100th Post

To commemorate my 100th post, I have removed my other blog. You know, the one about my dating pratfalls. It is my prayer that I don't have to revive it. Merry Christmas Readers!

Christmas Movie Trivia

My Bff loves her some Christmas movies. I do not. Each day she posts Christmas Movie Trivia questions on her Facebook, and is offering a Starbuck's gift card to the person who answers the most questions correctly. Thus far, I have answered none (correctly). The problem is, she posts questions about shitty movies. There are only three holiday movies (tops) that I can sit through. None were made in the last decade. She refuses to post questions about these movies, preferring to use the likes of "Fred Claus" and "The Santa Clause" instead. I would rather gauge my own eyes out than sit through that. But, judging from the response that she gets, I am in the minority. So, in true BFF fashion, I will do my own quiz. Here.

And now I present: The FormerMeanGirl Holiday Movie Trivia Quiz
(I call it a quiz, not a contest, because no one is going to win anything...sorry, times is tough.)

1. In "It's a Wonderful Life", when young George Bailey gets slapped upside the head by his senile pharmacist boss, what flavor is the jelly that comes out of his bad ear?

2. In "Home For The Holidays" (the good one with Holly Hunter), who approved that awful version of "Evil Ways" that plays in the intro?

3. In "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer" (claymation version), who hid Santa's Paxil?

4. In "Frosty The Snowman" (cartoon version), where is the school counselor when all these kids are following an imaginary snowman around town?

5. Follow up question for "Frosty The Snowman", how much should the dosage of Karen's Risperdal increase to prevent any further hallucinations?

6. In "A Charlie Brown Christmas", why does Linus sound exactly like Kevin Bacon during his monologue about the nativity?

7. In "A Christmas Story", where is the buffet with pizza in the Chinese joint they eat at in the end?

8. In "Home Alone", why were they so worried that they left that brat at home? I would have done that on purpose.

9. In "The Nightmare Before Christmas", what the feck was Tim Burton taking? And where can I get some of that?

10. In "Christmas Vacation", who actually owned the camper that Randy Quaid squatted in?

And there you have it folks. You're welcome.

Getting Toys

The mother of my best friend had a collection of self-help, business management type books in the spare bedroom of her home. BFF and I were hanging out in that room one day, probably pilfering for something, when she pointed to a book on the shelf. The book was titled, "Getting To Yes." I assumed it was some sort of deal-closing advice book. BFF then told me that when she was a kid, she thought the book was titled, "Getting Toys." I never saw the book the same way again.

Recently, BFF and I were talking about that book and how awesome it would be to actually have a book that gave you step by step instructions on how to get the thing you most want. Not the thing you are supposed to want, like inner strength or serenity; but the thing you really want, such as toys, candy, happiness without struggle or responsibility. We discussed how one could title a book with a hook, such as "Getting Toys", and then enclosing a lesson inside the book; such as how to clean your room or be more obedient. Surely, the children of the world would pick up a book entitled, "Getting Toys". This led to a running list of books, a series perhaps, of new covers for old books. New covers to hook people into reading the books they should be reading, thereby manipulating the reading public. Trickery, if you will. Here are some ideas:

New Cover/Title for:

The Bible-"How Not To Burn In Hell For All Eternity"

The Dog Whisperer-"How Not To Come Home To Dog Turds On Your Sofa"

The World Is Flat-"Interesting Tidbits To Discuss At A Cocktail Party To Appear Smart For 3 Minutes"

Little Women-"Fall Asleep In 2 Minutes Or Less...Every Time"

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus-"How To Get Your Man To Rub Your Feet Every Day, How To Convince Your Wife To Let You Buy A Corvette"

Lord Of The Flies-"How To Convince Your Parents to Not Send You To Summer Camp"

Lord Of The Rings-"How To Ensure That You Never Have To Talk To Women. Ever."

Eat, Pray, Love-"How To Feel Miserable About Your Lack Of Money"

The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People-"How To Annoy Every Person You Encounter"

The Secret-"How To Lead A Life Of Futility and Disappointment" (ed. note: The people who would read the "The Secret" would likely read a book entitled "How To Lead A Life of Futility and Disappointment" to solidify their self hatred.)

Chicken Soup For the Soul-"How To Wear Appliqued Cardigans and Wooden Necklaces So That People Think They Can Take Advantage of Your Kindness"

Who Moved My Cheese-"How To Delude Yourself That You Actually Have Control Over The Things That Happen To You" or "How to Incorrectly Use Analogies To Appear In Control In Times of Distress"

What To Expect When You're Expecting-"Short Stories About Hideous Things That Will Happen To Your Body If You Have Sex"

Martha Stewart's HomeKeeping Handbook-"Make Your Friends Feel Inadequate When They Visit Your Home, Thereby Getting The Social Upper Hand"

Canterbury Tales-"Explicit Descriptions of Sodomy in Merry Olde England"

Helter Skelter-"A Few Satisfyingly Disturbingly Scary Pictures Mixed In With Many Many Words"

A Million Little Pieces-"I Pissed Off Oprah"

Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man-"Date Like a Middle Aged Black Adulterer"

He's Just Not That Into You-"How To Alienate Every Shy Man You Encounter"

Ok, Ok...so I got a little off-topic and changed the focus about halfway through. Maybe I should have titled this entry:

"Lines You Can Steal To Crack Up Your Off-Kilter Literary Friends"

or even:

"Something To Read While Taking A Break From Facebook"

Behind The Camera

I was recently engaged in a shame filled disagreement with a close friend. Ok, someone recently got pissed off at me because I updated my Facebook status during dinner. And, he had every right to. Of course, I tried to defend myself...but deep down I knew I was wrong. And I felt ashamed. It blew over rather quickly and before long we were back to normal. But, I was different. I saw things through different eyes, now that my habit had been pointed out to me. Updating my facebook/tweeting/texting/etc is my equivalent of walking around with a camera at the ready and never actually seeing the things I photograph (which I am bad about as well.) Basically, I am so concerned with informing everyone of my good time that I forget to actually have a good time.

Now, I do love my social media. I can't imagine life before it. But, I should. I spent at least 32 years without it (yes, I was tardy for the party). And in those 32years, I saw things with my own eyes. I skied down Camelback Mountain, alone, only screaming part of the way down...without updating anyone on my progress. I watched the formerly sucky 1991 Atlanta Braves parade down Peachtree Street in a ticker tape blur without so much as a hanging chad to show for it. I got married, not once but twice, without the world knowing every single step along the way. The engagement picture in my hometown newspaper had to suffice as my "status update". I spent a week in Las Vegas and saw more things in that one week than I have cumulatively seen in my entire life; and have very few pictures to show for it. These were times in my life that I was present for the present. And, my memories of these times are rich and detailed.

Now the flipside. I finally made it to California in 2005. I had always wanted to go and was so excited to be sent there for a conference...on someone else's dime. I spent the entire trip behind my camera, capturing everything I could on film as if I was about to be diagnosed with Alzheimer's. And you know what? I remember very little about that trip. And, what's worse, my film was ruined on the trip home; therefore, I don't even have the pictures to show for it. Everytime I think about that I get pissed with myself. I took that trip in the future. My logic was "I'll just get all this on film so that I will always be able to look at the pictures and remember what it was like." Nope. Didn't work. When I think about that trip, all I can think about is how filled with regret I am that I didn't actually experience the trip...I just documented it. So, why didn't I learn my lesson? I think I have the answer...

If I can convince my 200+ Facebook friends, random tweet followers, and text addict friends that I am happy and having the best time ever...then it must be true. It's called validation and I am clearly addicted to it. Somewhere along the way, my own validation of myself became unimportant and I required the admiration of people who matter very little to me to feel as though I have accomplished something. Social Media is like crack to a validation addict. My Iphone is my pipe. It is my trumpet, allowing me to blare my happiness and good fortune to the public. But, you know what? Trumpets are loud and annoying. What if I literally had a trumpet instead of an Iphone?

"Yeah, I'll have the filet, medium well." ATTENTION! CUE THE HORNS! FMG IS AT A FINE DINING ESTABLISHMENT AND SHE JUST ORDERED A STEAK! "Oh, and also a glass of merlot." ATTENTION!!! CUE THE HORNS!! FMG IS GETTING HER DRINK ON AT THE FINE DINING ESTABLISHMENT!!! Sitting across from my friend ATTENTION!! CUE THE HORNS!! FMG IS NOT ALONE AT THE FINE DINING ESTABLISHMENT!!! we discuss THE LATEST NEWS STORY which I have googled right there so as to have UP TO THE MINUTE information. The food arrives. ATTENTION!! CUE THE HORNS!! FMG IS ENJOYING HER MEAL. HERE IS A PICTURE OF IT. DON'T YOU WISH YOU HAD THIS MEAL? After dinner, my friend and I decide to get a coffee. ATTENTION!!! CUE THE HORNS!! FMG HAS LEFT THE FINE DINING ESTABLISHMENT AND IS NOW ON HER WAY TO STARBUCKS!!

See what I mean? I can't imagine sitting across from someone and only seeing the top of his head as he looks down at his Iphone for the majority of the meal. But, I was guilty of this and it was pointed out to me and for that, I am sorry. Truth is, there was no one else I would have rather been sitting across from, but as with all addictions...the fix always wins out. That admonishment served as a 180 day stay at Crossroads for me. I put the pipe away and counted myself as present. And, I have the vivid memories to prove I was there.

Everythings Fine...Really!

Last week, I was on my way to my appointment with my therapist. Yes, my therapist. You don't go through all the bullshit that I have survived in the last 16 years without one. Plus, pouring all my complaints out to someone every two weeks keeps me happy and funny for everyone else. Anyhoo--so I was on my way to see her and I thought to myself, "Wow, I really don't have anything to talk about today. I must really be doing well. Maybe I will suggest tapering off so that I can use that $40 on something else." I got to her office and sat down, without the usual long drawn out sigh. She asked how things were going and I smiled brightly and said, "Great!" She asked for details.

How I went from "Great!" to a weeping "See you in two weeks" mess is the subject of my post today.

I proudly told her how I had enforced my boundaries over the last couple of weeks. We discussed how awkward and weird that felt and she gave me some pointers in tweaking my approach and perhaps toning down my offensiveness. I mentioned, just in passing, that I was still unsure about how to proceed with the issue of relationships. Of course, she wanted to hone in on that one remark. And, in just 40 minutes, my facade came crumbling down.

I mentioned that I still felt so scared to commit to anything, afraid of the consequence, and ultimately, afraid of making the wrong choices...again. She did a brief rundown of the things I chose not to commit to over the last two years and we discussed how, thus far, it would seem that I had made good choices. However, I have chosen not to commit for so long that it is like second nature now. And the reason I choose not to commit? Because I want to avoid the searing white hot pain that I have become accustomed to when I go all in. This has boiled over into every aspect of my life, from work to what to have for dinner. I can't decide on anything. I keep my options open until the very last second, until I am forced into a decision, and then I lament how pressured to choose I felt. Or, I will decide, then change my mind, then change it back, then change it back again, and so on; finally becoming so exhausted with it that I eventually lose interest. After reviewing this, I was still fine and slightly less optimistic, but still good. I remarked to her that it has been so long since I was in a serious relationship that I don't think I would know how to act. She reminded me that there was no script, only just the commitment to be my "authentic self". That's the problem, I reminded her. When my "authentic self" comes out, all of a sudden things start to fall apart and next thing I know, I'm gathering quotes from moving companies. The problem, she reminded me, was that I didn't show that "self" at the beginning, instead just bringing her out later and expecting everybody to accept her. So basically, I am guilty of acting like nice, fun, sparkly girlfriend in the beginning and then turning into a bitch on wheels down the line. Well, kinda. Anyway, we discussed more of my fears about committing to any relationship...even those that have thus far proven promising and positive. I had a list a mile long:


I'm afraid I will overreact about something minor and kill the relationship.
I'm afraid I will change my mind.
I'm afraid I will choose, then pine over the one I didn't choose.
I'm afraid of wanting something completely different 5 years from now.
I'm afraid I will fall in love and devote myself to someone who is careless with me.
I'm afraid I will have to upset the neat little apple cart of my life.
I'm afraid of being uncertain about the relationship's future.
I'm afraid of going to bed angry.
I'm afraid of sleeping next to someone who is angry with me.
I'm afraid of finding an errant receipt for dinner for two...that I didn't eat.
I'm afraid of hang-up calls.
I'm afraid of EVERYTHING.

See, I am able to talk myself out of a relationship every time. My therapist leaned in and said the words that totally demolished my "Hey! Everything's fine! Really!" facade. "I want you to live. I want to see you live instead of hanging back on the sidelines because you are afraid of messing up. Your fear has kept you from really living for long enough now. I would rather see you live messily than not live perfectly."

I couldn't stop the big fat tears from spilling over. It hit me so hard because, well...she's right. I have allowed fear to completely paralyze me. And now, I can barely order dinner without second, third, fourth, and fifth guessing myself. I can barely get my paperwork done because if I can't do it perfectly, then I don't want to do it at all. And, I can't let the right one in for fear of forcing the wrong one out. Therefore, I have just been floating along, keeping every option open but not choosing any. That's not to say that I don't want to choose. I actually do. I want to be in a relationship, but I also want a guarantee that it will be the last relationship and that I will not ever get hurt again. As long as I wait for that, the right one isn't coming. Thus far, I have been okay with that. Preferring not hurting to taking a risk. I am beginning to not be okay with that though. And my only thought is...."YIKES!!!!!"

My vision was blurry as I opened up my calendar to schedule our next appointment. "Ok, so...how about two weeks from today?" she asked.

"Works for me", I replied.

Meanness Overload

This weekend, I visited my mother. She lives in Hardin County, in a small community known as Crump, TN. We had no plans for the weekend, but I noticed that the county fair was going on, so I suggested we go over to Savannah for some good old fashioned county fair fun. And, candy apples. So, away we went. And thus began my education of just how different people are the farther away from the metropolis you get.

First of all, we were charged $5 each to enter. Normally, this would not be an issue, but was the fair even open? No rides were going. There was no music. I'm used to at least the blaring rock music from the Himalayan ride, complete with the redneck barker (DO YOU WANNA GO FASTER?). Nothing. Even the brightly colored fried everything food stand was empty. A tumbleweed swept by. This was the makings for a bad horror flick. Mom and I headed over to the "exhibit hall".

The first thing on display that I noticed upon entering the exhibit hall was a man holding a large white cat like a baby. And, the cat was allowing this. The second thing I noticed was this:


Dude was proud of his girth, too. I bet he beams with pride when someone calls him "Big John". He is probably the high school football coach.


Anyway, on to the real exhibits.



And really, what is a good ol fashioned county fair without a Jesus table? I, myself, prefer to balance out my fun and gluttony with a reminder of eternal damnation and hellfire.




I see someone in Hardin County has a sense of humor. And, perhaps a sense of irony, as this was next to the Table O' Jesus. But, that may be pushing it.


I'm starting to notice a theme here. His cap said "Security". Guess he was in charge of guarding the funnel cakes.


Big Orange was a common site. I told a friend that it looked like Neyland Stadium puked all over the fair. I'm no Vols fan, but the licensing committee really should have better control over who dons their logo. This is not exactly a good representation. But, it is typical.


A new twist on the old "business in the front, party in the back" mullet joke. Only, the front went out of business. The front is closed. These men have some sort of deep seated need to prove their hair growing virility. Yeah, I can't grow anything up top, but look at this mane that I have cultivated below my ears!


In the end, it was all worth it though.

I can justify my exploitation of these folks. There was not a friendly face in the crowd. It is my nature to smile at strangers, I don't know why, because the commentary ticker in my head is usually ripping them to shreds, but either way; I gave these folks a chance to redeem themselves. I smiled at each one of them, and was met with half open mouth breathing and vacant eyes. I never thought I would say this, but I missed the friendliness of metro living. It is funny to me that the consensus in these parts is that Memphis is a terrifying place that one should never venture outside of a church trip to the Picadilly. I found their surroundings equally scary.

She Needed The Money

My best friend and I have a secret thing that we do, as most women do I'm sure. We facebook snark. Throughout the day, we patrol the status updates of our "friends" and then text back and forth about how retarded said friend is. The exchange usually ends with me making her an offer of money for a mean comment. For example:

me: Crisp $20 bill in the mail to you tomorrow if you comment "Jesus doesn't love you anymore".
her: No way!!

me: A $50 check could be on it's way to you if you comment "guess you should have used birth control"
her: no.

me: 2 $20 bills are being placed into an envelope right now. I will write your address on the envelope if you comment "hey wait, weren't you married last week?"
her: you do it.

But not tonight. Nope. Tonight, she cracked. Two former classmates, met cute and married. They live the most awesome life ever since having the most awesome child ever. One is a mousy ham-armed bitch. The other is a George Hamilton wannabe corporate drone. A match made in heaven. Life is just fecking fantastic for these assholes and thank god there's facebook; otherwise, I might miss the minute details of their fabulous existence. Ok ok, I will admit two things. First...the corporate drone...my boyfriend in high school (not the important one, though). Secondly, the only reason I added them (him, her, who knows...they share facebook...how lovely) was to sharpen my catty claws at their expense. My friend is mean, not as mean as I, but she is learning. The following update popped up on my news feed:

C*ndy S**th H**f ‎.... the cook at Banzai tonight told Lamar and I we were famous....he thought I was Tina Fey & he thought Lamar was Steve Carrell.
58 minutes ago via Facebook for BlackBerry · Comment ·LikeUnlike · Share

Am*nda G**nn Rams**r Hahahahaha! Did you sign autographs?
55 minutes ago · LikeUnlike.

C*ndy S**th H**f No autographs please :)
51 minutes ago · LikeUnlike.


This is where I sent my best friend a text, offering up $20 for a comment insinuating that dude was just looking for a tip. Before I could say "Cha Ching!", I saw the comment box expand:


C*ssie F*m*y That guy will say anything for an extra tip!!!!!
25 minutes ago · LikeUnlike.

C*ndy S**th H**f No extra tip, their automatic 15% is already too much for the poor service. Plus, Tina Fey and Steve Carrell really don't impress us that much. I mean really, do either of us look like them? I have glasses but that is it. :)
21 minutes ago · LikeUnlike.

Awesometastic. I could hear the sputtering from 500 miles away. Meanness is a quality best exercised among friends and best rewarded with cold hard cash. Unfortunately, my friend won't be receiving that $20 anytime soon. Yet another lesson in meanness. Courtesy of moi.

Oh, and don't feel bad for the Tina Fey non-look-a-like. Bitch had it coming.

One more thing, in case anyone was wondering. Being small and petty is quite satisfying every now and again. Hey, at least I'm honest.

Eat Walk Die

I had an eventful weekend.

I saw "Eat Pray Love" and left with my usual lament that it wasn't nearly as good as the book. But, it was still good. I was melancholy as Hell on the drive home. I haven't yet processed all of it; but the gist is this: I wish to God I had enough money to escape for a year. I would edit Ms. Gilbert's itinerary by omitting India, opting instead for Greece. I could come much closer to God on an isolated beach. I would keep Italy and Bali in, though...as long as Bali held the same Javier Bardem promise. I have the same hang up that Ms. Gilbert suffered, I want to know "how long". I miss things and people and I am reluctant to just give in to missing them because I am terrified that once I slide down the slippery slope, I won't be able to claw my way back up. A global tour would go a long way toward helping that.

I completed the Elvis 5k at Graceland in nearly 100 degree heat. And, I did it in under an hour. Yes, I walked the entire race; something I am not used to, and something that I have a new respect for. As I started out, I was thinking, "Phffft, this isn't bad at all." Then I saw the 1 mile mark. ONE MILE??? I thought I was at least halfway through it. By the 2nd mile mark, my shins were screaming. I honestly wanted to take off running, just to get it over with quicker. But, I hung in there. And, I learned something along the way. I had always assumed that anything in South Memphis was seedy and blighted. The neighborhood around Graceland, off the main drag, was nice. Nice well kept, well landscaped homes that would have been right at home in High Point Terrace. And, some of the residents stood out in their yards and aimed their sprinklers and water hoses at us as we passed. Not in a "Get out of my neighborhood" kind of way, but in a "Wow, you look hot, here...have a spray" kind of way. On the last mile, they stood out in the yards and cheered, "You're almost there!". It was great! After the race, there was a smorgasboard of goodies, including but not limited to: Krispy Kreme donuts, beer, hot dogs, fruit, coke, coffee, and popcorn. And, I got a tee shirt.

I made a live television appearance on Sunday. It wasn't my first television appearance, but my first live one. I presented a big check during a telethon. I was so nervous, I thought I was literally going to pass out and die. When it was over and I was walking off stage, I then thought I would pass out and die from relief. As I stood backstage, my heart pounding in my head, chest, foot, I tried to remember the last time I felt so nervous. I couldn't. We were waiting for the band the finish up their number and I was so dismayed that, should I drop dead, I would die to "Play That Funky Music". I always thought it would be "Layla". I couldn't have my death played out in such a cheesy and sucky fashion, so I bucked up and basically disassociated. After I cleared the rickety stairs off the stage, I had the roller coaster moment. "Oh my God! This is so scary! I'm paralyzed with terror! Oh no, it's my turn! Oh God. I can't breathe. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Wow! That was fun! Can I go again?"

Emergency Chute and PA System

Most days, I would give just about anything for a PA system and an Emergency chute, a la Steve Slater. Mr. Slater, a former Jetblue flight attendant, reached his limit on Monday. You can read about it here:
http://blogs.wsj.com/metropolis/2010/08/09/fed-up-flight-attendant-pops-planes-emergency-chute-at-jfk-slides-away/
I feel this man's pain. Though I have never considered how beneficial props would be, I feel fairly certain that I could do some real damage with a PA system.

"Good afternoon, Bitches, and thanks again for choosing Jetblue. It has not been a pleasure to serve you today, as some of you got on my last fecking nerve. Let's give the passenger in seat 19D a round of applause, as he actually managed to knock the shoulder of every passenger in 18 rows with his large duffel; because after all, he really is the only one on the plane. The lady in the back, Ms. I Don't Know How to Modulate My Voice, we all hope you find your bracelet and we are all sorry that you didn't enjoy Cabo to it's fullest extent due to your stomach virus. Those passengers who did not opt for a shower before heading to the airport...being closed up in this tube with your funky asses for the last 90 minutes has been a little slice of heaven. Would the chic with all the Bohemian garb please stand up? Yes, you there, you boarded in Memphis dear; not Bali. What's with all the beads? As if your exposed armpits weren't bad enough, frankly, your feet should be enclosed in shoes; as they are a hot mess. To the passenger in seat 17F...thanks for jeopardizing all of our lives by lying when I asked you if you would be able to open the emergency exit. Quit playing, you couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag. You can't even breathe with your mouth closed. And finally, Jetblue wishes to extend a heartfelt Buh Bye to The Most Obnoxious Parents Ever. Your kids have snot running out they nose and you spent 5 minutes trying to negotiate their favorite purple drank from the beverage cart. Their screaming and whining only served to add to the ambience. Wherever it is that ya'll are going, please either stay there forever, or drive home. Now, I would like to take this opportunity to say Go To Hell you self indulgent pieces of shit. Most of you should not be allowed to fly the friendly skies, as ya'll have the manners of cloven hooved animals (and thanks to your blown out flip flops, I see you have the cloven hooves to match). They have Hertz for people like you and it won't do nearly as much damage to your maxed out Capital One as this ticket did.
Now, where is that damn Chute release button? Oh, there it is! Feck all of ya'll!"

And with that, I would slide my way to freedom and a book deal.

Liquor is Quicker

Wow, I was really burned out yesterday. I am really curious about the statistics of how many public service workers have drinking problems. I was all lathered up about the government dole yesterday, I came home and stewed, blogged, even squeezed out a couple of tears of frustration. Then, I went back to work. It's what I do. So, I am taking a break from doing in favor of getting the writing about doing back on track yesterday afternoon, when I had an epiphany.

I haven't been utilizing my interns properly. I have never had interns; therefore, I have no idea what their role is. But, now I know. They are there to do the grunt work. I am there to determine the need, not meet it. So, some changes are in order. I get the sense that I am the only one who didn't know, and I can't blame anyone but myself. I too have been guilty of not telling the new person all about the ways that us old timers are supposed to help her. That's my karma, I suppose.

After work, I went out and had margaritas and didn't discuss my frustration. Why bother. Anyone who knows me knows that I am still trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. Plus, I get tired of the flip responses of "So, just quit and do something else". Right. Anyway, I came home and watched the election results and then went to bed.

And that is when it got strange.

I dreamed that it was Labor Day Weekend. And there was some sort of neighborhood fest. The people across the street had a huge shindig. A UPS truck pulled up and I didn't answer the door (which is standard operating procedure). I spied the very cute driver letting himself into my home. He had a large box. He opened the box and began putting cans of coke into my fridge. Then, he washed up my dishes! So, that is what brown can do for me! I came into the kitchen to question this stranger. He was very non chalant and said that he was just helping me out a little. THEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, all these people streamed into my home and posted up in my dining room. It was the crowd from across the street. At least 15 people were now sitting in my home, looking at me all expectantly. UPS guy says that he would like to take me out for dinner; however, it looks like I am busy. Right about that time, I looked outside and was horrified to see all these broken down campers on my lawn, with what appeared to be carnie type folks malingering around them. The campers looked like they had been there for decades! I was trying to tell him that I had no idea who any of these people were, but it was too loud. I woke up MAD AS HELL.

So, today, I am going to give some thought to what the hell that's about. Oh, and do some social work too. It's what I do.

Just. Make. It. Stop.

I am going to start playing the lottery. This time, I mean it. The job that was once a blessing, is now a curse and I am, once again, drag assing around. So as not to bring about any sort of "help" from the Universe, let me just say right now...I am still thankful that I am working. But Lord have mercy, I am exhausted. And behind. And frustrated. And I still don't have a lunch partner. And, I don't like my clients. The list just goes on.

It has become apparent that I was hired to do 2 full time jobs in one full time role. I would love to think that the powers that be thought that I was so fabulous and capable that they hired me based on my juggling skills. I would love to believe that; however, I don't. I think they hired me based on the fact that they needed to fill both positions quick and I was qualified. I have been given an overstuffed binder that is falling apart and basically set loose on the needy citizens of West Tennessee to practice social work magic. I laugh at my early notion that they "got it". That they understood that the absolute worst thing a social worker could do for her client is to do it for them. Superficially, most people believe this. But when it comes down to it, most still subscribe to the belief that if the client isn't willing to do their part, it is perfectly okay to just pick up the slack. Which, of course, creates dependence. Soon, you begin to get calls from people because they can't seem to get themselves to the doctor's office. Or, they are out of milk. Or, heaven forbid, they can't buy notebook paper. How is this my problem? I believe in helping people dust themselves off, not washing them clean of any and all responsibility for themselves.

And the paperwork!!! My God. There are two types of social workers. Those that do, and those that write about doing. I do. I hate writing about what I do. I understand it is a necessary evil, but often I find myself writing the same thing on 3, 4, sometimes 5 documents; all for the sake of grant money. I will never be caught up with paperwork, it is a fact that I need to learn to deal with. I have three offices, in two counties and one in my car. Papers slung everywhere, forms half filled out, post it notes with scriblings like "Ms. X needs detergent!!!" stuck everywhere. It is never as simple as just getting some detergent to Ms. X. No ma'am. First, I have to fill out a form, justifying why Ms. X needs detergent. Then, I must fill out another form (all longhand) stating that I counseled Ms. X on detergent conservation. I must log Ms. X into a large book whose location tends to change weekly, documenting how much detergent I gave to Ms. X and the estimated value. I must call Ms. X to make sure she will be home to receive the delivery of the precious washing powders. Delivery is then made. But it isn't over there. Not by a long shot. Ms. X must sign a form stating that she received the detergent. Next, a longhand note is made detailing (all in 3rd person) exactly what transpired when I brought Ms. X the detergent. At the end of National Detergent Delivery Month, I must then compile a report and include Ms. X's receipt of the detergent so that, I suppose, it can go into some sort of national detergent database. But guess what? Now Ms. X knows that any time she runs out of detergent...she just makes a call and we do it all over again. Month after month. Times 15 clients. Would it not just be easier for Ms. X to haul her ass down to the Dollar G and purchase some Sun? No. You know why? Because Ms. X prefers Tide. And Tide is what she gets.

Sometimes, I miss the sterile viper pit of a hospital that I used to work in. I made very little difference there as well, but at least the paperwork was minimal and the patients wore gowns. Gowns that were laundered by someone else. With someone else's detergent. That I didn't have to purchase, deliver, or document.

Whatchu Talkin Bout Elton?

As much as I love music, I misunderstand A LOT of lyrics. I readily admit this, usually just substituting the word "meow" for the parts I don't understand. Try it, it usually fits nicely.

Elton John is one of my favorite artists, but dude does not annunciate well at all. Each one of his songs has a lyric in it that gives me pause and then brings out the "meows". There are other songs, which my college roommate and I butchered, that still make me laugh to this day at the ridiculousness of what we thought they said. What follows is a true account of butchered lyrics that still, to this day, make me chuckle:

1. What I heard: Hold me closer Tony Danza, Count the Head Lice on the highway.
What he said: Hold me closer tiny dancer, count the head lights on the highway.
"Tiny Dancer" by Elton John.

2. What I heard: It's Saturday Night, have you seen my legs?
I still have no idea what he actually said
"Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting" by Elton John

3. What I heard: She's got electric boobs, her mom has two.
What he said: She's got electric boots, a mohair suit.
"Bennie and The Jets"...again...Elton John

4. What I heard: Cinnamon Gum!!
What he said: Should've been gone!
"Oh Sherry" by Steve Perry

5. What I heard: He is a Woman
What they said: Evil woman
"Evil Woman" by ELO

6. What I heard: I'm not your wallet on a chain
What he said: And not your puppet on a string
"I Just Want to be Your Everything" by Andy Gibb

7. What I heard: Cry in the night if it helps, And Mama n'em
Again, I have no idea what he actually said
"I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues"...Elton John

8. What I heard: And Rot Inside a Corporate Shell
What he said: something to the effect of rot inside a corpse and shell.
"Thriller" by Michael Jackson (the Vincent Price part)

9. What I heard: There's maxis in the bathroom, just below the stairs
What he said: There's matches in the bathroom, just below the stairs
"Nobody Told Me" by John Lennon

10. What I heard: Mennen, by mennen by mennen I keep holding on
What he said: Minute by minute by minute I keep holding on
"Minute By Minute" Michael McDonald

11. What I heard: Queen of Tacoma
What he said: Queen of Corona
"Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard" by Paul Simon

12. What I heard: When you come to me and the suppers free
What they said: And you come to me on a summer's breeze
"How Deep Is Your Love" by the Bee Gees

13. What I heard: Stretch marks for dollars
What she said: Deustch marks or dollars
"Private Dancer" by Tina Turner

These are but a few. Please feel free to either share your own misheard lyrics for everyone's enjoyment, or to correct the ones that I still don't know the answer to.

Shortcuts

The stack of magazines mocks me every time I enter my living room. For that matter, so does my couch, my tv, my tivo, and my blanket. If the house is quiet, I would swear that I hear them calling, "Where have you been? Come, enjoy us again. We miss you!" The months I spent in recluse feels like decades ago. These days, I run through my house, often shedding clothes and accessories in the kitchen and spritzing myself with the perfume that now sits by the door on my way out again. Not that I'm complaining...I spent quite enough time flipping through magazines and wrapping up in my blanket, wondering if I would ever be busy again. Now that it is here, I barely have time to miss those halcyon days.

Shortcuts have become a necessity. I have invented several time saving techniques to well...save time. Anyone who knows me knows that I have always valued time over money. Usually, suffering a deficit in one area, I find myself with an abundance of the other. Nowadays, both are in short supply. Frugality with money is second nature, so I don't even notice the tight budget; but frugality with time is a totally new concept. And what is it about a new (dare I say it?) boyfriend that totally blows one's time budget? It isn't like we spend every waking moment together. But, I guess the time that I used to devote to sitting around has been line item vetoed and redistributed to my old maid prevention exercises. Creativity is key in devising time saving shortcuts.

Pretty hands, pretty life: I don't get my nails done. I can't afford the upkeep, both in time and expense. I can think of nothing more draining and frustrating than sitting at the nail table making broken English small talk with the petite overly interested nail tech. So, I paint my nails myself. With quick dry polish. This week, my time was limited, and by the time Friday afternoon rolled around, I had run out of time. My nails were painted, but were in need of a shiny top coat (I don't half ass the manicure...it just takes me a while to complete it). So, instead of attending the Al Green show with dull nails, I simply took the bottle with me. I applied the top coat and drove with the air vents aimed at my now lovely hands. By the time I reached Rosemark, on the long Hwy 14 trek to Memphis, my nails were dry. Easy Peasy. The air vents worked like a charm and I am excited at the prospect of the hours I will be saving in the future by utilizing my car's nail drying option.

Cherry limeaid note catch up: My job involves A LOT of writing. It is 10% action, 90% writing about said action. This tends to pile up, and at the end of the month, I feel like quitting my job because the neglected paperwork is a fate worse than poverty. But, no more. I discovered that a 20 minute Sonic Cherry Limeaid break at 2:30 (happy hour, half off!) totally saves the day. My job requires me to be in no fewer than 3 places (counties) at once, so I am often "in the road" and in a hurry. I kind of miss the days of having a desk that I actually sat at. Sitting down to write out my notes, a luxury I simply can't afford. Friday, I was in between clients and found myself with 20 minutes that weren't obligated. The Sonic magically appeared on the left and before I could talk myself out of it, I swooped in and placed my order. The blank notes cleared their throats from my passenger seat, "Ahem, hello? Hows about spending a little time with us?" I pulled out my pen, paid for my drink, and spent the next 20 minutes catching up a week's worth of notes. A little while later, I was hydrated and caught up.

Tan and Go: I can't believe I have been sweating it out at the city pool for hours and hours to achieve my summer glow when all along, I could have just pressed a button. Loreal Sublime Bronze, people. It works. Swoosh swoosh swoosh...done. No Jersey Shore orangeness, just a smooth subtle tan without the frown lines from having to listen to Bay Bay's kids play in the water.

Sleep in a pencil: Benefit Cosmetics, Eye Bright. I rarely sleep more than 6 hours anymore, but just a couple of swipes of this miracle, and you would think I just emerged from a nice peaceful coma. I have to be careful though, too much and I look like someone who uses makeup to hide lack of sleep...

And quite possibly the best time saver of all:



After a few years of cultivating the long hair look, I finally made the leap back to easy. And let me be the first to tell you...SO WORTH IT. Thank God The Candidate isn't one of those men with the weird long hair on a woman fixation. Even if he was, I think he would choose my new cropped coif over "My God it's hot. This sucks. Where's my ponytail holder? I will be late, I'm straightening my hair. Is my hair frizzy? Jesus Christ, it is hot." any day of the week. Friday night, as we enjoyed our wine at the Al Green concert, I found myself making the all too familiar motion to pile my hair up to cool my neck off. I was pleased to reach back there and find nothing. I caught his eye as I did this, and he smiled at me and said, "Good call!"
Indeed it was.

The business of being busy takes it's toll at times. There have been times, recently, that I have had the fleeting thought of, "I should just shed myself of all this activity and go back to sitting my ass at home". But then, the phone rings, the alarm clock goes off, the doorbell chirps, and I hear those still exciting words, "You ready, sweetheart?"

Indeed, I am.

Surely It Isn't Supposed to Be This Easy

I have lost count of how many dates The Candidate and I have been on in the last two weeks. I'm no fan of whirlwind romances, but I have to admit that it is nice. I find myself slipping into the all too familiar thoughts of "Uh Oh, this is too easy..." and waiting for the shoe to fall. I am still in the "checking out" phase of dating, but honestly, the quality of man that would be required to distract my attention away from The Candidate as this point rises every day.

I am posting this here, on my "normal" blog, because I am hesitant to filth up my dating journey blog with daisies, puppies, and sunshine. I can't bring myself to aim the cattiness beam at The Candidate. That blog isn't about what happens when I stop to take a rest on the road to Mr Right...not that I have determined that The Candidate is Mr Right, mind you; but he is pretty much the only guy I am seeing now.

Last night we met at a Mexican food joint in Millington, our new halfway spot. I have shed myself of a couple of formal dating rules in favor of being casual. We decided to grab some dinner and margaritas at the last minute, having spent the majority of the weekend in each other's company. The positive thing about that is that I actually wanted to see him again so soon. Having had a tiring day at work, I decided to test the comfort level and go full casual. Jeans and a t-shirt, hair in a knot, leftover work make-up. The Candidate beamed at me as if I had selected something from the "back of the closet collection". He liked my hair in a knot!

After dinner, we lingered over our pitcher of margaritas, discussing uplifting topics such as crazy family members, death, and end of life care. No, we weren't plotting anything, just peeling a few layers back to see beyond the Dave Chappelle quotes and music preferences. I kept an open mind, not immediately jumping ship at the differences in values. We interwove that conversation with funny little tidbits about the drama of dating. I began to notice that The Candidate dropped hints here and there, but remained reserved enough not to jump on those hints like a hungry Rottweiler.

I like to think of my life as cake. Cake is great by itself, or at least it should be. A relationship is the icing on said cake. Cake doesn't need icing to be good, but it does make it better. Sometimes. But, no amount of icing is going to make a bad cake good. Don't believe me? Substitute salt for sugar next time and then spread a can of frosting all over that mess and tell me how that works out. I have been perfecting my cake recipe for a while now, and I must say...it's good. Now that I am tweaking the recipe to include frosting, I must keep in mind that the basic ingredients must remain the same.

After all that lingering last night, we sat on the tailgate of his truck and enjoyed the cold front that was passing through. I was fiddling with my Iphone and I decided to snap a picture of us, one of those candid "la la la look at us" kinds of pics. As I turned the phone back around to view the result, I saw that in the pic, The Candidate was grinning. A man who actually smiles in photographs and then says, "It's a Celebration, Bitches!" is a man worthy of my time.

Al Gore, The Continental

Al Gore invented the internet, global warming, and now...the catchphrase of Summer 2010: Release the Chakra. This is one of those times when I kick myself for not wandering off to NYC immediately after my college graduation and camping out at 30 Rock in order to gain notice and Lorne Michael's favor...I soooo could have exploited this in a 3 minute sketch. For those who might have missed the story, Al Gore got a massage in Portland, Oregon a couple of years ago...and some masseuse got an experience that will make her cringe at least 5 times a day for the rest of her life. Here's the story: http://gawker.com/5571265/did-al-gore-make-unwanted-sexual-contact-with-a-masseuse

How unfortunate. I actually voted for Gore in 2000. I kind of thought he was cute. I didn't care about his grandiose claims of inventing the internet. When he "lost" the election, I was disappointed. This country needed a handsome, mild mannered man to lead us. Bill Clinton ruined the handsome man as President notion, but Al Gore might have salvaged it. He was square, but cute. He and Tipper were "normal". You just knew that once away from Tipper, Al Gore would cut loose and drink beer. He might have even listened to some Skynard. I forgot about Al Gore. Then, I saw "An Inconvenient Truth". DAMN, Al Gore got old. In fact, I thought the inconvenient truth was that Al Gore actually died 6 months before filming and they used his cold white shell. After determining that he was still indeed alive, I removed Al Gore from my "cute men that I hope succeed" list...bumping Mickey Rourke up a few notches...you're welcome, Mickey!

Then, I heard about the demise of the 40 year long Gore union. Al and Tipper were calling it quits. Knowing something was up, I waited patiently for the big reveal. What would it be? An affair? An addiction? A political scandal? I was a little disappointed to hear the news this week. Al Gore wanted a new age happy ending. And when he didn't get it, he turned into "The Continental". Christopher Walken fleshed out this overbearing self-important creep for years on Saturday Night Live: http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/the-continental/274956/

According to the report, Al Gore, while she was packing up, grabbed her in "an inescapable embrace" and "caressed my back and buttocks and breasts." She distracted him with a box of chocolates (really!) which backfired when he tried to get her to eat them out of his hand. I find it hilarious that the masseuse tried to distract a horny Al Gore with chocolate. And, instead of slapping them out of her hand...he went for the chocolates anyway, trying to tie them into his seduction. The masseuse mentioned that when she arrived, Al Gore was wearing a shorty robe and he hugged her a "tad too long". She said she didn't know if the robe was open or closed, and that Al was "rotund". So, good call on the chocolate diversion tactic, sister! During this horrible dance macabre, the masseuse claims: "he turned to me and he immediately flipped me flat on my back and threw his whole body face down over atop me, pinning me down and outweighing me by quite a bit. Get off me, you big lummox! I loudly protested to him and I struggled with my whole body to shove him as hard as I could to roll him off me..." LUMMOX??? She called him a lummox? Why not Galoot? Or Oaf? How about, "GET THE HELL OFF ME YOU FAT PHUCK!"? Or even better, "Hey! What's Tipper doing in the closet??"

After being force fed Grand Marnier and Al Gore's tongue, the masseuse somehow made it to the door. Being the Phoenix that he is, Al Gore quickly recovered and made one final steam roll before she could get away. Upon returning home, the masseuse found on her slacks what could either be Al Gore's inconvenient truth, or soap; she couldn't tell which.

I am not certain of the validity of this woman's claim, but just the idea of Al Gore pulling "The Continental" routine make me want to vomit up last night's supper. And, what about poor ol' Tipper? A thousand showers, with real soap, couldn't wash away the visions of her dear sweet heavy lidded eyed husband pushing the Grand Marnier as if it were "Champognay". She is likely wondering where in the Hell this global warming was during the last 40 years. While she was out chastising us kids for listening to rap music and Judas Priest, Al Gore was probably out releasing his Chakra onto pants everywhere.

In closing, shame on you, Al Gore. I was having a fantastic sunny day on Thursday, and then you ruined it. Your antics made me cringe and I am so disappointed in your lack of discretion. Could you not have called your friend, Bill C, for the number of an escort service that would "service" you and keep it on the DL? There is no recovery from this. Much like Richard Gere and the gerbils, every time I hear your name, I will not think of the gentleman of yester-decade; I will instead wish you had kept your soap dispenser in the bathroom. And, if I was that masseuse, I'd change my email address. Her inbox is destined to be filled with spam and viruses from now on....because clearly, you don't phuck with the Father of the Internet; and because she didn't, she will pay dearly.

Unconventional Father's Day Gifts

I am about to go to my dad's house to celebrate the 36th annual Father's Day Celebration. And by celebration I mean a couple of hours of sitting around, sparse conversation, general disinterest in any gifts presented, and finally, a relieved good-bye; which includes setting up a lunch date for when things are back to normal. A promise to meet for lunch on a day that isn't so loaded with fatherly appreciation. I appreciate my father, I just do it better on 364 days out of the year.

My dad isn't into holidays, often forgetting even the "big" ones. He doesn't enjoy celebration, for the most part. Actually, that is incorrect. My dad does enjoy celebrating things. A lunch after a good report from the cardiologist. A lunch after my new job offer. A breakfast after I successfully returned home from NYC. Small every day things. If each of these "accomplishments" called for a cake, a card, and a visit...he would be just as disinterested. My brother and sister have yet to realize this (which cements my belief that I am the only one who really "gets" my dad), and still barge in on the obligatory days loaded down with gifts he doesn't want, cake he won't eat, and extended family he doesn't want to see. So, I work around these visits in order to have some low key time with dad. I can't just let the day pass, my guilt prevents that, so I visit with him and try to do something for him to make his life easier. That something stopped including filling his home with junk and frou frou several years ago.

I could open a pawn shop with all the ill advised gifts that I have bestowed on dad. A VCR. A boom box. Kitchen gadgetry. Shorts. Bedding. Movies for the never used VCR. CDs for the rarely used boom box. Books on tape. All met with the usual "you shouldn't have spent any money". In my younger (debt ridden) days, this reaction infuriated me. But then, it clicked. I got it. His lackluster enthusiasm can be attributed to two things. Number one, these are things that will work perfectly while I am present; but the second I leave, the item will become inoperable. It will warrant a phone call from him and then a long complicated explanation of why the print on the cd needs to face up for it to play. I went so far as to take pictures of the controls on the electronics so that I could quickly, in help desk fashion, diagnose what he is doing wrong and correct via the telephone. Honestly, much as I love my dad, it is like instructing the Incredible Hulk in how to fold a fitted sheet. He finally just began accepting the gifts and placing them in the room that holds all things he has no interest in...the spare bedroom, which also holds his never used rolling walker (I tried to tell the doctor...), his mother's old family bible, the spare bed pads from his hospital stay, and several silk arrangements left over from various family funerals. I don't even bother with a card anymore. I keep his files for him, and often find the cards shoved into the same piles of junk mail, alongside invitations from AARP and American Express. Secondly, I think deep down, my dad is afraid that I have run my credit card up to the maximum (which I WAS guilty of over a decade ago) and he will somehow be held responsible for the bill.

This year, it's in the bag. My dad presented a need and I listened. He will receive two gifts from me today.

Last month, my dad showed up for our weekly pill party with an unusual request. I arrange my dad's pills in a pill box once a week; because given a bag of bottles and instructions, my dad would never be able to take the right pill at the right time. As I arranged the pills in a fashion that, hopefully, will keep him alive and alert for years to come, my dad asked if I could trim his eyebrows. "No sweat", I reply. I gathered my grooming tools and went to work on the forest on his forehead. I plucked and cut, dividing the monobrow into two thickets. He then asked if I could trim his sideburns. "Sure, no problem", I replied as I leveled them up. "How about my ears?" was next. I cut the wiry hair over his ears. "No, I meant the hair INSIDE my ears", he said. Houston, we have a problem. I was using regular scissors, not any sort of professional (safe) utensil. It was weird enough placing my hands on my dad's head, something I can honestly say I don't remember ever doing. But, helping him cheat age by clearing out the ear canal...I can't. Unplussed, he then requested assistance with the nostril hair. No can do. I apologized and advised him that his barber could assist with that. On my last visit with him, I noted that things had gotten out of hand...or out of nose, I should say. This Father's Day, my dad will be the recipient of a Norelco facial grooming device, one that can handle all the trouble spots...ears, nose, eyebrows, and side burns. I fully realize that this is not a device my dad will likley operate on his own, and I can't say that I blame him. His hands aren't as steady as they used to be and putting something up his nose that has rapidly spinning razor blades on the end of it is probably ill advised. However, this device certainly beats my kitchen shears, and so not only am I giving him this device, I will offer my services as his groomer.

The other gift will make his life easier as well. I will wash his dog. Actually, it is my dog, but my dad has had custody of Rusty for 10 years, ever since Rusty redid the carpeting in my apartment and digested 1/4 of my coffee table. The cute pup that my dad took in is now a large brown sow. My dad is kinder to that dog that he ever was to us kids! Rusty has a daily diet that includes bologna, vienna sausauges, dog food, dog biscuits, and ice cream. Therefore, Rusty's slim and trim (easy to lift) hounddog physique died about 9 years ago. I gave up trying to advise my dad in proper pup nutrition about 8.5 years ago. Rusty has a thick brown coat that attracts dirt like white on rice. My dad usually bathes Rusty each week, using a hose and a scrub brush. Basically, Rusty simply stands in line, behind the car and the lawnmower, as things my dad has to wash. Since his surgery, my dad is unable to lift or bend over; therefore, it is now difficult to distinguish Rusty from the dry red dirt background. This upsets my dad, he likes a clean house, a clean car, and a clean dog. Dad can manage the house and the car. Rusty is out of his control though. Therefore, this morning, I will don my own car washing uniform and wash that dog.

I am sure that the prodigal siblings will show up just after I have finished with Rusty, and I will look a hot mess (literally); but I couldn't care less. Whatever. I'll know that their cake will spoil and their gifts will be assigned a location in the room that time forgot, but clean Rusty and nosehair free dad will be sufficiently celebrated. No card necessary.

Harriet's Big Day Out

Harriet the Dog sat at my feet as I booked my appointment to get prettified on my birthday.  As I ticked off the services: wash, blowout, manicure, and pedicure; she studied me intently.  Hanging up the phone, I said to her, "What?".  She went from intent sitting position to belly to the floor lying position and looked up at me through her thick brow; allowing a long sigh to escape.  And then, I got it.  So I backflipped through the yellow pages and found the number to a pet groomer and placed the call.  Harriet was now back up to intent sitting position. 

I have never taken a dog to a groomer before, and by the looks of Harriet, she has never darkened the doorstep of one either.  When I got her, she was billed as a rough coat terrier.  Ms. Harriet wore her wire coat with pride and would spend days not acknowledging me if I dared "trim" it.  Basically, I thought she liked looking scruffy.  Harriet resembles a loaf of bread, a marble loaf; if the bread was made from hair. 

As the receptionist rattled off the included services in the grooming package: shampoo, cut, nails, ears; I nearly spit out my coffee at the last one.  "Oh, and anal glands too."  Ok, I know what anal glands are, and I guess some part of me knew that the vet will "take care" of those at various points in a dog's life.  But, it was sunny outside and I was having a great day; therefore, the surprise attack of something so heinous and dark caught me off guard.  I reviewed the services as I wrote them down, leaving out the last one, more for Harriet's dignity than my disgust.  The receptionist reminded me again of "The anal glands".  I swear I heard thunder roll outside.  "Yes, that too" I sputtered.  Harriet looked at me curiously, as if to say, "What?  What too?"  I spared her the dread and decided to let the groomer review the procedure for her.  I am going to be the type of mother that hands her child a book when the "time" comes. 

For the next two days, both Harriet and I looked forward to our upcoming appointments.  I placed the small magnetic calendar that I received as a Christmas gift from my realtor at the bottom of the fridge, so that Ms. H could keep track of how many more days.  (Disclaimer:  I realize that dogs are not human and have no capacity for reading calendars, but acting as if they do makes life so much more fun, trust me.)  She actually seemed excited and took special care not to get too dirty outside. 

The morning of the appointment, as I sat drinking my coffee and planning my annual Blow-It-All birthday jackpot shopping spree, Harriet took her usual resting place (not a morning dog, at all), only glancing up at me every so often as I made my way around the house gathering coupons, lists, giftcards, and the like.  Occassionally, I would hear a long sigh escape from under her shaggy beard.  Finally, after I had everything in the car, I grabbed my keys and she sprung up, with a "WTF" look.  She was confused because usually the morning ritual culminates into me picking up her limp dead weight body and placing it behind the baby gate, with promises to return home at lunch.  Her look of betrayal said, "You forgot I existed, you bitch."  I held up her leash and her joy was boundless.  She ran to me, a wiggling loaf of bread, and I reminded her that today was "The Day"!

More confusion ensued as I encouraged her to ride shotgun.  Normally, Harriet travels in a crate, but not today.  Today, she would take the co-pilot seat.  Although this was due more to my laziness and lack of desire to wrestle the crate from the garage; I allowed Ms. H to believe that it was all about her and her preference.  She happily jumped in and off we went.  As we rode along, listening to talk radio (Harriet does not enjoy music), I considered telling her about the anal gland issue.  She settled into her seat and watched our progress on the navigation map and looked so happy and relaxed that I decided not to address it. 

We arrived, I filled out the papers, she was weighed (like a weight watchers weigh in, in front of everyone. I caught the sideways glance at me, as if to say, "Now, your turn, Cookie").  I bid her farewell and began my day of decadence.  I began at Target (my mecca) and was shocked that it took me 3 hours to wear out my giftcard.  Satisfied with my haul, I left there and treated myself to Shrimp and Grits at Buckley's lunch box.  I appreciate a quick lunch and this was the quickest ever.  The dish was good, better in New Orleans, but satisfying.  From there, I cruised over to Oak Court.  I had an agenda there, at Macy's, but decided to make Macy's my last stop.  After reviewing the offerings of Dillards, American Eagle, Trade Secret, and the like, I returned to Macy's with my special birthday coupon in my sweaty hand.  I had my eye on a couple of purses.  Actually, I had both eyes on one purse, a new patent candy colored Dooney and Bourke.  With my birthday money plus my coupon, I still would have had to fork over nearly $100 for this prize, and I second, third, and fourth guessed my way out of it; settling instead for two confectionary purses from a mid level brand.  Approaching the cash register, I whipped out my coupon and the clerk wished me a "Happy Birthday!", then told me to swipe my Macy's card.  Thinking that was kind of presumptuous, I corrected her and showed her my wad of cash.  "Oh, you have to use your Macy's card to get the discount".  REALLY?  Thanks, Macy's, for the non gift.  I cut up that card months ago after bickering with a card representative over being double charged for some underwear on my statement.  And really, for those that don't know, there is nothing more dignity depleting than arguing over drawers with someone wearing a headset.  So, feeling a tad bit deflated, I made my way over to the Lush counter for my obligatory bath bomb purchases before heading out. 

At this point, I received a text from a friend inviting me to grab a beer after shopping.  I had one more stop to make (Fresh Market...hooray!) and then I knocked back two Dos Equis and spent the rest of the afternoon checking my watch, counting the minutes until I could pick up her majesty.  When the alarm sounded, I collected my things and made a quick getaway.  Driving over to the vet, I felt weird.  I realized that in all of my 36 years, I had never felt the influence of alcohol in public before 4pm.  Not that I was drunk, I wasn't, it was just strange to realize that I had truly just had a truly leisurely day.  The sedative effect of the alcohol, combined with the stifling Memphis heat made me feel pleasantly sedate.  I arrived at the vet and leaned over the counter to report that I was there to pick up Harriet.  It was then that I had the realization that my breath may very well smell of beer.  All of a sudden, I felt a panic that they would not let Harriet go home with someone who had obviously laid up drinking beer all day.  As they paged Ms. H to the front, I envisioned a secret button being pushed under the desk, to alert the staff not to bring her up, but to instead call the police.  I decided that I was being too social worky about it, and wondered if I had accidentally smoked pot.  The vet tech came out moments later with a dog.  Wait, who is that dog?  I didn't recognize the shorn pup.

I slipped Harriet's new collar on and couldn't decide whether to bust out crying or laughing.  She didn't look anything like the scruffy loaf I dropped off hours ago.  This dog was sleek and clean.  And compliant.  I signed for her and paid her bill, hoping I had the right Harriet.  As we left, I led her over to a grassy area, figuring she would want to sniff, and wanting a little more time to reassure myself that it was indeed, Ms H.  Harriet wanted nothing to do with the grassy area, walking right over to the car as if to say, "Hurry.  Let's go.  They squeezed my ass.  I don't want to file a report or anything, but I am just telling you because I think you should know.  You just paid cash money to the people who squeezed my anal glands."  Harriet climbed into the car and took her seat.  I used this opportunity to snap a picture to send to my mom and my guy friend that this was actually Harriet.

Harriet was impatient with my lolly gagging, and was just ready to get the hell out of there.  I asked her if, all in all, she enjoyed her day.  She gave me a terse "phfffffft. whatever. yeah, kind of." and with that, I put the car in reverse and backed out of the space.  Looking both ways before crossing the busy highway, I glanced once again at the new/old dog in my passenger seat.  It must have been one hell of a day, and perhaps she ended it in the same fashion as I had...with a sedative:

Good Riddance Laura, You Bitch.

When I was 8 years old, I had a walkman.  Actually, I doubt it was an actual Walkman, probably more like a Coby or Emerson.  Anyway, it was an FM radio with headphones that I could clip to my rainbow belt.  I loved to listen to it, and I knew every song that came on B97FM out of New Orleans.  When I say every song, I mean EVERY song.  Each one.  No matter how obscure, if it was released as a single, I heard it.  And memorized it.  I was an emotional kid and I took music very seriously, and literally.  There was one song that would come on, and I would rip the headphones off my head and run get under my mother's arm because this song is quite possibly the saddest song ever.  I couldn't handle it.  I heard it all the way through one time, and knew that I must not ever listen again.  Ever.  I would cry and cry and my mother would try to explain that it was just a song, it didn't mean anything, blah blah blah.  But no, I was inconsolable.  "Think of Laura" by Christopher Cross made me want to die, at age 8.  What sealed the deal was that "General Hospital" used this song to score a montage of Laura (of Luke and Laura fame) flashbacks when she DIED.  Not being accustomed to the concept of a montage, it was more than my 8 year old mind or heart could handle.  I was afraid to turn on the radio, scared that the weepy strains would come on and then it would be too late.  A level 5 meltdown was sure to ensue.  The song was never popular (Gee, wonder why?).  So my question is this...If this song was never a popular hit, WHY IN THE HELL AM I BEING SUBJECTED TO IT IN WALGREENS 28 YEARS LATER????

I run into Walgreen's, as I do most every day, to pick up a couple of things.  This trip included buying nutrional shakes to supplement my dad's diet (because I am his dietician now, apparently).  I walk in to the tune of "Build Me Up Buttercup", a non offensive song.  I even hum along, cheerfully, as I stoop down to examine the nutrional shake offerings.  I am in no hurry, just taking my time picking out the most decadent looking ones.  And then I hear it..."Laura".  "Hey Laura".  "Laura".  Christopher Cross is mewing over the PA system.  OH NO! OH NO! I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! I exclaimed silently.  But, shit! I promised those shakes today and if I don't get them, my dad will lose more weight and become more unhealthy and it will be all my fault.  No.  It will be all Christopher Cross's fault.  I jerked up the first 12 pack I could get my hands on, completely disregarding my dad's preference or taste, as well as nutrional value; and headed for the check out.  Maybe I can make it before the first chorus.  DAMMIT!!! Is this "Senior Discount Day"??? FACK!!!  The old broad in front of me carefully leafed through her super shopper coupon book, matching up the coupons to the items on the counter.  La la la la la Leisure.  I am sweating now, and I can feel the tears begin to sting my eyes.  I contemplated just dropping the shakes and running out the door, but I do want to return to this Walgreen's in the future.  I considered just plunking down a twenty on the counter and bypassing the slow pokes.  And there's the chorus....

"Think of Laura, but laugh don't cry, I know she'd want it that way...hey hey"

Jesus.  I tried  to anger myself.  I thought about stupid men.  I thought about Gary Glitter's Rock and Roll Part 2 not being a real song.  I thought about drop kicking the old miser in front of me.  Nothing was working.  And there it is again....

"Think of Laura, but laugh don't cry, I know she'd want it that way...hey hey"

I try to think of other whiny Christopher Cross songs.  "Gonna ride like the wind, before I get old da da da da da da da", "And now I will never be the same without your love, I'll live alone and hide myself from behind my tears...and I....."  WTF? How am I the Christopher Cross lyric master?  I always hated Christopher Cross.  "When you get caught between the moon and New York City, I know it's crazy, but it's true"  What does that even mean?  Grandma Tightwad finally collected her fleet enemas and her Revoln Moon Drops and got the hell out of the way. 

The clerk asked me if I wanted to partake in today's special of Butterfingers, 2 for a dollar.  I answered her in a loud, distracting voice, "No. No I would not.  See, I am buying these shakes for my dad because he needs the extra calories since his recent open heart surgery, these are not for me because I don't need additional calories" (IS IT OVER YET?  NO! KEEP TALKING) "Now if you were offering say, packs of Marlboros, 2 for a dollar, I'd be all over that.  But, I guess you can't do that (IS IT OVER YET?  WAIT...YES!! SWEET JESUS!! IT IS OVER)"  I then shut my gotdamned mouth and felt instantly embarrassed at what had just transpired.  I then heard

"Jitterbug *snap snap* Jitterbug *snap snap* You put the boom boom into my heart...."

Really?  Now that I am about to leave, wet faced, the people left in Walgreen's get to enjoy WHAM!?  Walgreen's lost a lot of money today due to this muzak mishap.  I had at least 30 minutes to kill.  I could have dropped some serious cash in there had I not been run out by Christopher Cross.  Perhaps, had the rotation been reversed, I would have wandered over to the make up aisle, and then the shampoo aisle, and finally, topping off my basket in the quick snacks aisle.  But no.  I was forced to think of Laura.  But, it doesn't matter what Laura would have wanted.  Because instead of laughing, I cried. 

So, fack you, Laura.  I'm glad you're gone.

Pool Etiquette

Growing up, there was a pool in my hometown that was run by the CEA.  The Callaway Educational Association was a group that aimed to segregate and separate the children of my hometown, but as a young teenager, I didn't understand all that.  The way it worked was that parents had to be "sponsored" by current members and if the children were deemed promising (read: white) enough, and the parents could afford the dues, then the children would be allowed to swim at the pool in the Summer.  We were also permitted to use the rec building (rainy days) and the library (they had "Helter Skelter"!).  There was a public pool for everyone else.  Each child was given a membership card that must be presented upon request.  Funny, I never had to present the card.  Knowing what I know about "The Association" now, when I ran across this card a few months ago, I felt like I had found my old white hood and cape.  I now belong to the city pool here in my quaint little town, and while it is not segregated, there are different hours for "patrons" and the public.  This past weekend was opening weekend and I took advantage of the nearly $200 annual dues and attended patron hours.  It became clear after a while that Patron memberships had either been hugely discounted or simply handed out at the local Sav-A-Lot.  Here are a few things that I experienced this weekend, not in any sort of politically correct form:

Someone saved the whales.  And they deposited them at the city pool.  Sure, I had the yearly anxiety just before leaving the house about my year older figure and my age appropriate swimsuit.  I chose a sensible one piece in blue, knowing in the back of my mind that the Florida rule would be in effect.  In Florida, the amount of skin coverage decreases in proportion to the amount of skin one has.  I sign in, find my lounge chair, and cue up "The Carrie Diaries" by Candace Bushnell on my Iphone.  There are a few kids playing in the water.  Everyone seems to have a firm grasp on how to act.  That is, until the whale delivery occurred.  Next thing I know, a large woman plops right down on the concrete on the side of the pool, right in front of me.  She has two kids in tow, both equally plump and well on their way to their heritage of Type II Diabetes and heart disease.   This woman seems to know everyone there, both children and parents.  I hear her mention (loudly) that she is a teacher.  This woman could not have been any louder or brash.  She was downright rude when scolding the other children, but indulgent with her own.  Clearly, her kids were the only ones allowed to have fun.  What a nightmare that must have been for the other kids, to have to deal with this whale August through May, only to have to deal with a less clothed version of her June through August.  She spread a towel right on the concrete and beached herself.  While her kids hogged all of the swim fun apparatus, she laid there, dreaming about supper.  After approximately 10 minutes of swimming, her fat faced daughter demanded a snack.  The whale hoisted herself up, after pulling her massive leg to her chestal area and rocking back and forth a few times.  I swear I thought a bunch of toddlers were going to run up and try to ride her.  As she was rifling through her bag, the daughter screamed from mid pool that she wanted TWO bags of chips, not one.  "TWO MAMA!!!"  Of course she got two.  She always gets two, apparently.  After a while, Mr Whale showed up and it all became very clear.  Mr. Whale was cute and fit.  And miserable.  He is also a teacher.  I imagined them starting out as a young couple, newly minted degrees in hand, strains of "We've Only Just Begun" swirling around them as they marry and begin a family.  Fast forward ten years and here we are...Bertha is pushing 275, too busy indulging the kids to get her roots done, and always talking 3 decibels over a socially acceptable level.  I bet she makes him empty her ped egg.  I said a silent prayer to myself, "Please, please, please, don't let that happen to me...I'll do my part, I swear". 

Pink was there!  A large family filed in, after arguing with the clerk that they "just paid for the membership yesterday".  The mom had a punk hairdo and she looked exactly like Pink.  She had a silver lame bikini on, but at least she had the body for it.  Her husband was bald and fat, and had a braided beard.  There were some young teen girls with them, and a couple of 8-10 year old boys.  I can't put my finger on it, but there was something amiss here.  Dad was inked up and mom had the requisite tramp stamp.  Dad was waaaaaay too involved in the fun of those teen girls.  The boys ran around like banshees, with steel straight spines; the mark of some sort of family tree branch quirk.  The whole family was creepy.  They had bath towels, which I was pretty sure came from an Knights Inn.  The teen girls sat off by themselves, probably trying to decide if "it's okay to tell".  My innate social worker antenae went up immediately.

Next up, there was a goth woman in a black swimsuit.  She had the whitest skin I have ever seen.  Not that one must be tan to be attractive, but seriously, her skin had a blue tint.  It wasn't a beautiful creamy white, it was fish belly white.  And, marred with cystic acne on her back.  Bacne.  She got into the pool and all her goth started running down her face.  Mascara at the pool?  Really?  So, from the front she was a very large version of Alice Cooper; from the back, the surface of the moon.  I decided to steer clear of her while in the pool, afraid the heat and the chlorine would irritate those eruptions.  Turns out, it didn't matter.  I spied goth chic with her head cocked in an awkward position and her left arm wrapped over her right shoulder and that is when I realized...SHE IS POPPING THAT STUFF.  Right there in the middle of everything, this woman decides to let go of some of her infection.  AAAAUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!!!  I would have rather seen a band-aid float by.  I have never exited a pool so fast, except for the time I spotted Ronnie James Dio at the pool in St Pete, but this was no Ronnie James Dio.  This was a biohazard.  It was a scene from "The Garbage Pail Kids" playing out right before my eyes.  I hurredly gathered my things and got the Hell out of there. 

How I miss those lazy days at the CEA pool.  Watching the cool kids jump off the diving board.  Wishing I had the nerve to take the swimming test to get my "fish" (the tag that says it's okay for you to enter the deep water).  Enjoying a melting Snickers bar and ice cold Coke with my best friend, Tina.  Times sure have changed.  I won't let the horror show of opening weekend disway me; I'll be back every weekend.  I've got 26 more chapters to go in "The Carrie Diaries" and I sure hope it gets better. 

Just When I Thought It Was Safe...

Lately, I have found the many of the firm plans I made have crumbled around my feet.  I will format this post in a "Just When I Thought It Was Safe" format:

Just When I Thought It Was Safe To say out loud how much I want to join the roller derby but the only thing holding me back was my upcoming school schedule, my class gets cancelled.  Why does the Universe feck with me like that??  I am a 3 omen kind of gal.  When the first omen presents itself, I usually disregard it, if I even notice it (Omens are far more recognizable in hindsight).  I equate the first omen with a whisper...something I probably misunderstood (Did he say "Can I borrow your Kroger card" or "Can I call you some time?" When I am not paying attention, my hearing is awful).  The second omen is more like a poke.  Something I actually take note of, and consider.  The third omen, is like a shove.  I definitely notice and act.  The third omen is usually undeniable.  So, either the Universe just whispered to me, "You should totally try roller derby" or it breathed "You should totally wear your hair curly."  This bears watching.

Just When I Thought It Was Safe To quit dating and just be happy with the people currently in my life, I meet some guy who throws it into a tailspin.  It is far too early to say what is going on here, but I don't feel the usual dread and dodginess that normally accompanies meeting someone new.  I don't even know if I like this guy yet, but I am not repulsed by the notion of finding out.  I feel as though I am on the verge of something big here, not necessarily with the guy; but with something.  I can't put my finger on it, but it is a feeling that some things are about to change and my rigid comfortable life is about to be blown to bits.  This may be a good thing.

Just When I Thought It Was Safe To make new friends and schedule activities to fill up my free time, my free time has dwindled down to very little.  I had forgotten how much free time is lost with work.  And now that Saturday and Sundays are my "free days" again, I am not so open to giving them away like business cards.  For example, I obligated myself to SATC 2 last weekend and felt like I had lost 8 years in two AND A HALF hours.  I couldn't help but think wistful thoughts about the chaise lounge time I was missing out on.  I further obligated myself to additional plans for the upcoming weekend, then remembered that this weekend is the opening of the city pool.  City pool time is extremely important to me.  It is a time for me to immerse myself in water and dry in the sun, rinse and repeat.  All day.  Only to come home looking like a fresh from the oven biscuit and stretching out in the shade for a long summer's nap.  This is my idea of Heaven and there is only room for one in my Heaven.  So, being social and friendly is on Summer break, starting this weekend. 

Just When I Thought It Was Safe To let go of my first true love, my best friend sends me a picture of his HUGE wife snapped covertly on her cell phone.  For this prize, I have pledged my best friend the window bed at Shady Acres Rest Home when we move in.  My first true love dumped me at the 4th of July Fireworks Extravaganza on the banks of West Point Lake in 1991.  He dumped me for a skank named LeeAnn and I will forever harbor ill feelings towards this man (boy) stealing bitch.  They eventually married and I like to think that every day he wakes up next to the sow that she turned into and wishes he had made a different choice all those years ago.  In a twist of fate, his wife is the Summer school teacher to my friend's middle school sons.  She also directs the traffic.  I have renewed hope that he is miserable.  Here is proof:

Awesome.  And yes, I am petty. Sue me.  I loved that guy. 

So, there it goes.  Here's hoping for a not-so-safe Summer!!