Yesterday was a horrible day as far as my head was concerned -- migraines are miserable things. However, it was a great day as far as my marriage was concerned. JAO was such a great husband and father! He took care of the kids, did some laundry, cooked, cleaned the kitchen -- he even had some of Lily's friends over to play! All while I languished upstairs willing my head to stop pounding and my stomach to stop rejecting anything I attempted to put into it.
And, after the kids were in bed, he went out and got me some Ginger Ale and the cheese and peanut-butter crackers that have ultra stomach-healing powers.
Sigh. What a man. Since I have a tendancy to only report the bad things that happend in life -- because, well, let's face it, badder is funnier -- I really wanted everyone (and him) to know how much I love and appreciate my husband.
See? That's not funny at all!
Okay, back to the funny...
While I was keeping up this online diary, JAO and I began (re-began) the relationship that would lead to our marriage. Lucky for him, I was able to document some of our finer moments. Heh, heh.
Before we began dating seriously, I was the queen of first-dates. I was a commitment-phobe who invented Seinfeldian reasons for rejecting men and had no clue how to behave normally in a stable, loving relationship.
So when an obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, red-hot-mess of a girl meets a calm, dependable, has-it-all-together boy...well...you can see what happens...
The Coolness Factor
May 10, 2001
Last night I went to the Mario Andretti Speed Lab. Named such, because they have made a science of racing. (This is just a guess.) It is an indoor racetrack where you can suit up and race like the pros. Well, if the pros only went twenty-miles-an-hour, that is. I didn't actually get to race, however. Being a silly little girl, I left the house in fashionably clunky open-toed sandals. And while my feet looked fabulous, these sandals are not accepted race wear. So I just had to sit and watch while the boys (wearing their less-fashionable, yet more-race-friendly sneakers) pretended they were Mario (or one of the other Andrettis) for seven, action-packed minutes.
I was there with The New Guy and some of his colleagues. This was a big deal as these colleagues were also good friends of his and I was meeting them for the first time. Since he and I have known each other since high school (therefore, not really making him all that "new" I suppose), we've already met the families. But we haven’t really ventured into the "meeting the friends" arena. So, because I choose to put pressure on myself for the stupidest reasons, I was slightly nervous about the evening.
However, I can now say with arrogant pride -- I performed magnificently.
When I excused myself to go to the ladies' room, his friends told him that I was "cool." I wasn't surprised by this because, well, I am pretty damn cool. Of course, being the only girl in the group upped my chances of being cool as there were no other women there to compete against in the coolness category. So that helped me.
And now, because I think this is a useful service, allow me to share with you some tips on how to be the "cool girlfriend."
1.) Do not be offended by the boys' occasional foul language and/or off-color jokes.
2.) Throw in your own occasional choice word or phrase. But limit those instances to at least three. Remember, there is a fine line between being cool and still remaining a lady.
3.) Order cheap, redneck beer. Southern men feel that you are one of their own kind and Northern men just find it charming.
4.) Compliment your boyfriend. Do not do this is a gushy, baby-talkie way, of course -- that is nauseating. Simply make a few well-timed comments here and there that say, "Yes, I am very pleased to be dating this man." He feels propped-up in front of his buddies and his buddies are pleased that he is with a nice girl who really seems to care about him.
5.) On the flip side, don't be afraid to get in a few good-natured jibes as well. It establishes your sense of humor and sends the message that you can hold your own if need be.
There are obviously a few other things you can do that will earn you the "cool girlfriend" title, but you wouldn't want to do them in front of his friends. Well, unless, of course, you are all into that. To each her own.
Now, ladies, I am in no way suggesting that you try and be anything you are not simply to ingratiate yourself to your man and his friends. Nor am I saying that you have to abandon your free-will as a woman in order to mold yourself into a guy world. I am merely saying that men are easily manipulated. It only takes a few simple strategic moves on your part to gain the "cool" title. And once you have established yourself as the "cool girlfriend," then you can begin to be the true bitch that you are. He won't even know what hit him.
Again, with the kidding.
Diary of a Mad Woman
June 5, 2001
Monday, June 4, 2001
Weight: 110 (but scale in kitchen is off by six pounds -- not telling you which way). Cigarettes: 3 (if you are my mother); 8 (if you are not someone who will lecture me). Alcohol units: 1 1/2 (v.g. for a Monday).Calories: no idea. Number of times felt all warm and tingly over New Guy: 57 (nice). Number of times felt panic over possibility of screwing things up with New Guy: 32 (v.g. -- down from yesterday). Resolution: Mustn't let Bridgett Jones's warped theories and paranoid fantasies about men effect my new-found relationship.
9:15 a.m.
When read Bridgett's first book, thought she had brilliant insight into the complicated and heartbreaking world of Singletons. But, at the time, I was a Singleton myself. Now that I am sinking comfortably into the safety of the Smug Newly Datings, feel she may be a bit self-destructive and ultimately incapable of maintaining a healthy adult relationship. Because I certainly am capable of maintaining a healthy adult relationship without the aid of constant conversation dissection and body language analyzaiton or dependence on "Mars/Venus" theology. Right? Aren't I?
9:25 a.m.
Still...can't help but identify with Bridge even now. And, must say, still sneakingly suspect she may be right when says in a relationship, "Men must feel they are the pursuer." Could this be true? Could C. have been right when said, "Be careful. You're going to burn this one out. Don't chase him. Make him call you." Is that possible? Is the phrase, "I really need to just stay home tonight and catch upon some work" a legitimate excuse and not a tactful way of saying, "Bugger off, woman, seven days in a row is plenty of you?" Beginning to obsess.
10:00 a.m.
Resolution: Need to be aloof, yet attentive; detached, yet caring; independent while still making it clear that my life would fall apart without his existence. Easy enough.
12:00 p.m.
He has not called yet today.
12:15 p.m.
Still has not called. What could be...Ahhhhhh! Phone!
12:30 p.m.
Blast. Was Mother. Shared The Pursuer Theory with her. She responded by saying, "Dear, we live in the year 2001, not the year 1901. Things are different now." Oh, no, Mother. You only wish. We are fighting millions of years of the collective unconscious. One decade of bra-burning isn't going to erase centuries of social morays and opposite sex patterns. If men have always been the hunters, one chorus of "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar" isn't going to change that.
1:00 p.m.
Began Pursuer Theory test. Resisted urge to call by sending emails in waves to friends who have vowed to not let me screw this up. Watched the clock, watched the phone, imagined all the reasons why he would not have called: 1.) trapped under something heavy and, therefore, unable to get to the phone (however, always has his cell phone on him so could use that to call me and have me come rescue him); 2.) extremely busy at work as he is a dedicated and hard-working man who will make wonderful provider (though too hardworking will leave me at home with five screaming babies and no life of my own); 3.) desperately wants to call but is testing his own theories about pursuing and is sitting staring at his phone as I am sitting starting at mine. (No. Least likely of them all.)
7:00 p.m.
It worked! Hurrah! He called me! Even got an "I miss you" without having to illicit. I am woman, hear me roar! Resolution for tomorrow: Do not play games or test theories or obsess or become paranoid lest sabotage a potentially long-term, legitimate, stable, adult relationship with wonderful, normal, practically-perfect-for-me-in-every-way New Guy. In other words, do not be usual self. Well, can be self, just not typical relationship-sabotaging self. Be confident, calm, together, fun-loving, supportive, whimsical self.
10:00 p.m.
Called again! Double hurrah!! Listened to long story of his day's troubles while practicing being the nurturing, supportive, loving partner. Think I succeeded.
1:00 a.m.
Must stop playing Free Cell and go to bed. Big day of no-game-playing and no-theory-testing tomorrow. Must rest up for challenge.
Note to self: Do not let New Guy read dairy posts. Not just yet. Possibly already thinks am deranged.
Note to everyone else: Do not give out diaryland URL to New Guy. You already know am deranged. No need to share just yet.
The Voice
August 29, 2001
Okay, fine. So, The New Guy has officially become The Boyfriend. There. I said it. I have a boyfriend. Whom I love. To whom I have actually said, “I love you.” And from whom I have actually heard, “I love you, too.”
Phew. That wasn't so hard to say.
Wait. Why is everything going black...? fuzzy...Toto? Toto? Is that you...
Okay. I'm fine now. Seriously, The Boyfriend is great. And that's all I have the ability to articulate right now. I won't go into any of the mushy stuff, because, quite frankly, you don't want to hear it. Instead, I'll continue to share the more amusing aspects of this learning process.
Yesterday, while on the phone with The Boyfriend, I realized with shocked dismay that I was using The Voice. The Voice that you use on the phone when you’re talking to The New Guy who has since become The Boyfriend. The Voice that usually indicates the predication of the “L” word. Not the annoying, baby-talky, goo-goo-gaa-gaa voice, but the other one -- the one that is really a lack of annunciation and the drop of an octave. The Voice that is made through a sly smile and a coy duck of the head -- which is, of course, not something The Boyfriend can see, but rather something he can hear. I hung up the phone with the sly smile still on my face and my head still coyly cocked to the side. And then I snapped out of it and thought, “What the hell am I doing?”
And then I thought, “Oh, yeah. I'm falling in love.” And then I started smiling again.
HAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAA!! Ohhhhhhhhhhh!!! I'm sorry! I'm sooooo sorry! I just can't end this entry like that. I have a reputation to uphold.
Sigh.
Oops. The Boyfriend just called me. I used The Voice. Right here in the office. This is getting serious.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Nature Hater
It has never been a secret that I don't get along well with nature. I don't care to look at it, touch it or let it get on me. It's messy and itchy and germy and prickly and the smell is almost impossible to get out of your hair and clothes.
Ask my father about the time we went camping and all we had was an outhouse and how I was determined to hold my pee for the entire weekend and I could have done it, too, if they hadn't forced me -- screaming and crying -- to go into the cold, dark, bug-infested, stinky nightmare of a toilet (which wasn't really a toilet at all but a broken toilet seat sitting on top of a piece of plywood with a hole cut out of it). And trust me, you don't want to know what was at the bottom of that hole.
Or the time we were riding in the Blazer (on our way to yet another camping trip, I swear my parents hated me), when the container holding the crickets came open and a hoard of the disgusting, creepy creatures swarmed out all over the car. I spent the remainder of the hour-and-a-half long trip curled up in a tiny ball, rocking back and forth, trying in vain to find my happy place.
Or the time we were camping (yes, there can be no doubt that my parents hated me) and Mom and I were sitting on the hammock and she looked down and said, "Oh, hey, will you look at that?" just as calmly as one would say, "Oh, gee, that blade of grass sure is green" only she wasn't talking about a blade of grass, she was talking about the most gigantically large alien bug that was crawling up her leg. I didn't sleep for the rest of the weekend.
But, I digress.
I do that a lot.
So, here are a few entries that give you some more insight into my tenuous relationship with nature...
Kamikaze Cardinals
July 21, 2000
How can you tell if a bird is suicidal? And what steps do you take to intervene?
For the past two hours, a pair of cardinals has (have?) been flinging themselves against my office window. I can only assume it has something to do with the fact that David Duchovny has already been replaced by that really freaky “Terminator Two” guy. What else would drive otherwise stable and sane birds to commit such a violent act against their own person?
At first, I thought they were simply bored and looking for some fun. You know, much in the same way we used to try and make ourselves faint as kids, or see how hard we could punch a tree before we really started to do damage to our fist, or try and determine exactly how much was “too much” purple Kool-Aid for one afternoon.
But after observing these two hapless creatures, I came to the conclusion that they weren’t doing this for fun. They were obviously driven by some type of suicidal mission. I don’t claim to like nature, but I couldn’t just sit back and watch this happen.
So, in an effort to curb their kamikaze quest, I taped a piece of brightly colored paper to the window. This helped for about five minutes. Apparently, the birds decided that it was just paper, so, hey, they could fly right through it.
So I taped another piece of paper up (bright yellow this time) thinking that maybe they'd see it and think, "Oh, well, now there's TWO pieces of paper up there. Certainly this is a solid pane of glass and we will immediately cease hurling our fragile, little bodies against it."
No, they did not think this.
It's a little disconcerting really. My sympathy for these poor birds is quickly turning to disgust. I have very little tolerance for excessive ignorance, even in the animal kingdom.
I walked outside to have a little chat with my feathered friends, but they flew off when they saw me coming. I looked at the window from my new vantage point and discovered that it did, indeed, perfectly reflect the trees and blue sky that the birds were obviously seeing. I was almost tempted to hurl myself at the window as well. But as I got closer to the window, I discovered that I was perfectly reflected in the glass, too.
So, my last thought is, "Okay, so it does look just like an extension of their world and it seems reasonable to think that they would assume they could soar on into that perfectly reflected blue sky."
"But wouldn't they at least try and avoid hitting the other bird flying right at them?"
Maybe I just don't understand nature.
The Mystery Carcass and Other Dead Things
August 18, 2000
Right outside my front door, in between the bushes and the house, there is the rotting carcass of...something. It’s furry. That’s about all I know. Oh, and it smells terrible.
My roommate’s cat has been really showing off his alpha-maleness every since our new male roommate moved in. I think George (the cat) is threatened by Jamie’s (the roommate) presence. Since Jamie has joined out little Three’s Company episode, George has brought home dead mice, birds, and frogs. And let’s not forget the rotting thing in the bushes. I think it may have been a squirrel at some point, but I’m not exactly sure.
Over the three years I have lived in that house, George has delivered a few gifts here and there, but he always left them on the back porch. However, the past three times he’s come home from the hunt, he’s brought his kill into the house. INTO THE HOUSE! So, okay, while I can’t understand the need for things to kill other things, I will concede that it does happen. However, I don’t feel that there is ANY reason for these things to take place indoors.
The first time it happened, I was sitting in the den watching television. When Amy opened the door to come in, George came tearing in after her. This is not unusual as George is often tearing from one place to another in a mad effort to be on time for his many cat appointments. After a moment, I could hear George making terrible noises in the kitchen. He was growling and mewling like I’d never heard him do before. Jamie was standing in the foyer, eating a piece of pizza and watching George do whatever it was George was doing that would make him produce those noises.
I asked, “What the hell is wrong with George?”
Jamie, very calmly, replied, “Oh, he’s brought a mouse in here and he’s playing with it.” Then he took a bite of pizza.
“What?!” I screamed as I jumped up from my chair, “Are you serious?!”
“Yeah.” Again with the calm, again with the bite of pizza. “He’s batting it around the kitchen.”
After several moments of shocked silence I managed to scream, “Well, don’t just stand there....DO something!”
Jamie looked at me witheringly and asked, “What do you want me to do about it? He’s obviously having fun with it.” Calm. Bite of pizza.
This is when I realized that living with a boy doesn’t mean that you are automatically supplied with a bug catcher, light bulb changer, fuse reconnecter, all-around handy worker who will rescue you from things like dead mice in the house. Instead, it means that you are now living with a creature who is so unaffected by carnage that he can stand there and calmly consume his dinner while watching the cat bat a limp, lifeless mouse around the kitchen. (Did I mention it was the kitchen? Where we eat? Where we have food? The very last place in the house where you would want a dead, diseased-filled mouse?)
In the end, I watched Amy wrestle the mouse away from George, scoop it up and dump it outside. I watched all this from the safety of the staircase. I didn’t want to even be on the same floor as the mouse. Jamie watched from the foyer. He was eating pizza.
After that, George brought in two dead birds on different occasions. Thank the Lord, I was not at home either time. I did discover the dead frog on the front steps, though. I was thoroughly repulsed.
And now there’s this mystery carcass in the bushes. I certainly hope George regains his sense of manhood soon. I can’t take much more of this nature invading my personal space. Especially dead nature. That’s the worst.
Little Piece of Nature
October 12, 2000
This past weekend I was visiting a friend who was house-sitting. And at this house where my friend was sitting there lives a young squirrel. Okay, so I have absolutely no idea how old this thing is, but it makes the story sound better.
Anyway, this squirrel will come right up to you and take a cracker or a nut right out of your hand. At first I wasn't overly-impressed by this. A two-year-old will do the same thing. Hell, so will a man. But once it was explained to me that this is not normal behavior for the typically cautious and paranoid squirrel, then I reluctantly agreed that it was actually kind of cool.
I picked up a handfull of peanuts, still in the shell, and walked outside to greet this creature. I crouched down (as to appear less threatening) and held one of the nuts out to the squirrel. "Here, squirrel," I gently cooed. "Here, Mr. Squirrel," I said, hoping to sound more polite. "Here, you little piece of nature, you!" That did it. It came scampering over and took the nut right out of my hand. Suddenly I was like the Crocodile Hunter, getting in tune with the wild beats that share this planet with us!
So, I offered it another nut, and then another. I was determined that before I left, this squirrel would think I was Mother Nature herself, bestowing gifts upon my many animal children. As I sat there watching my new friend, reveling in my new-found connection with nature (while at the same time battling the thought that this creature was probably flea-ridden and possibly carrying deadly diseases in its scrawny body -- you didn't expect me to embrace nature all at once, did you?), I noticed that it took the squirrel quite a while to crack open each shell to get to the nut inside. So, I went that one extra step to prove to this animal that I was a good and kind person. I cracked open the next shell for it and laid my offering out open-faced on the ground before me.
The squirrel scurried back over and picked up the opened shell, but, as it picked the shell up, the nuts fell out of the shell and back onto the ground.
Then this little piece of nature looks at the empty shell, then back up at me as if to say, "Is this some kind of a cruel joke?" Then it dropped the shell, and with one last look of disdain thrown back over its shoulder at me, ran away.
And I thought, "Well, that's certainly the last time I try and do something nice for a squirrel."
Obviously, some of them just don't want to be helped.
Ask my father about the time we went camping and all we had was an outhouse and how I was determined to hold my pee for the entire weekend and I could have done it, too, if they hadn't forced me -- screaming and crying -- to go into the cold, dark, bug-infested, stinky nightmare of a toilet (which wasn't really a toilet at all but a broken toilet seat sitting on top of a piece of plywood with a hole cut out of it). And trust me, you don't want to know what was at the bottom of that hole.
Or the time we were riding in the Blazer (on our way to yet another camping trip, I swear my parents hated me), when the container holding the crickets came open and a hoard of the disgusting, creepy creatures swarmed out all over the car. I spent the remainder of the hour-and-a-half long trip curled up in a tiny ball, rocking back and forth, trying in vain to find my happy place.
Or the time we were camping (yes, there can be no doubt that my parents hated me) and Mom and I were sitting on the hammock and she looked down and said, "Oh, hey, will you look at that?" just as calmly as one would say, "Oh, gee, that blade of grass sure is green" only she wasn't talking about a blade of grass, she was talking about the most gigantically large alien bug that was crawling up her leg. I didn't sleep for the rest of the weekend.
But, I digress.
I do that a lot.
So, here are a few entries that give you some more insight into my tenuous relationship with nature...
Kamikaze Cardinals
July 21, 2000
How can you tell if a bird is suicidal? And what steps do you take to intervene?
For the past two hours, a pair of cardinals has (have?) been flinging themselves against my office window. I can only assume it has something to do with the fact that David Duchovny has already been replaced by that really freaky “Terminator Two” guy. What else would drive otherwise stable and sane birds to commit such a violent act against their own person?
At first, I thought they were simply bored and looking for some fun. You know, much in the same way we used to try and make ourselves faint as kids, or see how hard we could punch a tree before we really started to do damage to our fist, or try and determine exactly how much was “too much” purple Kool-Aid for one afternoon.
But after observing these two hapless creatures, I came to the conclusion that they weren’t doing this for fun. They were obviously driven by some type of suicidal mission. I don’t claim to like nature, but I couldn’t just sit back and watch this happen.
So, in an effort to curb their kamikaze quest, I taped a piece of brightly colored paper to the window. This helped for about five minutes. Apparently, the birds decided that it was just paper, so, hey, they could fly right through it.
So I taped another piece of paper up (bright yellow this time) thinking that maybe they'd see it and think, "Oh, well, now there's TWO pieces of paper up there. Certainly this is a solid pane of glass and we will immediately cease hurling our fragile, little bodies against it."
No, they did not think this.
It's a little disconcerting really. My sympathy for these poor birds is quickly turning to disgust. I have very little tolerance for excessive ignorance, even in the animal kingdom.
I walked outside to have a little chat with my feathered friends, but they flew off when they saw me coming. I looked at the window from my new vantage point and discovered that it did, indeed, perfectly reflect the trees and blue sky that the birds were obviously seeing. I was almost tempted to hurl myself at the window as well. But as I got closer to the window, I discovered that I was perfectly reflected in the glass, too.
So, my last thought is, "Okay, so it does look just like an extension of their world and it seems reasonable to think that they would assume they could soar on into that perfectly reflected blue sky."
"But wouldn't they at least try and avoid hitting the other bird flying right at them?"
Maybe I just don't understand nature.
The Mystery Carcass and Other Dead Things
August 18, 2000
Right outside my front door, in between the bushes and the house, there is the rotting carcass of...something. It’s furry. That’s about all I know. Oh, and it smells terrible.
My roommate’s cat has been really showing off his alpha-maleness every since our new male roommate moved in. I think George (the cat) is threatened by Jamie’s (the roommate) presence. Since Jamie has joined out little Three’s Company episode, George has brought home dead mice, birds, and frogs. And let’s not forget the rotting thing in the bushes. I think it may have been a squirrel at some point, but I’m not exactly sure.
Over the three years I have lived in that house, George has delivered a few gifts here and there, but he always left them on the back porch. However, the past three times he’s come home from the hunt, he’s brought his kill into the house. INTO THE HOUSE! So, okay, while I can’t understand the need for things to kill other things, I will concede that it does happen. However, I don’t feel that there is ANY reason for these things to take place indoors.
The first time it happened, I was sitting in the den watching television. When Amy opened the door to come in, George came tearing in after her. This is not unusual as George is often tearing from one place to another in a mad effort to be on time for his many cat appointments. After a moment, I could hear George making terrible noises in the kitchen. He was growling and mewling like I’d never heard him do before. Jamie was standing in the foyer, eating a piece of pizza and watching George do whatever it was George was doing that would make him produce those noises.
I asked, “What the hell is wrong with George?”
Jamie, very calmly, replied, “Oh, he’s brought a mouse in here and he’s playing with it.” Then he took a bite of pizza.
“What?!” I screamed as I jumped up from my chair, “Are you serious?!”
“Yeah.” Again with the calm, again with the bite of pizza. “He’s batting it around the kitchen.”
After several moments of shocked silence I managed to scream, “Well, don’t just stand there....DO something!”
Jamie looked at me witheringly and asked, “What do you want me to do about it? He’s obviously having fun with it.” Calm. Bite of pizza.
This is when I realized that living with a boy doesn’t mean that you are automatically supplied with a bug catcher, light bulb changer, fuse reconnecter, all-around handy worker who will rescue you from things like dead mice in the house. Instead, it means that you are now living with a creature who is so unaffected by carnage that he can stand there and calmly consume his dinner while watching the cat bat a limp, lifeless mouse around the kitchen. (Did I mention it was the kitchen? Where we eat? Where we have food? The very last place in the house where you would want a dead, diseased-filled mouse?)
In the end, I watched Amy wrestle the mouse away from George, scoop it up and dump it outside. I watched all this from the safety of the staircase. I didn’t want to even be on the same floor as the mouse. Jamie watched from the foyer. He was eating pizza.
After that, George brought in two dead birds on different occasions. Thank the Lord, I was not at home either time. I did discover the dead frog on the front steps, though. I was thoroughly repulsed.
And now there’s this mystery carcass in the bushes. I certainly hope George regains his sense of manhood soon. I can’t take much more of this nature invading my personal space. Especially dead nature. That’s the worst.
Little Piece of Nature
October 12, 2000
This past weekend I was visiting a friend who was house-sitting. And at this house where my friend was sitting there lives a young squirrel. Okay, so I have absolutely no idea how old this thing is, but it makes the story sound better.
Anyway, this squirrel will come right up to you and take a cracker or a nut right out of your hand. At first I wasn't overly-impressed by this. A two-year-old will do the same thing. Hell, so will a man. But once it was explained to me that this is not normal behavior for the typically cautious and paranoid squirrel, then I reluctantly agreed that it was actually kind of cool.
I picked up a handfull of peanuts, still in the shell, and walked outside to greet this creature. I crouched down (as to appear less threatening) and held one of the nuts out to the squirrel. "Here, squirrel," I gently cooed. "Here, Mr. Squirrel," I said, hoping to sound more polite. "Here, you little piece of nature, you!" That did it. It came scampering over and took the nut right out of my hand. Suddenly I was like the Crocodile Hunter, getting in tune with the wild beats that share this planet with us!
So, I offered it another nut, and then another. I was determined that before I left, this squirrel would think I was Mother Nature herself, bestowing gifts upon my many animal children. As I sat there watching my new friend, reveling in my new-found connection with nature (while at the same time battling the thought that this creature was probably flea-ridden and possibly carrying deadly diseases in its scrawny body -- you didn't expect me to embrace nature all at once, did you?), I noticed that it took the squirrel quite a while to crack open each shell to get to the nut inside. So, I went that one extra step to prove to this animal that I was a good and kind person. I cracked open the next shell for it and laid my offering out open-faced on the ground before me.
The squirrel scurried back over and picked up the opened shell, but, as it picked the shell up, the nuts fell out of the shell and back onto the ground.
Then this little piece of nature looks at the empty shell, then back up at me as if to say, "Is this some kind of a cruel joke?" Then it dropped the shell, and with one last look of disdain thrown back over its shoulder at me, ran away.
And I thought, "Well, that's certainly the last time I try and do something nice for a squirrel."
Obviously, some of them just don't want to be helped.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Adult's Get Snowed on Snow Days
We woke up to a dusting of ice crystals and the news that school was, indeed, canceled. You know...lest any young thing slip and fall on said ice crystal dusting and sue the county. So, now I am dealing with two extremely hyper kids who should otherwise be in school, not enough snow to play in and 16-degree windy weather -- so they wouldn't even be able to play in the ice crystal dust even if I wanted them to.
JAO felt that the truck would be a better mode of transportation than the car given the new frozen tundra terrain that we woke up to. See, he still has to go to work today because, well, the county didn't grant a Snow Day adults. They never do I am learning. (No wonder my mother was not nearly as excited about Snow Days as we were!) Anyway, so now I am watching JAO go back and forth from the truck to the kitchen sink, carrying cups of warm water outside trying in vain to melt the ice around the door frame enough so that he can get into the truck.
Oh...I just heard the car start up. Good luck out there, dear!
Sigh. Now I have to entertain these kids. Again! Didn't I just have to take care of them for the two-and-a-half week Christmas break?! This was supposed to be my week of freedom!
Stupid ice-filled crystal dust.
Well, here's an entry I wrote back in 2000 that also talks about being an adult on Snow Days. It has a happy ending. But, then, again, I didn't have children then. Heh, heh.
Enjoy.
Snow Day!
December 20, 2000
It snowed in Atlanta yesterday. For residents of this city, this is a big 'ole winter deal. The Georgia DOT only owns two snow plows and one of them doesn't work, so a handful of flakes will completely shut this city down.
And I love it! As someone who grew up in the south, snow is a rare and blessed event. And along with the snow comes the most rare and blessed event of all -- the glorious Snow Day!
Ah, the childhood memories. The thrilling anticipation of waking up to snow (or ice or slush or whatever you want to call our version of a "wintery mix"), and being filled with the anxious excitement felt only by a child who is waiting to hear those three wonderful words...school is closed. Huddled half-dressed in front of the television watching the long list of school closings flash across the screen, praying with all your little child might that your county will be blessed by the benevolent Great Get Out of School Free God. You can almost hear the cry of joy rising up over the snow with each new announcement as the kids in that particular county celebrate in unison the glory that is a Snow Day. Knowing the counties are listed in alphabetical order, you hold your breath as your county approaches. Will it be there? Oh, God, please, please let it be there! The "Cs"....Cobb (all right, be calm -- they're pretty close to you, if they are out you may be as well)....The "Ds"....Dekalb (oooh, you hate it when they get out and you don't)....The "Fs"....Fulton (those lucky jerks)....and finally....your little kid heart provides the drum roll....The "Gs"....GWINNETT!! Oh, Hosanna!! The rest of the day will feel magical simply because, no matter what you do, you're not doing it at school!
That ritual is almost as exciting as the rest of the day playing in the snow. It was the memory of that which I found myself waking up to yesterday. For one brief moment I was overjoyed at the prospect that no matter what I did that day, I wouldn't be doing it at school. I raced to the television and turned on the local news. Scenes of snow-covered lawns, icy tree branches, flurries of white gold floating on the air filled the screen. And, in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, the continuously updated list of school closings. As I saw all the counties I used to watch so closely flash across the screen I was filled with that same little kid rapture I felt so many years before. The Great Get Out of School Free God had blessed the entire city!
And then I remembered.
I do not go to school.
I live in the World of Adults now.
And this world does not honor Snow Days.
This world sucks monkeys.
So, I found myself standing in the parking lot of my apartment complex scraping ice and snow off my car's windshield with a spatula (because only adults have real ice scrapers) and cursing the fact that I had to be at work on a frickin' Snow Day! I tried to appreciate the beauty of this newly transformed winter wonderland, but all I could think about what the fact that no matter what I did that day I would be doing it at work.
Only one other person in my department had made it into the office when I arrived. The others had either called or emailed to say they wouldn't be coming in. Apparently the only working snow plow had not yet reached their area of town. I thought, well, hell. This is what I get for living so close to my office.
But then, just as I turned on my computer and prepared myself to face this wintery holiday imprisoned inside my cube, I received a Winter Miracle. The disembodied voice of the building's receptionist came over the intercom and, like the Angel of the Lord who announced to the shepherds that their savior had been born, announced that due to increasingly bad road conditions the office would be closing...and could we all please leave immediately.
I couldn't believe it. The Great Get Out of Work Free God had blessed me. I...an Adult...was given a Snow Day after all!
And then I realized something else. Not only was I an adult who was given a Snow Day, I was an adult with money who could also drive and was given a Snow Day. Ah ha! It never happened this way when I was in school!
So, I did what any other adult with money who could drive who was given a Snow Day would do. I went to Old Navy. And for the rest of the day, I celebrated the fact that no matter what I was doing, I wasn't doing it at work
JAO felt that the truck would be a better mode of transportation than the car given the new frozen tundra terrain that we woke up to. See, he still has to go to work today because, well, the county didn't grant a Snow Day adults. They never do I am learning. (No wonder my mother was not nearly as excited about Snow Days as we were!) Anyway, so now I am watching JAO go back and forth from the truck to the kitchen sink, carrying cups of warm water outside trying in vain to melt the ice around the door frame enough so that he can get into the truck.
Oh...I just heard the car start up. Good luck out there, dear!
Sigh. Now I have to entertain these kids. Again! Didn't I just have to take care of them for the two-and-a-half week Christmas break?! This was supposed to be my week of freedom!
Stupid ice-filled crystal dust.
Well, here's an entry I wrote back in 2000 that also talks about being an adult on Snow Days. It has a happy ending. But, then, again, I didn't have children then. Heh, heh.
Enjoy.
Snow Day!
December 20, 2000
It snowed in Atlanta yesterday. For residents of this city, this is a big 'ole winter deal. The Georgia DOT only owns two snow plows and one of them doesn't work, so a handful of flakes will completely shut this city down.
And I love it! As someone who grew up in the south, snow is a rare and blessed event. And along with the snow comes the most rare and blessed event of all -- the glorious Snow Day!
Ah, the childhood memories. The thrilling anticipation of waking up to snow (or ice or slush or whatever you want to call our version of a "wintery mix"), and being filled with the anxious excitement felt only by a child who is waiting to hear those three wonderful words...school is closed. Huddled half-dressed in front of the television watching the long list of school closings flash across the screen, praying with all your little child might that your county will be blessed by the benevolent Great Get Out of School Free God. You can almost hear the cry of joy rising up over the snow with each new announcement as the kids in that particular county celebrate in unison the glory that is a Snow Day. Knowing the counties are listed in alphabetical order, you hold your breath as your county approaches. Will it be there? Oh, God, please, please let it be there! The "Cs"....Cobb (all right, be calm -- they're pretty close to you, if they are out you may be as well)....The "Ds"....Dekalb (oooh, you hate it when they get out and you don't)....The "Fs"....Fulton (those lucky jerks)....and finally....your little kid heart provides the drum roll....The "Gs"....GWINNETT!! Oh, Hosanna!! The rest of the day will feel magical simply because, no matter what you do, you're not doing it at school!
That ritual is almost as exciting as the rest of the day playing in the snow. It was the memory of that which I found myself waking up to yesterday. For one brief moment I was overjoyed at the prospect that no matter what I did that day, I wouldn't be doing it at school. I raced to the television and turned on the local news. Scenes of snow-covered lawns, icy tree branches, flurries of white gold floating on the air filled the screen. And, in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, the continuously updated list of school closings. As I saw all the counties I used to watch so closely flash across the screen I was filled with that same little kid rapture I felt so many years before. The Great Get Out of School Free God had blessed the entire city!
And then I remembered.
I do not go to school.
I live in the World of Adults now.
And this world does not honor Snow Days.
This world sucks monkeys.
So, I found myself standing in the parking lot of my apartment complex scraping ice and snow off my car's windshield with a spatula (because only adults have real ice scrapers) and cursing the fact that I had to be at work on a frickin' Snow Day! I tried to appreciate the beauty of this newly transformed winter wonderland, but all I could think about what the fact that no matter what I did that day I would be doing it at work.
Only one other person in my department had made it into the office when I arrived. The others had either called or emailed to say they wouldn't be coming in. Apparently the only working snow plow had not yet reached their area of town. I thought, well, hell. This is what I get for living so close to my office.
But then, just as I turned on my computer and prepared myself to face this wintery holiday imprisoned inside my cube, I received a Winter Miracle. The disembodied voice of the building's receptionist came over the intercom and, like the Angel of the Lord who announced to the shepherds that their savior had been born, announced that due to increasingly bad road conditions the office would be closing...and could we all please leave immediately.
I couldn't believe it. The Great Get Out of Work Free God had blessed me. I...an Adult...was given a Snow Day after all!
And then I realized something else. Not only was I an adult who was given a Snow Day, I was an adult with money who could also drive and was given a Snow Day. Ah ha! It never happened this way when I was in school!
So, I did what any other adult with money who could drive who was given a Snow Day would do. I went to Old Navy. And for the rest of the day, I celebrated the fact that no matter what I was doing, I wasn't doing it at work
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Fun With Hypochondria
I got the lab results back from the blood-work I had done before the new year and there is nothing of consequence to report. There is nothing to indicate the presence of thyroid disease or pre-menapause -- nothing that would explain why I can go to the mailbox in 29-degree weather with only a t-shirt and shorts on and still complain about how balmy it is outside.
So, while my first reaction to the "good" news was one of relief, it was quickly followed by the thought that obviously I must have some terrible disease that science has yet to discover. Maybe they will even name this new as-yet-discovered disease after me!
I can picture it now...someday in the not-so-distant-future, people will be huddled around a tragically sickly person lying in a hospital bed speaking in the low tone you use when huddled around a tragically sickly person lying in a hospital bed.
"What did the doctor say?" Whispered so as not to bother the tragically sickly person.
"They said it was...(dramatic pause and even lower dip in the voice)...The Regina."
"Oh, no!" Gasp followed by sad shake of the head. "How tragic."
Well, until that happens, I thought I'd share some of my past adventures in the world of hypochondria. Enjoy...
The Heart Cancer
July 18, 2000
Are you a hypochondriac if you really are dying?
My heart has been behaving strangely lately. It’s skipping beats that I’m sure it shouldn’t miss, and occasionally adding in an extra one where I’m sure an extra one isn’t called for. And don’t go telling me it’s a panic attack or something wussy like that. I’ve had those before and I know what they are like. No, I’m pretty sure that this time it’s the heart cancer.
I suffer from a new ailment almost every week. That’s close to 52 ailments a year for anyone who’s counting. Sure, sometimes I just develop the same one over and over again. For instance, I have had TMJ (that’s lockjaw) on many different occasions and I am no stranger to rickets, lupus, consumption, and the general malaise that always signals the onset of something new and terrible. I have had various tumors pop up and then mysteriously disappear, unexplainable skin rashes, phantom aches and pains that seem to be coming from one or more major organs; not to mention the occasional blurred vision, shortness of breath, light headedness and racing and/or irregular heartbeat (which is totally unrelated to the present heart cancer).
In fact, I come close to dying on a regular basis. Not that this earns me any sympathy or extra attention, mind you. Judging by the way my friends and family react to each new malady, you’d think they were all used to their loved one contracting a fatal disease every month. Well, okay...maybe they are all used to it by now. But still, that shouldn’t lessen the severity of the situations.
Whenever someone pats me on the shoulder condescendingly and says, “I’m sure it’s all your head, dear.” I think, “Oh, yeah?! Well, you just wait. One of these days I really will be dying. Who’ll be sorry then, huh?”
I have searched countless web sites dealing with practically every disease a human is susceptible to, comparing my various symptoms with those listed. Sure, I may be dying on a daily basis, but at least I’m well-informed.
If you can’t quite understand what I’m talking about, let me try and explain. See, it’s a completely different mind-set. For instance, when your back hurts, you probably think, “Gee, I must have picked up something heavy and strained a muscle.” If my back hurts I immediately panic and think, “Kidney disease!” Who’s probably right? Well, you, of course. But, it only takes one time of me being right to prove that, while the hypochondriac lifestyle isn’t very relaxing, one day if might actually save your life.
You think I’m kidding? Let me ask you something: Did you even know that you can get cancer of the heart? No, probably not. And because of that, you’d just let that funny little twinge in your chest or those added beats go by without stopping to think, “Oh my God! Heart cancer!” and rush to your nearest doctor. The cancer would spread, and you would die.
While I, on the other hand, am carefully monitoring the strange behavior of my heart in an effort to catch this deadly disease before it is too late -- so that I may live to develop yet another deadly disease.
By the way, this phenomenon also expands to include an irrational fear of developing disorders of the mind. I’ll share all those with you another time. Well, one of my personalities will. I’m pretty sure I feel an attack of schizophrenia coming on.
If I Only Had a Heart
August 4, 2000
I had an interesting electrocardiogram experience this morning. Well, sure, anything involving monitoring the heart (or at least the necessity to do so) is “interesting,” but this morning’s was particularly so because it was my first time getting an EKG -- and because the machine said I was dead.
I will explain....
First of all, for those who don’t know, the process of an EKG evolves attaching electrode thingies all over your body, and those electrode thingies transfer electric signals from your heart to a big scary-looking machine, and then that machine prints out a jaggedy line on a long strip of white paper, and then the doctor looks at it, say's "Hmmmmm..." and then tells you if you are going to die.
I think I got all that right.
Anyway, an electrode thingie is strapped around each leg, down at the ankle, and then around each arm, just above the elbow. A sensor pad thingie is attached to your chest. All of these are then connected by wires to the machine. So, by the time you’re all hooked-up you resemble a Texas inmate.
As the nurse was plugging in the wires on the arm straps, she must have noticed my pensive look, because she tells me to “relax, there isn’t anything to worry about.” Which, I found ironically amusing seeing as how she was running an advanced medical test on my heart to search for abnormalities and/or defects. It seems only natural that one would be a bit worried by this, doesn’t it?
But, because I always use humor to cover for fear (or sincerity), I ask grimly, “Any chance for that last-minute pardon from the Governor, Warden?”
She laughs because, well, me so funny.
The nurse tells me to take deep breaths and (again) relax. She flips a switch, and the machine whirs and clicks....and then she makes a face. A frownie face! And I’m thinking, “Oh, my God -- WHAT?!”
She turns the machine off, moves the sensor pad thingie on my chest to another location, turns the machine back on, it whirs and clicks....and again I get The Face! Now I’m thinking, “Shouldn’t a person in the medical profession have a more carefully controlled reaction to disaster? It certainly would behoove her to maintain a poker face even though it is painfully obvious to her that I must have THE HEART CANCER!”
But she doesn’t inform me of the presence of the heart cancer -- I can only assume she wants to let the doctor do that. Instead, she proceeds to repeat this process three more times. Each time she switches the machine off, relocates the sensor pad, switches the machine back on, whir, click....the face.
Finally, she turns to me and asks, “Are you feeling all right?”
I say, “Well, I WAS. What’s wrong?”
She looks at me and says in a rather surprised tone, “All I’m getting is a flatline.”
Now, I’ve watched enough ER to understand that lovely bit of medical lingo. So, I’m thinking, “Great! I’m dead. And I didn’t even realize it. Wow, so this is what it’s like to be dead. Hmmm...seems about the same as when I was alive. My nose itches and I have to go to the bathroom. All normal, alive qualities. I see no bright lights, I hear no angles singing. Gee, what a let-down this death thing is.”
The nurse is still looking at me strangely as though she’s watching a real-life episode of The X-Files. So, I proceed to float up off the table and drift down the hall, passing through doors without having to open them.
Kidding.
Actually, she came to the conclusion that the machine was merely broken. Oh, and that I was, indeed, very much alive. The doctor confirmed this when he came back into the room. What a relief, eh?
But now I have an Echo-cardiogram scheduled for next week. I can’t wait......
And the Beat Goes On
August 16, 2000
Well, I had an echocardiogram today. Yes, I have a heart. (Collective sigh of relief.) In fact, the nurse in cardiology who ran the test was able to find it on the very first try. She didn’t see anything unusual or freaky. Or at least that’s what she said. “They” will look at the reading tonight and send the final results to my physician tomorrow. So, there’s still time for them to detect the dreaded heart cancer.
Nothing funny happened on my latest encounter with the medical world, however. It was all very routine. Very clinical. I have discovered that these people don’t joke around. I tried to engage the Echo-Woman in a lively conversation, but she kept telling me to be quiet because I was interfering with the sonogram waves. I told her my EKG flatline story and she didn’t even crack a smile. I was going to launch into the Goathead story but decided not to even bother.
But, you know how you can take your car into the shop to have its suspicious-sounding pings and knocks checked out, only to have it behave beautifully once the mechanic looks at it? Well my heart did that today. It performed just like a heart should. It didn’t skip a beat, it didn’t miss a beat, it didn’t flutter, it didn’t sputter....nothing. It just flub-dubbed itself right along, just like a normal heart is supposed to do. Maybe it is “all in my head.”
Nah. There’s something wrong with me, dagnabbit. It may take passing out cold and being rushed to the hospital to prove it, but, by God, if that’s what I have to do.....
Of course, I may have to face the fact that there is, indeed, nothing “wrong” with my heart. Then, I’m going to have to find something else to obsess over and worry about. I found a small knot in my leg last week. Could be a blood clot. I’ll keep you all posted.
So, while my first reaction to the "good" news was one of relief, it was quickly followed by the thought that obviously I must have some terrible disease that science has yet to discover. Maybe they will even name this new as-yet-discovered disease after me!
I can picture it now...someday in the not-so-distant-future, people will be huddled around a tragically sickly person lying in a hospital bed speaking in the low tone you use when huddled around a tragically sickly person lying in a hospital bed.
"What did the doctor say?" Whispered so as not to bother the tragically sickly person.
"They said it was...(dramatic pause and even lower dip in the voice)...The Regina."
"Oh, no!" Gasp followed by sad shake of the head. "How tragic."
Well, until that happens, I thought I'd share some of my past adventures in the world of hypochondria. Enjoy...
The Heart Cancer
July 18, 2000
Are you a hypochondriac if you really are dying?
My heart has been behaving strangely lately. It’s skipping beats that I’m sure it shouldn’t miss, and occasionally adding in an extra one where I’m sure an extra one isn’t called for. And don’t go telling me it’s a panic attack or something wussy like that. I’ve had those before and I know what they are like. No, I’m pretty sure that this time it’s the heart cancer.
I suffer from a new ailment almost every week. That’s close to 52 ailments a year for anyone who’s counting. Sure, sometimes I just develop the same one over and over again. For instance, I have had TMJ (that’s lockjaw) on many different occasions and I am no stranger to rickets, lupus, consumption, and the general malaise that always signals the onset of something new and terrible. I have had various tumors pop up and then mysteriously disappear, unexplainable skin rashes, phantom aches and pains that seem to be coming from one or more major organs; not to mention the occasional blurred vision, shortness of breath, light headedness and racing and/or irregular heartbeat (which is totally unrelated to the present heart cancer).
In fact, I come close to dying on a regular basis. Not that this earns me any sympathy or extra attention, mind you. Judging by the way my friends and family react to each new malady, you’d think they were all used to their loved one contracting a fatal disease every month. Well, okay...maybe they are all used to it by now. But still, that shouldn’t lessen the severity of the situations.
Whenever someone pats me on the shoulder condescendingly and says, “I’m sure it’s all your head, dear.” I think, “Oh, yeah?! Well, you just wait. One of these days I really will be dying. Who’ll be sorry then, huh?”
I have searched countless web sites dealing with practically every disease a human is susceptible to, comparing my various symptoms with those listed. Sure, I may be dying on a daily basis, but at least I’m well-informed.
If you can’t quite understand what I’m talking about, let me try and explain. See, it’s a completely different mind-set. For instance, when your back hurts, you probably think, “Gee, I must have picked up something heavy and strained a muscle.” If my back hurts I immediately panic and think, “Kidney disease!” Who’s probably right? Well, you, of course. But, it only takes one time of me being right to prove that, while the hypochondriac lifestyle isn’t very relaxing, one day if might actually save your life.
You think I’m kidding? Let me ask you something: Did you even know that you can get cancer of the heart? No, probably not. And because of that, you’d just let that funny little twinge in your chest or those added beats go by without stopping to think, “Oh my God! Heart cancer!” and rush to your nearest doctor. The cancer would spread, and you would die.
While I, on the other hand, am carefully monitoring the strange behavior of my heart in an effort to catch this deadly disease before it is too late -- so that I may live to develop yet another deadly disease.
By the way, this phenomenon also expands to include an irrational fear of developing disorders of the mind. I’ll share all those with you another time. Well, one of my personalities will. I’m pretty sure I feel an attack of schizophrenia coming on.
If I Only Had a Heart
August 4, 2000
I had an interesting electrocardiogram experience this morning. Well, sure, anything involving monitoring the heart (or at least the necessity to do so) is “interesting,” but this morning’s was particularly so because it was my first time getting an EKG -- and because the machine said I was dead.
I will explain....
First of all, for those who don’t know, the process of an EKG evolves attaching electrode thingies all over your body, and those electrode thingies transfer electric signals from your heart to a big scary-looking machine, and then that machine prints out a jaggedy line on a long strip of white paper, and then the doctor looks at it, say's "Hmmmmm..." and then tells you if you are going to die.
I think I got all that right.
Anyway, an electrode thingie is strapped around each leg, down at the ankle, and then around each arm, just above the elbow. A sensor pad thingie is attached to your chest. All of these are then connected by wires to the machine. So, by the time you’re all hooked-up you resemble a Texas inmate.
As the nurse was plugging in the wires on the arm straps, she must have noticed my pensive look, because she tells me to “relax, there isn’t anything to worry about.” Which, I found ironically amusing seeing as how she was running an advanced medical test on my heart to search for abnormalities and/or defects. It seems only natural that one would be a bit worried by this, doesn’t it?
But, because I always use humor to cover for fear (or sincerity), I ask grimly, “Any chance for that last-minute pardon from the Governor, Warden?”
She laughs because, well, me so funny.
The nurse tells me to take deep breaths and (again) relax. She flips a switch, and the machine whirs and clicks....and then she makes a face. A frownie face! And I’m thinking, “Oh, my God -- WHAT?!”
She turns the machine off, moves the sensor pad thingie on my chest to another location, turns the machine back on, it whirs and clicks....and again I get The Face! Now I’m thinking, “Shouldn’t a person in the medical profession have a more carefully controlled reaction to disaster? It certainly would behoove her to maintain a poker face even though it is painfully obvious to her that I must have THE HEART CANCER!”
But she doesn’t inform me of the presence of the heart cancer -- I can only assume she wants to let the doctor do that. Instead, she proceeds to repeat this process three more times. Each time she switches the machine off, relocates the sensor pad, switches the machine back on, whir, click....the face.
Finally, she turns to me and asks, “Are you feeling all right?”
I say, “Well, I WAS. What’s wrong?”
She looks at me and says in a rather surprised tone, “All I’m getting is a flatline.”
Now, I’ve watched enough ER to understand that lovely bit of medical lingo. So, I’m thinking, “Great! I’m dead. And I didn’t even realize it. Wow, so this is what it’s like to be dead. Hmmm...seems about the same as when I was alive. My nose itches and I have to go to the bathroom. All normal, alive qualities. I see no bright lights, I hear no angles singing. Gee, what a let-down this death thing is.”
The nurse is still looking at me strangely as though she’s watching a real-life episode of The X-Files. So, I proceed to float up off the table and drift down the hall, passing through doors without having to open them.
Kidding.
Actually, she came to the conclusion that the machine was merely broken. Oh, and that I was, indeed, very much alive. The doctor confirmed this when he came back into the room. What a relief, eh?
But now I have an Echo-cardiogram scheduled for next week. I can’t wait......
And the Beat Goes On
August 16, 2000
Well, I had an echocardiogram today. Yes, I have a heart. (Collective sigh of relief.) In fact, the nurse in cardiology who ran the test was able to find it on the very first try. She didn’t see anything unusual or freaky. Or at least that’s what she said. “They” will look at the reading tonight and send the final results to my physician tomorrow. So, there’s still time for them to detect the dreaded heart cancer.
Nothing funny happened on my latest encounter with the medical world, however. It was all very routine. Very clinical. I have discovered that these people don’t joke around. I tried to engage the Echo-Woman in a lively conversation, but she kept telling me to be quiet because I was interfering with the sonogram waves. I told her my EKG flatline story and she didn’t even crack a smile. I was going to launch into the Goathead story but decided not to even bother.
But, you know how you can take your car into the shop to have its suspicious-sounding pings and knocks checked out, only to have it behave beautifully once the mechanic looks at it? Well my heart did that today. It performed just like a heart should. It didn’t skip a beat, it didn’t miss a beat, it didn’t flutter, it didn’t sputter....nothing. It just flub-dubbed itself right along, just like a normal heart is supposed to do. Maybe it is “all in my head.”
Nah. There’s something wrong with me, dagnabbit. It may take passing out cold and being rushed to the hospital to prove it, but, by God, if that’s what I have to do.....
Of course, I may have to face the fact that there is, indeed, nothing “wrong” with my heart. Then, I’m going to have to find something else to obsess over and worry about. I found a small knot in my leg last week. Could be a blood clot. I’ll keep you all posted.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Life of a Working Girl (Well, Not That Kind of Working Girl...)
When I first moved to Atlanta from Athens, I did so without having a permanent job. Yeah, real smart, right? I decided to go to a temp agency, just to tide me over until I was discovered on the street by some big Hollywood agent or offered a million-dollar contract for my first (as yet unwritten) novel.
My two-week temp job turned into a month-long job -- and then six months -- and then three years. I discovered that I hate corporate life. I'm just not cut-out for the 9-to-5 world. But, it was an interesting experience. In a way, I think it helped me grow up. It taught me about personal responsibility and about taking pride in a job well done. I learned that I was capable of acting like an adult and that I could take care of myself finacially.
I learned to be a Big Girl.
Oh! HAHAHAHA! I'm kidding. I've never learned that.
So, anyway, here are a few entries that chronicle my life in the Cubicle Jungle...
So Freakin’ Damn Early
November 2, 2000
I arrived at work 45 minutes early this morning. I did so at my boss' request, not out of some fanatical desire to prove I am loyal or dedicated. God forbid. I hate Being Early. And you know what? My boss isn't even here yet. In fact, I have been on this floor alone for the past ten minutes, meaning there is no one here to document my early arrival! I better still get credit for this.
Well, since I have a few moments (while I'm sitting here letting my hair dry because I didn't have enough time to dry it before I left the house because I had to Be Here So Damn Early), let me share with you some things I have learned while living in a cubicle jungle.
THING NUMBER ONE:
There are magical break room fairies who continually fill the coffee pots so that no one is ever without. They also stock the cabinets with an unending supply of sugar, creamer and those cool, little, red, plastic stirring thingies. (My cool, little, red, plastic stirring thingies collection is the envy of all who see it.) There is also hot chocolate and every flavor of tea you can possibly imagine. And there is no paying for this as the magical break room fairies are benevolent and kind. There is also the Great Vending Machine God that lords over one-half of the break room. He is not as generous and he requires that you sacrifice a whole sixty-five cents for a lousy, little bag of Chex Snack Mix. I don't worship him too often. Not with the coffee and tea flowing like, well, something that flows a lot and doesn't cost anything.
THING NUMBER TWO:
You should NEVER open the microwave that is located in a community-owned break room of this kind (think the lounge in your dorm room, the waiting room of a hospital). While the magical break room fairies provide us all with the before-mentioned coffee/tea/stirring thingie items, they do not clean out the microwave. As a result, the microwave, and the entire room, smells like all kinds of ass thanks to the pungent assortment of frozen dinners and leftover meals being reheated in the microwave. There is the constant lingering aroma of popcorn, marinara sauce, chicken broth, meatloaf and, well, I think it's roadkill. Also, I hate (hate, hate, hate) when people use microwaves, stop the appliance before the timer runs down, and then DON'T RESET THE TIMER CLOCK! Hello! Is it so flippin' hard to press that reset/clear button? Why in the world would you leave a microwave with 00:03 left on the display?! What kind of a sick and twisted person would do such a thing?! All of you, right now, get up and go make sure your microwave clocks are all reset and telling proper time. I'll wait...
THING NUMBER THREE:
There are magical office supply fairies who continually replenish the metal cabinets and drawers with pens, markers, staples, folders, tape, notes pads, white-out, Post-it Notes of all colors, and those cool, little paper clippy things that are fun to play with. No wonder people joke about stealing office supplies. I mean, come on, it's all right there for the taking! We're only humans for heaven's sake. Have you been to Office Max lately and seen how much a pack of diskettes cost? Heck, I'm never going into that store again! Just kidding, of course. Stealing is wrong.
THING NUMBER FOUR:
People annoy me. Okay, so I didn't just learn this here, it is something I have always known and have been forced to deal with. (Ah, the burdens I bear.) But, this particular brand of annoyance relates to my current topic. Working in a cubicle jungle where privacy is limited and voices carry above the partitions, I am constantly catching brief snatches of phone conversations, cross-partitional banter and office gossip. I find myself falling victim to the temptation to listen-in when the gossip seems good (and straining to hear when the voices drop to a whisper, gripped by the paranoia that the subject of the clandestine conversation is me). But I also find myself unable to block-out that which I don't really care to hear.
Currently, I am compiling a list of words and phrases that I find incredibly annoying. For some reason I have zeroed in on these particularly offensives words and whenever I hear them I find myself cringing and wishing I had one of those stress-reliever dolls that when you squeeze them the eyes pop out -- not to squeeze, but to throw.
Anyway, here's my list of words and phrases that I find incredibly annoying:
"Okey-dokey" -- There is no way to use this phrase and not sound like a complete imbecile.
"Giving you a heads-up" -- What are we playing softball here?
"Give me/you a buzz" -- As in, "Hey, just thought I'd give you a buzz and let you know..." This is the worst one of all. I'm not sure why it bothers me so, but, hell, when have I ever needed a reason to be annoyed? It just sounds stupid, don't you think? And when I hear it, I want to hurt someone.
Well, that's all I've learned so far. But the day has just begun so there may be more wonderful discoveries to come. By the way, did I mention that I was Here Early! But, even as early as I was, the magical break room fairies had already been in before me to ensure I had a fresh cup of coffee (complete with my little, red, plastic, stirring thingy) as soon as I walked in the door -- so Freakin' Damn Early.
The Evil Candy Plot
January 3, 2001
I swear, within this office, there is a secret plot to make me fat.
Here's something else that I am learning about life in a cubicle jungle: the breakroom is a dumping ground for all leftover pastries, cookies, cakes, chocolate-covered pretzels, lollipops, and any other food item that someone realized they had too much of and wanted to get rid of quickly. And believe me, it goes quickly. Everyone around here has some sort of inner radar that picks up the high-frequency signals emitted by these snacks. They broadcast their presence and within minutes the only thing left is a tray littered with crumbs or a tin containing a few errant sprinkles.
And this happens almost every day.
The other part of the conspiracy - and how I know it is concentrated on me (as is everything else in the world, right?) - has to do with my cube specifically. My cube is this department's own individual dumping ground. It's right in the center of the department, and it is larger than the others. (Don't ask me how I got the "good cube," because I'm really not sure. I am waiting for the day when the others realize that the temp is sitting in the only cube that has a view of the window and unlimited access to the color printer and the high-tech photo scanner and kick my ass back over to the tiny, dark, windowless cube in the corner. But for now...shhhhh...don't tell.)
Anyway, there's a big, crystal bowl that sits on a shelf in my cube and it is the goal of every single person in this department to keep it stocked with candy. What the hell is that about? Also, if there happens to be cookies left over from a meeting or cake left over from a party, then it gets placed on that shelf as well. So, at any given time of the day, I am a mere three feet away from something very bad for you. I am sitting here looking at it right now! A bowl full of candy canes and Dove chocolate squares and those little, gold-foil wrapped Rocher hazelnut chocolate thingies.
But fear not, my little friends. I am stronger than the almighty Rocher. Those things can sit there as long as they want. They can taunt and they can tease, but they won't win. They won't break me down. I'll have you know that a mini Milky Way sat in my desk drawer for over a month before a coworker finally ate it. (It's a fun game, actually, that I play with this coworker. He can't stand it that I will leave candy lying around and not eat it. I like to put a piece of candy in that drawer or, worse, just lying out so that he sees it every time he comes over to my cube. It drives him crazy! Hey, I gotta do something to entertain myself here.)
So, actually, this plot to fatten me up is backfiring. It is only increasing my resolve to stay away from this evil. It is also strengthening my resistance skills. So they can pile the junk up all the way to the top of the partition...I don't care. Bring it on!
Another up-side to this situation is that the ever-present goodies turns my cube into the social cube. Well, it would be anyway, what with me being the occupier and all. But, because of the added bonus of candy and other treats, people are always stopping by my cube to help themselves to the free loot. I enjoy being in a high-traffic area. I need as much human contact as I can possibly get. And if, in order to maintain this contact, I have to share my space with the evil that is confectioners sugar and corn syrup, then so be it.
Right now, I'm trying to prove that I'm even stronger than the super-sized Kit-Kat that is hanging out in my desk drawer. And, people, that is pretty darn strong.
The Temp Life
April 18, 2001
It is very possible that I will be unemployed again much sooner than I had anticipated. For some, this may be a cause for alarm. But for me, it simply means that I will be given the opportunity to go do something new -- whatever that something may be. (She’s so carefree, isn’t she?)
Last week, I was astounded to realize that I have been working at this "temp" job for the past six months. But it is a position that has suited me and my anti-responsibility lifestyle perfectly. The location is great, the people I work with are fun and interesting, I make enough money to live and shop, and I know that at any time during the day, I can walk out and never come back and not owe anyone anything. (Oh, yes, she knows the true meaning of dedication.)
However, in the six months that I have been coasting paycheck-to-paycheck, enjoying the wacky adventures of The Office Temp, at least once a week someone I know has asked me what was going on here and "why haven't you been made 'permanent.'" It seems that all of my friends and family are very concerned with this situation and are overly-anxious to see it become what they would deem more -- I don’t know...I guess...(shudder) stable. Stability is a big thing for people. Permanent is a big thing for people. But I have never been able to get into it myself.
See, no job is permanent, people. In fact, nothing in life is -- careers, relationships, hair color -- it can all change (and often does) on a daily basis. But that's what makes life more fun. Why do humans constantly seek permanent things -- till death do us part, have everlasting life, guaranteed to never warp, rust or stain? This insistence on permanence is a practice in futility. It's attempting to find stability in a world fraught with uncertainty and unpredictability. Instead of fretting over the "temporary-ness" of life, isn't it time we all celebrated it for what it is -- an ever-changing opportunity for adventure; an exciting journey with thrillingly unpredictable twists and turns? There is a lot to be said for following your bliss, folks. Because it sure as hell isn't going to follow you.
Well, I suppose that's enough for now. I am just trying to help you people, you know that, right? I love you all and simply want to see you happy.
Or else I am trying to legitimize my desire to never work a nine-to-five job again in a vain attempt to come across as carefree and enlightened as opposed to lazy and unmotivated.
How do you think I did?
Oh, just so you know, I am quite aware that I will need to do something to earn money. So, if you have suggestions of anything that might help me out in that area, let me know. I just want to be creative and have someone pay me for it. But only for about six months at a time. Is that too much to ask?
My two-week temp job turned into a month-long job -- and then six months -- and then three years. I discovered that I hate corporate life. I'm just not cut-out for the 9-to-5 world. But, it was an interesting experience. In a way, I think it helped me grow up. It taught me about personal responsibility and about taking pride in a job well done. I learned that I was capable of acting like an adult and that I could take care of myself finacially.
I learned to be a Big Girl.
Oh! HAHAHAHA! I'm kidding. I've never learned that.
So, anyway, here are a few entries that chronicle my life in the Cubicle Jungle...
So Freakin’ Damn Early
November 2, 2000
I arrived at work 45 minutes early this morning. I did so at my boss' request, not out of some fanatical desire to prove I am loyal or dedicated. God forbid. I hate Being Early. And you know what? My boss isn't even here yet. In fact, I have been on this floor alone for the past ten minutes, meaning there is no one here to document my early arrival! I better still get credit for this.
Well, since I have a few moments (while I'm sitting here letting my hair dry because I didn't have enough time to dry it before I left the house because I had to Be Here So Damn Early), let me share with you some things I have learned while living in a cubicle jungle.
THING NUMBER ONE:
There are magical break room fairies who continually fill the coffee pots so that no one is ever without. They also stock the cabinets with an unending supply of sugar, creamer and those cool, little, red, plastic stirring thingies. (My cool, little, red, plastic stirring thingies collection is the envy of all who see it.) There is also hot chocolate and every flavor of tea you can possibly imagine. And there is no paying for this as the magical break room fairies are benevolent and kind. There is also the Great Vending Machine God that lords over one-half of the break room. He is not as generous and he requires that you sacrifice a whole sixty-five cents for a lousy, little bag of Chex Snack Mix. I don't worship him too often. Not with the coffee and tea flowing like, well, something that flows a lot and doesn't cost anything.
THING NUMBER TWO:
You should NEVER open the microwave that is located in a community-owned break room of this kind (think the lounge in your dorm room, the waiting room of a hospital). While the magical break room fairies provide us all with the before-mentioned coffee/tea/stirring thingie items, they do not clean out the microwave. As a result, the microwave, and the entire room, smells like all kinds of ass thanks to the pungent assortment of frozen dinners and leftover meals being reheated in the microwave. There is the constant lingering aroma of popcorn, marinara sauce, chicken broth, meatloaf and, well, I think it's roadkill. Also, I hate (hate, hate, hate) when people use microwaves, stop the appliance before the timer runs down, and then DON'T RESET THE TIMER CLOCK! Hello! Is it so flippin' hard to press that reset/clear button? Why in the world would you leave a microwave with 00:03 left on the display?! What kind of a sick and twisted person would do such a thing?! All of you, right now, get up and go make sure your microwave clocks are all reset and telling proper time. I'll wait...
THING NUMBER THREE:
There are magical office supply fairies who continually replenish the metal cabinets and drawers with pens, markers, staples, folders, tape, notes pads, white-out, Post-it Notes of all colors, and those cool, little paper clippy things that are fun to play with. No wonder people joke about stealing office supplies. I mean, come on, it's all right there for the taking! We're only humans for heaven's sake. Have you been to Office Max lately and seen how much a pack of diskettes cost? Heck, I'm never going into that store again! Just kidding, of course. Stealing is wrong.
THING NUMBER FOUR:
People annoy me. Okay, so I didn't just learn this here, it is something I have always known and have been forced to deal with. (Ah, the burdens I bear.) But, this particular brand of annoyance relates to my current topic. Working in a cubicle jungle where privacy is limited and voices carry above the partitions, I am constantly catching brief snatches of phone conversations, cross-partitional banter and office gossip. I find myself falling victim to the temptation to listen-in when the gossip seems good (and straining to hear when the voices drop to a whisper, gripped by the paranoia that the subject of the clandestine conversation is me). But I also find myself unable to block-out that which I don't really care to hear.
Currently, I am compiling a list of words and phrases that I find incredibly annoying. For some reason I have zeroed in on these particularly offensives words and whenever I hear them I find myself cringing and wishing I had one of those stress-reliever dolls that when you squeeze them the eyes pop out -- not to squeeze, but to throw.
Anyway, here's my list of words and phrases that I find incredibly annoying:
"Okey-dokey" -- There is no way to use this phrase and not sound like a complete imbecile.
"Giving you a heads-up" -- What are we playing softball here?
"Give me/you a buzz" -- As in, "Hey, just thought I'd give you a buzz and let you know..." This is the worst one of all. I'm not sure why it bothers me so, but, hell, when have I ever needed a reason to be annoyed? It just sounds stupid, don't you think? And when I hear it, I want to hurt someone.
Well, that's all I've learned so far. But the day has just begun so there may be more wonderful discoveries to come. By the way, did I mention that I was Here Early! But, even as early as I was, the magical break room fairies had already been in before me to ensure I had a fresh cup of coffee (complete with my little, red, plastic, stirring thingy) as soon as I walked in the door -- so Freakin' Damn Early.
The Evil Candy Plot
January 3, 2001
I swear, within this office, there is a secret plot to make me fat.
Here's something else that I am learning about life in a cubicle jungle: the breakroom is a dumping ground for all leftover pastries, cookies, cakes, chocolate-covered pretzels, lollipops, and any other food item that someone realized they had too much of and wanted to get rid of quickly. And believe me, it goes quickly. Everyone around here has some sort of inner radar that picks up the high-frequency signals emitted by these snacks. They broadcast their presence and within minutes the only thing left is a tray littered with crumbs or a tin containing a few errant sprinkles.
And this happens almost every day.
The other part of the conspiracy - and how I know it is concentrated on me (as is everything else in the world, right?) - has to do with my cube specifically. My cube is this department's own individual dumping ground. It's right in the center of the department, and it is larger than the others. (Don't ask me how I got the "good cube," because I'm really not sure. I am waiting for the day when the others realize that the temp is sitting in the only cube that has a view of the window and unlimited access to the color printer and the high-tech photo scanner and kick my ass back over to the tiny, dark, windowless cube in the corner. But for now...shhhhh...don't tell.)
Anyway, there's a big, crystal bowl that sits on a shelf in my cube and it is the goal of every single person in this department to keep it stocked with candy. What the hell is that about? Also, if there happens to be cookies left over from a meeting or cake left over from a party, then it gets placed on that shelf as well. So, at any given time of the day, I am a mere three feet away from something very bad for you. I am sitting here looking at it right now! A bowl full of candy canes and Dove chocolate squares and those little, gold-foil wrapped Rocher hazelnut chocolate thingies.
But fear not, my little friends. I am stronger than the almighty Rocher. Those things can sit there as long as they want. They can taunt and they can tease, but they won't win. They won't break me down. I'll have you know that a mini Milky Way sat in my desk drawer for over a month before a coworker finally ate it. (It's a fun game, actually, that I play with this coworker. He can't stand it that I will leave candy lying around and not eat it. I like to put a piece of candy in that drawer or, worse, just lying out so that he sees it every time he comes over to my cube. It drives him crazy! Hey, I gotta do something to entertain myself here.)
So, actually, this plot to fatten me up is backfiring. It is only increasing my resolve to stay away from this evil. It is also strengthening my resistance skills. So they can pile the junk up all the way to the top of the partition...I don't care. Bring it on!
Another up-side to this situation is that the ever-present goodies turns my cube into the social cube. Well, it would be anyway, what with me being the occupier and all. But, because of the added bonus of candy and other treats, people are always stopping by my cube to help themselves to the free loot. I enjoy being in a high-traffic area. I need as much human contact as I can possibly get. And if, in order to maintain this contact, I have to share my space with the evil that is confectioners sugar and corn syrup, then so be it.
Right now, I'm trying to prove that I'm even stronger than the super-sized Kit-Kat that is hanging out in my desk drawer. And, people, that is pretty darn strong.
The Temp Life
April 18, 2001
It is very possible that I will be unemployed again much sooner than I had anticipated. For some, this may be a cause for alarm. But for me, it simply means that I will be given the opportunity to go do something new -- whatever that something may be. (She’s so carefree, isn’t she?)
Last week, I was astounded to realize that I have been working at this "temp" job for the past six months. But it is a position that has suited me and my anti-responsibility lifestyle perfectly. The location is great, the people I work with are fun and interesting, I make enough money to live and shop, and I know that at any time during the day, I can walk out and never come back and not owe anyone anything. (Oh, yes, she knows the true meaning of dedication.)
However, in the six months that I have been coasting paycheck-to-paycheck, enjoying the wacky adventures of The Office Temp, at least once a week someone I know has asked me what was going on here and "why haven't you been made 'permanent.'" It seems that all of my friends and family are very concerned with this situation and are overly-anxious to see it become what they would deem more -- I don’t know...I guess...(shudder) stable. Stability is a big thing for people. Permanent is a big thing for people. But I have never been able to get into it myself.
See, no job is permanent, people. In fact, nothing in life is -- careers, relationships, hair color -- it can all change (and often does) on a daily basis. But that's what makes life more fun. Why do humans constantly seek permanent things -- till death do us part, have everlasting life, guaranteed to never warp, rust or stain? This insistence on permanence is a practice in futility. It's attempting to find stability in a world fraught with uncertainty and unpredictability. Instead of fretting over the "temporary-ness" of life, isn't it time we all celebrated it for what it is -- an ever-changing opportunity for adventure; an exciting journey with thrillingly unpredictable twists and turns? There is a lot to be said for following your bliss, folks. Because it sure as hell isn't going to follow you.
Well, I suppose that's enough for now. I am just trying to help you people, you know that, right? I love you all and simply want to see you happy.
Or else I am trying to legitimize my desire to never work a nine-to-five job again in a vain attempt to come across as carefree and enlightened as opposed to lazy and unmotivated.
How do you think I did?
Oh, just so you know, I am quite aware that I will need to do something to earn money. So, if you have suggestions of anything that might help me out in that area, let me know. I just want to be creative and have someone pay me for it. But only for about six months at a time. Is that too much to ask?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Sea of Humanity
The very best stories come from everyday encounters with those around us. You don't need television or books. You only need to wade out into the sea of humanity. And you'd better bring a life preserver...just in case...
Annoying Man and His Date, Annoying Woman
May 10, 2000
I went to see the movie "High Fidelity" starring John Cusack. It was entertaining while still offering a disturbing insight into the neurotic male psyche. Not that movies offering insights into the neurotic female psyche aren't disturbing as well -- they're just usually peppered with a nice blend of male bashing and "up with women-ness" that make you forgive the hapless heroine for her occasional hormonal misconduct.
This movie was saved with a cameo of Bruce Springsteen...as himself. Genius moment.
There were several familiar faces in this movie, actually, and if you happen to be one of those people who is tormented by the “where have I seen this actor before” syndrome, then you had to spend a great deal of time fretting over each new face searching your brain for a connection.
Seated behind me was one such unfortunate soul. Let’s just call him Annoying Man. Annoying Man was obviously a fan of movies, but not a fan of remembering just where the hell he’d seen that actor before.
Luckily for him, and unluckily for me, with Annoying Man was someone who was more than willing to help him through his crisis...Annoying Woman.
Any time someone new would come on the screen, Annoying Man would ask the same question, “Do we know that actor?” forcing Annoying Woman to explain to Annoying Man who that was and “where they had seen that actor before.”
For example....(The parenthetical statements are mine. All the things I was screaming in my head hoping to telepathically converse with Annoying Man and Annoying Woman in a vain effort to get them to shut the hell up. Oh, and to also show that I was a master at “where have I seen this actor before.”)
"That's Tim Robbins. He was in Bull Durham and Shawshank Redemption. He’s married to Susan Surrandan." (Uh, NO, he’s only living with Susan. They never actually got married.)
"Oh, that's the girl from the Cosby Show." (Uh, Lisa Bonet -- she played the second eldest daughter Denise. The only Cosby kid to get a spin-off. Perhaps you remember “A Different World?”)
"Honey, that's Catherine Zeta Jones." (The Mask of Zoro, The Haunting. Pregnant with Michael Douglas’ child.)
"That's Lili Taylor, you've seen her in a lot of stuff." (Say Anything also starring John Cusack and, most notably, a stunning performance in an episode of “The X-Files.”)
Finally, when we were introduced to Sara Gilbert -- Darlene Conner to fans of Rosanne -- I turned around and said, "Yes, you know her, that's Sara Gilbert who played Darlene on Rosanne, the adopted sister of Melissa Gilbert who played Laura on Little House on the Prairie!"
Okay, so I didn't really say that. But I wanted to. And I think we can all agree that it would have been pretty cool if I had.
After the film, I settled in to watch the credits as my movie companion gathered his belongings. When it became obvious that I wasn’t getting up, he asked if I was planning to stay.
I said, “Well, yes. I want to watch the credits.”
I received that look that says, “No, seriously.”
He then asked if I always stayed to watch the credits, to which I responded, "Uh, yeah" as if the thought of NOT staying to watch the credits was the equivalent of NOT buying popcorn and Twizzlers -- which would just be wrong. Tell me I am not alone in this.
But, judging by the fact that we were the only two people who stayed to watch the credits....maybe I am.
I Only Need the Four
June 18, 2001
I was standing in line at the grocery store the other day and there was an older gentleman in line ahead of me. He was one of those crotchety, mid-60s guys whose aura just told me I wouldn't like him. You know the kind -- checking to make sure every item rang up exactly as he expected and just generally sending out a crotch-like vibe.
The cashier was scanning his groceries and she picked up a carton of mushrooms -- the kind that come pre-packaged and wrapped in plastic wrap. The wrap had been removed and there were only four mushrooms in the carton.
She held them up and said, "Sir? Did you want these? They've been opened and there are only four mushrooms in here."
He said, "Yes. I only need the four."
The cashier said, "Yes, but sir --"
"I only need four. Just weigh them. I'm sure they won't be that much. Just weigh them."
So, the cashier, who obviously decided not to pursue this argument with Crotch Man, weighed the four mushrooms. I have no idea what she entered into the machine to arrive at the price she did, but I guess he was satisfied because he allowed her to ring up the rest of his groceries without incident. Until it came time to pay. He didn't have enough money so he had to go to the ATM outside the store and get some. He told the cashier that he would be right back and to "go ahead and take care of this girl." This Girl being me.
The cashier totaled him out and began scanning my items. When she picked up the bag of cotton balls I was purchasing I said, "Um, yeah…could I open that bag and take some of those cotton balls out, because I'm sure you'll agree that nobody needs 100 cotton balls."
Let me tell you, for a brief moment, I thought she was going to hit me. Then, thankfully, she burst out laughing and said, "Can you believe that guy? Sure! We can open the bag and take out some of the cotton balls. They are triple-sized, of course you don’t need all 100."
Then the lady bagging the groceries got in on the joke. She picked up my package of string cheese sticks and said, "You know, we can open this for you and take out two or three. There's ten sticks in here, are you sure you need that many?"
We continued like this with practically every item I had -- "Your hair isn't that thick, are you sure you want this entire bottle of shampoo?" "See, you picked up the triple-ply rolls of toilet paper. We could open this up, take out the rolls, separate the plys and then you wouldn't have to take home as much."
Then we debated about where in the store Crotch Man would have stashed the rest of the mushrooms -- the other ten in the package that he simply didn't need -- and wondered just what he was making that he only needed the four.
Then, the lady bagging the groceries said, "Shhhh! Here he comes!" And we all three straightened up and resumed our professional grocery purchase exchange behavior.
Later that evening, I was enjoying a stick of string cheese and thinking how glad I was that once I was finished with that stick, there were still nine others to follow. And then I thought of Crotch Man and hoped that where ever he was, he was enjoying his four mushrooms. Only the four.
Creepy Andy
July 20, 2000
I swear, I am like a magnet for unsolicited encounters with the most bizarre people society has to offer.
I went to Office Depot the other day to purchase some office supplies. I had my list written on a little post-it and was winding my way through the store collecting my items when I was approached by Andy, the Somewhat Creepy Office Supply Store Employee. (You know how some people just seem to exude creepiness? It’s not anything they say or do, necessarily, there’s just this aura of creepiness that seems to waft around them. Andy had such an aura.)
So, Creepy Andy asks me if he can help me find something. I turn to him and do that kind of double-take that you do when you see someone creepy and your face registers that they are creepy, and so you try and cover up for the fact that your face betrayed your thoughts, but all you can do is issue a stupid, lop-sided smile and try and avert your eyes. (Perhaps you’ve experienced this before -- or maybe you were on the other side of this reaction.) Immediately, one side of my brain tells me that it doesn’t want Creepy Andy’s help, but the other side of my brain is in a hurry and isn’t too keen on aimlessly wandering the aisles, so it speaks up and tells him what I am looking for. Creepy Andy points out the item and asks if there’s anything else I need?
So, the side of my brain that doesn’t seem to mind his creepy presence, tells him what the last item on our list is. As we walk to where this last item is located in the store, Creepy Andy begins to speak.
“Man, I’m just having the hardest time getting going today. I didn’t have my morning coffee, I guess,” he tells me.
(Okay, it is now 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I’m thinking that it’s a bit late to go for that first cup of coffee, but I don’t say this to him.)
“Hmmmmmm...,” I say.
He continues, “Yeah, and then I spent most of the morning with the police.”
(OKAY! Now, he’s got my attention. He also earns another of my double-take looks.)
“Well,” I stammer, “that, that can’t be good.”
“Oh, no,” he explains, “I wasn’t in trouble or anything.”
(I feel a bit better.)
“I was hasslin’ over changin’ the title of the car I just bought.”
(I’m not so sure where this is going, so I just continue to walk with Creepy Andy, hoping that we’ll get to my item of interest soon so that I can get the hell out of there. I don’t say anything lest he feel the need to elaborate even more. Turns out, he didn’t need any prodding to continue with his tale.)
“Oh yeah,” he says, “It was a real pain in the ass, I tell ya.”
He then proceeds to tell me the entire, long, involved story of how he went from one insurance office to another and then back to the first and then to the DMV in one county only to be told he needed to go to another county and then continued to get the run-around until he finally ended up at the police station. I have no idea how the police became involved because I could barely concentrate on his story because by now both sides of my brain are screaming in unison, “What the hell is going on here?!”
I continued to stare at Creepy Andy in stunned confusion. He obviously takes this as a look of interest because he then launches into the details of how he came to own this car, what type of car it was, how it was some type of convertible but it was missing the top but that’s okay because his friend owns a body shop and he was pretty sure he could get a good deal on one, and how since the car was a 1989 model he could just store it up in the garage for another three years and then he would be past the time limit required for needing a title in the first place.
Meanwhile, my arms are about to break off because I’m holding several heavy and awkward boxes (see, I didn’t bother with a buggy because I DIDN’T THINK I’D BE IN THE STORE THAT LONG) and trying desperately to figure out why this was happening.
FINALLY, Creepy Andy takes a breath long enough for me to express my regret at his misfortune, wish him “good luck with everything,” and beat a hasty retreat. After I made my purchases and got out to the car, I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror looking for the “Please tell me all about your problems. I love to listen to total strangers tell me their troubles.” sign that I thought must be hanging from my forehead.
I didn’t see any sign.
So what the hell was that about?
Annoying Man and His Date, Annoying Woman
May 10, 2000
I went to see the movie "High Fidelity" starring John Cusack. It was entertaining while still offering a disturbing insight into the neurotic male psyche. Not that movies offering insights into the neurotic female psyche aren't disturbing as well -- they're just usually peppered with a nice blend of male bashing and "up with women-ness" that make you forgive the hapless heroine for her occasional hormonal misconduct.
This movie was saved with a cameo of Bruce Springsteen...as himself. Genius moment.
There were several familiar faces in this movie, actually, and if you happen to be one of those people who is tormented by the “where have I seen this actor before” syndrome, then you had to spend a great deal of time fretting over each new face searching your brain for a connection.
Seated behind me was one such unfortunate soul. Let’s just call him Annoying Man. Annoying Man was obviously a fan of movies, but not a fan of remembering just where the hell he’d seen that actor before.
Luckily for him, and unluckily for me, with Annoying Man was someone who was more than willing to help him through his crisis...Annoying Woman.
Any time someone new would come on the screen, Annoying Man would ask the same question, “Do we know that actor?” forcing Annoying Woman to explain to Annoying Man who that was and “where they had seen that actor before.”
For example....(The parenthetical statements are mine. All the things I was screaming in my head hoping to telepathically converse with Annoying Man and Annoying Woman in a vain effort to get them to shut the hell up. Oh, and to also show that I was a master at “where have I seen this actor before.”)
"That's Tim Robbins. He was in Bull Durham and Shawshank Redemption. He’s married to Susan Surrandan." (Uh, NO, he’s only living with Susan. They never actually got married.)
"Oh, that's the girl from the Cosby Show." (Uh, Lisa Bonet -- she played the second eldest daughter Denise. The only Cosby kid to get a spin-off. Perhaps you remember “A Different World?”)
"Honey, that's Catherine Zeta Jones." (The Mask of Zoro, The Haunting. Pregnant with Michael Douglas’ child.)
"That's Lili Taylor, you've seen her in a lot of stuff." (Say Anything also starring John Cusack and, most notably, a stunning performance in an episode of “The X-Files.”)
Finally, when we were introduced to Sara Gilbert -- Darlene Conner to fans of Rosanne -- I turned around and said, "Yes, you know her, that's Sara Gilbert who played Darlene on Rosanne, the adopted sister of Melissa Gilbert who played Laura on Little House on the Prairie!"
Okay, so I didn't really say that. But I wanted to. And I think we can all agree that it would have been pretty cool if I had.
After the film, I settled in to watch the credits as my movie companion gathered his belongings. When it became obvious that I wasn’t getting up, he asked if I was planning to stay.
I said, “Well, yes. I want to watch the credits.”
I received that look that says, “No, seriously.”
He then asked if I always stayed to watch the credits, to which I responded, "Uh, yeah" as if the thought of NOT staying to watch the credits was the equivalent of NOT buying popcorn and Twizzlers -- which would just be wrong. Tell me I am not alone in this.
But, judging by the fact that we were the only two people who stayed to watch the credits....maybe I am.
I Only Need the Four
June 18, 2001
I was standing in line at the grocery store the other day and there was an older gentleman in line ahead of me. He was one of those crotchety, mid-60s guys whose aura just told me I wouldn't like him. You know the kind -- checking to make sure every item rang up exactly as he expected and just generally sending out a crotch-like vibe.
The cashier was scanning his groceries and she picked up a carton of mushrooms -- the kind that come pre-packaged and wrapped in plastic wrap. The wrap had been removed and there were only four mushrooms in the carton.
She held them up and said, "Sir? Did you want these? They've been opened and there are only four mushrooms in here."
He said, "Yes. I only need the four."
The cashier said, "Yes, but sir --"
"I only need four. Just weigh them. I'm sure they won't be that much. Just weigh them."
So, the cashier, who obviously decided not to pursue this argument with Crotch Man, weighed the four mushrooms. I have no idea what she entered into the machine to arrive at the price she did, but I guess he was satisfied because he allowed her to ring up the rest of his groceries without incident. Until it came time to pay. He didn't have enough money so he had to go to the ATM outside the store and get some. He told the cashier that he would be right back and to "go ahead and take care of this girl." This Girl being me.
The cashier totaled him out and began scanning my items. When she picked up the bag of cotton balls I was purchasing I said, "Um, yeah…could I open that bag and take some of those cotton balls out, because I'm sure you'll agree that nobody needs 100 cotton balls."
Let me tell you, for a brief moment, I thought she was going to hit me. Then, thankfully, she burst out laughing and said, "Can you believe that guy? Sure! We can open the bag and take out some of the cotton balls. They are triple-sized, of course you don’t need all 100."
Then the lady bagging the groceries got in on the joke. She picked up my package of string cheese sticks and said, "You know, we can open this for you and take out two or three. There's ten sticks in here, are you sure you need that many?"
We continued like this with practically every item I had -- "Your hair isn't that thick, are you sure you want this entire bottle of shampoo?" "See, you picked up the triple-ply rolls of toilet paper. We could open this up, take out the rolls, separate the plys and then you wouldn't have to take home as much."
Then we debated about where in the store Crotch Man would have stashed the rest of the mushrooms -- the other ten in the package that he simply didn't need -- and wondered just what he was making that he only needed the four.
Then, the lady bagging the groceries said, "Shhhh! Here he comes!" And we all three straightened up and resumed our professional grocery purchase exchange behavior.
Later that evening, I was enjoying a stick of string cheese and thinking how glad I was that once I was finished with that stick, there were still nine others to follow. And then I thought of Crotch Man and hoped that where ever he was, he was enjoying his four mushrooms. Only the four.
Creepy Andy
July 20, 2000
I swear, I am like a magnet for unsolicited encounters with the most bizarre people society has to offer.
I went to Office Depot the other day to purchase some office supplies. I had my list written on a little post-it and was winding my way through the store collecting my items when I was approached by Andy, the Somewhat Creepy Office Supply Store Employee. (You know how some people just seem to exude creepiness? It’s not anything they say or do, necessarily, there’s just this aura of creepiness that seems to waft around them. Andy had such an aura.)
So, Creepy Andy asks me if he can help me find something. I turn to him and do that kind of double-take that you do when you see someone creepy and your face registers that they are creepy, and so you try and cover up for the fact that your face betrayed your thoughts, but all you can do is issue a stupid, lop-sided smile and try and avert your eyes. (Perhaps you’ve experienced this before -- or maybe you were on the other side of this reaction.) Immediately, one side of my brain tells me that it doesn’t want Creepy Andy’s help, but the other side of my brain is in a hurry and isn’t too keen on aimlessly wandering the aisles, so it speaks up and tells him what I am looking for. Creepy Andy points out the item and asks if there’s anything else I need?
So, the side of my brain that doesn’t seem to mind his creepy presence, tells him what the last item on our list is. As we walk to where this last item is located in the store, Creepy Andy begins to speak.
“Man, I’m just having the hardest time getting going today. I didn’t have my morning coffee, I guess,” he tells me.
(Okay, it is now 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I’m thinking that it’s a bit late to go for that first cup of coffee, but I don’t say this to him.)
“Hmmmmmm...,” I say.
He continues, “Yeah, and then I spent most of the morning with the police.”
(OKAY! Now, he’s got my attention. He also earns another of my double-take looks.)
“Well,” I stammer, “that, that can’t be good.”
“Oh, no,” he explains, “I wasn’t in trouble or anything.”
(I feel a bit better.)
“I was hasslin’ over changin’ the title of the car I just bought.”
(I’m not so sure where this is going, so I just continue to walk with Creepy Andy, hoping that we’ll get to my item of interest soon so that I can get the hell out of there. I don’t say anything lest he feel the need to elaborate even more. Turns out, he didn’t need any prodding to continue with his tale.)
“Oh yeah,” he says, “It was a real pain in the ass, I tell ya.”
He then proceeds to tell me the entire, long, involved story of how he went from one insurance office to another and then back to the first and then to the DMV in one county only to be told he needed to go to another county and then continued to get the run-around until he finally ended up at the police station. I have no idea how the police became involved because I could barely concentrate on his story because by now both sides of my brain are screaming in unison, “What the hell is going on here?!”
I continued to stare at Creepy Andy in stunned confusion. He obviously takes this as a look of interest because he then launches into the details of how he came to own this car, what type of car it was, how it was some type of convertible but it was missing the top but that’s okay because his friend owns a body shop and he was pretty sure he could get a good deal on one, and how since the car was a 1989 model he could just store it up in the garage for another three years and then he would be past the time limit required for needing a title in the first place.
Meanwhile, my arms are about to break off because I’m holding several heavy and awkward boxes (see, I didn’t bother with a buggy because I DIDN’T THINK I’D BE IN THE STORE THAT LONG) and trying desperately to figure out why this was happening.
FINALLY, Creepy Andy takes a breath long enough for me to express my regret at his misfortune, wish him “good luck with everything,” and beat a hasty retreat. After I made my purchases and got out to the car, I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror looking for the “Please tell me all about your problems. I love to listen to total strangers tell me their troubles.” sign that I thought must be hanging from my forehead.
I didn’t see any sign.
So what the hell was that about?
Monday, January 4, 2010
A Bit of the Past
Okay, so I dug up my old entries from my years-ago online diary. It was fun looking back at who I was then. And scary realizing that not that much has changed about me. Well, at least not inside my head. Where my brain is.
I am feeling the need to share some of my favorite past entries. Sure, it may seem lazy to populate my new diary with stuff from the old diary...but oh, well.
Keep in mind that I was single -- desperately single -- trying to survive as a Big Girl in the world of grown-up responsibilities. I didn't always succeed, as will become apparent soon enough.
Enjoy!
To Coin a Phrase
April 29, 2000 (I was 25 and living in Athens, GA.)
“About 4:30, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the party.”
Die-hard Eddie Murphy fans will recognize that line from the under-appreciated cinematic gem “The Golden Child.” Eddie is wandering the streets of Tibet when he is approached by a rather boisterous man spouting, uh....Tibetineese. Eddie’s response is to look at his watch and say, “About 4:30, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the party.”
For years, that has been my favorite response to any question I deem too confusing or too stupid to answer. If ever I find myself without an answer (not a legitimate one anyway), this phrase works very well. It always takes people a few moments to register what I said, then they have to try and understand why I said it, what I meant by it, and then attempt come up with an appropriate response of their own.
By that time, I have walked away.
Over time I have acquired a few other handy responses to such situations. My friend Sol introduced me to, “And that’s why I like kittens!” The perfect conversation pick-me-up when the dialogue lags. This phrase must be said loudly and with a broad grin -- the more pleased you are with yourself for using these phrases, the greater the effect.
Well, a few weeks ago, I discovered another verbal gem. My roommate (uh, we’ll just call her “Amy” -- since that’s what her mom calls her) and I were in Kroger. I don’t know who (if anyone) is reading this, or where you live, but I can only hope that the great god of Kroger has blessed your town. (This is not to be confused with the even greater god of Wal-Mart, but we’ll praise this one later.)
So, Amy and I are strolling along the brightly lit aisles of our favorite grocery mega-store and we find ourselves in the cosmetic section. Imagine, surrounded by all those wonderful miracle-working products guaranteed to make our lives better, our faces prettier, our hair more lustrous and manageable. I was hypnotized by the over-abundance of shampoo choices -- and I’m not talking about the various brands, I’m talking about the dozens of variations within each brand. Just as I was deciding what it was I wanted my hair care product to do for me (add more body to fine -- read: limp -- hair), Amy brings me the latest and greatest invention in nail care -- peel off nail polish.
Hmmmmmm.....
We both puzzle over this brand new phenomenon and wonder aloud about its, uh, well...purpose.
I say that I think peeling off polish is bad for your nails as it strips them of their natural layers (as I’m sure you all know). Amy says that maybe this is the reason for the easy-peel, so that neurotics who must peel off their polish can do so without damaging their nails. I say that maybe it’s for people who change their polish several times during the day. Amy says that maybe it’s for rebel bad-girls who aren’t supposed to be wearing polish, but they sneak it to school, surreptitiously put in on the smoke-filled bathrooms, but then have to remove it quickly on the bus before they get home from school lest their mothers discover their evil rebellion.
I’m sure you’ve all stopped in the middle of a store to carry on just such a conversation. Surely it’s not just us.
Anyway, it is at this point, that the woman who is occupying this aisle with us, breaks into our conversation. I’m assuming she works there, since she appears to be arranging the soap in a more orderly manner -- oh, and she’s wearing the blue smock that says “Kroger, for Goodness’ Sake.”
So, Smock Woman looks up at us and says with great conviction, “You know...for proms.”
Genius.
This was her only explanation. She then went back to playing with the soaps, leaving Amy and I completely speechless. And if you know Amy and I, you know how extraordinary this is.
We walked on in silence for a few moments, both pondering the brilliance of her response. And while I can’t say that I have grasped it’s meaning -- and I defy anyone to actually do this -- I have to appreciate Smock Woman’s response for the sheer genius that it was. I mean she does work at Kroger, for goodness’ sakes.
And I also have to thank her for giving me another clever phrase to use in situations where a legitimate answer is rejected in favor of the more bizarre.
In other words, you know....for proms.
A Picture is Worth...Well, You Know
May 15, 2000
There is a silver picture frame sitting on my coffee table in my living room. Inside that frame is the smiling image of a handsome young man. He has sandy blonde hair, hazel eyes and braces on his teeth. Truly, an all-American boy. He's wearing a navy blue blazer, a light blue shirt and a red tie with blue horizontal stripes. This teenaged charmer is standing against a backdrop of trees and flower bushes and the faint outline of a wooden, picket fence. There is a winsome expression on his youthfully innocent face as if he had suddenly burst into laughter and the camera caught him just as he was winding it down. The picture speaks of the joys of being young and the promise that is a long-life ahead.
I have no idea who this boy is.
I was walking the isles of the grocery store, when there, sitting on top of a display of Frosted Flakes, was this picture. This young boy, in all his Koda-color glory, grinning up at me from atop the image of Tony the Tiger. Deciding that such a find must in some way be serendipitous, I took it home, put it in a frame, pronounced his name "Bryan" and placed him on the coffee table. (Not only does he look like a Bryan, but he looks like the type of Bryan who would spell his name with a "y" as opposed to an "i." Don't ask me how I know this...I just do.)
So now Bryan lives with us, gracing us with his pleasant smile and prompting visitors to inquire about this young man in the silver frame.
This is where it gets fun.
I smile, say his name is Bryan and then proceed to make up a story about how I know him. The story changes every time.
Bryan is a young man I used to baby-sit for. This picture was taken on the day of his graduation from the eighth grade. I was so proud of him!
Bryan is the son of my older sister. Oh, you didn't know I had an older sister? Well, she moved away after a horrible disagreement with our mother and we haven't seen her in fifteen years. I was so young when she left, I barely remember her. This picture is all I have seen of Bryan since he's been born. I've never even met him in person.
Bryan is the young man who died in a tragic car accident, whose last, selfless act was to donate his liver to save my ailing sister. His family sent us his picture so we'll always remember the precious life that was taken and the beloved life that was saved.
Hours of entertainment from this one simple photo -- this discarded treasure I found among the cereal. Sure, I often wonder who Bryan really is, what he’s like, who was holding the camera that he smiled so winningly into? What are his hopes, his dreams? And why was I, one of hundred of shoppers in Kroger that day, destined to find this picture?
Maybe I’ll never know.
So, for now, I will continue to create stories about this young lad, making him more a part of my life with each tale...and wait for the day when someone walks into my house, sits down on the sofa, points to the picture and says, "Hey, how do you know Bryan?"
Goathead
July 14, 2000
I was standing at the counter in a deli-style restaurant with my friend Lisa waiting for our sandwiches to be made. As we were standing there, a young man who worked at the restaurant approached and asked if he could step in to pick up a stack of trays that were sitting right in front of me. I smiled and said, “Sure. Go ahead.”
He had already begun to make the move toward the trays when I said this, then all of a sudden, he whirled around on me, narrowed his eyes and said, “Did you just call me goathead?!”
I was stunned, to say the least, and it took a few moments for me to register what he’d said. When I realized that he was accusing me of calling him the most bizarre insult I’ve ever heard, I did the only thing I could do....laugh. I’m sure that didn’t soften the injuries suffered by this young man-–who, by the way, had a very normal looking head–but when Lisa said, “No, she diiiiiiiiddnn’t. Bahhhhhahahaha.” in her very best goat-like accent, I cracked up even more. Through stifled laughter, I stammered that I had not called him “goathead” and then I repeated what it was I had really said.
At this point, I don’t think he cared. He picked up his trays and walked away. I wondered what it was in his past that made him react so violently to this imagined insult. I suppose that the words “go ahead,” when not properly enunciated could sound like “goathead,” but he behaved as though I wasn’t the only person to have ever called him this.
When Lisa and I were standing at the register (still giggling over this encounter) a voice from the other register alerted us to its availability. We turned, and there was Goathead, beckoning us over to where he was now working the register. We managed to make our lunch purchases without pointing at his horns and laughing (though I think I saw Lisa take a swipe at the bell he had hanging around his neck).
As we were leaving the restaurant, we discussed how we had learned something valuable from this young man with the head of a goat -- another handy phrase! So, add this one to your list. If even anyone mumbles something you don’t quite understand, turn to them, scowl indignantly and ask, “Did you just call me Goathead!?”
And then say, “Baaaaaaaahahhahahahaaa!” Because then it would be *really* funny.
I am feeling the need to share some of my favorite past entries. Sure, it may seem lazy to populate my new diary with stuff from the old diary...but oh, well.
Keep in mind that I was single -- desperately single -- trying to survive as a Big Girl in the world of grown-up responsibilities. I didn't always succeed, as will become apparent soon enough.
Enjoy!
To Coin a Phrase
April 29, 2000 (I was 25 and living in Athens, GA.)
“About 4:30, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the party.”
Die-hard Eddie Murphy fans will recognize that line from the under-appreciated cinematic gem “The Golden Child.” Eddie is wandering the streets of Tibet when he is approached by a rather boisterous man spouting, uh....Tibetineese. Eddie’s response is to look at his watch and say, “About 4:30, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the party.”
For years, that has been my favorite response to any question I deem too confusing or too stupid to answer. If ever I find myself without an answer (not a legitimate one anyway), this phrase works very well. It always takes people a few moments to register what I said, then they have to try and understand why I said it, what I meant by it, and then attempt come up with an appropriate response of their own.
By that time, I have walked away.
Over time I have acquired a few other handy responses to such situations. My friend Sol introduced me to, “And that’s why I like kittens!” The perfect conversation pick-me-up when the dialogue lags. This phrase must be said loudly and with a broad grin -- the more pleased you are with yourself for using these phrases, the greater the effect.
Well, a few weeks ago, I discovered another verbal gem. My roommate (uh, we’ll just call her “Amy” -- since that’s what her mom calls her) and I were in Kroger. I don’t know who (if anyone) is reading this, or where you live, but I can only hope that the great god of Kroger has blessed your town. (This is not to be confused with the even greater god of Wal-Mart, but we’ll praise this one later.)
So, Amy and I are strolling along the brightly lit aisles of our favorite grocery mega-store and we find ourselves in the cosmetic section. Imagine, surrounded by all those wonderful miracle-working products guaranteed to make our lives better, our faces prettier, our hair more lustrous and manageable. I was hypnotized by the over-abundance of shampoo choices -- and I’m not talking about the various brands, I’m talking about the dozens of variations within each brand. Just as I was deciding what it was I wanted my hair care product to do for me (add more body to fine -- read: limp -- hair), Amy brings me the latest and greatest invention in nail care -- peel off nail polish.
Hmmmmmm.....
We both puzzle over this brand new phenomenon and wonder aloud about its, uh, well...purpose.
I say that I think peeling off polish is bad for your nails as it strips them of their natural layers (as I’m sure you all know). Amy says that maybe this is the reason for the easy-peel, so that neurotics who must peel off their polish can do so without damaging their nails. I say that maybe it’s for people who change their polish several times during the day. Amy says that maybe it’s for rebel bad-girls who aren’t supposed to be wearing polish, but they sneak it to school, surreptitiously put in on the smoke-filled bathrooms, but then have to remove it quickly on the bus before they get home from school lest their mothers discover their evil rebellion.
I’m sure you’ve all stopped in the middle of a store to carry on just such a conversation. Surely it’s not just us.
Anyway, it is at this point, that the woman who is occupying this aisle with us, breaks into our conversation. I’m assuming she works there, since she appears to be arranging the soap in a more orderly manner -- oh, and she’s wearing the blue smock that says “Kroger, for Goodness’ Sake.”
So, Smock Woman looks up at us and says with great conviction, “You know...for proms.”
Genius.
This was her only explanation. She then went back to playing with the soaps, leaving Amy and I completely speechless. And if you know Amy and I, you know how extraordinary this is.
We walked on in silence for a few moments, both pondering the brilliance of her response. And while I can’t say that I have grasped it’s meaning -- and I defy anyone to actually do this -- I have to appreciate Smock Woman’s response for the sheer genius that it was. I mean she does work at Kroger, for goodness’ sakes.
And I also have to thank her for giving me another clever phrase to use in situations where a legitimate answer is rejected in favor of the more bizarre.
In other words, you know....for proms.
A Picture is Worth...Well, You Know
May 15, 2000
There is a silver picture frame sitting on my coffee table in my living room. Inside that frame is the smiling image of a handsome young man. He has sandy blonde hair, hazel eyes and braces on his teeth. Truly, an all-American boy. He's wearing a navy blue blazer, a light blue shirt and a red tie with blue horizontal stripes. This teenaged charmer is standing against a backdrop of trees and flower bushes and the faint outline of a wooden, picket fence. There is a winsome expression on his youthfully innocent face as if he had suddenly burst into laughter and the camera caught him just as he was winding it down. The picture speaks of the joys of being young and the promise that is a long-life ahead.
I have no idea who this boy is.
I was walking the isles of the grocery store, when there, sitting on top of a display of Frosted Flakes, was this picture. This young boy, in all his Koda-color glory, grinning up at me from atop the image of Tony the Tiger. Deciding that such a find must in some way be serendipitous, I took it home, put it in a frame, pronounced his name "Bryan" and placed him on the coffee table. (Not only does he look like a Bryan, but he looks like the type of Bryan who would spell his name with a "y" as opposed to an "i." Don't ask me how I know this...I just do.)
So now Bryan lives with us, gracing us with his pleasant smile and prompting visitors to inquire about this young man in the silver frame.
This is where it gets fun.
I smile, say his name is Bryan and then proceed to make up a story about how I know him. The story changes every time.
Bryan is a young man I used to baby-sit for. This picture was taken on the day of his graduation from the eighth grade. I was so proud of him!
Bryan is the son of my older sister. Oh, you didn't know I had an older sister? Well, she moved away after a horrible disagreement with our mother and we haven't seen her in fifteen years. I was so young when she left, I barely remember her. This picture is all I have seen of Bryan since he's been born. I've never even met him in person.
Bryan is the young man who died in a tragic car accident, whose last, selfless act was to donate his liver to save my ailing sister. His family sent us his picture so we'll always remember the precious life that was taken and the beloved life that was saved.
Hours of entertainment from this one simple photo -- this discarded treasure I found among the cereal. Sure, I often wonder who Bryan really is, what he’s like, who was holding the camera that he smiled so winningly into? What are his hopes, his dreams? And why was I, one of hundred of shoppers in Kroger that day, destined to find this picture?
Maybe I’ll never know.
So, for now, I will continue to create stories about this young lad, making him more a part of my life with each tale...and wait for the day when someone walks into my house, sits down on the sofa, points to the picture and says, "Hey, how do you know Bryan?"
Goathead
July 14, 2000
I was standing at the counter in a deli-style restaurant with my friend Lisa waiting for our sandwiches to be made. As we were standing there, a young man who worked at the restaurant approached and asked if he could step in to pick up a stack of trays that were sitting right in front of me. I smiled and said, “Sure. Go ahead.”
He had already begun to make the move toward the trays when I said this, then all of a sudden, he whirled around on me, narrowed his eyes and said, “Did you just call me goathead?!”
I was stunned, to say the least, and it took a few moments for me to register what he’d said. When I realized that he was accusing me of calling him the most bizarre insult I’ve ever heard, I did the only thing I could do....laugh. I’m sure that didn’t soften the injuries suffered by this young man-–who, by the way, had a very normal looking head–but when Lisa said, “No, she diiiiiiiiddnn’t. Bahhhhhahahaha.” in her very best goat-like accent, I cracked up even more. Through stifled laughter, I stammered that I had not called him “goathead” and then I repeated what it was I had really said.
At this point, I don’t think he cared. He picked up his trays and walked away. I wondered what it was in his past that made him react so violently to this imagined insult. I suppose that the words “go ahead,” when not properly enunciated could sound like “goathead,” but he behaved as though I wasn’t the only person to have ever called him this.
When Lisa and I were standing at the register (still giggling over this encounter) a voice from the other register alerted us to its availability. We turned, and there was Goathead, beckoning us over to where he was now working the register. We managed to make our lunch purchases without pointing at his horns and laughing (though I think I saw Lisa take a swipe at the bell he had hanging around his neck).
As we were leaving the restaurant, we discussed how we had learned something valuable from this young man with the head of a goat -- another handy phrase! So, add this one to your list. If even anyone mumbles something you don’t quite understand, turn to them, scowl indignantly and ask, “Did you just call me Goathead!?”
And then say, “Baaaaaaaahahhahahahaaa!” Because then it would be *really* funny.
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