Recovery

It's a sad, sad day.

My local crack den closed its doors forever.

I'm not afraid to admit I have certain vices. Who among is without sin, I say. And sure, it makes me a little jumpy and leaves me with an occasional case of the shakes, but still I just can't seem to get through the day without a hit.

I've tried living clean before. And the old adage - "never quit being a quitter" is nice when you're trying to talk your teenager out of a nasty nicotine habit. But I'm a lifelong junkie. I've been getting a fix every day since I was 20-years-old. It seems unlikely that this old companion of mine that started in Hartford, Connecticut and has traveled with me to New York City and back to my hometown of Kalamazoo, Michigan - is something I'm ever gonna get clear of. It belongs to me and I to it.

And I never expected to find the same quality when I moved back to the Midwest. I kinda thought I'd be able to get off the juice - start fresh, clean out the system. Funny thing is - your vices find you. The things that make you itch aren't bound by geographical location. They are inside you. Inside you every day.

So yesterday morning when I went to the door of my neighborhood crack den and found no one inside, no one serving up the sauce - I began to think it might be time to try quitting again. If I'm ready to be without it. If I know how to wake up in a world that doesn't include my companion. If...

So I'll walk away, for now at least, and imagine the strength to say goodbye old friend -

"Goodbye, Starbucks. My constant companion. My truest friend. My one and only love."

Chico Loco

I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I’ve up and gone a little Boy Crazy. Seriously, I’m Lindsey Lohan on diet pills crazy. I’ve turned into a hormonal wreck of a woman, all because I lack a steady boyfriend.

It’s weird, because I, unlike many of my gender, am not a serial monogamist. I tend to hang with a boy and then take a super extended vacation from the male species in between. But over the past six months or so, all this “space” has gone and turned me Boy Crazy.

Seriously, everyone is a possibility. The long-legged manager at work, The cute waiter at my favorite breakfast place. The UPS guy. And this morning my latest victim, the poor unsuspecting Midas Man.

The Midas Man is in very real trouble. One – I’m Boy Crazy and Two – the whole mechanical inclination gene puts a man pretty high up on the Darwinian chain. Remember those cartoons where the cat or the coyote is looking at the pesky bird and is so hungry that the bird turns into a roasted chicken with steamy goodness rolling off it?

This man is beginning to look like a roasted chicken.

I know what you’re thinking – out of sight, out of mind. I mean, how often do you need to go see the Midas Man? Except that my car has recently been paid off and that means that by all laws of nature and that bastard, Murphy – my car is slowly falling to pieces. This means frequent visits to my nearest garage – managed by the Midas Man.

While you’re catching your breath, I will take this moment to reflect on my three favorite male hair archetypes.

The Baldy: The baldy is one of my favorites because he’s a man who knows how to let go. No creepy comb-over. No roadkill toupee. No pricey salves or elixirs – with which monies could be better spent on wine and dinner for me.

The Pony: This is something I get no small amount of grief about, but I am often drawn to the male ponytail. I can’t begin to explain it, because in theory – it creeps me out. But somewhere on that line I walk between Sr. Office Weenie and Hopeless Romantic, I hear the distant melody of Van Morrison “I wanna rock your gypsy soul.” I can’t explain it any better than that.

And finally…

The Salt and Pepper: Salt and Pepper is my all-time favorite manly follicle. I remember the first time I realized I was frequently leering at the men with the salt and pepper and I wondered what the big change was from the slew of Tall/Dark/Geeky that I was normally drawn too. And I realized it is because that smattering of gray hair is an indicator of manhood. And the big diff is this – I was done with boys and guys and finally interested in dating men.

One guess what the Midas Man is.

Anyway – I’m trying to keep my hormones in check and not scare my clueless Midas Man with declarations of Like. I don’t know much about him except he’s the Midas Man and he has Fridays off, so it’s probably not worth risking having to take my car to an unknown pip squeak at Lenke’s.

The point is this – I’m back on the market. I’m hungry. And I’m looking for someone to be my roasted chicken.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Did I mention I work in a place where they wear uniforms? They are a pretty gruesome ensemble that was modeled after a 1960s gas station attendant uniform.

Some people choose to don the uni. Some of them, not all of them. And not me. Why? ‘Cause I am a horrible non-team player anti-establishment type. Plus the women’s pants have pleats and tapered legs. Sorry, but I have no fervent desire to revisit my 80s wardrobe. Once was enough.

And while many praise the pros of uniforms “no laundry” and “never have to figure out what to wear” – there are those of us who take the road less taken. Especially those who work in the offices, like moi. We opt to wear company logo’d t-shirts with khakis. Or if you’re a real outsider, like me, black pants and dress shirts.

Then there are the boarder people. I think they secretly want to wear the uniform, but fear their Office Weenies-at-arms will mock and cajole. They often opt for what I consider No Man’s Land – the Lab Coat.

No, I do not work in a laboratory. I do not work with test tubes, beakers or Bunsen burners. I am a hapless fool with the periodic table and you don’t want me poking around with a thermometer. This is one of the true mysteries of the Cube Farm – how in fuckity hell did someone decide that good office dweebs wear Lab Coats?

The Lab Coat offers the company logo on one breast and your name on the other (the spitting image of the gas station attendant’s shirt), has a couple of mammoth pockets that house office junk like paper clips, pens and used Kleenex. But my main beef with the Lab Coat is two-fold.

One – it serves no purpose. It is not as if I work in an environment where I need to keep chemical mixtures or blood from spattering all over my nice work clothes. And even if this were the case, I’d be more likely to borrow one of my Dad’s old dress shirts and put it on backwards ala 1^st grade art class.

Two – it’s false advertising in my opinion. Lab Coats are meant to be worn by scientists and doctors. And those fringe folks like pharmacists and veterinarians. It is not to be worn by Office Weenies who have very little to do with curing cancer or saving lives. Okay, let’s be honest – NOTHING to do with those things. How would you feel if the kid at the drive-thru at McDonald’s was wearing a hard hat. It serves no purpose and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to frame my house. So what’s the point? Don't get my hopes up and then dash them.

Maybe there is no point. Except to say – today one of my “road less taken” friends swung by my Cube and when I looked up prepared to be annoyed by a Smocky – I met his eyes and knew he was lost. Now he’s one of them and little by little I’m losing my merry band of corporate ninjas who battle the establishment and fight for freedom from The Uniform, The Lab Coat and The Man.

I shall not go gentle into that good night, my friends.

And Along Came Deafness

It's Monday. I state this because while I like to imagine that everyone I know checks my blog with the frequency of a rabid bride-to-be checking her on-line registry - the truth is it could be days before anyone reads this.

Mondays aren't my most favorite thing in world. They aren't any worse than Sunday nights as the 60 Minutes stopwatch ticks away the last few hours of my weekend (see posting), but still, Mondays are a stinker.

I am preparing for a big weekend tailgate (yes, it may well take 5 whole days to get ready for it), swung by the store and bought pounds of flour, sugar and other baking essentials and decided to shake Monday off with a quick episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" before embarking on Bakefest 08. (Remind me to tell you some time about the brilliance that is Buffy the Vampire Slayer some time.)

Anyway - I'm trying to listen to the quippy dialogue of Buff and the gang - except I can't. Why not, you ask? Because my mother-effing neighbor has his surround sound bumpin' out the bass like he's livin' large in "da club." Except it's not "club time" - it's freaking 5:30 p.m. That's "quiet reflection time", Jackhole.

Now, I have almost dropped a couple expletives, which I am in no way against, except that - aside from the fact that my neighbor plays his tv system way too loud - he's a pretty nice guy. The reason I know this is I've called the main office, written a formal complaint and knocked on his door myself on a few occasions to ask him to turn the volume down. All that and he still smiles and says "hi" when he sees me hauling groceries up the stairs. Granted, he doesn't offer to carry them, but still.

Most days, I opt not to hammer away on his door and once again ask if he might turn down the surround sound, mainly because I look like crap when I'm hunkered down for the evening and no matter how pissed I am at him - I wouldn't subject him to that terrifying sight.

So, I take deep breaths, "accidentally" bang on the wall and run to my computer to trash the old guy next door whose bass is too loud. Because some day I imagine I'll be the old lady whose got "The Price Is Right" blaring from her condo and the poor little next-door-neighbor will curse and bang on the wall and rage about me on their blog. And to that I simply say - karma, baby.

Confession of a Secret Love Affair

For four years I've had to keep a secret. It was one of them deep-dark kinds. It was the kind that you stuff so far down in the pit of your stomach, because to come clean would open you up to the sort of ridicule you might never recover from.

I am in love with Michael Phelps. Oh sure, it's the cool thing to do this year. I'm just one of a zillion women of all ages who swoon at the sight of Michael Phelps - Olympic god.

But back in a little town by the name of Athens a scant 4 years ago - it was not nearly as cool unless you were a woman who was looking forward to things like getting her braces off and the Junior Prom. 'Cause 4 years ago when my love affair began - Mikey was still a teenager. A friggin' TEENAGER! What does that make me? Some sort of Roman Polanski/Mary Kay Latourneau hybrid?

So I stuffed the feelings deep down, trying to forget. "Michael-who?" I said.

So here I sit - after a long day of Goals and Objectives update meetings at the Cube Farm, pretty sure that I've put my little obsession in its place.

And then I see an ad for Speedo.

Damn Speedo. Damn Michael Phelps. Damn stupid secret love affairs that aren't secret anymore.

Writer for Hire

I do all sorts of writing, some for the pure joy of it and some of it for cold, hard cash. I am not one of those novelist-types who prefer the angstiness of being a novelist over the capitalist-pigishness of cashing in a paycheck. Call me a pig - with a capital P.

There are days when the words come more easily than others. Pouring over 16 volumes of documentation of quality improvement projects at an area hospital and trimming that down to 150 word blurbs for an awards program isn't the stuff of dreams. Sure, I'd rather submit some witty prose for an over-priced men's clothing catalog, but I'll take what I can get.

But some requests for my writing skills are not only more difficult - they are so freaking hard I simply sit on my sofa, stare at my bookcase and try to commune with my writing heroes in hopes that they will inspire me to pull something brilliant out of my arse.

Such a request came a few weeks ago from an unlikely source. Normally, I get last-minute work plans from stressed account people or friends in the biz who are already working until midnight and aren't sure how they're gonna get that last press release done.

My most recent assignment came from my sister.

No, my sister is not an account executive, creative director or marketing whore. She's a mother. Mother to my cute-as-hell niece, Fi.

Fi is nearing a great precipice in her life, as she turns two in October. Pre-Fi, I wrote a story book for her, complete with my less-than-stellar illustrations and presented it to my sister at her baby shower. This book as been revered as my greatest writing accomplishment to date - primarily because it's one of the few things my family has read of mine and well, they're my family. I could have taken a Crayola crayon to a canvas blindfolded and they would have wept with pride.

The problem is this - I've been given creative direction from my sister as to they type of story she'd like to see this time around. Now, let me tell you - my sister knows her children's literature. If I'm looking for advice on the perfect book to give at a 5-year-old's birthday party - she's my first call. But my mission, should I choose to accept it or not, is to write not only a book FOR Fi, but ABOUT Fi.

I can't exactly explain the level of anxiety this request produces, but I'll tell you - I've resorted to pulling some nerve-soothing Enya out of the cd stacks while I attempt some story lines.

My main concern is that while I've spent some quality time with Fi - my primary observations are that she sleeps a lot (of which I am profoundly jealous), has trouble keeping food in her mouth, is addicted to the Backyardigans, has our family's wild-ass hair and believes, like a good princess, that the world revolves around her (again, how jealous am I!) My problem is that while she is still the smartest, funniest, sassiest thing I've ever met - I'm not sure how that translates into good children's lit.

My first inclination is to go straight for the crazy-ass hair angle. Except there is no other way to describe our genetically-challenged follicles than to call it "crazy-ass" - and while I am the proud owner of zero children - I'm pretty sure "crazy-ass" isn't a word you want spattered about the pages of a children's book.

I could go on and on about how much I love her ooey-gooey guts, but that starts to sound like a book more about me than her and my files are already overflowing with self-indulgent fodder about me.

So, I'm stumped.

I'm more stumped than trying to find a way for hip replacements to sound sexy. More baffled than trying to make workers compensation insurance funny.

As it stands I'm tempted to resort to old agency tactics - which tends to involve cracking into a beer and having at it. Except one day I'll wanna tell Fi about the experience of writing her two-year-long life story and I don't think I want it to include that Auntie was drunk.

I need some inspiration - something to drive me to just put my fingers on the keys and stop horsing around with my stupid blog already. You know what this assignment is in desperate need of? A nice paycheck.

Don't judge me.