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...

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

Don'’t want to get fat this year?

Don'’t have time to build immunity naturally by eating right and exercising? Don'’t worry!

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.