Musings on a Perfectly Average Life

A Change of Address

2009-05-15T05:24:00.001-07:00

Web address that is.

You may have noticed that I have not written much here lately and that is due to one big fact - I've been working on my own web site. I'm gonna go ahead and say it's a little like giving birth - minus the need for an epidural.

First, you need to decide if you're the kind of person who can take care of a web site. Are you responsible enough to check in on it every once in a while?
Then comes the task of "making a web site". This is fairly enjoyable and yet some times you find yourself in awkward positions - wondering "What the eff just happened?" But mostly fun.
You start to feel weighed down by it for a while. You think about it all the time. You wonder how it will turn out. And it's even been known to give you body aches (from hours spent hunched over your laptop).
Finally, it's the big day and you're still not sure you've picked the right name, but it's time to just hold your breath and jump in already
Finally, it's out there in the world. And you're ridiculously proud, probably because your ego and vanity are all tied up in it too. You find you can't stop looking at it and fawning over it. And you think, "Huh, look what I done."

If you're interested - my new blog and other writing will be at:

http://emilyhaines.weebly.com/

You should take a look - I'm a proud mama.

A Word or Two About Airplanes

2009-02-16T17:43:00.001-08:00

Airplanes

I am not what you would call an avid traveler. That is to say – I am a homebody who understands that to experience real Fish-n-Chips and snorkeling – I must leave my quaint little city on occasion.

The past few months, however, I’ve been doing a bit more traversing than usual. And naturally, along with all the traversing, comes some observations.

Just this past weekend, I hopped on a plane to ol’ Maryland to visit Sister, Bro-in-Law, Niece and Mama. (Sidenote: did you know the state motto of Maryland is “Manly deeds, womanly words”? This in itself is effing hysterical, but I digress.)

Anyway, I packed light, managed to make it through Security without any cavity searches and got to the business of reading Vanity Fair. I flew my most favoritest airline, Southwest, and had the great pleasure of choice seats, singing stewardesses and even a George W impersonator. Southwest rocks my sheltered little world.

Anyway, after we boarded and I got a leggy exit row seat – I noted a semi-handsome fellow swaggering down the aisle (“Dum Dum Dum-dum. Dum Dum Dum-dum…). He was tall with dark hair, scruffy facial landscaping and broad shoulders – which is all good in my book. That is to say – all good if you’re in a bar or perusing the shelves of your local Books & Coffee store. This is not, however, an ideal seat neighbor. I immediately shoved my nose in my magazine and tried to avoid eye contact.

To no avail.

It was a nice try, but nobody is just gonna let an exit row seat pass them by – even if it is in between a seemingly annoyed magazine-reader and an elderly woman with black jeans and navy socks.

My new Boyfriend (What? I didn’t call him “Boyfriend” to his face – chill out already), ahem, my Boyfriend settled in, shot a Crest Whitestrips smile at me and proceeded to do exactly what I’d feared he would do.

He grabbed his book and landed his elbows on both of the arm rests.

Seriously.

Now, I get that armrests aren’t just there for show. But neither are they there for men to hog up and start spilling over into your seat area.

Armrests in airplanes were created for one divine reason – to keep strangers from touching each other. It’s simple really. You climb onto a flying apparatus; you find your seat – which is smack dab in the middle of 150 people you never met before. Just a bunch of people who happen to be heading in your general direction. Armrests were invented to keep my bits from touching your bits and vice versa. No touching of bits. At least not until the second vodka tonic.

The reason I know that airplane armrests were not meant to be used for the resting of arms is because there are four of them for three seats. I’m no mathematician, but most the folks I know have two arms. Two arms times three people equal six. That’s six arms and four armrests. Something just don’t add up.

But what two arms do you suppose were cemented on the middle two armrests? Ah yes, my Boyfriend’s.

Something in that Y chromosome makes it impossible for a man to forego the armrest and simply cross his arms across his chest. This would, amongst other things, free up armrests for the ladies. Not that we’d be so bold, but since our breasties make it damn near impossible to fold our arms across our chests – it wouldn’t be such an outrageous idea. Now would it?

Aside from all of the armrest hogging, my Boyfriend was actually quite nice. We smiled coyly over Sudoku puzzles and I hardly minded that he kept interrupting me and making me pause “Single Ladies” (which was on repeat almost the entire flight.) That is until the last few minutes of our flight. While we were all busy returning our seats and tray tables to their full and upright position – he was busy elbowing me every few seconds. I swear, I think even the color-blind old lady on his other side mouthed something a skosh more truck driver than happy granny.

That was it. I had had it. I couldn’t allow this to go on one more second. Right then and there I broke up with him. Sure, he never knew we were dating in the first place, but still – I am quite certain he could tell by my raised eyebrow that we would not be buying matching Lexuses or making adorable, broad shouldered babies. (For which my womanly areas are thanking me.)

That would be positively the last time I dated a boy on a plane. I have most definitely learned a lesson. And I hope if I ever fly with you – you’ll remind me of this story if I start flirting over Sudoku puzzles in the future.

A Writing Prompt

2009-01-10T09:27:00.000-08:00

I hate cleaning house, but love it at the same time.

I hate my over-dried hands, the smell of bleach and emptying out the vacuum canister.

But... I love coming across books I enjoyed, old fortunes from Chinese take-out or bits of writing I scratched down on cocktail napkins.

What I found today was a poem I'd written down after I'd heard it many, many years ago on a Nina Simone album (if you don't know Nina, run - don't walk over to your iTunes store and check her out). Anyway, I remember hearing the poem first and then having it come up in a college class right around the same time.

Anyway, two simple stanzas reminded me of living in a 5th floor walk up in Hartford, working in the theater for a crazy man, going to school and being in love with a beautiful young man who played guitar, sang like an angel and loved when I read him my writing - right up 'til the day he discovered he loved men.

It was a perfectly preserved memory prompted by a hurriedly scribbled note on a sheet of a yellow legal pad. My own personal writing prompt - that I'd thought I'd share with you all:

She does not know
Her beauty,
She thinks her brown skin
Has no glory.
If she could dance
Naked,
Under palm trees
And see her image in the river
She would know.

But there are no palm trees
On the street,
And dishwater gives back no images.

(William Waring Cuney)

You're a wonder, Wonder Woman.

2009-01-06T16:02:00.000-08:00

I have, on occasion, considered being a Super Hero.

I've watched the movies, seen the television shows, read the books. It seems like a decent gig. Especially if you can let go of all the "with great power comes great responsibility" nonsense. Super Powers are practically begging to be wasted on silliness.

Don't go acting all Messiah-y just because some radioactive spider chomped on you. No need to dwell on the whole Good v. Evil 24/7. It's practically irresponsible not to go and take those powers out for a spin.

Having considered some of the Super Powers out there - there are several that are intriguing.

Just over Christmas, my father, stepmother and I discussed Wonder Woman's invisible plane and deflective wristbands. I have, in the past, (you know, like yesterday) pulled out the wristbands at work. Someone comes up and tries to give you grief or pass off some project. You just whip up your none-too-present wristbands in the air and make the obligatory "Ching! Ching!" sound effects. People know exactly what you're doing and they walk, somberly away. My issue with the wristbands and the plane is they are really just props. They aren't actual Super Powers. I can wear a bulletproof vest and hide under a lampshade if I don't want to get shot and/or seen. I'm looking for something a little bigger.

I've often heard people say they'd choose: Invisibility. This is definitely a step above the invisible plane (which doesn't even HIDE Wonder Woman, so what's the big?)

My problem with Invisibility is it seems like a big headache. People stepping on your toes and bumping into you on the street. I lived in New York City - been there, done that. Plus, you'd go all sneak attack and hear people say nasty things about you. Of course they wouldn't know you were there, so it would be behind your back. But you really are there, so it's like behind your back, in front of your face. And let's be honest, I love my friends - but that's probably because I don't know what they say about me when I'm not in the room.

Some people are certain they would choose Flying. Oh please. My hair is a big enough rat's nest as it is. Add in some high-powered wind and I'd put Frankenstein's bride to shame. No, thank you.

I'll tell you the Super Power I'd really like...

Bend People To My Will.

Seriously, how fantastic would that be?!

You don't like my favorite dive bar that has decades of nicotine on the walls? One subtle raise of the eyebrow and suddenly you're offering to drive and buying the first pitcher of Old Style.

You think my writing submission had the grammatical finesse of an orangutan? A pursing of the lips and suddenly I'm a columnist for Salon.com.

And that's just the beginning.

I would never buy another drink for myself.
Date Night would include the boy in question picking "Save the Last Dance" or "Center Stage" as his movie of choice.
I would always have right-of-way.
My mechanic would insist on doing all repairs for free.
My boss would prefer I work from home on Fridays.
In fact, he'd prefer I took Fridays off.

Of course, now that I think about it - I've gotten away with one or all of those things over the course of my life (except that elusive Salon.com gig. Damn it.) So maybe I just need a little boost.
Take your Invisibility and your Flying nonsense - give me some Super Charged femininely wiles and we'll call it good.

Maybe I have some Wonder Woman in me already.

A Girl Who Wanted A Pony

2009-01-04T19:58:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's only funny to me...and to my closest friends. Funny, because I am a woman who inexplicably, and quite against my own will, falls for men with ponytails.

It's not that Ponys are wrong, per se. Some men wear them quite nicely.

The problem is - Ponys usually MEAN something. They are often indicative of certain traits and attributes.

When I was in my 20s and a dater of artists, musicians and actors - the Pony came along for the ride. It was the hairstyle of choice for the fringe set. I most certainly fell for my share of Ponys.

Now that I'm in my 30s I'm quite fond of men who have steady employment and furniture that hasn't been owned by their parents or older siblings. This is where the Pony gets me into trouble.

Ponys aren't big lovers of rules... and bosses are. Ponys don't like buying into the system... and yet, that is where the sofas and love seats reside. Ponys and I don't have a lot in common these days and yet - that does not keep me from almost pathologically seeking them out in any social situation. And while my friends keep a watchful eye on me, that does not keep the Ponys from giving me long, tortured artist looks as they pass by in a cloud of patchouli.

So what am I to do? How does one weigh the gloriousness of a boy who no longer lives in his parents' basement against the free-spiritedness of a boy willing to borrow his sister's hair ties?

What can I say? I've always been a girl who wanted a Pony.

Dance Fever and Other Cherishable Items

2009-01-01T17:54:00.000-08:00

When I was in my teens and early 20s I was proud to be friends with guys. In fact, I had a plethora of male friends and only a handful of ladies I called bosom buddies.

I thought, at my tender age, that men were easier to be friends with. I believed that men refrained from cattiness and gossip. I believed men never got jealous. I thought men were the perfect friends to have, because - well, they were men.

I held this belief for quite some time until I began to realize a few things.

A fair share of men ARE catty and love to gossip. It's not followed by shrill giggling, so it often goes undetected. Men do get jealous. Crazy jealous. Men are perfectly good friends, but what I realized is there is a certain amount of detachment with fellows. They don't really dig in with you. The ones that do listen and care and wipe away your broken-hearted tears are usually either gay or have been secretly in love with you for ages.

This is why I went and got me some girlfriends.

And didn't I win the lottery?!

I have several different groupings of girlfriends and I'm here to tell you - the more the better.

Just this weekend, many of my girlfriends were in town for the holidays. They used to all be in town all the time, but have casually relocated to other towns from coast to coast. This is regrettable, and yet does not diminish how I adore speaking to or hanging out with them.

These particular girlfriends pretty much run the spectrum. In fact, if you threw us in the Big Brother house, you'd expect hijinx to ensue. However, for all our differences, we have two loves that know no bounds.

We love wine.

And we love to dance.

In case, you couldn't tell from all my 80s movie references, I ain't no Spring chicken. I am, in fact, well into my 30s. And so are my girls.

If we were in our 20s I suppose we'd rally around wine coolers instead of a nice pinot noir, but the love of dancing is timeless. At least for us.

So we gathered at one of the girls' houses, drank some wine, laughed til we cried and then shuffled around some furniture and made us a dance floor.

And didn't we cut a fuckin' rug.

I'm not sure what kind of plans you've got for 2009, but if you're a woman and you don't have a group of girlfriends - well, then get up off your keister and get some. I'm particularly fond of the kind that drink micro brews and red wine, make me laugh til I tinkle, and (forgive this slightly lame quote) dance like nobody's watching.

But hey - whatever works for you. Just get you some girls who got your back, and you'll never, never regret it.

Home for the Holidays

2008-12-25T19:47:00.000-08:00

I'm a bit of a holiday nomad. Since I had the habit of moving quite a bit in my 20's, I got used to spending Christmas with, well, whoever was around - instead of having an annual trek towards "home".

"Home" wasn't a particular house or even hometown. My grandparents were all in Florida for the winter, so we didn't have a multi-generational showing each year. This is not a fact I usually lament. I have great holidays.

But this year, my mother was in town and we went to spend it with her cousins. Her cousins and their spouses and their kids and their kids' kids. Their Christmas is so much different than mine and yet, exactly what'd I'd like my own Christmas to be. Loud and busy and full of tradition.

Tradition is something I treasure. In fact, I keep a small box of traditions of friends and family I've heard of over the years. Simple, wonderful ways to celebrate the true gift of the season - togetherness.

Families, both born of blood and of the heart.
Friends, old and new.
Strangers, who may have come from afar, but who are welcomed to celebrate and join our collective family.
Home, where we go to be ourselves and to cherish our infinite blessings.

My Christmas wish for you, is that you have or make for yourself such a home. Fill it with traditions that celebrate those near you, as well as those lost. And pass them on, for they are the memories we'll cherish forever.

16 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me

2008-12-22T05:39:00.001-08:00

1. I own, on dvd, all seasons of: The West Wing (Cool), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Moderately Embarrassing) and Dawson's Creek (I am hiding under my bed in shame)

2. I am an ordained minister and have performed 5 wedding ceremonies. I've realized it includes my favorite things: a. Talking to people and hearing about how they've met and their experiences up until that point, b. Taking those anecdotes and writing a new story, c. Speaking in front of people. If you know another job that combines those three things - send me your ideas. I think it's the perfect job for me.

3. Brad Pitt bumped me on a New York City street while he was jogging. He apologized, smiled and kept running. I don't get star-struck, but that smile - made me go weak in my knees.

4. I have become an "accidental" collector of antique typewriters. I pulled an old Underwood out of the garbage in NYC and since then have been given several by friends. If you're thinking of collecting them, DON'T. They are heavy as a mother scratcher. However, I do like looking at them on my shelf and one day imagine them in this cool study.

5. My worst "after school" job was at Popeye's Fried Chicken and Biscuits (I shouldn't have to explain why) and my best one was working at a health club. Handing out towels to a bunch of sweaty guys - yeah, way worse ways to spend your Sat/Sun mornings.

6. I have attended 5 different colleges. Can you say unfocused?

7. I worked as a company manager for a small theater in Connecticut for 3 years. While there, I spent an evening as companion to Hal Holbrook (his daughter was in one of our shows). He was a delightful man.

8. In Junior High, I wrote a soap opera called "Soapy" featuring all my friends. It was passed around "note-style" from locker to locker amongst my girlfriends. I just re-read it recently. It's embarrassing - mainly at how bad the writing is.

9. The worst punishment I ever received growing up was being grounded from my bicycle for two weeks. Yeah, I didn't get into a lot of trouble.

10. My sister and I once looked at all our Christmas presents before the big day. My mother found out, threw the presents in the middle of the living room floor and yelled "Here's Christmas!" For future reference, don't trust my sister when she says she'll take all the blame if you get caught.

11. I'm planning to participate in the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Jackson, Mississippi one day. My fellow Sweet Potato Queens are all invited to join me.

12. I'm lucky to have great girlfriends, more than one best friend - and that my sister fits into those categories as my oldest and dearest.

13. One of my recurring dreams is of walking down the lane from my grandparents' house at the lake and picking asparagus with my grandpa in the nearby field.

14. I am currently reading 5 books. I rarely pick up one book, read it and then pick up another (except with the Potter books)

15. My favorite breakfast place: Mo's Midtown Diner/Hartford, CT; favorite lunch place: Food Dance Cafe/Kalamazoo, MI; favorite dinner place: Brother's BBQ/New York, NY

16. I drove 4 hours with my friend to a Patty Griffin concert, sat in the front row and then drove 4 hours back... on a Thursday night.

AWOL

2008-11-30T17:42:00.001-08:00

I know it seems as if I've been a delinquent blogger, but I promise - I have a good excuse. My mother is visiting me for 35 days.

That's right, my friends, 35 days. That's 5 days shy of Noah's stint on the ark. So let's just go ahead and say I'm undergoing a visit of biblical proportions.

Don't worry - I'm not hiding under my bed just yet. In fact, it's going better than initially anticipated. And please don't think I'm not finding plenty to write about. I expect that "35 Days With My Mother" will not only be a best seller, but a major motion picture featuring Sarah Silverman as me and Faye Dunaway as my mother, okay, Shirley Maclaine.

Anyway, forgive me if I seem a bit absent over the next few weeks - I'm bailing water in my own personal ark.

A Day of Writing

2008-11-15T12:52:00.000-08:00

It's been a very long time since I set aside an entire day for writing. Probably since the days when I used to get paid for it.

So, I found myself with a weekend with no plans. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I am having a hard time remembering the last time I had a totally free weekend. It works out well, as I'm still recovering from The Gick and could stand to give my poor liver a rest.

So today I decided it was time to finish some writing. Anything, just something. My fellow-writers may be familiar with this disease. Cantfinishanythingosis. It can be a fatal diagnosis - well, fatal to your chances of getting anything published, anyway. Those pesky editors are always looking for FINISHED work and not one of your half-baked ideas. Bastards.

Last weekend, I was hanging with two of my BFF's, KH and CT. We were discussing a fabulous "tell all" book idea for KH to get cracking on, when CT said "I can't wait to see which of WriterEm's books gets published first."

A couple things struck me about this comment:

I love CT's optimism. I've called her a Pollyanna on occasion, but she is just the sort of Pollyanna you want cheering you on. She absolutely, without a doubt believes I will publish one day. God bless her.
I have not finished a single thing (minus a flimsy short story) since I was in college. New York college. That's a freaking long time ago, if you don't know my long history with higher education.
It's time to start cracking.

So, I decided to turn today into a Writing Day.

First, I slept in a little. Because I think Writing Days should begin well-rested.

Then I ate some oatmeal and drank a pot of coffee. Oatmeal has lots of good fiber and is filling, so I wouldn't be distracted by frequent trips to the kitchen to peep in the refrigerator or cupboards, only to head back to the sofa with nothing in hand. The coffee, well, self-explanatory.

I worked on my current piece for about 35 minutes before I decided to check my e-mail.

There were a couple of funny e-mails from KH and our tattoo brother, MA. Which got me thinking about the last time the three of us were together back in Mobile, AL for Mardi Gras in '99. I pulled out some music I'd been introduced to during that trip - thinking it would make for excellent writing music. Then I checked 1/3 of the tattoo the three of us had gotten at Mardi Gras. I spent some time thinking if it was worth getting it redone, as the only person more drunk than I was when I got it was my tattoo artist, Lynn. I silently cursed Lynn for a few moments and reminded myself it was Writing Day.

I started rearranging my notes and outlining a chapter entitled "Dr. Jekyll, I Presume" (good title, right?) Then I got an e-mail from my dad. He's in the market for an iPod, which is cool enough that my dad wants an iPod. But even cooler that he wants one for his motorcycle. Seriously, my dad's pretty effin' cool. So, he was looking for what little insight I could offer about iPods. I gave him a call and told him the pros and cons of the Nano, iTouch and iPhone. We determined that 42 days worth of music was probably more than enough to meet his needs. I'd interrupted him putting together some shelves and I let him know I'd taken a much-needed break from my nearly 75 minutes of writing. At which point we both determined lunch might be just what we both needed. 35 minutes later, we were sitting at a local pub - him with a beer, me with more coffee and sandwiches.

An hour later, I headed back to my abode to commence with Writing Day. Except my stupid hair has this sponge-like ability to absorb any and all odors. My friends have remarked that at the bar, my hair still smells like my shampoo and aren't I lucky? This is true, right up until the moment I get home and then it smells like smoke and stale beer. Such was the case when I returned home from my pub lunch.

I quickly washed my hair and re-nestled with my laptop for more fabulous writing.

And then the phone rang. As it was KH calling from San Diego, I picked up and spent the next hour talking about a sofa that would not fit up her stairwell as well as less- and more-important topics.

Finally, I am back on the sofa getting ready to really hunker down for Writing Day, except I just don't know what to write. Except that I've pretty much failed at Writing Day and wouldn't it be great to share that failure with my family and friends who read my Blog?

Oh Writing Day, one day the poets will write of you and I and our tragic end. How I failed you and all we might have been. Hell, there's always tomorrow, right?

My Life in a Petri Dish

2008-11-11T15:20:00.000-08:00

If you are an avid reader of my blog - you know that I've been sick recently.

(If you're not an avid reader, don't go bursting my bubble - just play along)

Anyway, a week-long battle with The Gick pretty much kicked my immune-deficient ass. But a nice dose of antibiotics helped the process along and exactly two days ago - I started feeling normal again.

That is, until today.

Today the scratchy throat started up and has been joined by its good friend, the runny nose. I am back in sickness central.

"Why do I care?" is surely something you're thinking to yourself. And it's quite possible you don't care or at least are thinking - "Jeez, take some echinacea and get over it already."

And I will, but first let me dish out some well-deserved blame. It will surely astonish you that this illness is not my fault. Not one little bit. Primarily because I've been good. I haven't been sipping out of people's martini glasses, I haven't been licking doorknobs and I even abstained from swapping spit with a fairly attractive bloke whilst hanging out with some girlfriends this weekend. I did what good girls do when they are trying to keep their germy germs to themselves.

The real culprit is this - I currently sit in a petri dish.

The Cube Farm has several blocks of offices, most with many cubicles, 12-foot ceilings and adequate ventilation. I do not live in one of those. My office, the Cube Annex, is a teeny tiny space that they have managed to cram in 10 cubicles. I can touch the ceiling with my hand extended whilst on my tippy-toes and our primary source of ventilation is a oscillating fan that has approximately a decade's worth of dust encrusted on its blades.

So, what happens is this - someone in our office gets sick. Then their icky germs spread to another person and that person uses someone else's keyboard. Then that person rolls their chair over to someone else's desk and drops off a book. Then that person chucks the book at another person (okay, that was me) and before you know it we're all sharing germs. And two days after I'm perfectly healthy, I'm back in the Annex and being coughed on by a sweet, yet evil co-worker.

I know this is the way of the world and if I took my One-a-Day vitamin with some frequency and drank my orange juice - maybe I wouldn't be in this predicament.

I guess I just thought if I were going to be aggressively attacked by viruses on a regular basis - I'd be part of some scientific experiment and getting paid some cash on the side.

As it stands, I'm just a poor bastard with a scratchy throat and runny nose. Again.

Objects in the Mirror May Appear Funnier Than They Are

2008-11-05T15:46:00.000-08:00

I have a little secret. Not a big secret - just a little one. One I didn't really intend to share with anyone, well, ever.

Not because it will tarnish my supremely resplendent persona. I'm more of a smudged window, to tell the truth. And certainly not because I have my sites set on one day holding political office and fear some squinty reporter will dig up this revealing blog post.

Mainly, because it will make me look a little silly. And then I thought - if these suckers haven't figured that out by now - well then, god bless their clueless little hearts.

So here's the deal.

I set my alarm for 6:40 a.m. every day. I am due at work at 7:30 a.m. This would be a reasonable wake up time in order for me to shower, slap on some eyeliner and haul my heiney out the door. Maybe even manage to grab a quick cup of crappy coffee in the cafeteria before I begin my daily ritual of Office Weenie-ing.

But, I also love to wake up leisurely. That is, I do not pop out of bed, slap my hands together and burst into song. That is not, shall we say, how I roll.

So, I set my clock 35 minutes fast. This allows me 5 opportunities to bitch-slap my alarm and take my time getting up. Plus, it forces me to do simple math in a half-awake state as I attempt to ascertain the actual time and I think that just makes me a better person.

This, however, is not my secret.

The first thing I do once I turn off my alarm and actually let my feet hit the floor is limp like an old lady to the bathroom. You'd think I'd just undergone hip surgery. It's pathetic.

This, however, is not my secret.

I turn on the light and squint like a police officer just pointed a flashlight in my eyes at a checkpoint. Once my eyes adjust I do something quite ridiculous.

I look in the mirror and smile. Not just a little half-grin, a full-on Cheshire Cat shit-eating grin grin. In fact, I pull my face real close to the mirror (not to get a better look at my Medusa-like hairdo, but because without my contacts I can't hardly see my own self) and I grin even wider. I open my eyes real wide-like and occasionally even stick out my tongue. I stand there and smile until I laugh at myself.

It's not always a full-throated laugh. I'm definitely not rolling around on the ground, because while I think I'm moderately amusing on occasion - the moment is marked with a certain amount of tragedy (did I mention the Medusa-like hair?)

But I smile, let out a quick chuckle and go about the business of making myself look like I didn't just walk out of a scene from "Zombie Hos II".

This is my secret.

The question now is - why the hell would I share that with you? I only have one inkling of an idea and it is this - I think it is important to laugh at yourself. I think it's important to make sure you smile and giggle at least once a day. I think the best way to improve the way you look - isn't by running a comb through your unruly locks - it's by lightening your heart and spirit.

I'm a dumb ass goofball and there are way worse things to be. But let me toss out a double-dog dare. Tomorrow when you wake up and wipe the boogers from your eyes - smile some goofball smile at yourself in the mirror.

I dare you not to laugh.

2008-11-04T20:16:00.000-08:00

Sick as a Dog Day

2008-10-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

I’m sick. I hate being sick. Not that people enjoy being sick, but still.

There are a few things about being sick that are particularly irksome.

1. I’m weak and vulnerable like a 3-day old kitten. And yes, almost anything can make me cry. Especially if someone is nice to me – whoa, watch the waterworks then! Or if something is even moderately frustrating. Like, oh, say all your teaspoons are in the dishwasher and you’re trying to eat some yogurt. So you grab a tablespoon, but the spoon won’t fit through the wee opening of the yogurt container. And you think “Who makes yogurt containers this fucking tiny? Does everyone in the world hate me?” And then the pressure that is built up behind your ears starts throbbing and you think, “All I want is some fucking yogurt.”

And then the tears.

2. Everyone annoys you. Everyone is stupid and bugging you. The next door neighbor who just hauled a new piece of furniture up the three flights of stairs and caught the bottom on each step. At 4 o’clock in the afternoon for Chrissakes, like people aren’t taking drug-induced naps at that hour! Or the e-mail alert that dings with lovely messages from friends and family and the occasional head-hunter right in the middle of a Cameron Crowe marathon. It’s been years since I’ve seen Singles – can’t I just watch Campbell Scott in peace?

3. The Cashier at Walgreens. Most days I’m able to take my local Walgreens Cashier in stride. She’s a sweet lady, but she has never honed the intricacies of cashiering. These are things I figured out when I was 17-years-old working at a local grocery store.

While it’s nice to be quick on the keys or scanner (we didn’t have scanners in my day) and it helps to have memorized each and every produce code – the real key to being an awesome cashier is your ability to filter any and all commentary. Your main superpower is the ability to ignore what you have just rung up, stifle any sniggering and withhold judgement until the customer has left the store.

For example: If you ring up some French bread, bottle of wine, cheese and a box of condoms – it’s not appropriate to say “Wow, big night planned?” Similarly, ringing up Theraflu, ginger ale, cough drops and Chapstick and saying “Someone feeling under the weather?” It’s like – no, dumbass, I’m just trying to get you to think that someone is feeling under the weather to get some god-damned sympathy. Or was it the pale and pasty face (regardless of the pounds of make up I put on this morning) that gave me away? Oh crap, was that a welling of tears?

Anyway, I’m not a good sick person. In fact, when I’m sick, I’m actually a bad person. So all in all it’s probably best that the gick forces me to sit wrapped up like a mummy in comfy blankets on my couch all by my lonesome rather to inflict my evilness on the world.

So until I’m feeling well again, it’s probably best you leave me to my Puffs Plus and Vanilla Sky.

Art Is What You Can Get Away With

2008-10-19T19:48:00.000-07:00

A friend recently shared the above sentiment with me and I have let it simmer in my little artist's wanna-be heart since then.

There are so many things I wish I could do and they are usually supplemented with "Talent notwithstanding, I'd be a..."

Where do I begin?

Ballet Dancer: It could be the addiction to teen-angst movies like Center Stage and Save the Last Dance and the slightly off-putting love affair that began with my sister's life-size poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov, but I've always loved the idea of donning some pink tights and a black leotard and pirouetting my way across stage. We'll pretend it's weak ankles that keep me from Swan Lake and not a fear of being lifted or my propensity for dizziness when turning in circles.

Sculptor or Potter: I love the idea creating beautiful hand-crafted pottery or artful pieces made of metal. And haven't I taken courses at local artists studios. But much to my dismay the outer limits lives of artists are cemented in one disturbing foundation - math. You'd be surprised how much measuring and arithmetic is involved in art. Stupid art.

Photographer: I hang out with some pretty awesome photographers. In fact, I was raised by some pretty good photographers. And while I can boast being Photo Editor of my high school newspaper - that was primarily because I was willing to spend a week of my summer vacation at MSU to tinker around with other geeky shutterbugs. And I was able to take an occasional "cool" photo. But then you see people who consistently take beautiful shots and you think "I am such a poser". For now, I'll have to settle for the occasional "cool" photo and some decent photo editing skills (see photo above).

Musician: This is a big one for me. "Talent notwithstanding" I'd chuck the Cube Farm and make my living as a singer/songwriter. And don't think for a second I haven't given it a go. I've taken guitar lessons and aside from the nasty callouses I was able to procure, the ability to make my left hand do one thing while the right did something completely different was beyond me. I've dabbled in some singing, but mostly of the harmonizing with the car radio variety. Sure, I'm the lead vocalist of a band called Two-faced Mary, but it wouldn't take you more than 3.2 seconds to figure out why we call it "vocalist" and not "singer". I've tried hanging out with singers and musicians to see if any of their ridiculous talent would rub off on me, but so far - no luck.

I suppose I should be happy that I can string a few words together in a way that is not all-together unpleasant, but that doesn't keep my heart from longing for a more "lead in the school play" talent. 'Til then, I'll just keep trying to get away with what I can.

Honesty Really Is The Best Policy

2008-10-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

There are scant few things I know for sure. But here's one:

Always tell people when they have a boogie hanging from their nose.

Even if they are a co-worker, even if they are a stranger. Even, if you feel a little awkward and embarrassed. Because your awkwardness and embarrassment is nothing compared to what theirs will be if left to their own devices.

A simple "I think you have a little..." in conjunction with a quick brushing of your nose will do just fine.

Feel free to practice on me.

'Cause if I find myself with a booger at the end of the day and my bastard friends didn't tell me, well, I'll have a few less birthdays to remember is all I'm saying.

Like Liberace on the Keys

2008-10-14T19:14:00.000-07:00

Back in the day, my grandmother preached to me the importance of being able to type. When I was younger I didn’t get it, but as my grandmother was a formidable woman – I listened to her and paid attention in typing class. Let me tell you, this was not an easy thing, as I had an insane crush on the guy who sat next to me. I have trouble remembering his name, but he was a soccer player (oh, they were all soccer players for me back then.)

But I digress, as I was tippy-typing away on a real typewriter (no keyboards for us in those days) and continuously being barked at by my typing teacher (also my basketball coach) – I considered my grandmother’s advice. Maybe she had antiquated views on the types of professions that women could have. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that women could be doctors, lawyers or professional wrestlers these days – that not every woman was destined for a steno pad.

But since I wanted to be a journalist, I figured that typing was a decent skill to possess, so I got an obligatory A- in Typing and moved on.

It wasn’t until today, nearly 20 years later, that I realized her obsession with typing. It wasn’t about pushing me towards a skill set that would snag me a particular job – it was about keeping me out of OTHER types of jobs.

I mention this because today I picked up my first pair of steel-toed boots.

I work in a factory environment, and while I reside happily in the land of office weenies, there are many opportunities to wear shoes that will withstand being run over by a forklift.

And while I don’t mind a hard day’s work or getting my hands dirty (let us talk one day of my stint as a corn detassler or my foray as a hotel maid) I am finally able to understand what my ol’ grams was up to with her badgering.

See, my grandmother wasn’t trying to saddle me with a life as a secretary – she was trying to keep me out of lives that included a hairnet, an apron, and most definitely the steel-toed shoes.

It's okay, Grandma – I’ve still got 60 words per minute in me. Don't worry about the assembly line just yet.

Peeping Thelma

2008-10-05T09:56:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned once or twice or twelve times my abhorrence of working out. Aside from the sweaty and stinky parts of the work-out itself there are the other parts that aren't altogether enjoyable.

Like the locker room.

Now, I go to a pretty nice gym. That wasn't always the case. My friend, KB, and I have had our share or questionable gym memberships. Whoever was tauting a Buy 1, Get 1 or other deal of the century. But those gyms almost always go out of business and generally have stinkier than usual locker rooms.

But I'm a grown-ass woman now and can afford a slightly higher caliber of health club (not the top tier like my dad goes to, but then he's just a little more devoted to his workouts than I am). So, I go to the second nicest gym in town and it suits me pretty well.

It helps that it's connected to a hospital and I have to worry less about looking hot for the muscle heads and worry more about running over a geriatric on the indoor track.

Sorry, I digress...

Anyway, the locker rooms are pretty swell, in my opinion. And sure it still has the lingering aroma of chlorine, dirty laundry and Fritos - but it's a locker room - so I cut it some slack.

I remember going through middle school gym class and the anxiety of all the girls about changing clothes in front of one another. Everyone stood approximately 2 inches from their locker and changed from their Jordache jeans to their Nike sweats in 3.4 seconds. By the time I'd gotten to high school, I'd already dealt with basketball, softball and track and was used to the locker room scene.

As we get older, we come to realize that they are just bodies. And when you're standing around the locker room changing, no one is looking at you. Sure, occasionally you run into the woman who walks from the shower stall to her locker in nothing but a pair of flip-flops, but they are few and far between. And that is how you deal with dropping trow in front of a bunch of strangers.

That theory was tested today.

Sundays are a hard day to determine when to hit the gym. Normally, I try to bypass kiddie swim lessons and senior aerobics, because the locker room turns into either a scene from Kids Who Eat Too Much Sugar or Old Ladies Who Don't Know How Loud They Talk Without Their Hearing Aids In. I made a bad call today and hit a pretty busy post-aquatics class time. The older ladies where just toweling off, as I tried to find a locker and a wee bit of bench space to change and hit the treadmill.

I had successfully gotten my yoga pants on and was swapping my regular bra for my sports bar when two ladies descended on my locker culdesac. They were gabbing, but I didn't take much notice until I heard in a much louder voice - "Excuse me, is that a fish swimming up your back?"

Oh crap, some poor woman's blood sugar must have dropped and she was now speaking gibberish. I am a self-purported "bad in a crisis" girl, although in reality - people always look to me for direction when things are hairy. I looked over my shoulder, as I was still in-between boob coverage. And this lady in a bathing suit was looking right at me.

"The tattoo, on your back, is that a fish swimming?"

Note: Yes, I have tattoos on my back. No, none of them are a fish swimming.

"Oh, no," I responded, "It's a Celtic symbol." I hurried along my wiggling into the ol' sports bra.

Then her friend piped in, "What did you say? What kind of symbol?"

Me, still half-naked, "Celtic. An Irish symbol." My elbow gets caught up in the arm hole of the bra and begins to look like I'm playing with a Stretch Armstrong.

"Oh, yes, not a fish at all. So, what's it mean?"

Me, one twin hanging out, "Uh, inner soul to outer life."

"Oh, that's lovely. I have a tattoo too. Betcha can't see it."

Oh, please. Oh, please - do not make me look.

"It's my eyebrows! You couldn't even tell, could you?!"

And then the two chatted on about tattoo eyebrows and eyeliner and I managed to finish dressing myself.

Aside from my lack of grace-under-pressure, I have to say I was most disturbed by the idea that I was not invisible in the locker room. The idea that no one was looking at whether or not my underwear matched my bra, or if my hair was a mess or if I, in fact, had fish swimming up my back was a fallacy.

The anonymity of the locker room is gone. And now, in addition to making sure I look un-winded on the treadmill when I'm next to Joe Cutie, I also have to make sure I'm appropriately covered up before Peeping Thelma gets a gander at any of my other tattoos.

The truth is: None of us is alone. At least not in the locker room.

Recovery

2008-09-30T14:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-23T15:41:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-17T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-15T15:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-02T18:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

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.

The Invisible Woman

2008-08-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

The Cube Farm has many quirks and foibles and while most of them irritate me to no end - a few of them are funny enough to make up the difference. I’ll postpone delighting you with our cost-savings measures that include unplugging our computers at night and turning off all the lights for an hour each day. I'm all for diminishing the whole carbon imprint, but when I can't see a sheet of paper I'm supposed to proofread from the hours of 12pm-1pm - you gotta wonder about the anti-effectiveness imprint.

Anyway - what cracked me up today is this. There is a boy at work who I am pretty sure has a crush on me.

The reason I'm able to Magnum P.I. my way to such a conclusion is, well, I attended grade school. The Boy is exhibiting some textbook playground behavior. And while he hasn't pushed my down and made me cry yet - some adolescent flirting has been going on. By this I mean - he ignores me.

I know what you're thinking - "Uh, loser, he's ignoring you because he doesn't care if you breathe in and out." But he's ignoring me to a level that is almost embarrassing. He's ignoring me so much that I can't help but smile and laugh as soon as he passes me.

My desk recently moved into a Cube Annex, which is just on the other side of the wall as my fellow office-weenies-at-arms. This puts me in a much different locale, which happens to be in a locale closer to The Boy. Two significant environmental factors have increased the level to which I see The Boy. 1.) The bathrooms are 1/2 way between our two desks and 2.) The crappy coffee machine is right outside the door to his office. And since I am a woman who is addicted to caffeine and because caffeinated beverages are the root cause of my need to urinate - well, I see The Boy a couple times a day at least.

It's odd that The Boy and I are not friends. We have friends in common. I often chair meetings of which he is in attendance. And now we're practically neighbors. And yet still, avoidance.

Friday, he dubiously ignored me as I addressed him by name and excused myself for reaching near him to get a 32oz. beverage cup which I then filled with diet Cherry Coke (another addiction). And today, as we passed (him on the way to the bathroom, me on the way to the coffee machine) he very carefully averted his eyes the nearly 10 yards from the time I was able to identify him as The Boy and the time we passed. Seriously, I kept my eyes up and focused the entire time, just to see if he would look at me and nothing. I may have actually begun my smirk before he passed, so sadly, he may now think I'm making fun of him. Which I guess I am, so it's a fair assumption.

I'm not 100% sure why The Boy is ignoring me, but naturally there are a few Theories:

He's madly in love with me and doesn't know how to tell me
He's madly in love with me and is afraid he'll lose his job if we date and inevitably break up
He's madly in love with men, has sensed my elevated perceptiveness and is afraid I'll narc him out to the boys club
He thinks I am a sorceress and if he looks directly at me I will cast an evil spell on him
He knows that I know he's a Lions fan and is too ashamed to make eye contact (little does HE know, I'm a Notre Dame fan and don't shun those who blindly bow to the alter of sketchy football teams)
He knows that my longest relationship lasted just over a year and he doesn't want to become the next "EDH's ex-boyfriend"
He thinks he is too tall to date me (little does he know this is the one thing I do like about him)
He's afraid that I'm the sort of woman who would irrationally buy a motorcycle (or worse yet, would ask him to ride bitch)
And while I doubt it with all of the Jessica Fletcher, Charlie's Angels, Magnum P.I. instincts I possess - maybe he can't stand me and would rather look at his steel-toed boots than at my face.

Regardless, it's made for some excellent fodder and if it happens to be Theory 1, 2 or 6 - well, yes, it's encouraged me to dress a little snappier over the past few weeks and even test out some new perfume (not that you can smell it over the machine oil on the way to the Cube Annex). All this, so I can torment some poor, hapless Boy who had the misfortune to develop a crush on the sadistic likes of me.

Yeah, Theory 4 isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility....

Love Duo

2008-08-23T19:34:00.001-07:00

I happen to live in a pretty cool city (and not just because the governor declared it one). I've known for quite some time that small-town city livin' is the right kind of livin' for me. There are times I think about buying a house on the same street as my sister out east, but dammit - I can't imagine leaving this cool city.

It's cool for lots of different reasons. It's got a couple colleges, houses a pretty impressive art scene, is way more hefty on the lefty side of politics - and it also offers excellent square footage for some decent nightlife.

You've got your live music, you've got your microbrews, you've got your Irish pubs, you've got a little bit of country and a little bit of rock-n-roll. And don't even get me started on the fine assortment of crappy bars.

One of the reasons I know I live in a cool city is that I have friends from out of town who tell me so. I've got out of town friends who spend so much time in my town, I'm beginning to wonder what's keeping them in a less than cool city.

Tonight some friends decided to take a little hop to some of our local establishments. We managed to put some time into a sports bar and a dive bar and then decided it would be a good time to elevate the evening at our most favoritest pizza place, which now sports an upstairs bar and is dabbling in live music.

You have to love this pizza place. The guy who runs it is sorta like Seinfeld's Soup Nazi. He takes his pizza that seriously. The first time I took my father there - his eyes glassed over as he was mesmerized by the tender care our pie received as the owner gently blotted it with about 1/2 a roll of paper towel. This man loves his pizza. He is what I call - Intense.

We decided to hit the pizza joint, because my friend CT read that there was going to be some music there - a Norwegian jazz duo, and it would be good to support Mr. Intense's new venture. CT loves jazz. And I love that about her.

I love the idea of loving jazz, but the truth is - it usually puts me into some sort of comatose state that isn't good when you're trying to keep up your half of a conversation. But hey - I'm also someone who LOVES having a good story to tell. And how great would it be on Monday to answer the standard "What did you do this weekend?" with "Oh, just went to go see this Norwegian jazz duo." So, I'll drink a Red Bull - it would definitely be worth the drowsiness.

Mr. Intense was in rare form as he served us our drinks - I may even have mentioned like he was about to have a stroke. He was sweaty and generally "clammy" looking. Nerves, I figured. Anyway, the music was quick to get started and Mr. Intense took the opportunity to introduce the dynamic duo.

I kinda felt like I was in a school assembly and the teacher was introducing the speaker, but in-between the lines really telling you that if you fucked around and embarrassed him, you were going to feel his wrath. Like I said, he's pretty effing intense.

Anyway, after we were told to be respectful of the "listening room" he'd created - the "improvisational" jazz duo got started. The drummer was kind of cute and named after one of the Hobbits, the other much older and sporting a clarinet. Still the word rang out in my ears...improvisational...what would that entail?

SSSCCCRREEEEEAAAAAAAACCHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Holy eff. My eardrums didn't actually start bleeding, but I think some brain fluid dripped out my ears.

SSSCCCRREEEEEAAAAAAAACCHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Back when I was in my early 20's and living in New York City, I often pretended to like things just to be a cool metropolitan city dweller. Those days are long over. Because I was sitting in the middle of hell.

Many of the patrons put on a good act, but my friends had a much more difficult time pretending that what we were listening too could even be classified as music.

All eyes went immediately to CT. While I know this was not her fault - I will most likely blame her when I re-tell this story.

When faced with situations like this I very rarely act with decorum. No, I laugh. But I was also fearful of Mr. Intense, so I kept most of it on the inside - which quite nearly led to some early-stage incontinence. Seriously, I don't remember the last time I nearly wet my pants from laughter.

The screeching continued, followed by some high-pitched scraping of the stick around the circumference of the snare drum. The tuneless, beatless "music" continued until we actually had to do the mature thing and excuse ourselves.

Maybe I'm just not cultured enough to appreciate the nuance of what we witnessed. All I know is that when I started playing oboe in the 8th grade I sounded just like the Norwegian chap on the clarinet and no one was looking to pay me for my talents. Dammit - I was an effin' prodigy and didn't even know it. I could have had a successful career as an improvisational jazz artist. Another dream dashed.

Anyway - I won't hold it against my cool city, because the truth is - when someone asks me what I did this weekend I will proudly reply - "I saw a Norwegian improvisational jazz duo" and I will smile, maybe laugh and quite possibly - pee my pants.

Mid-life Crisis

2008-08-21T19:22:00.000-07:00

I am not a 55-year-old man. I am not balding or newly-divorced. No kids just shuffled off to college, no tawdry affair with someone half my age.

And yet I fear I am going through a mid-life crisis.

It did not creep up on me slowly - it hit me like a lightening bolt. I was walking along with a friend and he pointed to a spot in our parking lot. There it was. Beautiful, shiny and my favorite color.

A motorcycle.

My friend's motorcycle, to be exact. A motorcycle that he's thinking about selling, so he can upgrade. A motorcycle that practically sang out my name as we passed.

I don't know what possessed me, but we walked towards it, my friend put the key in the ignition, he showed me where the clutch was and then I gave it a little gas.

Sold!

I'm not 100% sure I'll be buying the bike. But I'm 100% sure I'll be dreaming about it tonight.

Stalking and Other Favorite Pastimes

2008-08-19T15:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight I rushed home from work, jumped in the shower, got semi-gussed up and called my friend CT to see what time we were meeting the girls out. I love girls night out. Especially my girls.

Alas, tragedy struck because, well, I'm a dumb-ass who has had a lot on her mind lately. When I called CT, she reminded me that we were all hanging out NEXT Tuesday. I could practically hear her roll her eyes through the phone. Crap.

So there I was, all dressed up with no place to go.

So, I decided to go out anyway. No place fancy mind you, but it seemed like a waste of lip gloss to throw on the yoga pants and look all cute for the Olympics.

I decided to start at Meijer, mainly because I've been meaning to cash in my big change jar for some time now and for some reason cashing in change always feels like free money. Yes, I get that it's MY money, but it's just CHANGE. That is until you dump it into a Coinstar machine - that's when the magic happens and it becomes actual money. Imagine me 15 minutes later with $79.16 in my purse and a smile on my face.

Now that I had free money - I decided to hit my favorite store (rhymes with Smarget) where there was Clorox wipes and new gym socks ready to become new treasures. I was about to head home when I realized I was about 50 pages from finishing the third book in this series my sister has gotten me hooked on. The fourth book is out and I figured I'd pick it up at my local books and coffee place.

Books and Coffee places are some of my favorite places. Mainly because I love books and I love coffee and the sumbitch who put the two together can have my firstborn child for doing such a nice thing for the rest of us. I perused the bargain books (nearly buying a "Learn Spanish in 30 Days" cd for $6.98 - except am I really going to learn Spanish in 30 days or is it going to sit and collect dust right next to my "Learn Italian" and "Learn Japanese" cd's? I continued on.) I finally picked up the final installment in little book drama and headed for the coffee section, as I usually grab a cup of joe and cash out at the same time.

Except today, apparently everyone on the planet needed a cup of coffee at 6 o'clock at night and there was a line from here to Indiana. I decided I'm already staying up too late with the Olympics and this crack cocaine-like addiction I've procured over these books, so I opted to head straight for the regular cashiers. And that's where I met him.

I love free money. I love perusing Smarget. I love Books and Coffee. And now - I love Phillip. Phillip is the cutest non-tv-personality boy I've seen in ages and he smiled at me and asked if I was all set. Oh was I!

I handed Phillip my book, at which point he spoke the name of the title aloud. It was then that I cringed a bit. Did I mention these habit-forming books can be found in the Young Adult section of the bookstore? Oh yeah. Phillip now thinks my reading level hovers around that of your average junior high student. Awesome.

I smiled and said, "Yeah, my damn sister."

Phillip said, "Ohh."

I could have left it at that. Let sweet, beautiful Phillip think that my sister is a sassy tween whose birthday is right around the corner and aren't I a good big sis to buy her books instead of the latest Jonas Brothers cd?

But naturally I said, "Yeah, she's gotten me hooked on these books."

Instead of rolling his eyes and sticking his finger down his throat, the angelic Phillip simply smiled and said, "Do you have a Books and Coffee membership?"

I said, "No."

Phillip said, "Could I interest you in one?" (hmmmm)

"No, thank you," I responded.

"Okay," said Phillip.

"Wow, where's the hard sell?" I asked. (This, sadly, is how I flirt. Very lamely.)

Yet still, Phillip smiled and said, "That IS my hard sell."

"Hmm. Needs some work," my answer with a wink. (yes, I also wink. I can't stop myself. I curse my grandfather for ever teaching me how to wink. People must always think I'm picking them up, whether I am or not.)

Unfortunately, I only had the one book and since Phillip has cat-like speed working the cash register, out brief interlude was just that - brief.

"Have a great night," Phillip smiled and chuckled.

"You too..." and I checked out his Books and Coffee badge, "...Phillip."

And it was over.

Except I fear, it will not be. Now my weekly trips to Books and Coffee will not follow the same routine of magazine rack, novelty books, new in paperback, biographies, spirituality, bargain books, coffee counter. No, I'm sure it will now be main checkout, information booth and aisle check for a green lanyard and a badge swinging along with one divine word - Phillip.

On considering the possibility of love...

2008-08-18T19:11:00.000-07:00

What a brave and reckless thing we do

When we put our heart in the hands

Of another.

Some say foolish.

I might agree, except for that feeling

Of absolute certainty

When one first falls in love.

It is a moment when truths come to light,

When the lost are found,

When destiny and serendipity inexplicably

And perfectly entwine.

So who am I to say “foolish”?

What is foolishness, but to laugh in the face of the unknown?

To tread again on a path of prickly briars

And not fear its lashes?

For love holds no malice,

Just exquisite pain.

And what is a little pain?

What, even, is a tidal wave of pain –

When paired with the illogical beauty

That is love?

So let my heart break again.

I fear not the tears, nor the ache,

Nor the break.

Because in the cracks, love winds its way

Back to the source.

And a heart is born from ash.

E.D.H.

Unfunny ain't funny

2008-08-01T16:03:00.001-07:00

I'll spare you the apologies for the lack of blogging. But I'll give you an un-prompted reason.

I just don't feel that funny.

I could wax poetic about family. I could zing you with the gaping holes in our health care system. I could tell you all why we should all live healthier, more engaged lives.

But what's funny about that?

I was beginning to think the funny had just gone by way of the dodo.

But then...

I did what I always tell other to do - I took a deep breath and I looked around.

Funny is everywhere.

It's my friend CR calling a Styrofoam-cup-turned-paint-bucket "the cat's ass".

It's my friend DC telling a co-worker we just catered in an afternoon snack of "cheeses, biscuits and crackers from foreign lands".

It's saying to my friend, CT, "Oh, wasn't he a soma lier?" and her answering "No, I don't think he was African."

It's my dad wearing a "ROCKSTAR" t-shirt.

It's the open-mic night guy saying he was gonna play some "old stuff from the 90s".

It's learning that F.U.D. stands for female urination device (would that I'd discovered that on the Pine River!)

It's teaching my niece last week... "Fi, what's a pirate say?"... "Arrrrg"

So, even in my semi-somber state. I've laughed pretty frickin' hard. Maybe that's all we can aspire to. And I'll tell you, that's not a bad aspiration.

"The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth"

2008-07-17T14:55:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it, I've only ever read the "No Fear Shakespeare" version of A Midsummer's Night Dream. I like watching Shakespeare's plays, but have never, not once, enjoyed reading them. Methinks he doth befoul the language too much.

But he was a man who knew a thing or two about us crazy humans. And didn't he just nail it on the head with "the course of true love never did run smooth"?

I am not currently in true love. I am not even in mediocre love (although I am abnormally attached to a new pair of shoes I recently purchased). But I have been in love and I am currently in search of love again. And I'll tell you, the course TO true love never did run smooth either, Will.

The course TO true love isn't a stroll on the beach. It's more like scaling the side of a mountain without a Sherpa in sight. And now that I'm in my mid-30s, it's not getting any easier.

'Cause here's the thing - I have an inkling of what I'm looking for now. It's not like when you're in your early 20s and you're thinking - "He's hot. I'm in love." Oh no, it's more complicated than that now.

It's about personalities. It's about a sense of humor and that doesn't include telling knock-knock jokes. No, we're talking about a sense of humor that will allow the two of you to laugh when life feels like it's falling apart. Being able to see humor in your mistakes - big and small.

It's about forgiveness. Love isn't about "an eye for an eye" - it is balls out Jesus-sized forgiveness...every day.

It's about understanding the perfect amount of space. This is like super-duper scientist stuff. We're talking spatial-temporal reasoning type understanding. What's the middle ground between distance and smothering? I'll let you know when I see it.

We'll leave out the part about how he needs to be employable, into hygiene and able to drive down the street without tailgating, cursing or flipping someone off. (I don't want to sound greedy.)

And the big truth is this - it's not just that I know what I'm looking for (or what I'm not looking for). It's that, at 35, I know me.

It's been me and me for a long time now and I guess I know me as well as I know anyone. I know who I am. And without getting all "big-heady" about it - I'm a pretty cool chick. And I'm looking for a pretty cool guy. Sounds simple, but it's not.

So, I'll continue to be patient (insert fingernails tapping madly on linoleum tabletop). And I'll be comforted by those who came before me.

The course of true love never did run smooth? No shit, Shakespeare.

Of Mice and Men

2008-07-14T18:55:00.000-07:00

I have, over the course of my life, acquired two fears. Neither of them is based on sound, reasonable logic. They are, in no particular order:

1. Mice
2. Men

I have no problem with mice when they are in little wire cages and running on a wheel. They are, in fact, a bit like men. If you know what they’re up to and when they’re gonna pounce, they aren’t too terrifying. This led me to wonder, what else do my two nemesis have in common?

They’re unpredictable. No telling when they’ll show their beady little eyes
They do, on occasion, hang out in your house uninvited
They make weird noises at night, conjuring visions of poltergeists and making one check under their bed for monsters
They look cute, but have been known to attack and leave you with life-threatening diseases that involve remedies including needles as long as your arm
Some of them would rather lurk about at home than get dressed up and go dancing
They leave messes for you to clean up
They think that chewing their fingernails and toenails is equivalent to a day at the spa
They do not utilize the toilet and quite possibly think you’re interested in checking out their doo-doo
Some don’t mind having millions of offspring, since they’re more about the breeding than the parenting
They make grown-ass women turn into a girly-girls of the highest order, instead of acting like rational, professional, educated women
They always seem to side-step the traps I carefully lay for them

Cheap Ass Bitch

2008-07-03T18:11:00.000-07:00

Did I mention than on occasion I am what one might call a - cheap ass bitch?

In general, you will not find me in the mall shopping for clothes. Clothes are expensive. Especially when you cheap out on the generic laundry detergent and you clothes actually begin to disintegrate after 3 or 4 washings. Who can afford to spend 50 buck on a shirt that has a hole in the neck from some battery acid detergent after you've only worn it a couple times?

Anyway - I am particularly in love with this one Cheap Store. I will not share its name, as those who know me - know of which store I speak. And those who don't know me, well, you really shouldn't be judging someone you don't know, now should you?

The point, is that today is the first day of a well-deserved vacation and I thought it was appropriate to celebrate by buying some cheap ass clothes.

I dutifully traveled to the Cheap Store to see what loveliness I might find to cram into my closet.

On a side note - I usually hit the Cheap Store at 10:01am on Saturday mornings, as it's right next door to a bookstore/coffee shop and that ain't a bad way to spend a Saturday morning. So, I am not exactly used to running into actual patrons of the Cheap Store, as I show up one minute past opening and am out of there in 20 minutes flat. It's just me and the teeny tiny shopkeeper chippies and that's always worked just fine for me.

As you might guess, at 7pm on the day before a big holiday weekend - it's a little busier. Not only busier, but jam packed. Not just jam packed, but packed with people who one might not consider socialites of the highest order. In fact, I walked into some kind of bizarre milieu where everyone was loud, everyone was bumping into me and everyone was yanking their kids by the arm (the ones that actually had any idea where their kids were - hint: peeking under my dressing room door). In fact, one patron (who sadly had hit the Mad Dog 20/20 a little hard before she went clothes shopping) was actually getting the boot as I was exiting my dressing room - careful not to step on the little street urchin who had previously been staring at my potential purchase and yelling - "That's really orange!"

Even though I'd considered buying the "really" orange shirt, I left it on the return rack and exited the Cheap Store with as much haste as my flip flops would allow.

It left me feeling a little icky and remembering the adage - you are what you eat. But what if you are also where you shop? That was more than I was willing to consider and so I rushed a few stores down and popped into my books and coffee shop. I tried to melt in with the snobby books and coffee people. And while I can get snooty with the snobbiest, there is the teeniest tiniest part that is probably also just a cheap ass bitch.

Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid #3: The Dress

2008-06-29T14:35:00.000-07:00

In a little less than two weeks I will be a bridesmaid for my baby cousin.

I imagine this will be my last time donning the dress. Even if any of my friends get married for a second or third time, I imagine it'll be a little more low-key and probably no need to get satin shoes dyed.

There are about a bajillion things I love about my cousin, but currently the thing I love most about her is that she is letting all of her bridesmaids pick out their own dresses. Her one condition - make it black.

No, I'm not kidding. That is how effing cool she is. And we all understand how freaking lucky we are - it is with great solemness that we are choosing these gowns. We don't want her to regret her magnanimous decision. Perhaps this will set a new precedent of kindness amongst brides.

A new era of no longer trying to shoehorn your friends into gowns that you have only ever seen on Size 2 models in "Modern Bride". I don't know about you, but I haven't been a Size 2 since I was floating around in amniotic fluid in my mother's uterus.

The idea itself is ridiculous. One dress that looks good on your 3,4,5 or god forbid, 6 closest friends. (Once the peels of laughter subside, read on.)

The truth is, your friend might otherwise be a reasonable woman. An engineer. A marketing executive. A woman who can go into the dressing room with you and tell you whether your ass looks big or your boobs saggy in any given outfit. But all of this rational thinking flies out the proverbial window once she’s planning the wedding.

Anyway, you are no longer her dear friend. You are her dress-up doll. You are not her soul-sister with the massive thighs or confidant with the small(ish) chest. You are Skipper to her Barbie. You now miraculously have smaller hips and a bigger chest because, well dammit, you must. She has been planning this day since age 9. She’s been clipping out dresses in bridal magazines since 18. She’s now in the position of complete and utter power over your life and you’d just better get used to it. Okay, take a deep breath – cause this next part might hurt.

It doesn’t matter what you look like on your friend’s big day. This is not about you. (Gasp!) This is entirely, 100%, without a doubt, about the bride. Okay, take another deep breath and I'll continue.

I know. I have pictures too. Me in a flowing lavender Empire-waist number that should have, by all of the laws of nature, fit like a glove, but instead clung in a most leach-like manner to every bit of cellulite on my body. Or my friend, K, who should have been a wondrous site to behold in the baby blue Vera Wang knock-off. It unfortunately was made of some polyester-blend (I'm pretty sure the original Wang was not) and could apparently not be taken in anymore in the chest (although it did leave plenty of room for Kleenex and her Maid of Honor speech. Both pages.)

The thing is, you just have to suck it up. Don’t go getting an inkling that you are going to shine like the belle of the ball. This is not the prom and you are not the Prom Queen. The big tiara goes to She-Who-Snagged-The-Boy. Get used to it.

Try to remember this: your friend is not trying to ruin your life. Somewhere in that twisted mind she truly believes you look beautiful in that dress. An angel. Leave her be, she’s in love. And the truth is - generations of bridesmaids have been getting laid no matter what sort of ghoulish gown they are wearing, so what's the big stink?

The upside is this: you will never have to wear this dress again! This is it. One day. Oh, I know both the bride and her mother will regale you with tales of shortening it into a cocktail dress or using it at next year’s New Years Eve party. Hogwash. This is $150-$300 dollars of fabric that will never see a profitable return.

Now, I have used old dresses for other occasions and even turned them into other-worldly creations, but dammit - you'll just have to wait until I finish the book. It's taken me thirty-five years to figure this shit out - did you really think I'd give all this knowledge away for free?

I'm not looking to make a million dollars - just enough to recoup the cost of those bridesmaids dresses rotting away in my closet.

Hot to Trot

2008-06-28T20:00:00.001-07:00

After some extensive shopping this morning, I swung by the gym. My car does not easily turn into my gym's driveway. We argue extensively about the cleaning, writing or loafing I could be doing instead of going to the gym. But today, the gym won out.

This is a good thing and I wish I was one of those people who could just love the gym. No, really LOVE it. I don't though. I never feel worse afterward, in fact, I almost always feel better. And yet it's still a struggle to put on the running shoes and hit the treadmill.

One of the things I don't particularly like about the gym is the sweating. The beads around the forehead. The dripping down my neck. That very attractive sweat mark on the back of my t-shirt at the end. I am one sweatacular little piggy by the end.

I get that the sweat is a part of the deal and is a good indicator that I'm doing things right, but it never makes me feel all gorgeous as I'm hoofin' along.

Which leads me to this - any time you read any magazine articles on where to meet men, they inevitably tell you to join a gym. This, to me, is some sort of insane troll logic.

Whilst I am working out I look winded, red-faced, sweaty and probably even a tad grumpy. Are these the attributes that today's bachelors are really looking for?

Not to mention, I'm not exactly "on my game" while I'm trying to jog in a straight line on a piece of rubber that is moving. Who in the hell is capable balancing themselves on a moving roadway, winking and saying "Do you come here often?" This is the reason I'm not able to flirt in airports either.

Anyway, I guess I'll continue to fight with my car, hop on the treadmill and god-willing, try to remember my freaking lip gloss. A nice neutral color to go with my sweaty t-shirt and the grumpy look on my face.

Free is for Me

2008-06-23T16:39:00.000-07:00

Some days I bemoan the fact that my checking account isn't brimming over with extra fundage. Funds that would like to be spent on an overpriced pair of shoes or a bunch of music on iTunes. Instead it's earmarked for rent and car payments and insurance and pesky things like laundry detergent.

And on those days I spend a few moments thinking about the trip I'd take to Italy or the great loft downtown and how I'd like them to be all mine, Mine, MINE!!

And then, I realize - while Rome would be great, I can get one of the best slices of pizza at this great local joint. And while the loft I covet has exposed brick, wood floors and a sunken tub - it costs as much as my studio in New York City did. And when it comes right down to it - I'm a pretty simple girl and the real fun isn't in the shoes that pinch my toes and eat away at my savings - the real fun is in the little things.

This weekend I did buy a few trinkets and while I admire them and think they do wondrous things to make "home" even cozier - they really don't hold a candle to my favorite thing this weekend.

That was driving to Indiana on Saturday and passing two hillbillies walking down the side of the road without any shirts on (one in cut-off jeans) each with an open beer can. And to make it all the sweeter - they were trying to hitch a ride. I know it will shock and amaze you that no one was quick to pull over and offer their chauffeur services to Misters Dee and Dumb. But there they were - givin' it the ol' trade school try. And that's a story I got to laugh over later with friends, plus get to pimp out in a blog and no doubt will re-tell any time I see a shirtless man in cut-off jeans.

So while I am slightly in love with my new Martha Stewart towels - I am ever reminded that the best things in life really are free.

Queries of an Insomniac

2008-06-14T22:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, fine, so I'm not a bonafide insomniac. But for some reason I am just not tired tonight. I've actually accomplished quite a bit and yes, managed to screw around quite a bit as well. And somewhere in the mix, I've started a list of questions:

What's with superheroes and capes? Okay, fine - Superman, that makes a little sense. Some sort of aerodynamic thing goin', but I've watched X-Men 3 tonight and just can't figure out why Magneto needs a cape. Granted - Sir Ian McKellen is a little on the aged side, so maybe it's to cover his geriatric heiny. I'm still stumped.

Did you know? That the girl from Juno and McSteamy from Grey's are both in X-Men 3? Plus Miles from Lost? This is new trivia that will be in my brain forever, while little by little I forget my multiplication tables.

Why can I never remove ALL of the change from my pants pockets before they hit the laundry? Inevitably, a dime, nickel or penny manages to sneak past my thorough search and opts to clamor away in the drier for a good 40 minutes. I could get up and dig it out, but I might miss the critical juncture where Iceman takes on Pyro. (I embrace my loserdom)

What power over the space/time continuum does YouTube have? I swear, I go to look up a 3-minute video and suddenly an hour has passed. Someone ought to look into that.

What is up with dust? I read somewhere that like 80% of dust is ex foliated skin. First of all, eww and second of all, I'm not sure that's even true. There is simply no way that one woman could ex foliate that much without a pumice and loofah going like 24/7.

These are just a few of the things I'm still pondering at 2 a.m. How about you?

"Oh, bird squirt" and other things that crack me up

2008-06-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

I'm easily amused. Well, that may not be entirely true - but I am definitely randomly amused. I will share a few key phrases that randomly amused me this week. I don't expect you to giggle...they are, in fact random:

"Oh, bird squirt!": overheard at the cubicle next to me. When I rolled my chair over to find out what type of Hitchcockian shenanigans were going on - the fella who yelled it out simply said, "If you've ever lived in a city, you know what that means." I beg to differ. I spent 36 months on an island that's just over 13 miles long by 2-ish miles wide - right along with 2 million other people. I ain't never heard "bird squirt" in my life. Methinks by "city" he means the backwoods of Arkansas.

"You dirtbag!": flung at me after I said some jackassed thing to a co-worker. She is the queen of slinging lingo from my junior high years. Dirtbag is just about the most perfect non-expletive expletive.

"I'm just a small-town guy with some math skills": one of my most favoritest Big Wigs said that after a meeting the other day when I congratulated him on his Big Wigginess.

"You are just so fuckin' weird sometimes.": a co-worker to me - after I explained my aversion to non-mechanical pencils and abhorrence of pens without caps

"Ding-ding outta make a come back.": CCB said that to me after I used the word "ding ding" (e.g. "He really needs to be kicked in the ding-ding"). Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years!

"Indigo, I don't want to hear another word about it...'" her Mamma says, "I'm not setting the table with my Sunday china for fifteen dolls who got their period today.'": this book I'm reading - Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo. I dig this book.

"She wasn't particularly afraid of mice, but rats were more like snakes - snakes in bad fur coats": The other book I'm reading (there's upwards of 6 going at the same time right now) by my most favoritest Anne Lamott.

"Friggin' gnomes": okay, my favorite uttered words so far this week. A friend just got back from a week at the beach. He took this picture of this creepy little garden gnome that was just outside his bedroom window looking up at him. His comment, quite correctly, "friggin' gnomes."

Is there a moral to this story? Not really - except that when I'm grumpy and grouching and thinking that life is one big pain in the ass...well, it also makes me giggle quite a lot. As long as I listen.

Oh how you mock me, plain white dress

2008-06-09T18:17:00.000-07:00

I rant and rave in my Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid. The dress, the shower, the shady bachelorette party. It's excellent fodder for the snarky likes of me.

But can I tell you a secret?

I only mock the bridesmaid dress, because there's only one dress I truly want. And it's not lavender or butter or cornflower. It's white.

There is nothing I want more than an over-priced white gown that I will only ever wear once in my life. And while there are opportunities to turn it into a bassinet dust ruffle, I imagine there won't be enough Scarlett O'Hara in me to take the shears to it.

I want a dress that my mother and sister will weep over. Possibly because they will hate it, but more likely because of the look I imagine I will have on my face.

I want a dress that will trip my father, just a little, just enough to make us giggle and relax.

I want a dress that will cherish a tiny stain from a champagne toast.

I want a dress with a hem filthy dirty from people dancing all over it.

I want a dress without crinoline, because my ass is big enough.

I want a dress that will allow me to breathe, so I can laugh.

I want a dress that will be held by Love.

I know, it's not the snark and sass you're used to and lucky for you it's not often I delve into silly girliness.

It's just tonight, I imagine life with a vacuum-packed white dress in the closet. And the road that leads to it.

"Hi, my name is Emily and I'm a coffee addict"

2008-06-03T15:07:00.001-07:00

I'm imagining you all (all 3 people who regularly read my blog) judging me. You're thinking that there are people out there struggling with true addiction and I should just shut my pie hole already. Okay, maybe I'm projecting. That's what I'm thinking.

And more than that - I'm thinking I don't mind my addiction too much, except - on the rare occasion when I snooze a 10th time and don't have the 4 additional minutes in my commute to swing by the Drive-thru at my local coffee shop (rhymes with Barclucks). It's on those days that are met with bad cafeteria coffee that I realize the depth of my "condition".

'Cause you don't want an 8:15am meeting with me when I'm running on what can only be described as the water dressed in brown that they're peddling at our in-house cafe. It is most certainly not my Grande Red Eye (House Blend with a shot of espresso) that jolts me into alertness on most mornings.

The truth is - I'm a real bitch without real coffee.

I don't function at my highest level. I don't play well with the other kids in the sandbox. I don't share my toys. I pick fights. I put on a face that would prompt any mother to remind me that it could "get stuck that way."

Put it in a pint glass or a crack pipe - I've got me a bonafide addiction. And I don't think anyone in a 12 cubicle radius of me is gonna sign up to be my sponsor. "Because deep down in places they don't talk about at parties - they want me on that coffee. They need me on that coffee." (imagine my best Jack Nicholson impersonation. Which, let's be honest, sounds like me - just really loud.)

So, no 12-step program for me. No cessation support groups. No therapy sessions. Just me and my jumbo java - addicted and lovin' it.

"You Can Never Go Home Again"

2008-05-31T10:55:00.000-07:00

Well, that's not entirely true, is it? Now that I'm back in the Midwest it's as easy as taking Portage Road south 'til the fourth cornfield and hanging a left. And viola. Back in my hometown.

When I first left "home" I wasn't ready. I was a teenager - emotional, bitchy, scared. Typical. And so "home" became almost myth-like. The stuff of epic poems (and didn't I write a few).

But one of the things I know at thirty-five, that I didn't know at fourteen (dear lord, let's hope there's more than one) - is that home is just a place you start out. Not to discredit its indelible mark on me. My home happened to be in the middle of nowhere, just south of bumfuck township. I was detassling corn at age twelve. Shit like that changes a person.

But it's not all that I am.

I am not a corn detassler. In fact, I'm not a big fan of dirt. I used to think there was something wrong with me because I didn't like plants in my house. Until along came the day my old boss said "dirt doesn't belong inside." I've not had a plant in my house since that glorious day.

I am not trailer trash, though let it be known by the general public that I did grow up in a trailer park. Granted, our trailer park had tennis and basketball courts, a softball field, bike trails and was on a lake. But still, I like to think it was a character-building experience to sleep a good many summer nights in the basement of the community center during tornado season.

I am not hick. I know how to use the English language and use it correctly about 85% of the time. I did not "seen" or "saw'll" something. I "saw" it. I prefer "milk" to "melk". I do, however, use "ain't" a lot, but I think the people who know me know that I know that that ain't a word I'd use around people I was trying to impress.

There are things about home that I adore and are dear to my heart. I wonder if my little niece will ever know about county fairs, I wonder if she will be able to tell (on sight) the difference between sweet corn and field corn. I wonder if she will be able to tell (on smell) whether you're coming up on a pig farm or cow farm. I wonder if she'll have friends in the FFA or 4-H. I wonder if she'll ever fish in a row boat or pick and shell walnuts.

While those are fond memories of home, it's not like the kids who are living there now are all enamored with their unknown ability to distinguish between different kinds of farm animal feces. And so maybe it isn't so much that you can never go home again. It's just that with all you've learned, why would you? It's already given you all you need to make something of yourself. The rest is up to you.

Potty on the Brain

2008-05-27T17:39:00.001-07:00

Not to dwell too much on the whole toilet thing, but I've spent the last several days touring the public restrooms through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and Maryland only to discover that human beings are disgusting.

Oh sure, they're all prim and proper when they are at your dinner table, but when they're on a road trip frequenting the public restrooms of the Turnpike, they could give a piddly poo about decorum and decency.

They become the most smelliest, noise-emitting, seat-spraying Jackholes to occupy our planet. And I'm not even talking about the Men's Room.

I dunno, I still believe in muffling toots and using seat covers and imploding rather than making uber-substantial deposits at the bathroom bank.

I know, it's gross to talk about, but let me say this - it's even grosser to live through it.

Prude? Maybe. The person you want in the neighboring stall? You bet your bare ass.

Please Do Not "Rest" In This Room

2008-05-19T18:47:00.000-07:00

When cell phones first became popular, I was living in New York City. Not that many of my friends had them - we were all Che Guavera to Ma Bell, but still - they were out there quite a bit in my final days in the Big Apple.

Anyway, I remember thinking - yes - cell phones. These are perfect instruments for New Yorkers. They are another delightful way to keep New Yorkers in their bubble. That bubble they create, because you absolutely MUST pretend you are all alone on the planet - otherwise your head would explode at the idea of sharing an island with 6 million other people.

ANYWAY, cell phones are even more popular than before and I find myself bumping carts with some woman in Target who has a phone strapped to her ear or wondering if the guy with the Bluetooth is gonna ignite the fumes as we pump gas next to eachother. And mostly - I'm okay with it. A few cases of road rage, but otherwise - hey "it's your life."

But I've become increasingly disturbed by the Jackholes who have taken up residence in the bathroom stalls at work - who are talking on their freaking phones!

There are plenty of disturbing things about the Farm, not the least among them is that many people who work there are on tight schedules with very little "break time." I get that. But what in Zeus' butthole are people thinking when they decide they must speed dial their doctor's office in the Ladies Room and set up some appointments for their kids. Or chat up their friends on what a turd their boss is.

I've just never gotten the whole "resting" in the Restroom. This is the last room on the face of the planet that I want to hang out in. It is a room that must be vacated as quickly as possible. I have never supported the idea of reading material in the bathroom either. Let us not hunker down for story time, my friends. Let's pick up the pace already.

Maybe it's just a matter of taking things too literally. In that case, let me propose we switch the signs to: The Zip, Drip, Skip Room. If only to remind others to Rush-n-Flush.

The Lies We Leave Behind

2008-05-17T10:42:00.000-07:00

I've been catching up with some old friends via the wonderful world of the web. LinkedIn, Facebook, and this - my little on-line "softer side of" diatribe.

I'm not sure if it's just the sentimentality of my 35th year or that cosmic need to be connected to folks and let's be honest, my wee brain isn't gonna go all Stephen Hawking on the subject. I'm just glad to have reconnected with some of my old cohorts.

What has brought me no end of glee are the funny stories that keep popping up. The Romper Room-ish antics from my past.

I spilled the beans once that I was an excellent fibber. The thing is - I forget how much I've actually gone a-fibbin'.

Here are just a few that have popped up (some I was reminded of, others I couldn't forget in a million years.)

Two-faced Mary: ask me about the "concept" band that I started with some girlfriends. Ask us where we play ("always out of town" - read: once). Ask me what instruments I play ("I'm a vocalist" - read: I can speak). Ask us how we can have so many pictures of us playing, if in fact, we don't ("we know people in the biz" - read: we've made out with a musician or two in our time)

Mig, Tig or Stic: On my trip to London I met up with an entire crew of masons at a local pub. I needed an "in", so I wouldn't have to drink my Old Speckled Hen alone. When one of them started talking about welding I said "Oh, mig, tig or stic?" Ok, I don't weld, but I used to work at an employment agency in my 20's and it was on the industrial application. I didn't buy another beer that night.

Shea, Abby and Quinn: I can't say for sure which one was me - but my two bestest friends in NYC were the other two. Sometimes you need a little alter-ego when you're hanging out in the big, scary city.

Step-sisters from 'bama: My bff K and I were going into this dodgy bar one night and needed a cover. Seconds before we opened the door, K said "Accents?". Suddenly we were step-sisters from Alabama whose "mama" and "daddy" had just moved the whole family "up No'th". We can't go to that bar anymore - 1.) I can't maintain a fake accent after 3 beers; 2.) Last time we were there CT's purse got stolen and she put a much-deserved "whammy" on the place.

The Psychic is In: (ok, I'd forgotten this one) While living in NYC, a sweet friend - DD (who I met on a Greyhound from New Hampshire to NYC) and I were hanging out in his 6x11 foot 5-floor walk up (ah, housing in NYC). Anyway - chat rooms were in, we were in one and we got everyone in it to believe we were a psychic. It's amazing what a bottle of red wine and a couple of wild imaginations can do.

Speaking of Fake Superpowers: A local pub in town has an annual event where everyone dresses like a freak. The first year I went, there was supposed to be a palm reader. Apparently she went and hooked up with somebody, 'cause she never showed up. My dogs were barkin' so I set up in her chair, had a friend stick a 5-dollar bill in a pint glass and before you know it I had a line out the door. I made $100 bucks that night telling fake fortunes.

These were just a couple that popped up in the last few weeks. But let me tell you this - when I'm an old woman, sitting in a wheelchair in some park - you definitely want to grab a seat next to me. I am gonna be able to spin such a yarn - you won't ever want to get up. Granted, in my 90's I'll probably think these stories are all true, but hell - I'll be 90. Who cares.

My friend, CT, has notoriously bad taste in movies (ok, just polar opposite of me) and was just telling me about this one written/directed by Bobcat Golthwait (ok, you tell me who has the bad taste) but regardless, it had this gem of a quote:

"It's important to lie. It's keeping up with the lies we tell about ourselves that make us better people." A load of crap? Probably, but one I don't mind getting a whiff of every now and then.

Reality Shmeality

2008-05-15T16:58:00.000-07:00

I spent three hours of my life this week watching the season finale of The Bachelor. These are three hours I will never get back. I am annoyed on various levels but let’s begin with this. “Reality” TV has taken over my life.

When it all started, it was easy to pass on Survivor and even Season 47 of the Real World. Reality shows were few and far between. But now, at least every 3^rd show is “reality”-based, which leaves a dummy like me, glued to the likes of The Mole and The Amazing Race simply because I’m too cheap to pay for cable.

But what had me particularly tweaked the other night was the drama of it all. Three attractive people moping about on a television set, wondering if one attractive person will choose them or the other attractive person. Did I mention that every one on this show is attractive? And I feel bad for the hot guy as he breaks down over the stress of dating 25 beautiful women. He’s exhausted, people, let him be. Show some compassion for the insta-celebrity! And the girls, well, the girls. Yeah, I can see why these poor girls had to resort to a television program to find a date. It’s not easy being cute, petite, friendly, oh and did I mention attractive? Yeah, those are qualities that are a real detriment when you’re out there braving the dating waters.

I like the concept of The Average Joe. Twenty or so guys that range from Balding to Nerdy to Socially Inept. Anyway you throw them together with one hot girl and she chooses one. Oh, but wait, there’s a twist – you toss in a couple of model-esque men a couple weeks in and see where the lady’s heart lands. Hmm...tough one. And while I hated seeing the poor Joes get blown off one by one like candles on a birthday cake – it was closer to “reality” than watching a bunch of hot people talk about feeling “a spark.” Come on, these are “spark” people, they’re nothing but “spark.” They’re sparktacular.

But enough of these spark people, theirs is a tribe unto itself.

I guess the moral of the story is – I want my life back. I want to spend the day talking to people about my life and not the lives of strangers on Tuesday morning. I want to write blogs about W’s worthlessness and Obama’s awe-inspiring-ness, not on whether or not Matt and Shayne will make it (oh, come on – they’re heading straight for Splitsville, do not pass Go, do not collect 200 dollars.) I want to blame Reality TV for the fact that I spend three nights of the week glued to the television and giving the ol’ stink eye to the phone every time it rings. I’m looking for a scapegoat here, people and Reality TV looks like just the right kind of sacrifice to offer up at the Alter of Loserdom.

But enough of that, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to pop some corn for American Idol.

The Old Lady Cometh

2008-05-14T17:24:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning at 5ish. I taught a class until 10ish. I ate lunch. I tried to finish a schedule, but ended up checking out a cute guy most of the afternoon.

And then home.

Thing is - I considered calling some friends and seeing if they wanted to meet for a drink and then I thought - "But I can't wear my yoga pants to the bar..."

Thus ended the debate and my car auto-piloted itself to my abode.

When did I turn into such an old freakin' lady?

I used to be young and peppy and always game for a laugh or a cocktail. Now I bolt out of work, scramble up the three flights of stairs, change into stretchy fabric clothing items and perform a variety of housekeeping chores followed by on-line or cable entertainment. Then bed.

And it's not like I'm all sad to go to bed, like when you're a kid. Oh no, I'm all "Is it bedtime YET?!?!" I freaking LOVE bedtime. In fact, as I type this I'm wondering if it's too early to climb into bed.

Dear lord, get me a walker and some Polydent already. Looks like 35 is the new 95.

Poop.

2008-05-10T19:36:00.000-07:00

Footsies

2008-04-28T19:50:00.000-07:00

I so want to be a "shoe person". I covet cute shoes. They are so fun and spunky and just the perfect adornment to any outfit.

The problem is I'm a "comfort person" and in my (ahem) years on this planet, I've made special note that "comfort" and "cute" so rarely go together.

But every once in a while I bust out a pair of cute shoes, sashay into a local establishment and hobble out with my slightly deformed and bloody feet several hours later.

And you know what? It's worth it, it really is. It's mostly worth it. It is, in fact, worth it...occasionally. Well, some times. Okay - hardly ever. But I do it anyway.

Because I have the great desire to be a "shoe person". And don't get between a girl and cute shoes.

Why Can't TV Mirror Real Life?

2008-04-26T09:33:00.000-07:00

Even "reality" tv isn't so - how shall I say - rooted in reality these days. And sure, I'm not dying to end up on an island with space/time continuum issues or smoke monsters. Nor am I looking to live on a street with women ten years older than me who are 10x hotter than me.

But there is one show I'd like to see in my real life (no, it's not The A-Team), but rather, one of my top 5 favorite show of all time - The West Wing.

Why? Well, let me count the ways...

Because I would feel comforted knowing that the leader of our country and those who give him daily counsel were bonafide smarty pantses.
Because I can 100% deal with people being flawed and making bad decisions, as long as they can admit that they are flawed and make bad decisions some times.
Because if you can't be right all the time, you sure as hell ought to be funny.
Because, well, a grossly liberal and educated president would make my heart sing.
Because there are a lot of hot guys on that show and if politicians were that hot in real life, a lot more people might be engaged in the inner workings of our country.
Because I would love a reason to watch true debate and not just malicious slander.
Because when these people show up at a Rock the Vote event, they don't look wildly out of place.
Because a White House full of compassionate and accepting people might not be the worst thing in the world.
Because I'd like a generation of young women to have smart, beautiful, educated and passionate female role models to look up to. And think Paris, Britney and Lindsay were moronic and lame.
Because a government that does not talk down to or underestimate its people, might find that its people are able to comprehend quite a lot.
Because I would give anything to tear up at the words spoken by the leader of our country.
Because the dream that was America might still have a chance to be realized and I really want to see, hear, touch and feel what that might be like.

Song of Myself

2008-04-19T12:36:00.001-07:00

I love Walt Whitman, although this entry has absolutely nothing to do with him, except that I've "borrowed" (okay, ripped off) his lovely poem for my post title.

This is actually a response to my step-mother's blog about the songs in her life that remind her of specific moments in time (egads - isn't that why we are drawn-to and just effin' love music?) This made me think of some of those songs for me. Alas, many are linked to the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past, but some others have trickled in in other unexpected ways:

Hit Me With Your Best Shot - Pat Benetar: When our ex-step-cousins from Oregon came to town one year for Christmas, we all hid out in the basement while the grown-ups talked (read: drank) upstairs and sang this song along with our tape player.

Lady In Red - Chris de Burgh: It makes me think of when my sister went off to her senior prom with her (yet to be) gay ex-boyfriend. To me, she was the most beautiful thing on the planet. I was so jealous.

(speaking of gay ex-boyfriends, here are a couple more)

Fire and Rain - James Taylor: My (yet to be) gay ex-boyfriend was my first "musician" boyfriend and I vividly remember sitting on the living room floor in front of the sofa - facing each other, knees touching and he played and sang this song to me. Man, if that kid hadn't come out of the closet I'd still be sitting cross-legged on that living room floor staring into his eyes.

Let Him Fly - Patty Griffin: My friend, K's (yet to be) gay ex-boyfriend introduced me to my most favoritest singer/songwriter ever, Miss Patty Griffin. While the song is kinda somber and is often played when I am lamenting a break-up, it also flashes me back to Mardi Gras 1999 and that's a nice break from the lamenting.

Feels Like Home - Bonnie Raitt/ Forever - Ben Harper: I had these two songs hidden away in the secret vault that might one day be opened if I happened to get married and needed a "first dance". The first was "given" to my sister and and brother-in-law, the second to my cousin and his lovely wife. They did well by the songs, so there you have it.

Honestly - Stryper: My oldest friend, J wrote the lyrics of this song in the inside of a card to me when I moved away from my hometown at the tender age of 14. It was pretty amazing that a 14-year-old boy was capable of expressing his feelings at all - we'll forgive him that the source material was composed by a Christian metal group.

I Loved Her First - Heartland: Yes, fine, it's on uber-cheesy father/daughter song list, but when I heard this song the first time in the car on a roadtrip with my father (thankfully, he was napping in the passenger seat) I almost lost it. Fine, I'm a Daddy's Girl - sue me.

At This Moment - Billy Vera and the Beaters: Last dance with the first boy I ever loved.

Untouchable Face - Ani DiFranco: I drove around with my best friend, K with this song on "repeat" while she was getting over a crappy break-up. This is the Dumpee Anthem.

Livin' on a Prayer - Bon Jovi: It started at high school dances and has landed me at GNO dancing at the Bayview. Bon Jovi is ALWAYS the perfect music to dance to with your girlfriends.

There are too many more to speak of (at least right now), so I'll leave you with this - music is our very own soundtrack. Just listen, and your life will come rushing back to you.

Supercalifragilistic Expi-egomanic

2008-04-14T18:59:00.000-07:00

I will no longer wax stereotypically on the ginormousness of the male ego.

Today I fell into the thrall that is my own (quite large) sense of self-importance and it went something like this:

M: (hell bent on not moving her desk at work) No. That's stupid, some dooty-head must have dreamed up that idea!

Co-worker: But it would be so much easier for the rest of us

M: (stomping foot) But now I will be out of sight. And out of sight at the Farm, is definitely out of mind. I'll be locked up in the back of this joint, never to be heard from again.

Co-worker: But, M - four walls could never contain your spirit and energy (insert: chorus of angels)

M: Well, moving seems perfectly logical when you put it like that.

The End

Seriously, I almost climbed over the fabric-covered cubicle walls and frenched the poor guy. A little stroke of the ego and I'm putty in some tech-dude's hands.

It's sort of lame and all, but you won't hold it against me, will you? After all, four walls simply cannot contain spirit and energy such as mine.

(Okay, fine. I'll leave you to your vomit receptacle of choice.)

2008-04-09T15:47:00.001-07:00

Pardon me, while I take issue

2008-04-03T16:43:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, but I take serious issue with people who are not from Kalamazoo, Michigan - writing about Kalamazoo. I concur, it's a fun word and easy to rhyme with things, but that shouldn't give any Tom, Dick or Jackass the right to well, write about it.

I just purchased a wonderful book for my niece (don't worry, she can't read yet - so the surprise won't be spoiled on my blog) and it's about attending a party in Kalamazoo. There's lots of weirdly colored animals (the true sign of any children's book is things like pink elephants and purple giraffes)... anyway...

The book is cute and since I purchased it in a locally-owned bookstore in my lovely hamlet of Kalamazoo - I assumed it was written by some local fellas.

Uh, negative.

Two freaking Jersey boys went and wrote a book about Kalamazoo. Like they've ever been to a party in Kalamazoo. Like they've ever visited Kalamazoo. Like they've ever had a layover in Kalamazoo.

My point is this - before you get to lay claim to the linguistic wonder that is "Kalamazoo" - you better have put your time in like a good Midwesterner. You better have experienced four honest to goodness seasons. You better have suffered through potholes that put you nearly a grand in debt (a nod to my new friend, O). You better have lived through lake effect snowfalls of 14"...on the second day of Spring.

Yes, there really is a Kalamazoo and until you have had the opportunity to both love and hate it - why don't you set your books in Trenton, boys.

A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

2008-04-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

There are little dreams - like imagining all the lights on the way to work will be green so you don't get a nasty look from your boss.

There are big dreams - like one day owning your very own Kitchenaid mixer without having to get married, just so you can register for gifts.

Then there are the uber-dreams - like the kind where you are someone who can sing. And by sing, I do not mean pretend you are Madonna in the car.

I'm talking about the kind of singer who gives you chills. The kind who doesn't need synthesizers to sound good. The kind that is brave enough to stand up in front of as many people who are willing to listen, belt it out and be met with cheers.

It's not that I lack the bravery (just ask all the friends I coaxed into talent shows over the course of my life), but I actually lack the talent. (Poop)

And ain't that just the kick sometimes? There are dreams you can do something about (like find friends who have spouses who work at Whirlpool and can cut you a discount) and there are dreams that will always elude you.

And I gotta say - that makes it absolutely essential to do everything you can do make the possible dreams come true.

Oh yeah, if you're done listening to my little droning - check out some real singers.

2008-03-31T20:17:00.001-07:00

Sick Day

2008-03-20T16:45:00.000-07:00

I'm sick.

Pretty gacky sick, to be honest.

So it's been me and my new best friend, Mr Pepto Bismol for the better part of two days now. It's pretty miserable, actually. And to reference my last post - it's one of those days when you wish your mom was there to pour ginger ale, warm you some soup, run out for saltine crackers and make sure you don't leave the sofa, except to use the bathroom.

But in the midst of my stomach trapeze act, I am warmed by a single thought - like a handmade quilt...

I am not at the Cube Farm.

I would rather groan on the sofa with Immodium and Chamomile tea than to sit at my cubicle and watch the big dog pace back and forth, checking for chairs that are not completely pushed in. (yes, I ended that sentence with a preposition. I'm sick, dammit, cut me some slack)

Anyway, I am going back to curling up on the couch and clutching my Pepto and drifting off into sweet dreams of far off lands without cubes. Where workers roam free through the fields of offices with doors and hour-long lunches. And in the background - no buzzing of florescent lighting or bells dinging to announce when you can get up from your seat. No - there will be music (hell, even musack) and days filled with the dream of meaningful work.

Zzzzzz......

Three Servings of Vegetables a Day

2008-03-18T15:55:00.000-07:00

I used to have daydreams of what it would be like when I was finally a "grown up".

At my tender age of say - 14-ish, "grown up" meant living in my very own apartment with no one telling me to do my homework.

Some 20 years later I'm not so sure I want to be a grown up.

Sure, my parents no longer tell me to do my homework. No, no - now complete strangers tell me when to do my work and just how to do it and what I'll wear while doing it and at what speed I shall walk in the hallways and how much lighting I'll have to do my work and when to eat and when to go home. Just for starters.

And on top of that, no one is giving me an allowance for cleaning the bathroom or straightening up my bedroom. And no one praises me for doing the dishes. And no one reminds me to take out the garbage before it starts to smell a little funky.

Plus no one is making sure my alarm is set for the morning. And no one comes into my room and gently shakes me when I sleep through 6 "snoozes".

There's no one picking up the tab at the grocery store for those extravagances like mouthwash ($5.49) and cold medicine ($6.23)

Not to mention - there is absolutely no one making sure I eat my recommended daily allowances of the basic food groups. And since I just hate the store, my cupboards remain full of items with the longest shelf lives.

So until I win the lotto and can hire me a full-time mother on staff, it's up to me clean the toilet, do the dishes, wake up on time for work, remember to get my hair cut on occasion and eat three servings of vegetables a day.

Thank god for V-8.

A Kook for Queries

2008-03-02T19:44:00.000-08:00

MB sent me this survey and you know I can't say "no"...

1. When I'm drunk, I tend to.....
Drunk dial

2. Shots or beer?
I hate needles, so we'll go with beer

3. Do you have a drinking buddy?
If you're my buddy, we drink

4. Do you get angry?
Only when I get kicked out of bars

5. Do you puke?
Two times ever. The first on JELL-O shots. Yeah, there's always room for JELL-O, especially after you make all kinds of room by puking your guts out. Who needs a small intestine anyway?

6. After 7 drinks who are you?
The girl serving tequila shots out of a Pepto Bismol cap (sorry MB)

8. Tequila does what to you?
I'm solid on tequila. As long as it's the good stuff ;-)

10. Vodka makes you?
A damn fine mixer for Cherry Coke

11. Do you smoke when you drink?
I'm "smokin'" when I drink, but I think you're asking something else

12. Do you pass out?
My number? Occasionally.

13. Do you drink girly drinks?
Nope. I leave that to the boys

14. Do you drink alone?
Not generally, but I did drink a couple over-priced beers on the 18-hour trip home from San Diego

15. Worst drink you have ever had?
I had a HORRIBLE dirty martini on my bday. What don't they get about olive juice?

16. Do you play drinking games?
Yes please. Can you say hysterical?

17. Favorite Beer?
Guiness, Oberon, Old Speckled Hen

18. What is your favorite shot?
There is no "favorite" there is only "is there a beer bottle I can spit this into?"

19. What will you NOT drink?
Whiskey. It's ruined for me. Ex-boyfriend used to smell like it frequently. Nothing like frenching a bottle of Jack Daniels

20. Are you a lightweight when it comes to alcohol?
I wish. No, I can hold my spirits

21. Do you ever drink bacardi silver?
what is that?

23. Do you like frozen drinks?
Nope - slows me down

24. Do you drink liquor straight?
RARELY

25. Do you ever drink out of the bottle?
Uh huh - can you say TAILGATE!!.

26. Are you drunk right now?
No, but with all this snow, I'm tempted.

27. Do you consume more than 2 alcoholic beverages on daily basis?
Would I admit it if I did?

28. Do you drink a lot of wine?
Oh dear lord, yes

29. When's the last time you drank?
Thursday. Wine. Tiaras.

30. Name someone that will repost this drinking survey-
Taylor might respond

31. Ever been streaking while drinking?
Skinny dipping count?.

32. Hot tub/pool naked because of alcohol?
Oh wait, see above

33. Failed any college courses due to alcohol alone?
You can't prove that!

34. Ever woken up & said "Dude where's my car?"
No, but I rarely say "Dude".

35. Ever carried someone up & down the same flight of stairs due to their drunkness?
I might consider dragging someone up and down the stairs by their ankles, but only to amuse myself.

36. Puked in a friend's car?
Oh thank god, I can say no. But I did have a friend in H.S. puke in my car. Potpourri Carpet Fresh is forever linked to the smell of vomi

Epitaph

2008-02-26T15:34:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure if it is the storyteller in me or something more disturbingly morbid that ponders what folks will say about me when I'm "gone".

Anyway, I was e-mailing with a friend at work today (DISCLAIMER: except not really, because that's against the rules and quite simply, I would never break the rules) - so we're e-mailing and she was saying how some feature on a networking site was kind of dumb, but that didn't keep her from hearting it. As far as I'm concerned there are WAY worse descriptors. And that got me to thinking I wouldn't mind just such an eternal descriptor.

So those who will be in charge of such things (you know who you are) keep this in mind when it comes to the ol' marble and granite..

"For I Am A Pirate King"

2008-02-21T19:34:00.000-08:00

That is to say, when it comes to the Cube Farm - I am considered a bit of a rogue. Less of the pillaging and plundering and more of the covert operations that, in fact, get real work done.

That is to say, I occasionally ignore the rules.

The rules at the Farm are great in number. We have manuals and work instructions and policies and, yes, procedures. We love us a good policy and procedure. And while I am all for living in an orderly society. I don't think I need a rule about how many pictures to post in my cubicle, nor how fast I should walk in the hallway (do not get me started on that one....well, tonight anyway).

So, I've gone a little Gilbert & Sullivan and gotten together some mateys of a similar ilk. We call ourselves "sanctioned pirates". That is to say, we are given some mighty goals and objectives and when no one's looking - we actually achieve them. I promise you - if I had to follow the rules, it would take me a whole day to log onto my computer.

And I'll tell you this - it feels good to be a pirate. No, I'll never have jewels and gold in a giant chest, and one day I shouldn't be surprised if they make me walk the plank. But today, I can hold my head high (well, as high as is allowed in the Farm) and know that sometimes rogue is the only way to go. And anyone who has felt the wind on their face out on the open seas of Corporate America will tell you - it's good to be a pirate.

For a little on my favorite Corporate Pirate, visit Captain Steve Crescenzo...

2008-02-20T19:22:00.000-08:00

Skeletons in the Cupboard

2008-02-12T16:42:00.000-08:00

I like the way the Brits put it better. Doesn't cupboard just sound better than closet? Anyway, I was actually cleaning out some cupboards and found "The Bag".

The Bag has existed in many shapes and forms over my life, but currently resides in the furthest shelf in my big closet, as a brown Hardings sack. The form which it has taken is less important than what it holds.

The Bag currently holds a few random items, well, not really random. They are all gifts from The Amazing Douchebag.

What? Men can name their penises but I can't name an ex-boyfriend?

NOTE: I could have simply called him Douchebag, but he really was a Douchebag amongst Douchebags, so let's give the fucktard some credit.

Anyway, The Amazing Douchebag left behind many relics from our brief stint together, all of which I dutifully returned to him (none of which he returned to me, but let's shelf that, shall we?). I did not snatch any t-shirts or books, they have all found their way back into his hands. What I did keep were the gifts from him. Mainly, to see if they could potentially shed the sentimentality once linked to them and become valued members of the group I like to call "my stuff".

I've already given away the Calligraphy Kit and I threw a cool red scarf back in the bag to give it more time to ferment and potentially become "mine" and not "something from him". But I pulled out a little gem that I'm pretty sure can now come out without gacky reminders of D'bag. It is a book called "The Bodacious Book of Succulence".

Is that a great title or what? I swear, I wish that were the name of my biography "The Bodacious Book of Succulence: a biography."

Anyway, it's a book by a writer about writing and there's nothing I like more than the self-indulgence of writers and the pontification of what it takes to be one. (Hint: it helps if you put your fingers on the keys and stop reading books about writers on writing)

Well, I opened up this book and while occasionally it provides wits and wisdoms on writing - it's more about writing your own life story. I mean - living your life story. Am I still being obtuse? Pretty much it's saying, stop being such a cry baby about what isn't happening, hasn't happened, should have happened - and get busy making it happen.

I'm a tough love sort of person - so this speaks to me. And maybe it's time to get busy "getting over it" You know? Pull The Bag out of the cupboard. Wear the scarf or pitch it. Read the book and forget the man who bought it for you. It's all about being a bigger person.

Except maybe I'm not quite that big yet. Until then send my regards to The Amazing Douchebag - right now that's the best I can do.

Silverman 4 President

2008-02-06T16:14:00.000-08:00

Okay, maybe not - but I think Sarah Silverman is pretty effing hysterical and if you don't, well, check out this link and see if you still feel that way...

Sucker for a Survey

2008-01-28T17:24:00.001-08:00

I, like my sister, can't pass up a survey. If gives us a chance to be witty and well, screw around when we just can't stand working on communications plans or teaching small children (oh please - she's the teacher. Don't leave me alone with 34 children in a cement block room. you'd have the next Stephen King novel on your hands.) Anyway... this might be one of the better surveys to cross my path:

1. What's the last thing you put in your mouth?
Echinecia tea. I am a sick girl.

2.What does your last incoming text say?
“Are you here?” Very existential

3.The last song you listened to?
I’d like to pretend it was Beethoven or Wagner, but it was “Dear Mr President” by P!nk

4.Where is your best friend right now?
I have best friends (plural) but in the course of one week I’ll have seen them all and that’s a pretty swell week

5.What did you do yesterday?
Turned oxygen into carbon dioxide

6.Pick a scar on your body. Where'd it come from?
Bridge of my nose - at age 1 1/2. I thought I could catch my older sister. Bitch was fast at 4-years-old.

7.What do you really think happened to Steve on Blues Clues?
Who on What?

8.If you could change your name to anything what would it be?
Emily Cusack

9.What would you say if a guy told you, you were the most beautiful person in world?
"I’ll have what he’s having"

11. How often do you curse?
We might save some time by counting the other minute and a half a day

12. Do you trust all of your friends?
Oh hell no. And if they're smart, they don't trust me

13. Would you move to another state or country to be with the one you love?
That's what I signed up for when I joined: www.americanmailbrides.com

14. Have you ever talked on the phone while in the shower?
Who am I, Donald Trump? Who the eff is that important?

15. Which one of your friends do you think would make the best prostitute?
Well, I'm sure if they put their minds to it, any one of them could get pimped out with the best of them.

16. Are you afraid of falling in love?
Love isn't scary - it's the stalking, cheating, heart-wrenching part that makes folks want to go fetal.

17. Is there someone that popped in your mind after that question?
Danny DeVito -but totally unrelated

18. How many kids do you want to have?
I have better plans for my nether-region

19. Would you make a good parent?
"No, Dr Frankenstein, there will be no "making" of parents"

20. Where was your default picture taken?
Okay, I'm lame. What the eff is that?

21. Honestly, what's on your mind right now?
I'm re-memorizing my multiplication tables. Don't judge me.

22. If you could go back in time and change something, what would it be?
My hairstyle in my fifth-grade school picture. I'd be Mrs Lonnie Nells right now

23. What are you wearing right now?
A shit-eating grin and a scarf

24. Right or Left?
Right brain, left politics

25. Can you make a dollar in change right now?
Look under the sofa cushions, you cheap bastards

26. Have you had a sore throat?
Uhhh...right now. (but what the hell kinda question is that?)

27. Who knows you the best?
There are a few peeps who’ve got my number. But only two I’d call if there was a body that needed burying. (KB/CT)

28. Do you wear contact lenses or glasses?
Never both at once, can you say migraine?

29. Ever been to Mexico?
No, but I’m gonna be awful close in a few days.

30. Last thing that made you laugh out loud?
I might have sheepishly grinned a couple times during this survey

31.Would you show your boobs to a midget on roller skates?
Boobs, midget - sure, but roller skates scare the eff out of me

32. Did you miss anyone yesterday?
Marty. Every day.

33. Last person to lay in your bed?
I like to pretend that while I'm at work, George Clooney flies in and writes poetry in my bed. He’s kind enough to leave it just as he found it.

34. What are your plans for the weekend?
Can you say San Diego, baby??

35. Who do you think will repost this?
Z mentioned answering it her ownself.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers...Anymore

2008-01-27T18:08:00.000-08:00

I live a pretty happy life. I have good friends and good family and good memories. And every once in a while those three good things converge into one perfect night.

Last night, I went with some of my whacky friends, with a dash of family (and soon-to-be-family) to see The Black Diamond. The Black Diamond is a Neil Diamond tribute singer who we'd seen fliers for around town, but never actually met anyone who'd seen him. He was becoming the stuff of legends.

Then one night while out with CT and Team H, we discovered he would be playing my birthday weekend at a local bar.

Now, sure, there was a pretty good chance that the whole evening would turn into Mockstock 08. 'Cause the real Neil Diamond is farcy enough. A "tribute singer" - hmmm...

All I can say is - The Black Diamond is quite simply - DELICIOUS.

We were with a friend who kept saying he didn't know any Neil Diamond songs until, well, The Black Diamond launched into the next number - and our friend became aware that he knew every Neil Diamond song and could even sing along.

And that is where my conclusion comes in - Neil Diamond rocks. The Black Diamond rocks. And anyone who doesn't believe, well, check out our neighborhood tribute singer as he hits Vegas. It'll be like you done went to sleep an atheist and woke up singing in the church choir.

God bless the deliciousness of The Black Diamond.

The girl who loved Sports

2008-01-13T09:07:00.000-08:00

There once was a girl who loved football. She watched the games, owned football jerseys, caught Sports Center and relished in the pigskin season.

Oh crap - did you think I was talking about me? HELL no. I was talking about my friend CT - who actually is like the girl I just described.

She loves football. And like a good Michigander, supports the abysmal Lions and hopes that most any Michigan college beats all other colleges. Girls who love sports really do exist. They are not just the stuff of unicorns and leprechauns. And some times they are sweet, funny, beautiful graphic designers. I know, all the boys are thinking "where do I get me one of them?" Sorry, you missed your chance - she's taken. By another lover-o-the-football.

I am slightly different than my friend, CT. (You knew this would get back around to me eventually) - as sports themselves do not whip me into a frenzy. As many football, basketball and baseball games I've witnessed, both in person and on tv - I don't have a complete understanding of the rules. Okay, basketball, only because I played it (poorly) when I was younger (another story). And once you get into the crazy rules of hockey and soccer - well, then - cash me out.

But...that is not to say I do not like Sports. Because Sports are very smart (if they possessed cognitive thought and reasoning) because Sports know that not everyone has the talent to play them, nor the copious amounts of testosterone to be a fan of them. But they know that most everyone likes to have a good time and that's why Sports where smart enough to include beer, food and cute outfits into their weekly rituals.

And you can't beat bear, food and cute outfits with a stick in my book.

So you will see me at many tailgates. You will find me cheering loudly in the stands. You will glimpse me in an over-priced college tshirt (that I did not attend) and you will probably find me singing Fight Songs off key all at the same time. And don't think for a second you could keep me from throwing a Super Bowl party.

Because while I do not like sports - I do like Sports.

Oh yeah, did I mention all the cute boys in tight uniforms?

Aunt M

2007-12-29T15:24:00.000-08:00

My friend, MB, said he's a little tired of my cheerful holiday disposition and just when do I think I will turn back into my dark and twisty self?

It's hard to say, as I'm currently hanging out with my niece in Maryland and while she has the propensity to leave fingerprints all over my glasses and spit up cottage cheese on my favorite hooded sweatshirt - she's still about the sweetest thing on the planet and I pretty much smile all day when she's around.

Having said that - I'm not sure I actually want the pleasure of giving birth to a real live human child. Real live human children don't really get cool til about one year old. (okay, 18-years-old) All those freaks who "ooh" and "ahh" over little tiny wrinkly red babies need to find some good anti-psychotic drugs.

Even my sister, who is just the best mom on the planet, is the first one to admit that the entire reason kids are cute and learn how to smile is so you don't feel justified in drowing them. Natural selection nothing - giggling is the secret to the continuation of the human race.

Okay, with all of that - I'm just not sure I'd be a good mother to an infant. My dry sarcastic humor would be totally lost on a baby. My forgetfulness would surely end in the kid sitting in the ol' car carrier on the curb. And let's be honest - one more spin of Raffi in the cd player might turn me into the type of person they wrote the Safe Haven laws for.

Don't get me wrong - I love kids. Kids are very fun and cool and best enjoyed during the holidays, on short trips and never with my remote control hanging out of their mouths.

Unless they smile and then, well, I guess all is forgiven.

Seasons of Love

2007-12-18T20:02:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year isn't it? It's that time of year when the snarky me takes a wee nap and tries, for a moment or two at least, to revel in the season.
I'm a sucker for the Salvation Army Bell Ringers. Man, I just love those people. Outside, bitter cold, ringing a bell in hopes of some spare change for those less fortunate. I never have change on me, except this time of year - for just this purpose. Some jackass told me the other day that an amazingly large number of Bell Ringers actually steal the money for themselves. Oh - cheer the fuck up (sorry, some of my family members may not be aware that I swear...a lot) - but come on! Even if there are cases of Bell Ringers gone wild - that is not the spirit of which I speak. They are outside, in the cold, ringing a bell - I love these people.
The infinite patience of store clerks. I cannot imagine the life of the average store clerk - but I would wish a thousand paper cuts before I would wish to be one during the holidays. For all our gift giving - shoppers are the stingiest bastards on the planet. Damn it if we don't get the extra .002% off because we got in line before 6a.m. Each of these people deserves to be driving a Mercedes for all the crap they put up with.
Christmas sweater-wearers. God bless them. Me, well, I'm a jerk and I only wear holiday sweaters to mocking events like the Sweater and Turtleneck party at a local bar. Where, yes, the point is the find the most disgusting sweater and flaunt it. But the true-of-heart Christmas sweater-wearers - they love the holidays, or they were given one by their 3rd grade class or they know they are going to see the great-aunt who knitted it for them. Either way, they will one day earn a place in heaven for their earnest couture.
Which leads me, naturally, to all those who don the Santa cap. Yes, they are horrible hats. But when worn with the true spirit or after six of Uncle Chet's "special" punches - it is endearing and wholesome. What happens after the seventh glass of punch - not so wholesome.
And finally - I am forever enamored by the purchasers of the Chia Pet and The Clapper. There isn't much to say about these individuals except to say - they believe in the power of unwrapping the most unmitigated pile of crap. Crap, when purchased in the spirit of the season, is beautiful and wonderful and not at all identifiable as crap. God bless these innocents and God bless The Clapper!

"Santa. This Saturday. Billions and Billions Served"

2007-12-09T16:48:00.000-08:00

On my way home from a fantastically refreshing "Non Holiday" party this weekend in the land of RV's, I saw this on the sign below the Golden Arches of a local McDonalds:

Santa. This Saturday. Billions and Billions Served.

Fine, the "Billions and Billions Served" is there year-around, but the pairing of the two declarations gave me pause. Have we lost the meaning of Christmas?

Growing up, my family wasn't big into church, so we lost some of the no-room-at-the-inn connections. We worshiped santa, reindeer and singing snowmen. And while I like the Mary, Joseph (what a saint!) and Jesus bits - I don't think those cheering for Kris Kringle lost the "meaning of Christmas". And to me, that will always be - Magic. Jesus, wisemen, Santa, flying reindeer - now matter how you package it, it is about magic.

It is about family. Be thankful for those who would wander for ages, just so you could find a place to sleep for the night. When you're together there is no difference between a four-poster bed and a manger.

It is about friendship. It is about finding people you can sing and dance with even when you've been a bah-humbug bastard.

It is about acceptance. So what if someone has a nose that lights up, let him play in your stupid reindeer games and get over yourself.

It is about following that part of you that seeks something precious and meaningful. You don't have to be toting frankincense and myrrh to be searching for something and to persevere until it is found.

It is about believing. Even when you're following a star (and probably feeling kinda stupid about it) - it is about believing that at the end of the journey you'll be glad you took the leap.

So maybe I shouldn't get so grumpy about Santa being at McDonalds, because when some kid sits on his lap and whispers his wildest dreams - there will be more magic in his heart than the world ever thought it could hold.

"The Most Wonderful Time of the Year..."

2007-11-28T15:25:00.000-08:00

I have been off my game. The holidays have a way of doing that. Your schedule fills up, you flit from one party to the next and you get the otherwise ridiculous notion that you are a jet setter.

We're not even into heavy holiday party season and I'm already seeking out red sequined tops (only acceptable this time of year) and eating more cheese than can be digested by a single human being.

Gastrointestinal issues aside, I just love this time of year. Dressing up, seeing old friends, making new friends, toasting to just about everything on the planet and all under the glow of twinkling white lights. (Everything is better with white lights).

But tonight I finally got back to my computer, pulled up the ol' blog and realized that all I can do is worship my Pagan tree, listen to holiday music and revel in the "Holiday Me". So just for tonight Christmas is all about me and not the lil tike in the manger.

Don't fret for my eternal soul, I'm an ordained minister and will absolved myself of sin later. Tonight it's white lights, cheerful tunes and the glee of how good I look in red.

Pop Quiz

2007-11-19T15:53:00.000-08:00

There is a blog that I check on occasion. All A Twitter.

She has some fun posts and a Wednesday haiku competition that I'm becoming addicted to. Anyway, she had this little quiz on hers today and since I didn't have much to say, I thought I'd give you this...

1. Diamonds or Pearls? See? Right off the bat I'm bitter, as I have neither and want both. I'd go with "and" over "or" on that one.

2. Chocolate or Vanilla? A family credo: If it's not chocolate, it's not dessert.

3. Beatles or Stones? I'm more likely to wax poetic over N*SYNC or Backstreet Boys, Britney or Christina. Only because I like to make fun of them and there isn't much I find humorous about the Beatles and Stones except that some women still find them attractive

4. Steak or Pasta? Am I the only freak who can totally pass on steak? I wish I were a marathon runner, which would make my propensity for eating my weight in pasta much more acceptable.

5. Revolver or Semi-Automatic? Can you tell yet that my dad told me about this blog? If we're talking about doors, I get a little freaked out in revolving doors. If, as I suspect, this is gun talk - I prefer spitballs.

6. Feather or Foam? Foam. Feather beds always stick me with their prickly quills. I'd like to think we've evolved since Little House on the Prairie

7. Republican or Democrat? I'm beginning to think they need a much smarter party if I'm gonna dance

8. Stick or Automatic? I once was lost, but now I'm found. I'd only ever owned sticks and didn't know the luxury of an automatic transmission. I've gone soft, but cruise control gets me over it.

9. Table Service or Buffet? I have high enough blood pressure without fighting a testy geezer for the last egg roll. Cute waiter me.

10. Summer, Winter, Spring or Fall? If a land existed that was Fall year around, I think I'd pack it all in. Naturally their national language would be "Pointing and Grunting"; national food - cheese; national bird - none, because they think birds are unpredictable and frightening too; national pastime - baking and mocking

11. Sailboat or Motorboat? I don't care as long as someone else is at the helm and there are no shark fins peeping out at me

12. Dogs or Cats? This often-debated question is a big DNA (does not apply). I am the proud owner of a colony of dust bunnies. What they lack in cuteness, they also lack in slobber and unexplained trails of feces

13. Beer or Wine? I could no sooner pick a favorite child or star in the heavens. They are both perfect just the way God made them

14. Hugs or kisses? Chocolate is chocolate

15. Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart? Cary Grant is much too sophisticated for the likes of me (my friends are all nodding in agreement) Jimmy, now Jimmy would call you "dollface", give you a smack on the ass and order you both Gin and Tonics

16. Pie or Cake? Neither? I'd take a cookie over the both of them. Although I make an amazing Pecan Pumpkin Pie and a Peanut Butter Chocolate Cake that has actually made men weep

17. Tea or Coffee? If it's good - coffee, black. If it's so-so - coffee, masking as chocolate milk. If recovering from a hangover - tea, pepperminty

18. Male Friends or Female Friends? I used to be a big "Girls Stink" Girl. They seemed catty, petty and some other -tty word. But then I got me some great girlfriends and you just can beat that with a stick

19. Pool or Beach? Doesn't matter, but there better be that great coconut smell from Super Duper Accelerating Tanning Lotion wafting in the air

20. Hotter or Colder? Beverages? Weather? Come on, hook a girl up with a qualifier. Weather - colder; beverages - both have a time and place; the game - colder makes you feel like a real loser

Something's a-Brewin'

2007-11-17T17:20:00.000-08:00

My friend, CT, is a pretty cool chick. (Don't worry, she doesn't mind if I call her "chick" - she's about as kindly and un-offendable as they come.)

We grabbed a drink this weekend (as we some times do) and talked (as we always do) and CT said something that really was quite profound: "some drinks just remind us of certain times and places."

Maybe that's simple, but that doesn't make it any less profound. We were talking about this guy we know who likes Hacker Schoor. He absolutely flips over Hacker Schoor. Myself and CT's BF, MB (dig the acronyms, you can tell I've spent too many years at the Farm) anyway, me and MB think Hacker Schoor tastes like some freakish kind of deli meat, like Mortadella or something equally gag-worthy. Anyway, our friend who likes it takes us on a walk down memory lane every time he orders one, which got me walking down my own lane-o-memories:

Old Speckled Hen: When I went to London (by myself because I just couldn't wait another day to get a stamp in my passport) I made a deal that I would drink whatever was on the handpull. OSH was on the handpull at the bar where I crashed a mason's retirement party and had one of the best nights of my life.

Bell's Oberon: The summer before I moved back to Michigan - I saw this amazing band called Third Coast Something or Other at Bell's Brewery, hung out with my oldest friend, danced like a crazy woman and discovered there was a beer that got you drunk after only two pints.

Merlot: When I was new to the Hartford theater community, I was trying to act so much more mature and grown-up than my (nearly) 21 years. I hadn't had much wine (unless we count 2-liters of Sun Country Wine Cooler) up until then. But drinking wine with these wonderfully creative and smart people made me feel creative and smart too.

Vanilla vodka: My friend, K(H)B. She's my soul sister. I drink vanilla vodka (or even a Diet Dr Pepper Cherry Vanilla soda) and I think of how much I love her.

Old Style: Egads, it's almost the worst beer on earth, but every time I even catch a whiff of it, I think about hanging with my cousin in the smokiest bar in Kalamazoo, MI (rhymes with Preen Mop) and having these insanely funny conversations about our family, our lives and what we had just written on the bulletin board in the Womens bathroom.

Coors Light: Canoeing and Tubing. It doesn't matter if your can gets half-filled with river water, it still tastes the same.

Jack Daniels: an old boyfriend, no matter how hard I try to reassociate. I stopped drinking it all-together.

Guiness: damn the ex-boyfriends.

Tangueray and Lemonade: A delightful afternoon on my father and step-mother's deck. It totally changed my opinion of gin and the cool-factor of hanging out with one's parents.

Dirty Martinis: Hanging with my girlfriends. Even if I was the only one drinking them - I remember eating a bleu cheese-stuffed olive and thinking "We have become Bawdy Women".

Margaritas: For some reason, the most Mountain Manly man I know, KDave, has probably been my most frequent partner in crime around the blender. I'm not sure if over the course of our friendship he's changed or I have or we have, but he's this amazingly intuitive and precious soul. And when the sour and salt meet - I think of him.

Bell's Amber Ale: Shitcan Monday. The day I got "let go" from the best job on the planet. My oldest friend hooked me up with a case at 10 a.m. My friend, Carter and I both got the boot and every time I think of ordering an Amber Ale, I remember his sage and experienced words of how Shitcan Monday would go: "10:30a.m. apply for unemployment. 11a.m. we start drinking. Soon we'll be fielding phone calls from ex-co-workers and family. We will console them and continue drinking. Start making plans of where we will meet up with ex-co-workers. Start a tab at 3pm at our bar of choice. By the time our still-employed friends show up - they will pick up the tab and buy rounds of shots. Tomorrow, start looking at the Want Ads." I no longer drink Amber Ale. That is exclusive to me, Carter and life-altering events.

Okay, I've gone on and on.; I could go on and on some more, but will let you go with this thought, our lives are in the details. Graduations and weddings are captured in pictures, but it is in the odors, smells and tastes of life that lie our true life stories. These are just a few of mine.

A Woman Who Loves a Tiara

2007-11-17T16:56:00.000-08:00

I am a woman who loves a tiara. I own two.

Oh no, I've never been crowned any sort of Queen, Princess or royalty of any kind. I just happen to own two tiaras.

One purchased so that I and my two dearest girls could go as the Queens of Ale, Porter and Stout to a local brewery's annual costume gala (okay, it's held in the back room on concrete floors, but our presence raised it to gala level)

The second was most un-Queenly begged for from my sister (also a woman who loves a tiara). It is currently sitting atop my head as I type this entry. And, in my opinion, should be dusted off at least on a weekly basis - even if only to vacuum and mop my floors.

Every woman has a little Cinderella in us. All of us feel woefully underappreciated and just know in our heart of hearts that our size 10's will fit in that glass slipper. (Just hand me a shoe horn and won't I prove it.) And once we're waltzing in our finest crystal we'll never again have to scrub the refrigerator down or clean hair out of the sink drain.

But a tiara's true purpose is to remind us to raise our chins a bit, walk a little taller, to smile a little sweeter and to gently lower our eyes in false modesty. Because we all really are royalty. Me, my sister, my girls - Queens - one and all. Nothing less than beautifully and regally divine.
This is one of those rare moments when I actually feel sorry for men. For what would I do if deprived my tiara?

Well, I would still raise my chin, walk tall, smile sweetly and gently lower my eyes in false modesty - because the royalty is in us, not an adornment.

Martha Stewart Doesn't Live Here Anymore

2007-11-15T14:29:00.000-08:00

I’d like to sit down with Miss Martha and ask her what things were like in the Clink.

Specifically, did The Man try to institutionalize the decorating goddess right on out of her? I wonder if they forbid her to knit an afghan for her bunk bed or use flowers indigenous in the prison yard to make swags for her barred windows. I wonder if they said the big “no” if she tried to hang pictures of her previously created meals and spectacularly adorned cocktails. I’d have to assume “no” – which leads me to my current conclusion.

The Cube Farm is worse than prison.

The space I live in is approximately a 5-foot cube, smaller than your standard jail cell, which I guess is fair, since I rarely sleep here (unless I’ve been out drinking with the girls the night before and can somehow manage to cradle my forehead in my hands and look like I’m intently reading “Developing the Extraordinary Organization”).

My main source of decoration is a series of 3” black binders that encircle my cube wall, occasionally broken up by a pile of scrap paper and two very out-of-date phone books. I have a black computer monitor, a beige telephone (almost black from the Ghosts of Grubby Hands Past) and an ergonomically correct keyboard. That’s it. Nothing else. (Ok, there might also be a few empty diet Coke cans and several ill-attended dust bunnies, but that's it).

My dilemma is – I’m a decorating fool. I like having things on my walls and desk that say “a funky, fun woman works here”. My new “workspace” resides in the land of vanilla and there is very little that is deemed “appropriate” in our little hamlet of Blandville.

But last night, I broke down. I decided to take a leap and make my little fabric cell a little homier. I found some great little prints at my most favoritest store (rhymes with Smarget) and brought them in to display. I even came in a little early; to make sure I wasn’t using company time to do frivolous things like make my workspace bearable. They are these great prints (from the 30s or 40s, I think) that are old-time advertisements of Martini and Rossi. They have these funky mime guys on them and one has this awesome “man in the moon” licking his lips. They were fun. They were artsy. They were up for approximately 9 minutes before a manager swung by and most grievously told me that they should come down because of their content (i.e. booze).

Did you all just think “COME ON!”? Because that’s what I thought. I thought it so loud I was sure that my head would explode and decorate my cube walls with bits of brain matter and mucus, which I’m sure is also inappropriate for the Farm.

And no, I wasn’t upset with the poor Manager. It must be hard enforcing rules that you think are ridiculous. No, I think I’m upset with political correctness. Political correctness has run Camp Goodtimes right into the ground. Everything is offensive. Everything is skeptical. Everything is bad and should not be said or shown. Political correctness is a big ol' stick up the corporate ass.

Political correctness sucks the big one. And if Martha bothered to answer any of my phone calls I just know she'd agree.

A few of my favorite things

2007-11-12T18:39:00.000-08:00

I can't tell you about all of the many things I am thankful for in life.

Okay, fine - here are a few:

Blizzards - when it snows so hard you know you aren't going to have to go into work the next day
White lights - on trees, in buildings, year 'round
Red wine - especially in the fall and winter, especially with my girlfriends, especially when I remember to take aspirin and drink water before bed
"The West Wing" - dear lord if politicians were that honest, that funny, that smart. What a wonderful world this would be...
Irish pubs - even when owned by Euro-mutts in the U.S.
Jersey-knit sheets - just when you thought sleeping in your softest, most comfortable t-shirt was bliss...try sleeping wrapped up in one
My sister's laugh - it's the most perfect sound to my ears
Sharpened pencils - mechanical pencils are fine, but a newly-sharpened pencil just writes perfectly
Going to an art museum by myself - actually enjoying the art, instead of trying to find something meaningful about the art in order to say something interesting to my companion
Karaoke bars - I applaud the bravery and then point, stare and mock (I never said I was a good person)

The list goes on and on and let's be honest, is sure to be continued...

How Words Find Us

2007-11-03T14:27:00.000-07:00

I'm not entirely sure how words find us. But I believe it to be true, rather than this idea that we find them. I will not wax poetic on the notion. The man above understood it at a level that I can never dream to. I'll just prop myself up on his genius and hope to be found.

I Heart Canada

2007-10-31T16:30:00.000-07:00

I've only been to Canada a few times. Your basic Niagra Falls, or underage drinking roadtrip to Windsor. Low key stuff.

I did go to Toronto once for business and aside from a sketchy travel companion, it was a pretty cool trip. (I stayed in the same hotel as Mario Van Peebles, Charles S. Dutton and one of the Backstreet Boys) I don't know if that makes the trip more or less cool.

Anyway...

I've just returned from the land of Gretsky and let me say this - I freakin' love Canada.

Does free healthcare just make for happier people? Are they more pleasant because even hotel tap water tastes like it came out of a flippin' forest stream? Does their kindness stem from from quaint pronunciations of "about" and "process"?

Don't know. Don't care. But I think I want to live in Canada. This is how I imagined I'd find the people of Montana (ack, still haven't made it there) But unfettered by, what I call, the Entitlement Issue of Americans. Who do we think we are, anyway? We've got it pretty good and yet we keep getting in our own way most days. And boy, are we grumpy for all our freedoms! (Do not lead me down that path this evening)

What I'm getting at is this - "Oh, Canada" really ought to be "Oh! Canada!" (a nod to my friend DG's love of exclamation points)

But to hell with grammar, Canada deserves a few more exclamation points in my humble opinion. I just freakin' heart Canada.

In a land where Hush Puppies are the height of fashion

2007-10-29T14:36:00.000-07:00

I'm kidding...sort of.

I'm in Canada for a few days on business. And after a full day of standing around and telling people how to talk, write and act - I realized something very disturbing.

I brought the freakin' wrong pair of shoes. (Well, the first part is disturbing too, as these are grown ass men and women and have functioned in the world so far just fine) Anyway...

It became very clear that before I hit the hotel bar or ordered room service - I needed a new pair of shoes.

The problem is this - cute shoes are not comfortable and comfortable shoes sure as eff ain't cute. So it's the amazing pair of boots that will actually disfigure my feet forever OR the cute Sketcher sneakers that masquerade as grown up shoes, but actually should only be worn by cute co-eds OR the leather work shoe that looks like it's probably all the rage with the ladies whoopin' it up at the retirement home.

I finally managed to find this quite cute soft leather Mary Jane-ish shoe that was uber-comfortable. The sales girl made an extra special deal out of these shoes being Hush Puppies. And all I could think was "if you really want me to buy these, you'll take that back right this second!"

Where the hell was I when Hush Puppies got cool? Sure, back when I was in Third Grade there were dreams of a shiny new pair of red Hush Puppies during Back-to-School shopping, but those went side by side with the dreams that my hair was straight and could be feathered (ala Farrah Fawcett)

Is this a geographical anomaly? Is Canada, in fact, the land of Hush Puppies? Or, and this is easily possible - I fell asleep, missed a few episodes of Fashion TV and missed the announcement that comfortable, soft leather shoes are all the rage with Celebretants like Paris and Nicole. Gosh, I hope so. Cause if comfortable shoes finally went and got cool - my life is just about perfect.

Either that, or I'm moving to Canada.

Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid: Chapter 2

2007-10-25T15:42:00.000-07:00

BRIDAL SHOWERS
And Chinese Water Torture.

Bridal showers were invented by older women who have already lived through their own weddings. Most of them hated every moment of it, as they were beset upon by their minions of relatives who were always ready to lend an opinion. BUT and it’s a big BUT, they have forgotten all this. They forgot what it was like as a younger woman to sit in a big circle of strangers and wrap each other in toilet paper wedding dresses. It has slipped their minds that they didn't care who bought the set of towels or the rattan ottoman. Who the eff does?

The bridal shower is really just a way to torture the bridal party with finger food (that they are trying to avoid just so they can fit into their recently sized dress) and to get lots and lots of free stuff for the bride.

Now, I'm not against free stuff. I LOVE free stuff. But this stuff ain’t free for me. In fact, being in a wedding costs a fortune. A gen-u-ine veritable fortune. (More on that later) It really would make more sense for bridal parties to consist of great-aunts and elderly neighbors, because they’re the ones with the extra cash squirreled away. Most of us who actually don the dress are struggling to make car and house payments, pay off student loans and save up for some plastic surgery, god willing.

But, as they say, life ain’t fair. Not even a little. So…

("So" is like "But" - pretty much everything before it is a waste of time because the truth is up next)

So...suck it up cry baby. Sadly, there is nothing left to do. Take your lumps. Get to the registry early while there are still towels available. Spike the punch. Whatever it takes to muddle through and then do that which must be embedded in the 2nd X chromosome - make your friends do the very same when it's your turn up to bat.

Payback - there are a ton of you suckers on my list - just you wait....

Indiana Discothèques and Other Flights of Fancy

2007-10-22T14:25:00.000-07:00

Okay, I don't actually spend every waking moment in a bar, pub or night club. Although the last several posts would suggest otherwise.

Truth is, I finally feel like being back out into the social scene after a relationship ended with a proverbial kick in the nuts. So hey - when the girls say "let's get our groove on" - I say "word."

I had back-to-back dancing frenzies. One at a favorite dancing spot where the girls and I sneak off to and do the shimmy-down next to a great big salad bar in the shape of a row boat. Added bonus, my most favoritest cover band was playing and let me say this - if these folks can't make you dance, nothing can!

Anyway, we bookended that with a trip to see friends in Indiana the next day and scooted to a funny little hot spot in South Bend. Again - I love me a cover band, and these kids were cool too. But my favorite part about this little Indiana Discotheque was it's "we welcome all kinds" attitude. Okay fine, the guy at the door would have you believe you're heading into Studio 54 - but when you walk in it is Melting Pot Central. Cowboys, Hillbillies, Hippies, Preppies (seriously, white jeans and orange polo on a boy), Bikers (seriously, leather vest and Dierks Bently perm) and well, us - probably a mixture of all of the above.

But I tell you this now - nothing brings people together like a little B-52's and Vanilla Ice. If we all took a moment to revel in the genius of Mr. Ice, I think this would be a happier world. A world with fewer crimes, bigger hearts and funnier reality tv shows.

"If there was a problem, Yo, I'll solve it. Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it"

A Brush with Death at The Barking Frog

2007-10-19T16:29:00.001-07:00

I've mentioned my affinity for crappy little bars and last night I nearly died in one.

The Barking Frog is a kindly crappy little bar in Battle Creek that I frequented last night with a friend.

For a crappy little bar, it is kind enough to pair up good local mircobrews right next to the Bud Light. I appreciate their sense of irony.

Anyway, as those in the southwest-ish area of Michigan may be aware - there were Tornado Warnings aplenty last night. And while families huddled in their basements around the battery-operated radio, I was sitting with a tall boy of Oberon at The Barking Frog.

I mused over a couple of things:

1. I've come a long way. My mom, sister and I spent some serious time huddled in a basement around a battery-operated radio sweating and fretting over storms and tornados all summer long when I was a kid. I think it's a testiment to progress or evolution or some such thing that I can sit calmly at a bar during treacherous weather and sip a beer.

2. My dad would be so proud if my obituary read:

"Born January 25, 1973 - Died October 17, 2007. Passed away at The Barking Frog."

Don't get crazy my dad doesn't wish me ill, he wishes me an excellent ending to my story. My father, like me, is a collector of stories. Our aim in life is to live well enough to accumulate some pretty good stories we can tell our friends and family (over and over again).

Anyway, last night I had a near-death experience and all I could think was: "Beer, friends, Lynyrd Skynyrd - this wouldn't be such a bad way to go."

I Long For A Mix Tape

2007-10-16T14:56:00.000-07:00

I love my iPod, I do. It's nice to peruse one's music collection with the rotation of one's thumb. But I miss Mix Tapes.

I know, there are people who will say - "Put together a Playlist" blah, blah, blah...

It's just not the same. It really isn't.

Sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, cd's strewn about, looking at cover art, checking out who wrote the songs, trying to discern the various stages of Cher's plastic surgery - you can't beat that kind of quality time with a stick.

And if we're really getting to the heart of it - I miss the storytelling capacity of a Mix Tape. How I can go back to Mixes I've made and know exactly who I was dating, who I was obsessing over, who I had just broken up with based on the sappy or sassy soundtrack I'd compiled. Who needs a diary when music really does reflect our lives, exactly as they were at any given moment in our lives?

I can't quite remember which dodgy relationship bookended Josh Groban and Violent Femmes on the same Mix, but I'm sure if I give it one more listen - it'll all come rushing back.

God, how I love a Mix Tape.

Random Musings in the Car

2007-10-12T15:08:00.000-07:00

I am in the middle of a trip to visit family out east and began it with a 10 hour car ride with my dad. 10 hours is a lot of time to talk and the topics were varied.

But at one point we got to talking about people and their "issues." I'm pretty sure it was just a lame reference to Grey's Anatomy and how we're so sick of Meredith and her issues. Not that she didn't have it tough (in a fictional character sort of way. Although let's be honest she's no Huck Finn or Oliver Twist) - but (and this was the bulk of our conversation)...

...What really grinds on me who are aware of their issues and refuse to put them to bed. "Oh I have intimacy issues" says the beautiful intern who is hopelessly loved by her hot surgeon boyfriend - and then does nothing to change her present situation.

"They" say that recognizing an issue or problem is 1/2 the battle. Bollocks. That's an eighth, maybe a sixteenth of the battle. The real battle is taking action.

I told my dad that I hope I do not become a collector of issues. That instead I become a zoologist of issues. Identify them, tag them and then set them free in the wild.

In lieu of that, let me become a beautiful intern pursued by a hot neurosurgeon who can't get enough of me and my issues. That wouldn't be so bad either.

Crappy Little Bars

2007-10-05T20:42:00.001-07:00

Have I ever mentioned how much I love a crappy little bar?

Crappy little bars aren't pretentious - they don't judge or pontificate on whether or not your wardrobe is apropos. Crappy little bars don't care.

Crappy little bars might not be on the right side of the tracks - although I don't entirely understand what the wrong side looks like. I grew up in a trailer park - tracks are irrelevant.

Crappy little bars know that you are just a person, who wants to have fun. Fun is to be had regardless of whether or not there are signs on the men's and women's bathrooms. Fun is to be had whether or not the taps have been cleaned, the floors mopped or the band practiced.

Crappy little bars don't trouble themselves with details like silverware, candlelight or ambiance.

Crappy little bars remind me of the type of man I'd like to one day meet. Real. Zero judgement. 100% acceptance.

A crappy little bar doesn't care where you bought your jeans or whether your shoes are Nine West or Wal-Mart clearance. Crappy little bars want to know that you are here for the experience, that you are here for the show. And nothing, but nothing else matters.

I love Fall

2007-09-27T19:03:00.001-07:00

Fall is just about the best thing ever.

Fall rocks.

Fall is changing leaves, pumpkins, Indian corn and cider.

Fall is crisp leaves being blown down the sidewalk.

Fall is my most favoritest time of year.

Okay, fine, it happens to include another new season of television shows. So sue me.

I love many things.

I love holidays, I love my family. I'm particularly in love with my niece who is turning one-year-old. But dammit, if I don't also love t.v.

I flippin' love it.

I love happy endings. I love possibility and hope. I love love.

And if crisp leaves down empty sidewalks reminds me that love lives. And if fictitional characters say the things that I want to say in the face of love. And if hope lives because I do.

Well, then - I blame it on Fall. On beautiful, perfect, precious Fall.

Confession #3: I am afraid of my own shadow

2007-09-25T18:43:00.000-07:00

You know how when you were a little kid, your mom wouldn't let you watch scary shows or movies before bed? I still remember sneaking out to watch "Salem's Lot" on TV one night. I don't think I had a good night's sleep for the following 9 months.

Things spook me. Not normal things like graveyards (see previous blog). But completely abnormal things like creaking floorboards, attics and birds (don't get me started on birds, but while you're judging me - think for a second about how unpredictable birds are and tell me they're the slightest bit trustworthy).

I also am a 34-year-old woman who occasionally checks her closet and behind doors before bed. Not all the time, in fact rarely - except for when I watch a scary movie.

Just the other night I rented "Zodiac" and I had a brief moment where I thought "maybe I should wait until tomorrow at 7pm, rather than 10pm tonight", but I quickly brushed those thoughts aside because I am, after all, a grown woman. And well, Jake Gyllenhaal is hot and not bad to think about at bedtime.

Stupid, stupid me. I am often times amazed at my stupidity. More amazing is my frequent ignorance of said stupidity. Quite simply - I ought to know better.

But I watched the stupid movie (okay, the movie wasn't stupid, but I'm deflecting here) - and come 12:30am I'm checking behind doors, in closets and yes, even under my bed. (Believe me when I tell you that with the 47 rolls of wrapping paper stored there - not even Gary Coleman could fit under my bed, but even that is not a comfort when one has the "creeps").

So, why don't we learn from our mistakes? Why don't we think twice? Why don't we, for the love of god, listen to our mothers?

I don't know. But I'm going to think about that long and hard before I rent my next movie from the "Thriller" section at Blockbuster. Until then, well, one more peek under the bed couldn't hurt, could it?

The Best Thing I've Ever Heard...

2007-09-19T18:46:00.000-07:00

...at least in the last 24 hours is this:

"Hope dies last."

It's this "quote" I ran across - though, in a quick google search, it's also a book title, dealing with grief seminar and unsigned indie rock band. So, who knows its true origin. And quite honestly, I don't care.

Because I simply want to breath it in and cherish the thought. Hope is, in my wholly unqualified opinion, the most powerful thing. Take the power of the wind and sun and we're only talking a fraction of the power of Hope.

I depend on it daily, maybe hourly - okay, every few seconds. And it's always there. It is the quiet friend who smacks you in the head, drags you to your feet and says - "There's more - if you want it bad enough."

If I live to be one hundred - let hope live to be one hundred plus one day.

Best Advice Ever

2007-09-16T15:16:00.001-07:00

My stepmother also does a little blogging. Her's is generally much more profound and proofread. You should check it out.

Anyway, her latest post was on the best advice she ever received. I thought about that a second and rushed back here to share mine.

My dad is, in my opinion, about one of the smartest guys I know. Book smart, for sure. Jeopardy smart, oh yeah. Smart ass, oh dear lord don't get me started!

But my favorite kind of smart that he is - is the kind of smart that doesn't presume or judge. It's the kind of smart that is so friggin' smart, he doesn't need to be "right" - he'll let you be right until you go ahead and figure things out. And, yeah, realize he's right.

Forgive my aside, the point is - it's some advice from my dad that I think might well be the best advice I've ever been given:

EASE UP ON THE CLUTCH.

Sure, my dad taught me to drive stick (which I think is an invaluable skill), but this is a mantra I apply often to my life.

When I get to the point when I am so strung out on life I need to remind myself to effin' EASE UP ON THE CLUTCH already. Don't push so hard - whether at work or in relationships. Don't get in your own way. Just relax, breath and EASE UP ON THE CLUTCH.

Who knew at fifteen that I was sitting in a dirty brown Pontiac with my own personal Budda?

The Thing About Hotels

2007-09-09T18:33:00.000-07:00

What is it about hotels? What is it that makes me just on this side of giddy when I'm in one?

Is it crisp fresh sheets?

Is it a pile of towels all for little ol' me?

Is it an endless supply of ice - and never having to fill the cube trays?

Is it wake up calls instead of my cranky alarm?

Is it indoor swimming pools like all the homes featured on E!?

Is it freezing cold climate control that won't show up on my Consumers bill?

Is it room service?

Is it free coffee in the lobby?

Is all the travel-sized stuff? (It's just so tiny and cute!)

I don't know what the thing about hotels is, except to say that I'm staying in one this week and I'm not just a little bit giddy about it.

Confession #2: No, that's not my butt in picture below

2007-09-09T18:32:00.001-07:00

(shoot)

Things I Know

2007-09-08T20:34:00.000-07:00

I'm a terrific liar. It's just something I know.

Mostly it's just for fun. Tonight I told a ridiculous lie about growing up in Texas and nearly having an affair with both a 25-year-old and his 50-year-old father. I don't know if it's just about getting away with something or something else all together.

Regardless, I'm a terrific liar.

But what I know about my lies, is that I want to be able to tell the difference between them and the truth. I see people who tell others (and themselves) a lie and think it's the truth. I hope beyond hope that that is never the case with me.

Let my white lies stem from "all in good fun" at the bar. Let my white lies never hurt anyone, especially me. Let my white lies remain white and never steeped in something dark and dangerous.

I'm a terrific liar. Let me use my superpowers for good and not evil.

Confession #1: I work in HR

2007-09-04T16:21:00.000-07:00

We all have dirty little secrets and here's one of mine: I work in HR.

While it may hardly set your scalp a tingling - it is, in fact, one of my great horrors. I have always hated HR. In my experience, HR wasn't full of warm fuzzies, it was chock full of nosey people who like being in other people's business. Way up in their business.

HR = Human Resources. Human Resources. Like electricity and water, but human. Stupid humans with stupid feelings need a whole department to babysit them. I wretch at the premise itself.

Here, perhaps, is the kicker. Most HR people have good intentions. They like the idea of working with people. They like the idea of talking to people. They like the idea of forgoing spreadsheets and pie charts and instead put their hands into something extra ooey gooey like people.

That is, until, they actually work and talk with people. That is when it happens. That is when the bile rises and the temples throb and the blood pressure skyrockets. Because people are a nightmare and nobody but nobody knows this like HR.

I had no delusions of grandeur when it came to HR. I needed a job and like a two-bit hooker - I sold my soul for a bi-monthly paycheck. I have no one to blame but myself, my needy greedy self who relishes things like toothpaste and microwave popcorn. I'm a sell out - I confess.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I work in HR.

Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

2007-08-29T19:04:00.000-07:00

They are everywhere. The spectres of relationships. These ghosts of boyfriends past.

I would say "I can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone I once dated" - except I just hate that expression. What kind of freak coined that phrase?

However unfortunate the phrase, the experience is even worse. And not because these men are mean, hideous or otherwise unacceptable social specimens, but almost entirely because they make me reflect on my life. And there are days when I'm simply not prepared to do that.

So instead - I lift my glass to these men. I drink a toast. (Okay, fine - a giant glass of wine, whatever). And I think - each of these apparitions has made my own soul stronger.

For that, I forgive their trespasses in my memory and okay, my favorite hangouts.

I relinquish my inner-Scrooge and instead favor Tiny Tim on this one.

It's not morbid (well, not entirely)

2007-08-26T17:21:00.001-07:00

Truth is - I like cemetaries. Okay, fine - sue me. I don't get the "scary" or "creepy" thing. Cemetaries neither scare me nor creep me. Now digitally animated movie characters - that's an entirely different thing, but we'll speak of that later. (Shut it, RK)

Cemetaries offer an infinate amount of peace - the kind you just don't get unless, well, you're dead. 'Cause really, you think a bunch of dead people have the inclination to give you a hard time? That's what work is for.

Anyway, I guess my point is - there is an other-worldly grace to be found amongst the marble, stone and granite garden. There are stories waiting to be imagined. There are stories that will never be known. And if I am aware of anything - it is that life is fleeting. Not always short, but hardly ever cherished to the level it ought.

I know that life is a gift, not a promise. And maybe that's all cemetaries are for me - a reminder to breath, blink, smile, laugh, dance and dream. Well, that and to cut back on the salt and butter

Precious Metals

2007-08-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

This is one of those song lyrics that sticks with you. Or it stuck with me, at least.

"She's becoming gold."

I feel that way. Don't get crazy, I don't feel gold or anything quite so pricey - but I feel my value increase daily.

There is sweat and toil that goes into mining gold. It isn't easy. It isn't even always lucrative. But you dig. You dig deep every day. And it isn't one day hitting the jackpot - it's day after day of searching, hoping, believing...and then magic.

Life IS a mystery and the answers may never unfold. But through living the very questions (thank you Rilke) - each of us is becoming gold.

Art is Everywhere

2007-08-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

I am a fortunate person. Sometimes when faced with frizzy hair, cellulite and life at the Cube Farm, it's hard to remember how fortunate I really am.

Spent a few hours with some girlfriends tonight and that will lighten the load of any woman. Okay, fine, we topped off 4 bottles of wine, but still - even un-tipsy, these are felines I'm willing to spend my free time with.

Anyway - art. It is in the silly stories shared. It is in a quick "we have a secret" wink. It is in the intelligence of flip-flops. And sometimes we have friends who have an entirely artful way they look at life. I have many of those friends. This is one.

The point? Art is everywhere. Even in the loud chaos and incoherent chatter. Especially then.

A Kick-ass Writer

2007-08-20T19:18:00.000-07:00

I tell you, there are some writers who just speak to me. It's like a foreign language that only some understand. Anne Lamont is one of those writers for me.

Aside from the fact that she constructs a beautiful sentence - she's funny as hell.

I'm partial to Bird by Bird and Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith.

That's the kind of kick-ass writer I hope to be one day.

60 Minutes ticking and other things I dread

2007-08-19T18:16:00.000-07:00

It all started when I was in school. Sundays were days spent finishing up homework and science projects and it was all brought to the pinnacle by the sinister ticking of the 60 Minutes stopwatch.

Was there ever a more stomach-dropping sound than that stopwatch? The splendor of Dukes of Hazard and The Love Boat were a distant memory in the tick-tick-tick-tick (times infinity) of that second hand. And it all meant one thing - the weekend was over. Turn in your Fun Passes at the door and settle in for another week of monotonous lesson plans and poorly-written teen drama. (I like my teen drama well-scripted: ala Dawson's Creek or Buffy the Vampire Slayer - real teen angst is ugly and not equipped with snarky, funny and smart banter. Bummer)

Anyway, even in the absence of Algebra II homework and my OCD-ish ability to avoid network TV on Sundays - I'm still left with the Phantom Stopwatch. It's like people who lose a finger or a leg and they still imagine its presence. No matter how old I get, Sunday nights just suck. They suck up one side and down the other. They suck my big fat toe. (Okay, maybe my maturity level is the same, 'cause "suck my big toe" is about as adolescent as I like to go.)

So, what am I getting at? I dunno. Abolishment of Sundays? Death to all stopwatches? Kicking Andy Rooney in the ding ding? None of them seem particularly likely (or fair), so I guess this - maybe a mental realignment. Nobody likes a hater and I'm definitely a Sunday hater.

So let me begin with a meditative mantra: Love your life. Even Sundays.

Afterall, what has Sunday ever done to me?

Self Portrait

2007-08-18T08:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, so if the world were black and white, reversed out, backwards and distorted by shadow - this is what I might look like.

Upchuck at the Cineplex

2007-08-17T12:59:00.000-07:00

I swear - sometimes I am such an old friggin' lady.

Had this amazingly beautiful day off and headed down to the movie house with my pops. He's retired, which makes him the world's best playmate on days off.

Anyway - we opted to see a film that rhymes with "Corn Shmultimatum" and, I wish I were kidding, I actually threw up a little afterward (yeah, Dad, I know I said "upset stomach" but the orange bathroom got a little spit up action)

And here is why I'm an old lady - it was all of the hand-held camera action of the movie. Honestly, I feel like I got off the Witch's Wheel at the Centerville Fair. Dizzy, headache and a stomach that was wishing it had more than one Boddington's in it at the time.

My fear is this: what else am I too old for? Okay, action movies with bouncy chase sequences - Check. Smokey bars with the bass turned up too loud - Check. ANY bar with a line out the door - Check. I fear the list is substantially longer, but I'm embarrassed to go on.

I guess the point is this - on my next birthday, if you're looking for the perfect gift? Maybe a nice Medic Alert ("I've fallen and I can't get up"). You can send it:

c/o
Old Geezer in Kalamazoo
4356 Crotchety Avenue
Infirmed, MI 49006