healthier life. How cool is that?

What are some things you do that you shouldn't? Would you be able (and willing) to give them up for a month? Do you think that after a month, you'd go back to doing them?

Tending the Flock

I'm not the type to be rude to folks just because they knock on my door. It doesn't matter what they're selling... Vacuum cleaners, magazines, religion... it's all the same to me. It's a tough job, and I'm just glad I don't have to do it. I don't typically get many uninvited visitors, and most door-knockers have the sense not to ply their trade in the middle of February in the Midwest; it's just too cold. This year, however, the weather's been unusually warm through the central United States.

Today we hit 70 degrees. I was in the kitchen, dancing around with dish suds up to my elbows, singing at the top of my lungs to the Avenue Q soundtrack, when some one rapped on my door. On the porch was a mocha-skinned man in a knit vest the color of egg yolk and navy blue pants that broke above his ankles.

"Excuse me, ma'am, and please pardon the intrusion, but I'm Mr. Social Studies Teacher at Church of the Holy Somethin-or-Other parochial school two towns over. I was wondering if I couldn't take a moment of your time?" It was about this time I realized that the song pouring through the cocked screen door was "Every One's a Little Bit Racist", which is, of course, backed by hokey Sesame-street-esque music.

"We have a few students this semester that are having difficulty paying their tuition. We've never turned students away before, and although the school is prepared to operate at a loss, we're looking for support from our local community."

Now, I just happen to be blessed with the knowledge that this private school takes on "problem" youth and helps them get their lives turned around. It also received a write-up in the local paper a few years back (amazing what the mind will regurgitate) for being a Christian school with an outstandingly strong curriculum. I'd like to do my part to contribute, and I say so. "If you'll hold on for just a moment, I'll be right back."

I scrawl out a check for what I can spare and deliver it back to the porch. The man, awkward and appreciative, accepts the check with a heart-felt, "Thank you!" He walks down the steps in time with the music from "The Internet is for Porn", which is pouring through my open living room windows.

Halfway through his decent, he stops and turns, looking up at me. "Are you a counselor?" the man asks. "A teacher?"

"Nah."

"Mind if I ask about your interest in the school?" It's pretty obvious I'm not the church-going type.

"Education is important to me. Beyond that, I'm a student. I know how hard it can be to get together enough money for tuition. Everybody needs a little help now and then."

I'm reasonably sure that at some point during our interaction, the man noticed the lyrics to the songs in the background. I'm also reasonably certain he was surprised to find support in "a wretch like me". Sometimes, I guess, it's okay to let a stranger watch over the flock. Sometimes it's okay to shake the hand of a neighbor we don't necessarily like or understand. I don't know if he only accepted the money because the school is desperate. I don't know if, given a different set of circumstances, he would have judged me for the lifestyle I lead. I'd like to think he's the type of man who follows the word of the book to the letter when it says, "Love thy neighbor..."

Compassion is a beautiful thing.

Sunday Night Blues

Cigarette and cigar smoke mingle with the distinctive incense of a pit barbeque, hanging over the crowd like a blanket of fog. The drummer onstage growls into the microphone, “I’m tore down. I’m almost level to the ground,” and one can’t help but believe him. It’s Sunday night at eight o’clock, and Parker’s is packed with a motley crew. Bikers and yuppies, barflies, lovers, and drunks ensure that it’s standing room only tonight. They’re all here for the same reason: the Sunday night jam session.

The Bobs and Williams of Monday through Friday become Hambone and Buffalo Bill on Sunday night. A sign-up list for would-be jammers is clamped to a cracked clip board, resting on top of the neglected jukebox. Behind it, the wall is covered with photographs of regulars, past and present. Musicians sit along the walls, both in the crowd and of it, warming up while they wait for their turn on the stage. Any other night of the week, that jukebox would be spouting the latest top forties pop, but not on Sunday. Sunday night is sacred. Sunday night is reserved for the Blues.

Neon red from the “Parker’s” sign out front flickers through the window, tapping out its staccato rhythm in time with the driving backbeat. The host band, a local “Rockin’ Blues” quad from Kansas City, has dragged the Sunday night jam session from site to site for five years. It’s to the point now that the regular jammers have been playing together so long the music is seamless. This isn’t a bunch of wanna-be rock-star types getting together and hiccupping out a song or two; these are professional-grade musicians who, for one reason or another, can’t quit their day jobs, so they wind up here, putting on a show anybody on the floor would gladly pay to see.

The host band’s vocalist, a short, plain woman with a voice reminiscent of Janis Joplin, wails into the microphone as she shakes her crimped hair. The bassist plucks out a heartbeat designed to draw a man’s soul straight through his chest, stretching long, strong fingers over the neck of a customized eight-string. A guitar solo kicks in, and the crowd is enraptured by the talent of fingers over strings and the sheer intensity and energy flowing through man and instrument. The guitarist’s stringy, unkempt hair and beard frame his long face, hanging down onto clothes that appear to have been slept in two nights already. Were they anywhere but in this bar, on that stage, with those instruments, this rag-tag group would be shown the door.

The song ends, signaling the conclusion of the host band’s set, and the beginning of the jam. Among the whistles and applause, a crowd member jeers, “Man, my grandmamma can rip a better lick than that!”

The singer, grinning and leaning into the microphone, jokes back, “Yeah, well, at least I don’t think the lyrics to Texas Flood are, ‘Well back home I know floods and tomatoes, baby the sun shines in the hay!’” The audience explodes into hysterical laughter. It’s just as likely for the stage group to initiate the provocation, and it’s all in good fun; no egos are bruised by the light-hearted banter.

The night wears on, each musician taking the stage in turn, slowly cycling out the group of performers so that roughly every forth song, there’s a whole new band up front. As jammers come offstage, they’re met with hearty slaps on the back, good-natured ribbing, and frosty mugs of beer. The line to the bathrooms start to creep out through the swinging saloon doors and across the front of the stage. The restrooms, which are designated “male” and “female” by paper sign printouts stuck to the doors with box tape, are tucked down a back hallway stuffed with instrument cases. In a place with plastic-coated table cloths where smoked meat is sold by the pound and beer flows freely from the tap, both male and female customers cycle through whichever stall becomes available first, without regard to gender.

The waitresses are petite and young, but quick on their feet, and quicker with a smile. They know how to work this crowd, casually leaning on tables, cracking jokes and calling everybody “Darlin’”. They tend to ignore the clusters of new folks that bunch around the “Please Wait to be Seated” sign at the front door. Eventually, the customers figure it out and seat themselves. Without fail, at least one person in the party will trip over the uneven flooring in the entranceway. The regulars never cease to be entertained by this, and they watch in glowing anticipation for the moment a toe catches on the raised board. Everybody trips the first time. It’s almost an initiation rite.

Parker’s isn’t much to look at. It’s a cheap, run-down place snugged in between a fading Mexican restaurant and a gas station in a small town a lot of people from the city have never heard of, despite the fact that it’s a mere fifteen miles away. Part of what makes it so special, though, is that “gem in the rough” quality. Not many can guess that a place with faded, second-hand theater drapes hanging in the windows and corrugated sheet metal lining half the inside walls would be a place one could find their soul. It isn’t the location that makes Parker’s so special. It isn’t the décor. It isn’t their A-list clientele. Parker’s is special because for a few hours every Sunday night, a broken-down old smoke-shack becomes home to every stranger that walks through its doors. Black and white, old and young, day laborer and CEO can sit side-by-side in genuine friendship, bound together by the music pouring out into the parking lot and down a quiet country highway.

Stalker Bob

Stalker Bob* has been admiring me from not-so-afar for close to three and a half years. He used to come by and bug me at work, following me around the warehouse talking for an hour or two, until I finally got tired of playing "Serve the Customer" and told him I really, really had to get back to work.

Somewhere along the way, he was driving down my street and I just happened to be outside doing yardwork. Of course he had to stop and say hello. Of course I didn't tell him how absolutely creeped out I was that he now knew where I lived. Of course. He is, after all, a reasonably harmless fellow. A lonely old professor for some city university who fancies himself attractive to a younger woman. He doesn't mean me any harm, he's just annoying. More nuisance than threat.

While I was overseas, I began getting emails from Stalker Bob. I guess he stopped by the house one time while I was away, and my sister (who was "taking care" of the place while I was gone) gave him the house phone number and my e-mail address. Let's ignore for a moment the fact that my sister is giving out my personal information to complete strangers... it's just WEIRD getting random e-mails from some one you never think about unless they're standing right in front of you.

Stalker Bob called at random the entire time I was gone, according to my sister (serves her right, having to deal with him, after giving out the information). One of these random calls occurred about a month ago. Since I didn't recognize the number, I picked up the phone. Great way to confirm to your stalker that you've returned to the homeland and are prepared to resume normal activities, such as recieving uninvited house calls.

I guess he got tired of me not answering his e-mails or the telephone, and decided to stop by this morning. We had a bit of an ice storm blow in last night, so everything was covered with a thin, shiney layer of the hard, slippery stuff. Bob announced his arrival by falling up the front steps, which of course set the dog to barking. After a brief chat, which ended in me saying, "You know, you really should call before you come over," Bob fell again going back down the stairs. Highlight of my day... you don't get two smiles from the same idiot in a 30-minute period very often.

Some people just can't see the signs, even when they're smacking them dead in the face... multiple times... and laughing about it.

Be my Valentine!

My friend L took me out for Valentine's day on Tuesday. He'd made reservations at 6:30 at Ivy's, a restaurant he really liked, but I'd never been to. The plan was to meet him at his place around quarter to six and then head to dinner. When I got there, he was standing next to the car, keys in hand.

"We have to go," he says, climbing into his car.
"I thought we were at 6:30?" Now I'm confused... I could have sworn he'd said 6:30.
"Well, we were at 6:30, until they lost the reservation. Now we're at 6:00."

So it's Valentine's Day... it's one of the biggest food-days of the year, next to Mother's Day (it may actually beat Mom's out, but you'd have to ask somebody who knows... I'm not in the food business). Maybe they've been crazy for the last few weeks. Maybe the book got lost or something, and that's why they dont have the reservation. Maybe.

The parking lot, which is shared with a half-dozen or so other restaurants, was full of cars. I was positive the restaurant would be packed. In the foyer, though, there seemed to be a problem. Not only did they lose the original reservation, but they seated some one else on the pencilled-in reservation they made when he called to confirm. We were standing there blinking at the hostess, while she frantically searched through the (very full) guest list for somewhere to stick us. Just as I thought she was about to chew a hole through her bottom lip, a couple came out of the dining area, scowling.

The waitress (who was serving them, I assume) was following them out, appologizing profusely. "I'm very sorry, sir. Your drinks are on the house."
He stopped dead, turned his head, looked her square in the eye and snorted, "Oh, I know."
He then strode out behind his puffed-up wife.

L and I watched the exchange, watched the hostess ask the waitress what the couple's name was, watched her erase the couple's name from the guest list and pencil in his. Obviously pleased with her ingenuity, she picked up a couple pieces of paper from the host stand and chirped, "Follow me!" with a grin.

She dropped us off at a cozy table in a corner, near a window. It was a nice, intimate table a bit removed from the rest of the dining hall. The first thing I noticed was that the room was nearly empty. There was one other couple there with an infant in the opposite corner, and a table of fifteen or so men across the room from us, laughing noisily and kicking back a few beers. Strange, on Valentine's Day. Maybe the dinner rush starts at 7:00? The Midwest isn't known for it's night-owls, though. Something wasn't right.

The entire time I was looking around the dining room, the waitress was babbling about the "select" menu. She put a piece of paper down in front of us with four menu items on it. I scanned over it. L scanned over it. There wasn't one item on the menu I wasn't allergic to.

"Excuse me, Miss? Where's the regular menu?"" L knows what I can and cannot have. He pays attention to that sort of thing.
"Well, because of the holiday, we have a special menu tonight."
"She can't eat any of this. Is there any way we can order something else?"
"I'll have to check. Hold on just a sec." She pranced off to the kitchen, presumably to ask the cook if he could fix up somethin special.

"They didn't tell me about the menu," L said, pursing his lips and wiggling the table, which is teetering back and forth unsteadily on a gimp leg.
"So, let me get this straight," I said, eying him. "They failed to inform you when you called to make the reservation the first time that they had a restricted menu. Then they lost you reservation. Then, when you called to confirm your reservation, they rebooked you, but gave it to some one else before you got here, and again did not inform you of the restricted menu. Nor did they inform us of the restricted menu while we were waiting to be seated out front."
"Yeah, that's about right," he said, leaning on the table edge, which caused the entire table to shift a good three inches towards him. "We're gonna need a new table."

The waitress, of course, came back to inform us that no, there were no other foodstuffs in the kitchen that could be scrounged together to make a meal that wasn't already listed on the menu, but she'd be happy to take our order and request that they not use any sauces or butter, and that would probably be okay.

She shifted us to a new (structurally sound) table as L grilled me about why I was willing to risk a trip to the Emergency Room for a night out.
The waitress, who has heard this entire exchange, blinks at us with an empty-headed smile. "So, can I take your order?"

"Actually, I'd really like to speak with your manager," L says. The waitress, not nearly as bouncy now, slinks off to retrieve the requested manager, and returns with the hostess.
"Sarah* says you asked to speak with me." No question, just that simple statement.
"Well, yes," L starts. "We were never informed that the menu wouldn't be your normal menu. No one told me when I called to make the reservation, or when I called to confirm. We wouldn't have come here if we'd known. She has food allergies that prevent her from eating anything you're serving tonight. It's now nearly 7:00 on Valentine's day, and we're sitting in a restaurant looking at a menu from which we cannot eat."
She just stood there and blinked at him, and L blinked back. They did that for awhile. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry, Sir," collected the menues, and turned to walk off. As an afterthought, she turned back and picked up the bill (for the two drinks we ordered but didn't drink, since we wern't staying for dinner). "The house will take care of your drinks." She laid his card back on the table and carried off the bill folder.

We wound up chowing down on hot, fresh, EDIBLE Chinese food from a place two doors down. We laughed and talked and had a great time in our cheap little booth with the plastic flower on the table. Damn shame about Ivy's, though. They've lost L's business, and probably a few of his friends', too. Cozy little place, and I'm sure their food is delightful, but eating out is about more than what's on the plate. It's about service. Apparently, the folks at Ivy's don't understand that.

Balance in White

It's snowing. Fat white flakes that float instead of fall, and cover everything in a blanket of insulated white. There aren't too many things in this world more beautiful than freshly-fallen snow. The whole of everything looks clean and new and soft. This is only the third snow of the year, but, since it's into February, it's probably one of the last.

I'm looking out my window, watching miniature drifts peak along the picket fence, contemplating the future, and movement, and stagnation. Life seems to be hovering on a precipice, waiting for the slightest breeze to tilt the balance just a little... just enough.

I was bustling around my little house today, tidying up from the renovations that are in progress, doing normal, mundane, domestic things. I've been here for five years, last October, not counting the 12 months I spent in the Gulf. It's the longest I've ever lived anywhere in my life. This is home for me... at least, the closest thing to home I've ever known. I'm finding peace here, in my little house on the prairie. School and life and work and home.

Balance.

Plaster: Good AND Good for You!

So I got this idea rolling around in my head, and, as per the usual with me, became totally obsessed with it. I wanted to make a body in plaster. I had the image of what I wanted it to look like in my head, but of course the only female torso I have immediate access to on a consistent basis is my own, and there's no way I'd have been able to hold still AND wrap my naked bod in plaster-dipped gauze, so I drafted L to help me (go figure, he didn't complain). I now have a plaster mold of my torso with a shoulder, collar bone, breast, belly button, and hip. It's got great curve, but it isn't perfect, so we'll have to make another one. Poor L.

I took my first music lesson yesterday. When I was in school (we're talking Middle- and High-School) I played the Euphonium (which, for all intents and purposes is nearly the same thing as a baritone). I decided a few weeks ago that I really need to start doing some things for myself, activities whose sole purpose is to feed my mind and spirit. Music is one of those things. It's amazing to pick up my horn and play it again. I'm not near as rusty as I expected to be, which is a good thing. My tone quality is terrible, and by the end of the first duet, I was completely winded, but I'll get back into shape eventually.

The house is coming along nicely. L helped me tear out half a wall between the living room and the kitchen. We moved the cabinets all over the kitchen and rewired some things. In a week or so, that'll be finished, and hopefully by the time August rolls around, I'll be ready to dive into school full time, without worrying about this place falling down around my ears.

So that's that. I'm getting back into artistic expression, getting back into music, getting myself lined up to start a real courseload in the fall. Life is moving right along.

What d'ya know? He didn't kill me after all.... I just went to sleep for awhile.

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"We are made to persist. That's how we find out who we are." (Tobias Wolf, "In Pharoh's Army")

Short Story - Untitled

This was for an assignment from one of the classes I'm taking. It's a bit formulaic because of the assignment outline, but it's passable (I hope). -p.

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I stood alone on flagstone steps in the shadow of an ancient courthouse, looking toward a horizon my accumulated sixteen years of life experience couldn’t define. The faces of its limestone blocks, worn and green with moss and time, stood cold and resolute against my plight. This was to be my fate, and there would be no rescue, no respite, no waking from the dream that was to become my reality. I didn’t understand then, the changes that would be brought about over the course of the next hour; the ego of youth does not allow comprehension in that way.

The weight of that building seemed to tie me to the Earth, as though, over time, it had filled to bursting with law and order. They were spilling out now, pouring over and around and through me, and I was drowning in them, stuck in the mud of guilt and tears. Images from the moments before flashed through my head like snapshots: my mother, standing up and screaming at the judge; the judge threatening to hold her in contempt of court; the bailiff escorting her from the courtroom; the judge looking at me over the rim of his glasses and mouthing his declaration of, “Unfit parent. State custody.” The echoed memory of the gavel snapped me back to the present.

I watched as my case-worker, Lashaunda, wedged herself into her sea-foam green, base-model compact, and I barked out a short, hollow laugh. The scene was somewhat reminiscent of an inflated balloon being stuffed into a jellybean; she was nearly as big around as she was tall. She waved at me impatiently through the windshield, urging me to hurry into the car. I stood for a moment, unable to move. Movement meant progression. Movement meant leaving everything I’d known behind. Movement meant acceptance of the situation. Finally, I stepped off the landing.

The sea-foam jellybean turned out of the courthouse parking lot and towards Downtown. Lashaunda took to murmuring into her mobile phone about another case of hers, a boy who’d slit his wrists the night before and was in intensive care at the local mercy hospital. I watched her as she spoke, studied her, and noticed for the first time how tired she looked. Lines of misery were etched deeply into her full face, lines that shouldn’t have been there at her young age. I turned away from her pain and stared out the window, letting her voice become fuzzy and indistinct as I concentrated on the things going on around us.

We moved from Downtown into the Historic District, full of renovated Victorian homes. Birds chirped unseen in the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a mower whirred, clipping a manicured lawn to perfection. There were no signs of life beyond the leaded windows. Those big, beautiful homes, full of everything money could buy, were empty. There was no life in them, no love, no joy, no sorrow. For all their grandeur, they served no purpose. The jellybean rolled right past them.

We turned into the suburban neighborhoods. Middle class homes, each nestled precisely in the middle of its designated grid square, each a perfect replica of its neighbors, mirrored themselves down both sides of the street. Familiarity tickled the base of my neck as I looked around this neighborhood, so much like my own. Multicolored family vehicles carried over-stressed, over-medicated passengers back to their perfect, boring houses with their perfect, boring families and their perfect, boring lives. A car door slammed as a brown-haired, brown-eyed man climbed out of a deep red minivan. The color was most likely supposed to look sporty, but failed to hide the utilitarian functionality of the vehicle. He slung his drab suit jacket over his arm, gripping his standard-issue black briefcase in one hand while loosening his hideous tie, most likely a birthday present from one of his 2.5 blond-haired, blue-eyed children. The man stopped suddenly and looked at me, his brown eyes reflected in mine. His shoulders slumped forward, as if the pity there awakened a long-sleeping recognition that his life was a shrine to mediocrity. He blinked, then, and turned away, and we proceeded with our journey. We did not stop at any of those houses.

The jellybean pushed on, turning seemingly random corners, with Lashaunda still a muffled hum in the background. We left the middling neighborhoods and drove through the lower-middle neighborhoods, past town homes and row homes in stern, sedate brick, beyond everything that was familiar and known, beyond everything that had been labeled safe in my childhood. We passed through the upper-lower neighborhoods, the lower neighborhoods, and the lower-lower neighborhoods, past the trailer parks with their doublewides in various stages of disrepair, and turned onto a tiny stretch of street nestled just behind the city projects, into an area even I knew was called Broke Town.

Dilapidated homes with layers of peeling, multi-colored paint were crammed up and down both sides of the street. Broken windows were stuffed with crumpled newspapers and plastic bags, and a torn, moth-eaten blanket hung over a doorway with empty hinges. In one driveway, three young men bent under the hood of an old sky-blue Cadillac with an earthquake of bass pouring through its open doors. Ink-black children and filthy mutt-dogs raced across the street, laughing and barking, oblivious to the cars on the road. Overgrown lawns, littered with car parts and empty beer bottles, were surrounded by sagging chain-linked fences. Some of those fences served to hold in dogs, some were to keep intruders out, and some provided wired prisons where smaller children played. Their mothers carried on animated conversations across side-yards, oblivious to my shock.

Gravel crunched under the tiny black tires of the jellybean as we pulled into the last driveway at the end of the street. Vertical wrought-iron bars covered the faces of the windows, combining with the brick walls and crumbling mortar to give the overall impression of a miniature prison. The lawn, yellowing in the hot summer sun, was edged severely along the side of the drive. A curled old man, who later turned out to be the paternal figure for my new foster family, stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane and sucking on his gums. Shock-white eyebrows stood out dramatically against his wrinkled, blue-black skin. I climbed out of the car, retrieving my bag from the backseat, and staggered back a few steps as Lashaunda backed out of the drive. Not one word was directed at me, not one moment of reassurance, not one ounce of advice. She didn’t miss a beat in the staccato rhythm of her mobile conversation.

I eyed the man on the porch, and he eyed me. Hard ebony eyes pierced me, studied me, dared me to sneer at his proud home, this single thing that was his to tend to, his to care for. We stood for awhile like that, and finally, as the heat drew a bead of perspiration across my forehead, he jerked his head towards the inside of the house and turned away, allowing the barred screen door to slam shut behind him. I stood for a moment alone on that gravel drive, and time stopped. I would not grasp until several years later the precipice from which I had just been thrown, but even then, wrapped in naivety and confusion, I knew my life would never be the same. I took a deep breath, adjusted my grip on my bag, and stepped forward into my new life.

Short Story - The Witch

The Witch

“Where's the book? Where is the book!” The old witch scrambled around, sending piles of books and rubble spilling to the floor. Papers with half-spells jotted on them floated in the darkest corners, watching the chaos from their protected nooks. The cauldron cursed and muttered as the witch shooed it out of the way. She stopped, finally, hair waving in wild, electrified tendrils around her head, propped her hand on her hip and said in a huff, “Alright, who’s got my spell book?”

The trunk tried to slide behind a bookshelf, only too late remembering that it was dragging a corner, its leg lost decades ago to a spell that called for a chunk of hardwood.

“Aha!” crowed the witch, diving at the trunk, attempting to pry its jaws open. “Give it to me!” she croaked out, heels buried in the floor, fingertips digging into the trunk’s leather binding. The trunk shook itself back and forth in defiance, although rather awkwardly due to its missing leg, and slammed it’s lock-latch down for reinforcement.

“Give it to me or I shall hack you open with the axe!” The trunk looked towards the door to where the axe leaned glistening against he wall, sunlight pouring through the window and shining off its blade. The axe wiggled a bit, slicing through a stray dust mote, then leered at the trunk and glinted some more for emphasis.

Shivering, the trunk popped its lock-latch and creaked open its jaw. There, nestled among old afghans and hats and spare capes, was the spell book. Just as the witch reached for her prize, the trunk dropped its lid half-down, the threat to snap shut on the witch’s fingertips apparent.

“Ive had about enough of you, you dusty old thing. Ought to put you outside and let you rot, that’s what I ought to do. And I would, too, except that I’ve somewhere to be.” She crooked one gnarled finger at the trunk, narrowing her eyes in malevolence.

She turned then, the run-in with the trunk all but forgotten. “Broom!” she bellowed, smoothing her cape and setting a musty old hat atop her head. Up popped the broom from behind the couch, where it had been snuffling after a newt freed from its jar during the commotion. It flew to the witch, dodging here and there, barking in excitement.

“Door!” she bellowed again, causing it to fling itself open. She grasped the broom roughly about the neck, then jumped on and gave it a shake to calm its ridiculous energy. The witch pushed off and flew out the door, which snapped shut directly behind her. The door, as it happened, was exceptionally conscious of letting drafts into the cottage.

“Oh dear,” the wand worried, hovering by the window. “It would appear she’s forgotten me again.” It thought of chasing after her, but decided to sit and wait instead, until she realized her error and returned. Wands, after all, are much slower than brooms, and it didn’t see the point in wasting all that energy hustling about.

“Cauldon?” It turned towards the cauldron, who slumped over further and grumbled disagreeably to whatever the wand was proposing. “What do you say we prepare a nice cup of tea for her, hmm?”

And so they settled in to wait, and set about making tea and cleaning up the mess left behind in the witch’s hurry to be off. Smoke snaked up out of the chimney of the little cottage, who wished desperately that they would stop using it’s hearth so often; the soot wreaked havoc on its sinuses.

The Single Life

I went book-shopping today. The gal at the book store gave me a great deal on a few stacks of hardcovers (3 for $1.... cant beat that!). I went to the grocery store, I took my instrument in to be refurbished (it was underwater for a few weeks during the flood last fall).

Today was the first day I've actually ENJOYED being alone since my return to the US. I suppose a month and a half isn't a terribly long time to adjust to the single life, I just expected it to come sooner than it did. Part of it, I'm sure, is the vacation I took last week. I spent a lot of time thinking, and talking with a friend, and just processing everything that's happened over the past few months. Part of it's been re-visiting myself, before I left. Part of it's redifining my wants and needs, and redefining the time line for satisfying those.

So, life is good. Things are getting better. Next step? Getting out of my jammies before noon for a week straight...

Happy Birthday to me

From my Doha Diary:
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January 17, 2005: Happy birthday to me.

It was kind of odd... quiet. Not that they're ever anything but quiet, because well, let's face it, I'm pretty solitary, but today was exceptionally quiet.

I got up and made a cake at 5am, because the girls in the office love my cakes, and pineapple upside down cake is worth packing on a pound or two for. The girls at work took me out for lunch (well, went out to lunch with me... I bought my own meal). Mother wasn't feeling well, so she was in bed moaning about a migraine when I got home.

I sat down at the kitchen table and had a piece of "birthday cake", and sang myself the Happy Birthday song in my head, then went upstairs and read for a few hours. It was exceptionally uneventful, and peacefull. A friend back home said it was sad that I had to make my own cake. It didn't occur to me that it would be sad. My mother is "sick", I've only been in Qatar for a month... who else would make it? I still don't think it's sad...
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I remember that day more clearly than I remember the movie I watched last week. I lied, in the entry. It WAS sad. I was lonely, and miserable, and I wanted to go home. But I didn't... I stayed, and I learned, and I'm glad for it. I resolved that day that I would go out and meet people and make friends in Doha, that I would find a life there, and that's precisely what I did.


People tend to find determination around major milestone days. Days like New Year's Eve, or birthdays, or anniversaries, or the death of a loved one. I tend to make resolutions on my birthday, rather than at New Year. It just makes sense to me that the anniversary marking the amount of time I've been on this Earth would be a good day to mark the setting down of a stepping stone.

The resolution this year? To take better care of myself.

Saying it is easy. It's a vague, fluid concept that requires a lot of definition. I sat down and wrote out my own personal definition of what it'll take. I know. It isn't easy at all. It's hard, and long, and it'll probably take me years to get it right. Maybe a lifetime. But I'll be better for it. I'll be happier. And isn't that what it's all about, really?

The speed of obsession

I drove out to a friend of mine's yesterday for lunch, because he was having a crap day and needed the company, and I needed human contact. On my way out there, I'm zooming down a major highway, singing along with a fabulous local rock band, and the next thing you know, there's a cop coming down the offramp to my right. I'm busted, and I know it. I pulled over before he even had a chance to turn his lights all the way on. He gets out of the car with a smile on his face, and walks up to my window.

"Did you know you were going 90 under that overpass?" Ninety? I was going at least 95, but sure, I'd take the favor.

"No Sir, I did not. 90 huh? Yeah, 90's pretty fast." I passed him my license and settled in to wait. As I sat there, worrying the steering wheel with my fingertips, I remembered my "former life", before I went overseas, before I came back as somebody else. I remembered some one else getting in trouble with the law...

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Bentley* was 32 when I was 19. He was tall and stunningly slim, with ink-black hair, deep, penetrating eyes, and olive skin. He was slick, articulate, graceful, and refined. He was gorgeous, and I was in love. Actually, I was more than in love... I was obsessed.

Bentley worked long, impossible hours at a difficult, thankless job. He liked to watch sports in the evening, was a pretty darn good cook, and would come up with the sweetest, most thoughtful surprises at random. He was also unreliable, emotionally distant, impulsive, and childish. We had the type of emotionally-intense, dramatic relationship they write sap romances about. We loved each other passionately at night, and in the morning, I'd whine that I didn't see him often enough, or long enough, or that I wasn't an important enough fixture in his life, or any number of other things that young women try to lace men down with. With Bentley, that was relationship suicide. I don't know why he kept me around for as long as he did. I was cloying, and needy, and I just couldn't understand why he couldn't drown in me the way I wanted him to.

So... on to the story. He was having a night out with his co-workers, and I wasn't invited. He was supposed to call on his way home from the bar. I waited up until nearly 3am (the bars in my area close at 2), and the phone never rang. When I called the next morning, he didn't pick up. I didn't actually hear from him until mid-afternoon the following day.

Apparently, he'd been pulled over on his way home from the bar. Bentley wasn't a heavy drinker, but he wasn't the most aware drinker, either. There were a lot of times he stumbled through the front door and I gave him hell because he shouldn't have been driving. This, apparently, would have been one of those times. He'd failed a breathalizer test at a standard sobriety checkpoint. He'd been arrested, of course, and issued a DUI. His license had been confiscated. His precious cherry-red Lexus had been impounded.

Bentley could have said:
"Maybe I shouldn't have had that last drink," or,
"Maybe I should've waited longer before I got behind the wheel."

But he didn't. He said the test wasn't performed correctly, that the police officer didn't inform him of all his options, that, despite the fact that he was, in fact, driving under the influence, that it didn't matter, because the test was invalid. He said whatever it took to get the charges dropped and the DUI dismissed.

I never could look at him quite the same, after that. It was the beginning of the end...

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So I sat in my seat, fingers plucking at the strings in the steering wheel, thinking that I could talk myself out of this ticket, if I really wanted to. But I didn't. I didn't even try.

Why? Because the cop was just doing his job. Because I really WAS speeding excessively. Because I deserved the ticket ($168, by the way). Because I drive fast regularly, and it makes sense that I should pay more for my insurance because of it.

Because accpeting the consequences of my actions is the right thing to do, and that's reason enough for me.

Homeless groceries

"Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone." (Octavio Paz)
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Yesterday, I went to rummage through the fridge, searching for something to nibble on to satisfy the gnawing hunger in my neglected belly. I really should eat more often, but I get distracted. Right. So today, I was on my way home from the beautician, coming up to the intersection where my regular grocery is. The grocer is the center anchor in a small shopping strip, with a barber and post office to the left, and a military recruiter and liquor store on the right (funny that they'd put those two next to one another). I slide my car in and head inside.

There was a homeless man stumbling around on the sidewalk in front of the liquor store. It's cold out, 30 degrees, and he couldn't seem to decide whether it was more important to hold his bottle, or keep his fingers safe in the warm confines of his coat. He starts waving his arms around and screaming at another homeless person (female, I think, but it was hard to tell) picking up something off the ground in the doorway of the grocery.

"Hey! I been lookin' for you!"

"Why? Why you been lookin' for me?" she screamed back, rolling her lips open in a sort of snarl, showing her toothless gums. They walked towards each other, exchanged a few muffled words, and the next thing I know, they were swinging at each other. The sky was grey and heavy with impending snow. The temperature was only going to drop from there on out. I don't know if those two actually had something to argue about, or if they were just trying to get in out of the cold.

I thought about them while I meandered through the grocery. Maybe it's the solitude. Maybe, since they don't have any one else to interact with, since there isn't any one who ever says much to them, aside from, "Get a job, ya bum!" maybe they lost the ability to connect, to discuss, to communicate. Maybe they fell together, because there wasn't any one else to fall into. Maybe...

I'm not "People"

"People" are selfish. They're arrogant, and pushy, and needy. "People" drop the door when you're walking in behind them, and cut you off during rush-hour without waving a "sorry". "People" think their time is more important than yours is. "People" let their kids cry in restaraunts, and don't pick things up off the floor when they drop them in department stores. I dont like "people"... but I'm not one of them.

Neither is my friend L, whom, I expect, hasn't been "people" for decades. He also happens to be the most thoughtful, selfless man I know. L invited himself over for a movie last week. He knew I was having a crap day, and that I needed to get out of the house. The theater, unfortunately, was closed (price you pay for living in a small Midwestern town, I suppose). We decided to go for a beer, instead. Now, when I say I'm "not a big drinker", I'm significantly understating the situation. I drink about twice a year, three times if I'm feeling frisky. The last time I've had anything with alcohol in it was probably close to six months ago. We squat on a couple of bar stools and order. The bartender mixes my drink pretty strong, so after choking down a swig or two, I call her over.

"Can you throw some more non-alcoholic liquid in that thing, babe?"
"Sure," she says. "What would you like?"

Now, I'm not sure what, exactly, is in the drink I ordered, only that the last time I had it at this place, I liked it.
"Whatever you put in it before is fine." She shoots a couple spurts of various colors from the fluid spout, and hands it back. I turn back to L with my newly-diluted beverage. "My sister wants me to go to her house and play cards with her and her friends."
"You gonna go?" he asks, clinking the ice in his glass.
"Nah. I don't much care for her friends. Besides, I'll probably be drunk by the time I finish this!." I grin, and take another swig. I'm only 1/3 of the way into it, and already I can feel my tongue is getting heavy.

We talk about life, and love, and work, and his kids. We talk about my health.
"You'd be amazed at what all has milk in it," I babble, chasing ice cubes around my glass with a pink plastic straw. I tell him about not being able to go with Dad to Korea when I was sixteen, because I have to be within 30 minutes of a hospital. I tell him about going into anaphlylactic shock as a kid when I accidentally ate something I wasn't supposed to.

By the time we finish our drinks (one each, mind you), I'm more than a little tipsy. L drives me home, walks me to the door like the gentleman he is, and sends me off to bed with a "Good night!" and a wave. When he gets home, L shoots me an IM.

"How ya feelin?" He knows I'm a little loopy.
"My head feels like a fishbowl..." We chit-chat for a minute or two before my phone rings.

"Whassup, biatch!" My sister, in all her rambunctious splendor.
"Nothin," I slur, giggling.
"Ohmigod, are you drunk!?!" she squeels into the phone. I swear she nearly popped my eardrum. "She's drunk!" I can hear her saying to some one in the background. "Can you believe that? My sister is drunk!!!" They have a laugh (at my expense, of course).

"Get your coat on. I'm outside." Demanding little thing, ain't she?
"Wha? Where are we going?" I'm now peeking through the front window at the car parked on the street, full of three faces pressed against glass, trying to catch a glimpse of me stumbling around my living room.
"To the store!" My sister's a shop-a-holic. Did I mention it's about 11pm? What on earth could she need from the store at 11pm?? My sister, by the way, is "people". So are her friends.

I crawl into my coat, stumble out the door, and the next thing I know, we're whizzing through the streets of my little town. The next few hours of entertainment involve watching my sister and her two friends play Halo on their playstation and eating cold McDonald's fries. I'd like to say it was better than sitting at home, alone, but in all honesty, I'd rather push a screwdriver through my eye than have a repeat of that night.

When they finally drop me back off at my place, somewhere around 2am, there's a note in my door...

"She says: My head feels like a fishbowl.
She asks a question.
He answers.
She doesn't reply.
He thinks about the medical problem.
He thinks about how she didn't know exactly what was in the drink.
He thinks about a head like a fishbowl.
He thinks about her falling to the floor.
He thinks about calling 911.

He knows he worries too much and that the internet is a shitty place and people aren't always like they are in real life but he can't get the image of her passed out on the floor out of his mind.

He drives back to her house in 25 minutes. He finds the inside lights off and the porch light on. He realizes what he's been pretty sure of the whole time.
She's not dieing.
She just left."

L lives 45 minutes away from me. He went all the way home, and drove all the way back out here to make sure I was alright, even though he knew I was probably with my sister. L was thinking more about my health and well-being than his own time, convenience, and lack of sleep. L is not "poeple". I'm lucky to have L.

Food for thought

A (male) friend took me to dinner last night, since I was accompanying him to go buy furniture (giving a woman's perspective, i guess). The waiter's cute, and young (21, it turns out), and comes up to our table looking like somebody just ran over his dog. I've worked service for 10 years, give or take. I know what it's like to not want to be there, to not want to plaster a fake smile on your face and sing the old refrain of, "The customer's always right!" But that's the job. Sometimes the job sucks.

So I start grinning at the guy, cracking jokes, making lots of eye contact and generally attempting to add levity to his situation. It works. The kid is walking a little taller every time he comes by our table, and is now smiling and laughing right along with us. He swings by to check up on us about half-way through our meal and comes out with, "Just wanted you guys to know I took $5 off your ticket, because you're being so cool about everything."

Now, I've been comped stuff before, for various reasons... a mistake was made, the guy behind the bar was trying to flirt, whatever, but never simply for making somebody smile. This is a good feeling.

The check comes, and my friend is picking up the tab. It's a mid-grade Italian chain joint without a lot of foot-traffic. After the $5 deduction, the bill's $27 and some change. My friend leaves $31.

Four bucks. Less, actually, taking into account the change factor. That's it?!? Now, I understand that's %15 off the modified ticket, and %15 is a decent tip from a cheap suburbanite in his mid-forties. I, on the other hand, know that wait staff in my area make less than $3 an hour. The place is dead, we're the kid's only table, and he provided exceptional service. I don't think it's enough, but I'm not buying. It takes me two seconds to come up with a solution.

"Why don't you go grab the car. I'm gonna run to the ladies' room, and I'll meet you out front." Being the gentleman that he is, I probably would have had to stand on the curb and wait for him to pull the car around anyway, so this makes sense. I move towards the bathroom to reapply my lipstick as he goes to fetch the car. I fish a $10 out of my purse before heading out of the can.

On my way out, the kid's dealing with some customer in the corner who's talking to him like he's not worth the dirt on the bottom of her shoe. I drop the ten on the table and walk out with a smile.

Ever been in this situation? Does it make you uncomfortable to go out with a "cheap" friend? If you were the buyer, would it piss you off if you found out your friend slipped a little extra to the waiter on the sly?

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UPDATE: Well, guilt finally got the better of me (that didn't last long). I told my friend what I did. He laughed at me. "So, you think I'm cheap?" I knew that was coming.

"You should have just tossed a couple bucks on the bill, if you thought he needed a bigger tip." I explained that I didn't want to offend him. Friendship, apparently, transcends small slights such as these.

I'm all smiles now. My friend isn't angry, I have my sneaky behavior off my concience, and the waiter got a 50% tip. All is right with the world.

In the beginning...

"You know...that a blank wall is an apalling thing to look at. The wall of a museum -- a canvas -- a piece of film -- or a guy sitting in front of a typewriter. Then, you start out to do something -- that vague thing called creation. The beginning strikes awe within you." -Edward Steichen