the difficult

Here's one tale (of many) about what it's like to work for a loony old bat who thinks she's far more important than she is.

One of the more interesting aspects of being unemployed and desperate is that you'll take pretty much any opportunity that comes along, so that food continues to make its way into the fridge without resorting to theft. One such opportunity rolled into my path about two days before I exited my place of former employment. Due to a random connection, I was put in touch with a wealthy older woman, who needed some computer help and personal assistance, a few days a week. Since my schedule had suddenly become way too wide open, I readily accepted, even with the warning of a "difficult" personality.

That was the understatement of the fucking century.

Come to find out, around the office which had put me in touch with my new, schizophrenic employer, the joke was that I would inherit her 60 million dollars, because even her own kids and grand kids couldn't stand her. I thought that surely, that was some kind of exaggerated joke. Having dealt with an insanely large number of difficult and obnoxious people in my life, I have found that even with the worst personalities, many of them are "crackable" because even with their caustic exterior, I am able to pick up on the issue behind such defense mechanisms and have thus been able to understand and develop solid relationships. In short, traditionally, I get along famously with the people that no one else gets along with.

Bear in mind that if at any point a person crosses the line and purposely offends me, I do not push over. I will stick up for myself and expect to be treated with respect by people I deal with, because I, in turn, will always make the greatest effort to be respectful myself. This open understanding I think, has contributed to my success in the "tough personality" arena.

With this woman however, the rules were changed without my knowledge and the amazing amount of bullshit to which I was subjected on a daily basis was nothing short of mind-boggling. I had NO idea that a person could and would intentionally behave like such a fucking crazy, illogical asshole and expect to get away with it. I mean it. She legitimately expected that when she spat the insults at her intended receiver, that her demands would be hopped to and granted with a smile and an apology. I was slack-jawed on day one as I watched her conduct some simple business on the phone.

A funny aside here, is that this phone transaction was in reference to some christmas gifts she was shipping out to random friends and relatives. The gift, was a nifty little wine refrigerator and when all of the refrigerators were totalled, this one gift (of many) could have paid my rent. Fascinating.

So the quick set up to the phone story. There was only one kind of fridge that she wanted to send and since it was less than a week before christmas (not to mention that she wanted 9 to ship out), all 7 companies we tried only had them on back order, meaning that the gifts would be getting to their intended recipients around or after the first of the year. Once it became clear that this was unavoidable, she gave in and had me order them to arrive late, but with a cute little card attached to each.

Ah, but alas, she had forgotten that she had already ordered several wine fridges from yet another vendor. Lovely. So when the news came in that a couple of them had already been delivered, this understandably caused quite a row. This event also caused an amnesiatic fit with regard to why none in the order which I had placed had gone out. I'll give you a hint on her reasoning...it was clearly my incompetence. But, to my joy and wonder, I was not alone in this one.

When the phone was ripped from my hands in mid-sentence, I was absolutely amazed to hear her (on speaker) berate the poor, incredibly accommodating person on the other end as a "double talker", a "shameless liar" and a "simple vendor' when she was told, for the 9th time, that the refrigerators were indeed, still on back order and not due to ship for several days. No change in the message, whatsoever.

Apparently, when senility sets in, logical ordering times and physical inventory shortcomings, are nothing but an obstacle that yelling and abuse will fix. After a good 2 days of price haggling, shipping changes and malevolence, on her part, she cancelled the order, threatened to sue if the credit card was charged and slammed the phone back into it's cradle. I sat motionless and speechless, waiting for the secret trap door to open and dump me into a pit of hungry crocodiles.

It was then that the answer to the "where do you get off?" question materialized in my mind. There is no retort to that quesiton, because when you have an ingrained sense of entitlement, you simply don't need to answer that question. With all of these ethical, straightforward people I have been dealing with lately, I'm considering jumping the snake pit and trying out this whole rude, irrational, douchebag thing. I might be making millions in no time.

oooh, shiny

I am the master of mulled wine. This has nothing to do with my commentary for the evening, but I thought I'd announce my new found supremacy in that area.

The answer to the question on everyone's mind is: yes, we are that stupid. We, the public - and lets face it, we are all unwittingly a part of the public - are so easily duped by the ads and nonsense we read and see, that it works on us. We buy what they tell us to, simply because they say it's great. The machine of advertising masterminds, spits out carefully crafted claims that stop just shy of legal issues, in an effort to get us, the mindless public to make our choices by trial and error and spontaneous, illogical desire.

How many times do you change shampoos or styling products, simply because something new and improved is on the shelf, or has a better looking bottle? How many different deodorants, soaps, makeups, face washes and other random products do you go through in a year, because you "have to try that" and there really is no compelling reason - outside of simply not needing it - not to? I have taken an inward gander at this and I'm fairly disgusted, though I don't think it will make me change much.

The ads have us convinced: we can't live without these items. These items are doing us a favor, simply by existing and it's up to us to run on out and purchase them in order to validate our sorry asses. An example you ask? Well allrighty then. There's this stupid, fucking Citibank ad that has been playing for weeks and weeks.

See there's this rag-tag kid, with the cute smile and the disheveled hair and he's obviously been away at college, not honing his sharp dressing skills and he's got to find something for his mother for christmas. So there he is, wandering aimlessly around the department store, checking out chotchkies and agonizing over the gift. Then suddenly, as if by divine intervention, he gets himself a suit with his...(insert dramatic music here) Citibank credit card! He shows up at the family dinner and melts his mother with his present for her, which is really an outfit for him and the world goes on just as it should. Were it not for that credit card, he never would have been able to come up with that idea and make that o' so difficult decision. Whew! Thank god for credit cards that have a sense of gifting.

The saddest part to all that, is that I have a friend who is the person to whom all of those ads are targeted. Fortunately for her, she will openly admit it, but it doesn't stop her from purchasing the shiniest, prettiest box of whatever simply because it says "better" or "new and improved". My favorite is "30% less sugar!" Thirty percent less sugar than what? A bowl of actual sugar? Anything that says it's good on the package, is a guaranteed sale for her; like the shoddier products would have some sort of fine print saying "this actually sucks."

In fact, it's almost like "New and Improved" are actual people. They are the ghosts dancing in the aisles, tickling your ears and eyes, clandestinely pointing you to the bottle or box that is just a few dollars more, thus sucking the life out of your wallet, dollar, by slowly bleeding dollar.

But the big wheel keeps on turnin' and the shiny will never get old. Next week, "New and Improved" will talk me into yet another round of products I already have and my shower will continue to be full of more shampoo and conditioner than one person needs in a year. Look at it this way though, the economy is in a perilous state; it's our job to keep at least someones business booming. New and Improved said so.

merry ex-mass

Ah yes....another annoying holiday season is almost to the door. I've survived and am only a couple pounds heavier for the wear, so it's all good.

I'm forced to wonder though, what are the ingredients for a successful christmas celebration? In the decade since I stopped torturing myself with my own family, I've been to a number of christmas events, hosted by the families of different friends. I am so honored and flattered that they invite me into their lives and into their houses, that even though I feel a bit like an interloper, it's like entree into the world of the normal, where people love each other and treat each other well and make each other genuinely happy.

However, I must note that I have only been to a few events out of those 10 years, where someone did not have a fit or a problem about something, which stressed everyone out and that had to be smoothed over. I guess that's the way it goes when you put a bunch of relatives who are all tired and overfed in a room together for many hours on end. But those episodes are always short-lived and well-handled and in the end, everyone comes around and the love and happiness conquer and abound.

What is that like? I truly wonder if I will ever be able to legitimately build that situation and have a family to toast over a large table full of food. Will I find the life where being together with a person or people I love will be a logical request, no matter who else is at the table? I say that not in the "woe is me" sense, but in the "if it's never been there before, will it really ever" sense. Because if you've never really had it that way, or at least not in the last 20 years, it almost seems like a strange desire. I don't want these days to be sad and difficult forever, it's way too much of a pain in the ass for that.

All that aside, I do genuinely wish everyone and anyone a joyful day and happy memories and a safe and satisfied slumber. Merry xmas.

i know about these things.

Wealth is a great thing. It comes in many different forms and generally means that one is doing well and has an abundance of positivity in some area. However, monetary wealth seems to have a few different behavioral paths associated with it, one of which I have chosen to detail.

I know many "rich" people. Strange that even with all of the rich folks who have befriended me in my life, I'm still broke as fuck, but that's neither here nor there. Now, this is in no way aimed at my wealthy friends, because by virtue of them being my friends, I obviously don't find the unsavory behavior in them.

That said, I have observed that with extreme wealth comes extreme "wisdom" and "knowledge", which seem to spring forth abundantly from the dollar bills in which these lucky millionaires bathe. Every time a dollar is spent, a new wrinkle appears in the rich person's brain. It's an amazing phenomenon and with all of this accrued wisdom, the rich person is both able and willing to spread his or her knowledge around for the rest of the lesser world to digest.

Now I must digress for a moment and note that wealth does provide the rich with access to places and experiences that the poor or non-rich will probably never have. The finer things are the norm for these people and they have the ability to travel and spend as the rest of us will never be able to do. It's envious, but most of us don't seem to be any worse for it so personally, I don't care. But this does mean that the rich may have some above-board knowledge on things such as which is the best pate, which champagnes and wines are the finest, and what thread count feels the most comfy to sleep on each night.

I would also be remiss however, if I didn't point out that the rich person misses out on many things that the rest of the world is totally familiar with. They are so busy being clean and untouchable, that the wonders of the real world, often tends to pass them by, as do the bulk of people skills, obtained by going through life in a world where money does not solve any and all problems.

We, the non-rich, know about things such as hole-in-the-wall restaurants, fixing plumbing crises ourselves and waiting for long periods of time on the phone or in person to resolve shopping or customer service issues. Due to these activities, the non-rich person develops a strange skill called patience. This is not to say that the non-wealthy person exhibits this at all times. Nor is it meant to claim that rational behavior comes only from those without access to Van Cleef & Arpels or Hermes.

One cannot help but notice that the higher the tax bracket, the shorter the fuse and when the fuse is lit, it's only a matter of moments until our rich subject explodes upon the world and claims absolution by virtue of that mysterious aforementioned "knowledge", gained by a life of wealth and leisure. It causes this person to utter such phrases as "Don't contest me on this, I know about these things," when involved in conversations on subjects which require no such assertion. But you know, this first little mention is only a drop in the bucket pulled up from the well o' dollars. More to come for sure.

relevance

Some things come along right when you need to read them. Interesting little messages wrapped up in fiction, just waiting for you to rip them open and apply them to your own, complex existence. Here is one such passage.


Such is the future you are capable of winning. It requires a struggle; so does any human value. All life is a purposeful struggle and your only choice is the choice of a goal. Do you wish to continue the battle of your present or do you wish to fight for my world? Do you wish to continue a struggle that consists of clinging to precarious ledges in a sliding descent to the abyss, a struggle where the hardships you endure are irreversible and the victories you win bring you closer to destruction? Or do you wish to undertake a struggle that consists of rising from ledge to ledge in a steady ascent to the top, a struggle where the hardships are investments in your future and the victories bring you irreversibly closer to the world of your moral ideal, and should you die without reaching the full sunlight, you will die on a level touched by its rays? Such is the choice before you. Let your mind and your love of existence decide.

sunrise skin

In my merry adventures on the coast of cold and humidity, I have come across yet another fascinating peculiarity on which I absolutely must comment. I do not intend to offend any of the normal people on this coast with this observation, but perhaps the normals will allow me to articulate what fascinates and irritates us all.

I should point out that as I type, there is an ice storm outside. That's right friends, tiny pellets of ice are raining down from the sky, dusting the streets, cars and awnings of New York with a slippery, frozen layer. So that noted, I can now comment on how I have come across several people in the last month or so in the Northeast, who seem to have the wonderful fortune of maintaining a sun-kissed glow, long after the warming rays stopped springing from our favorite ball of fire.

I hail from the Golden State, where even if one is "pale", he or she still maintains a tan better than most from pretty much any other area of the country would have druing the summer. This is simply because of the climate and the fact that most outside activities can be performed on a year-round basis. Because of this lucky exposure, I know what the year-round tan looks like. Let me be the first to illuminate the masses: orange is not tan. Orange is orange.

The average man and woman have skin that undergoes changes throughout the year. Even if one does not worship the sun, there are changes which occur when the melanin in the skin is activated and produces a tan during the spring and summer months. After this time however, when the sun retreats to it's perches high in the sky, the skin begins to fade to a more blanched version of its summer, titian glory. This is the natural order of pigment, and rightly so.

But you see, the non-sun tanner never goes through that horrifying loss. The indoor tanner has that fabulous, I-just-got-back-from-Santorini look indefinitely. To boot, the sunless tanner is absolutely convinced that his tan looks real. As if the 1982 Chevelle-driving, Pizzeria-working, high school dropout has really spent 2 weeks sunning in Martinique. Come now.

Tangerine is nowhere on the spectrum of acceptable colors for human skin. Nowhere, in any part of the world will you find someone of any ethnicity to whom orange is a natural shade. Also nowhere, will you find a large culture of people to whom skin resembling leather, is actually considered attractive; a sad byproduct of overexposure to unnatural, drying UV prolific bulbs.

So why? Why pretend, o broke, pallid Long Islander, that you are the lucky phenom, to whom the apricot glow is the natural order? You not only fool no one, but you look the fool all the while. Did I mention it's December?

ooohhh ma cherie....

Being a total fan of the really awful, yet startlingly amusing bad accent, I must post this for your enjoyment. See, when I lived in Paris, many moons ago, my friend and I found that when we spoke in our regular American accents, people had a very difficult time understanding what we were saying. However, when we spoke in our "mauvais francais" accents, things were ship shape.

The mauvais francais accent is nothing more than a really bad mix of Pepe LePeu and every french person I've ever heard speak english in my life. Goes over like a charm. And with that, I present to you some really bad accents, which automatically make this 10 times funnier than it would be in regular, cheesy english.

THIS is effing hysterically funny.

shooting

I'm seething malice. It's sharply directed at a barrel chested, blonde, bumbling bastard who seems to be capable of only one thing: fucking up other people's lives. In fact, said bastard seems to actually take pleasure in the "shooting" of others.

See, this person is, regrettably, in charge (and I use that term soooo loosely) of a large number of hardworking people. He doesn't actually concern himself with their hiring, nor does he stoop to learn anything of their daily dealings. He is simply there to bellow out Board-massaging one-liners and "shoot" people, when they become a budgetary strain, according to him. How he fleeced his way into this position, I will probably never know, but he is there.

In my former line of work, there was occasionally a time when it became necessary to "wait out" a senior member of an organization, in order to get a deal done and thus secure a large sum of money for the company. This meant that said senior executive was an entry barrier, in and of himself, and had stalled any forward progress, for one reason or another. This is an intensely annoying part of that line of work, but one that was sometimes unavoidable.

I have found that the senior executive referenced in paragraph one is not only such a person, but being that he is in a position of high authority, is un-circumventable in any way. I can only imagine the number of lives he has disrupted and agitated during his tenure. He is the kind of person one must wait out in order to progress in that company in any real way. But not only is he an anchor to the progress of many people there, he bears a likeness to molasses in winter when it comes to actual forward progress of the company as a whole as well.

Business stratgegy? Pashaw. We don't need no stinking business strategy. We are ahead of the pack and it matters not that it's by a margin thinner than a strand of the fine silk from which his boxers are woven. Things are booming for upper management. Stock options, heavy bonuses, everything's coming up roses, so why bother with a plan, when we can all go out drinking at lunchtime and get $90 trims at the barber during our mid-afternoon errand run? A business plan......silly fuckers.

As is plainly evident, I have no shame whatsoever in loathing this man. In fact, once I am at a comfortable distance, I am tempted to call him up and tell him so. Because good people who do stupid shit, get a pass with me. But bad people who are just assholes, well you get nothing but malice from this girl; and you really have to try hard to get on that side of me. So I wish on him unpleasant holidays and rusty shower water that gives his face a rash, and bee stings on his balls, the next time he goes on yet another unearned vacation. Yeah, that'll show him.

fuhgivenass

It's an interesting place to be, when in a position to need or want the forgiveness of another person. Because most people, in my experience, have messed themselves up because of an err in the method of their message. Most people are not out to hurt another, but for a moment in time, they lack the skills to convey legitimate frustration and thus spout off, hurting the recipient of the message and losing the point in the process.

There are also, of course, those who hurt other people with lies and deceit, which is a little more empirical on the right / wrong scale. But given some time, honesty and contrition, those wounds are healable, if the person on the receiving end of those mistakes has forgiveness in them. Either way, a true committment to the relationship shared between the two parties becomes the glue for piecing things back together.

No matter what the circumstance, it's the one who is in position to grant or deny, who has the greatest burden, I think. Whether it be with friends, co-workers or significant others, the person with the so-called upper hand, actually has the more difficult position. To really let someone back into ones graces is to admit a part in the problem and requires putting in as much work as the offender, in order to make things right. Getting to that position takes some serious introspection and most importantly, a strong, honest look at what has driven the problem.

This is not to ignore the duty of the infractor. When having wronged, it's not enough to simply say "I'm sorry." Anyone can say that. Acknowledging what one has done to hurt another person is also a painful process and it requires walking into the apology with no guarantees. But a sincere apology, still means that the person afflicted may not forgive. It means that you may not have again, what you have given up by way of your mistake.

So I guess that's all that's left. An apology served up on a broken heart and seasoned with resignation and a tiny dash of hope. Who knows, maybe it'll work.....

robotica

New York is a city that is constantly bustling. It is bustling with creativity, with information, with opportunity and individuality. It is a place where pretty much anyone from anywhere can come and with some drive, get what they want out of their lives and the city.

This would presuppose that this place is rife with free thinkers and original people, but I'm here to tell you about a sick little subculture that is present in the monde du cube. There are robots among us, people.

The robot's day and mood are usually determined by the start time. Start time 10am = jovial, affable robot, complete with catch phrases and motivational bullshit, usually spewed out over the cubes, as the minions duck and cover to avoid the putrescence. Conversely, start time at 8am = robot mood, foul and disagreeable, with a possible perky window around 11am, after 2 cups of coffee and a mid-morning zone out session behind the closed, frosted glass doors of the office. After that, however, there are no guarantees and the robot in question will most likely go home at around 3:30 due to extreme fatigue and irritation.

See, robot's don't collect information, analyze and interpret it and then output something new. Robots are programmed; robot's just do. And when in the business of wandering the halls of a seemingly well-established, successful company, the robot must regurgitate the proper responses and utter the appropriate motivational bullshit, in order to keep up appearances and keep the wheels turning, so that he may secure his annual $500k cog greasing. Because we all know that the best robots live in Westchester county and count C list celebrities among their neighbors. Were they not to properly posture in the workplace, said robots may be out on their mechanical asses, wandering the streets with the tourists, or worse.....their underlings. O my.

But there comes a time in every cube-worker's life, where the office environment seems to be polluted with working with robots who seem not only to be completely programmed, but to be almost brazen about their contribution to the workforce and the company you have in common. It becomes infuriating when, in the interest of stock options and year end bonuses, the robots begin to cut off their very own arms, in order to save their rotting cores. And that is where I come in.

I and those like me, seethe resent and disdain on a daily basis. Strangely, this does not negatively effect our work, though we secretly dream about showing up on the robot's doorstep with a bottle of bleach and deer feed to adequately convey our message of resentment. Were it even mildly appropriate, we would trample down the hallways of our establishment and say the three words which would have virtually no effect on the world, but which would make us all sleep better, if only for that day: fuck right off.

But if they, the robots of the corporate world, are already hard-wired to be full of shit, does this mean that we can't change the operating system to run programs like, good manager and respectable boss? Sadly, there are those people who exist and even work among the ranks of the robot class. They are overridden and squashed by the metallic clutches of their counterparts, thus rendering their thoughts, ideas and efforts useless. Best to just get the fuck out of dodge and find a safe haven where the robots are curbed by the real people, and where their destructive and bullshit laden agendas are incapacitated by actual human ideas and progress.

Can they multiply if we stifle them?

live without

There are things I could totally do without.

I could do without people who obstruct public passageways. I could do without superiors who don't work very hard, yet harp on the rest of their minions for not making them look good at board meetings. I could do without unnecessary strife in my relationships, and I could do without my asthma on long runs.

But even the things I could do with, seem to have a hidden "I could do without" clause attached to them somewhere. Thoughts like that have been all too pervasive in my thought process lately. It's so easy to hear in my head and so easy to look at it from that perspective, but I've become disgusted by it, because that's not who I am. I am not a "half empty" kind of girl.

I'm finding that there is a level of spite and jealousy that rears when those thoughts and phrases come to mind. As if all of the successful people of the world did nothing to earn it. I've washed myself of these sentiments, because they simply don't reflect my true opinions, even if they poke into my thoughts every now and then. This nonsense was most recently brought to my attention by a caustic homeless man, sitting on 45th St. with a sign detailing his hunger and poverty, the other day. He barked at my co-worker and I as we walked to the deli for breakfast, even trying to reference a part of our conversation, on which he had eavesdropped. Apparently, poverty has not yet affected his bionic aural skills. We ignored him and I went on to purchase my usual hazelnut coffee and egg whites and tomato on a baily. The total price tag for this extravagant meal was $4.24.

Upon exiting and walking back to the office, the homeless man in question, who incidentally, didn't look like he'd skipped any meals in his life, snapped out another series of insults, at which time, I became incensed and stopped in my tracks. Now, I realize that this probably didn't have any effect on him other than to fill his hatred coffer even further, but I simply told him that I worked my ass off for my $4.24 morsels and to go fuck himself. Then I forgot about him and realized, it was true. I do work my ass off for that breakfast, and every other breakfast I've ever purchased for myself.

That annoying fuck actually did me a favor in that moment because I realized that for the last several months, I've been looking at everything I need and don't have, instead of the things that are good and hard-fought, that I do have. I'm more broke, in terms of disposable income, than I've ever been since I was probably 11 years old, when I became the town babysitter in order to afford a social life. I rarely go out right now and there are many, many things which I "need" in the athletic or home-organization senses, that annoy me because I don't have them. I will not die without new running shoes or more shelves.

But what I do have, and to which I've failed to give due credit, are drive and work ethic and a pretty decent network of fantastic people who care about me and want to see me succeed. And I do have the ability and wherewithal to make changes in my life and to climb higher and do better than I've ever done before, given some smart and strategic decision making skills, which I also possess. So really, the changes are up to me and it's just a matter of taking inventory of what's good and using it as a platform to work toward what's better. I'd say skills are better than stuff anyday, because without skills, you can only be given stuff and there's no dignity in constantly groping for charity.

So I'm back to the mantra I've adopted since pre-pubescence: If you want something, you have to go out and work for it. There is no such thing as success by waiting. I can live with that.

recovery

It's been a couple of days and I think I'm ready to talk about my self-inflicted, extremely painful hangover. We've all been there haven't we? It starts out so innocently. A work sponsored drinking function, gone totally awry when the champagne, the shots and the shitty, inedible food refuse to mix.

See the problem is, during a different time in my life, I went out drinking quite a bit more than I do now. I was also younger, obviously, and had a constitution such that I could drink whatever I wanted in large quantities and you couldn't have taken me out with a dozen mack trucks. I'm not bragging here, that's just how it was. But those days were a long time ago, and my drinking frequency has dropped off by about 80% since then. This presents a problem when I decide I'm going to drink in a non-strategic way, now. These days, I have to adhere to a couple of strict formulas in order to avoid the wretched hangovers and stress of lost property.

Generally, before I even leave the house, I lay out a cocktail of vitamins for when I come back. I've done careful research and the formula for replenishing lost nutrients and avoiding a hangover works well, provided I get a halfway decent amount of sleep. I also am careful to stick to one type of alcohol for the night, which also helps, due to my ripening age and liver. Lastly, in times of stress, when I really feel like I need a drink, I will budget myself and take only the cash I can spend on drinks. These nights I will also not take a credit card, so that I can avoid any open tab trouble. Seems like a good plan, right?

So here's what happens when I go out with work people, on a stomach that has been empty for upwards of 10 hours and the food we are to consume is disgusting. We start with a glass of wine, which incidentally, is the only thing in the restaurant that was any good. The wine is tasty and the first glass gives me a happy little buzz, due to my empty stomach. The menu looks tasty, so we all make our selections, eagerly anticipating a delectable experience. When the food arrives, however, we realize that this nights meal will fall far short of even the most forgiving expectations.

During this time, the bottomless wine continued to come; a clever ploy by the restaurant to make us think we are actually dining well, I assume. My glass never saw emptiness, so I had no idea exactly how much wine I had consumed. This was compounded by the fact that my water glass was empty for most of the night. Flash forward about 2 hours and a collection of my comrades and I head out to a friendly watering hole, frequented by one of us.

This is the part where it all starts to go wrong.

We merrily downed pints and glasses, talk story and told our tales of woe about our workplace and the booming knuckleheads to which we are subjected. Time passed and people started to think about the impending workday and with well-timed yawns, they exited the bar. But not me. Noooo, not me. I had made friends with strangers. Nice people of whom I now have zero recollection. Apparently, I was witty and clever (no surprise there) and kept the group laughing, long after my last co-worker had made his exhausted exit.

And then, for reasons I still cannot fathom, I simply walked out of the bar. No explanation, no looking back. In 34 degree weather, I walked out, sans coat, purse, keys and wallet and began to drunkenly meander my way back home. I did have some phone contact during this time, which was understandably the most frustrating and annoying experience of the other person's year. I trudged over a mile and a half home, in the freezing cold, only to realize that when I came upon my apartment, I had no way in. And so there I sat, for another 30 minutes, buzzing the super over and over and over, determined to wake him from his restful sleep and drag him into my miserable state, so that I could get into my apartment to pass out. And pass out, I did.

I awoke the next morning bright and somewhat chipper. I was on time for work and just fine through the morning as my co-workers streamed past me, throwing mocking, knowing glances in my direction. I was even coherent enough to have a sensitive discussion with a high level executive at a venture capital firm. So proud of me, was I. But then, then somewhere around 2pm, it all came crashing down. The hangover I had staved off all morning attacked me with a vengeance and I found myself trying to hide in the bathroom between bouts of dry heaving and vomiting, hoping that no one would notice my plight. But really, how could they not?

By the time I made my way out of my workplace, I was armed with a plan and an overwhelming desire to be in the fetal position for several hours. Never again, I vowed. No exceptions, no deviations. It's the formula or nothing from now on. Famous last words, right? I'm not the only person to have endured this kind of pain. I'm also not the only one stupid enough to not take the day off and convalesce in peace and relative comfort. I can tell you this though, if I can make a good impression while green and nauseous, I'm a much better actress than I thought I was.

Take a lesson here, friends, because the next time, I'm sure I won't be so lucky to not only make it home in one piece, but to get my stuff back as well. But the question now is, do I start drinking more to avoid this scenario? Isn't "training" the way to become good at all things?

happy birthday

Yesterday, I peeked into a world which alternately fascinates and horrifies me. I gained entree, via the begging of my friend, to the fitness world of the beautiful people. I shall never be the same.

It should be noted that I am, indeed, a workout snob, but the environs don't necessarily bother me, provided there is ample, useful equipment for me and not just a sea of useless nautilus machines and calf strengthening stations. In fact, most of the better gyms in which I've trained, would probably not be suitable for the "clean" person, who goes to the gym to get some cardiooohh in (must be said in valley speak) and work the 5lb hand weights for a bit, to get "toned".

Anyway, I found myself there yesterday, looking at the random, edgy, brushed metal features on the walls, the blonde wood cabinets, cleverly arranged gym towels and strategically placed foliage. All around me there were small people. They were both short and thin, all of them. The women had on cleverly matching gym outfits, full faces of makeup, earrings and smartly coiffed "workout hair". They diligently rode the reclined stationery bikes, marched on the elipticals and stood idly around kibitzing and checking themselves out in the mirrors, which lined the walls.

Some of the men, with their track pants and logo tees, hoisted the 40lb. dumbbells, grimacing to show the ferocity of their work. They pulled the triceps extension down with bad form and flailed their bodies around as they did bar curls with weight that was both pointless and too heavy for their strength levels. I also noticed that the boys did a regular inventory and survey of the other Y chromosomes in the area, clandestinely measuring cocks as they strutted around the "weight" area, which should actually have been called the "nautilus bullshit" area. Because when "exercising" so ineffectively, one must find another means for comparison in order to woo the matchy-matchy girls in the cardio section.

All of this mayhem, coupled with the droves of people who literally ran into me as I warmed up on the ergometer, made me want to hurt. At one point, I actually began throwing elbows on the sly, hoping to catch an errant quadricep so that I could inflict a dead leg on it's vacant owner. It was at that moment where the snobbery reared it's head and I realized that I am not a beautiful gym person.

I, with my boardshorts and wifebeater tanks and aptitude for actual athleticism, belong in the gym that looks dingy to the outsider. The one where punk and hard rock are blasting from the speakers and nary a "hand bike" is in sight. I belong in the gym that the beautiful people would scoff at because there are not long, neat rows of retardedly complicated nautilus machines and where one can regularly hear the pounding of bumper weights as they crash back down onto the olympic platforms in the corner. I belong at a gym where they not only have a glute-ham raise, but where the patrons actually know what to do with it.

I have recovered from the irritation of the whole experience and come to a realization. A beautiful person in life I may be, a beautiful gym person, I never will. Thank the stars above for that.

frites de disco

Well I'm going to have to adopt the supermodel anorexia diet to the stars this week. That's all I'm saying on that subject.

In my culinary travels last week, I came across a phenomenon I had no idea would speak to me the way it did. I am generally a "conscious" person when it comes to eating. This is not to say I'm a food nazi, but I do pay attention to the health profile of what I put in my body. Even when sobering up. But Wednesday night, that all went out the window, when the harried, over-explaining waitress at the Sayville Diner plunked down a plate of gravified goodness called: Disco Fries.

I stared quizzically at the plate for a second. Although I understand this delight is common in Canada, by another name, I had never heard of such a mixture of ingredients. Curly french fries on a shallow reservoir of gravy, topped by a bit more gravy and then, American-tastic plastic slices of processed cheese melted on top like a warm, orange blanket.

At first, I was afraid. All of these elements are regularly avoided by me for various reasons, so I thought there would be no shot at satisfaction. Additionally, I had already received my omelet, and the flavors of the two items, would probably not mix. It was then that I heard the "Omigawwd's" from the other side of the table. Could it be that good? Really? I took my fork and tentatively struck a fry, half bare, half drenched in the layers of possibility.

It was that first taste that really got me. The crispy, salty fries, the gooey cheese and the spices of the gravy all dancing coyly around my mouth, daring me not to like them. And I tried - tried not to like it, but I had to aquiesce; fries and gravy can be good! In fact, not only can they be, but they are and once the seal was broken on that flavor festival, it was like a crazy, fork-stabbing extravaganza between me and my 2 dining cohorts. Our individual meals went largely untouched, while we attacked the disco fries like fat people eating donuts. Quickly and in large chunks, the plate was cleared and I think the only reason no one licked it is because the other two would have protested.

In the disco aftermath, I was greeted by a feeling akin to having eaten an anvil and my stomach, which is apparently the logic center of my body, was a little upset by the whole experience. But my brain, my brain told me that it was completely worth it, so upon returning home, I waddled my disco fried ass up the stairs and rolled myself into a deep, food-coma induced slumber.

I will now begin the recipe search, so that I can propagate this experience for my loved ones in the future. I will save it for the rare and special day, when calories, fat, sodium and carbohydrate content have no power over my dining decisions. And then......I will unleash the disco fry and all its gravy soaked aptitude on the world.

tday

Happy Thanksgiving!

See, I'm not really a holiday girl. This is because whenever the holidays began to flirt with us all when I was a child, I was thrown, headlong into "serving wench" mode. Not in the sense that my ample bosoms were displayed for an unruly crowd of drunken warriors, but because the silver needed to be polished, the china cleaned and displayed and the dusting and vacuuming done, so that the rest of the family didn't know that we lived in a house that wasn't clean and spotless 24/7. I suspect they guessed, but that did nothing to dissuade my mother.

Anyway, today on the day of thanks, I'm passing along the good vibes, free of sarcastic or cynical dinge. Now that I've had sweet potatoes, vegetables, a piece of decent turkey and loads of pie, I'm thankful. Thankful that I have a functioning brain, good friends and a life, with which I am still young enough to make a fantastic impression.

Hope your day is going well.

doggehh

Okay, I'm mailing it in today, but this always makes me laugh (because it's sick and strange) and I can use all the laughs I can get. I wonder how many times this has happened before, or if this is the moment of discovery.

sleepy little pill

On the topic of insomnia again, I'm back on the no sleep kick. While some would think that being a "night owl" is somehow lucky and fun, what with all of the interesting late night programming and all, I would argue that it is only beneficial in a collegiate or jobless situation. Otherwise, it's just a bunch of wasted time in a zombie state and several hundred extra dollars a year spent on coffee.

I've received a few recommendations recently, for aids that will allow me to both sleep and wake "naturally" and leave me rested as opposed to having a sleepy-over the next day. I find the use of the word natural, very creative. This is one of the stupidest things I've ever read. For people who really have sleep problems, do they think we haven't checked into all of this already? I mean, really. No insomniac I know has not tried every possible trick to get themselves to sleep. Short of stabbing myself in the temple and letting my brain leak out onto my pillow every night, I have put in the fucking effort on this one.

Sadly, even the most safe, over the counter sleep aids cause me extreme drowsiness and leave me operating about 2 - 3 sentences behind the rest of the world the next day. This tends to be problematic when trying to discuss the state of the real estate economy and relevant information with regard to the placement of tens of millions of dollars. Thank god I'm not in the practice of operating heavy machinery or wielding medical tools in surgery. "Uh, oops....you said it was the left leg....right?" "Anyone seen my ju-ju-bes?"

I'm one of a gajillion people dealing with this, though. Our collective stress levels and lack of coping skills have thrown us all into a world dependent on sedatives to sleep and stimulants to wake. Gone is the time of a simple drifting off to a land of happy slumber and restful awakening with joyful rays of sun streaming through the lace curtains each morning. In it's place is the writhing stress of tossing around trying to trick your body into relaxing and rejuvinating itself.

Due to this, there are so many ads out now for prescription grade sleep aids, that you'd think some hippie out there would become incensed and begin leveraging his or her holistic-ness and computer skills to market some sort of pay service. It would be targeted at stress reduction techniques involving body contortion, breathing techniques and strange herbs you've never heard of.

Of course, I must digress that this is America and we would sooooooooooooooo much rather take drugs than deal with our problems. Perhaps the hippies realized this (in between bong rips) and have pre-emptively claimed futility. Perhaps this is another idea that I really should jump on, so that I can make the millions of dollars that the universe owes me, since I already lost out on the road rage thing.

I now think that perhaps I should rally my fellow insomniacs and see if we just can't shift the workday to coincide with our epidemic. If you think about it, the white collar world is probably the largest funder of both the coffee and sedative markets, meaning we have the most authority on what would work well to alleviate the productivity losses associated with our, ahem, disorder. If we shifted the workday, we'd have plenty of good, daylight hours to ease into wakefulness and then we could keep happy hour where it is, and lunchtime would rock. I'm taking this one straight to the top.

I apologize in advance to the pharmaceutical industry for their impending losses, but I'm sure we'll come up with another affliction for them to exploit.

road rage

About 8 years ago, I had this idea.

Seems I could have made a million dollars had I bought HTML For Dummies. Silly me.

But now you know....you can report all of the assholes you come across on the freeway. You can post their information and offense on the web for millions of other angry drivers to read and digest. Perhaps they will even make themselves aware of the vehicle in question so they may give the driver the bird, on your behalf. Hell, you may even be able to find a support group of people who can help you deal with the frustration you feel from interacting with scores of bad drivers.

I'm now going to invent a site for people who cannot walk down the damn sidewalk without obstructing as many other people's paths as possible. Perhaps using my energy to develop a website about them will somehow keep me from tripping them and then standing over them laughing.

sticky

Just a disclaimer here, this is just a story. There is no moral at the end, just a funny memory from a simpler time.

One day my cousin and I went out across the park behind her tract and over to a new housing tract, which was not yet completed. She lived far enough away that we didn't get to see each other too often because she lived in an unsavory area that my parents visited begrudgingly, when her family wouldn't or couldn't come to see us. I didn't really pay attention to these details at the time, because all we cared about was ditching our brothers and parents and going off to play and have fun.

We went into the model homes of the newly developing areas and pretended they were ours. This was in the infancy of my awareness of a place called the "Inland Empire," which I would grow to avoid at all costs. At this point in time, all I knew was that these houses were nice. They were fully furnished with exotic couches and large totem poles placed conspicuously about for no reason. No totem poles graced my childhood home. We cruised around in the luxurious models and checked out every detail. We were disappointed to find there was no food in the refrigerator and we contemplated bringing our own, so we could cook fantastic dinners for the parties we would throw in our lavish abode.

When people would come into the house to look at the models, we would hide under beds, inside the cabinets and behind large items, hoping to god that the people didn't think to look there and ruin our charade. Occasionally we would be found or jump out and scare the shit out of the poor, unsuspecting intruders, after which we would run out laughing and hide so as not to be reported to our parents.

Sometimes, the models were rudely locked and secured, so there was no way to get in and have our fun. In these times of misfortune, we would simply adapt and play outside the models in the landscaped yards with the fancy patio furniture. There was one day however, when we came upon a bunch of work supplies. The yard of the house had not yet been completed and there was no one anywhere in sight to claim the trove of work supplies which had been abandoned by their owners. There were buckets with all sorts of random substances inside, a couple of random tools, paint cans, a hose, some bags of concrete and then a bucket off to the side. It seemed to have a spotlight on it. Some nails were on the ground around it, so we were careful, but then we discovered that the contents were a strange, rubbery compound of some sort. It was kind of a yellowy color, didn't have a pungent smell and looked as if it could be made into a huge, fun, rubber ball.

My cousin, in her curious excitement, thrust her arm into the bucket and pulled out a handful of our mystery toy. When she pulled her hand out, she had a handful and then some of what turned out to be the stickiest substance either of us had ever come across. What fun. She moved it back and forth between both hands, trying to construct some sort of object from it, as if it were silly putty. But the more she played, the stickier it got and suddenly we were both overtaken by a sense of panic. I, stupidly, tried to save her by pulling the goop out of her hands in order to ditch it in one of the buckets. But of course, it not only became stuck to my hands, but didn't leave hers either. We were in our own sticky version of the blob. I imagined the goop eating it's way up my arms, choking me out and then taking over my whole body, leaving only my bones for my unsuspecting parents to come upon when they finally realized that we were gone.

In our panic, we began to run. I'm not really sure why running seemed like a good idea, but we took off. We ran like hell toward home, stopping occasionally to wrestle just a little bit more of the goop onto an unsuspecting sapling. As we approached her street, however, our fear was compounded by the fact that the last words we heard when we left were "don't go over to the models." Now the evidence was inseparably adhered to us. We were so toast. As we came down the street, we frantically strategized how we could get this shit off of our hands without being found out. We grabbed leaves off of bushes and stuck them to our hands before we stuck them in our pockets. Insurance, you know.

We spent the next 40 minutes in the bathroom messing with every kind of soap and chemical we could get our hands on, trying frantically to get it off. As it worked out, we both came out of the bathroom with red, chapped hands and neither of us got the sticky completely off. I spent the entire hour and fifteen minute car ride home with my hands in my pockets, not even bothering to defend against the horde of little brothers. This was the ultimate price to pay, I had decided.

I ended up sneaking into the garage and pouring gasoline on my hands and then scrubbing them with a short-bristled wire brush. This, of course, was a red flag (literally) and I was found out. Phone calls were exchanged almost instantly and suddenly there I was, getting yelled at, while I stood with my nose in the corner. My cousin and I never spoke of the incident again, once our parents got a hold of us. I decided then and there, that I would never force my children to be stuffed into the house at family outings with no activities to keep them occupied. Turns out, this was only the beginning of our antics and though we were restricted to the house at family gatherings from then on, it didn't stop us from drinking in Yosemite, while the families sat around the campfire...

Yes, I know....I was such a bad kid.

da troot

Ah, the white lie. The most innocent and innocuous of lies...so seemingly unimportant, it gets to be associated with the color of purity and innocence. Such a paltry little thing, the white lie. The white lie gets one out of boring meetings, off the phone with relatives, and provides a trove of excuses for those who lack the gene enabling punctuality.

That's where it starts. One little white lie, leads to a few more white lies, designed to protect the original slight, whilst helping the utterer to maintain his or her reputation as an "honest" person, save face, and not have to back out of the fact that an untruth was told. But the delicate web is where the problems start to coagulate.

No one wants to be called a liar. But even a white liar, is still a liar. In my research, I have found that people who engage in the practice of white lies will vehemently deny being liars and will retort to such an egregious accusation with anger and potential violence. This is due to the fact that their integrity has seemingly been called into question. Hm. These, however, are the same people to whom the white lie is such an integrated habit, they often can't even recognize when the untruths begin to drip from their lips.

A wise person told me many, many times in my youth, "If something doesn't make sense, then it's probably not true. But, before you go accusing anyone, just take a step back, watch, and genuinely give the person a chance to tell the truth. Don't try and string people up in their lies, because it won't get you anywhere and the liar will never react well." Such sound advice.

The initial reaction by a truthful person to this kind of behavior generally begins with confusion. Something doesn't jive, doesn't sound quite right and the listener is forced to try and make logical sense out of what just doesn't piece together quite right. Headscratching begins and the brow pinches into a discombobulated furrow. After confusion, comes suspicion and then shortly thereafter, the street signs for "Lack of Trust Dr." start to appear in the distance, the faint yellow flashing of caution lights, becoming visible in the white fog of the story.

The only problem, is that the astute perceptive and observational powers I took a lifetime to cultivate and hone, often appear to the liar in question as some sort of superhuman ability. Suddenly, rather than just paying attention and remembering details, I become some sort of threat to my white liar friend and I'm met with open hostility. But you see, I have no tolerance for lying. Tact, yes; lying, no. In no way does the definition of tact include fabrication or misleading information. Apparently, it's a common misconception.

See, I'm not out to trap the liars of the world and hold the proverbial mirror up to their tarnished souls. I'm waaaayy to lazy and have no interest in judging anyone. I'm just out to know the truth on subjects about which I choose to inquire. If I ask a question, I expect an honest answer, even if it means taking in difficult or uncomfortable information. I can handle any truth, I cannot handle any lies. Taking away my ability to look at a situation for what it really is, is just rude and arrogant. Funnily enough, most times, I wouldn't even be upset by the true details. But the lying ....the lying opens up a can o worms, friends. Can o fucking worms.

Once you've lied to me (we've already gone over my struggles with trust), it opens up a new line of questioning in my head. Why lie about something so seemingly harmless? Why have you chosen this simple subject to lie about and what else have you lied about that I don't yet know? More importantly, why do you feel the need to lie to me? Have we not adequately established respect for one another? Of what are you so afraid, that you can't tell the truth?

So what are we left with then? What is the proper recourse for dealing with a half-truther? This phenomenon seems to be both so rampant and widely accepted that I'm left to wonder if I shouldn't just give up and start in with the white lie fad myself. But then I'd be catching me lying to me all the time and I'd be so annoyed with me knowing that I'm lying to me and yet continuing to do so anyway, that I'd probably beat me up. No good.

I'll edit this in the morning.

harrassment, please

This is meant to be a joke, but come now....if Tom Brady came up to me in his underwear - even if they were tighty whiteys - he could grab the girls for sure.

fun with text

The boy was forced to be in the company of many, many people he didn't like and didn't want to be around for several hours. This happens to him frequently and so we text our way through the night for time passage and amusement. This is one such conversation.


Him: I'm surrounded by idiots and douchebags. How are you?

Me: Trying to get sleepy....any good characters there tonight?

Him: They are all a bunch of fucking retards and I'm forced to stand here in the middle of them.

Me: Maybe you can plot the retard-lympics. They could be sponsored by a hair gel company and Ed Hardy.

Him: Don't forget Myspace.

Me: They could team up with You Tube for broadcasting purposes.

Him: This is like the remedial bar night for people too scared to go out on weekends.

Me: Haha...is there a short bus in the parking lot? Anyone wearing a helmet?

Him: No, but there are 2 guys with Aspergers.

Me: You should befriend them for social anthropology purposes.

Him: I have. I make them sing really difficult songs.

Me: Good job! See if you can get them to sing any Linda Ronstadt or Gary Newman. The retard chicks will swoon!

Him: I have them sing Hank Williams, Jr.

Me: That's just so you get to hear it. Although hearing it butchered may cure you.

Him: Quit hugging trees and absolving the Clinton's and I'll stop listening to country.

Me: Good one. But country is way worse than any politician could be. And I know you secretly love the trees.

Me: And I know about your stash of hemp clothes and sitar 8 tracks.

Him: Clinton gets credit for a wave of prosperity he had nothing to do with and his wife had a guy murdered.

Me: Country assaults the ears of millions, daily and has fueled hundreds of domestic beatings and more than a few trucks hurling themselves off of cliffs. Totally worse.

Him: Have fun in your socialist paradise.

Me: Republican. Maybe Gee Dub could preside over the retard-lympics, although I guess he kind of already does.

Him: Good luck paying for Hillary's health care program.

Me: I'm gonna invite her over to my village for a town hall meeting to discuss it. Bill can play Hail to the Chief on the sax when she comes in.


There were a couple more after that, but this was the crux of the conversation. Even when in a pseudo-social situation, we can still covertly debate politics and country music. Country music, incidentally, is a genre that elicits convulsive vomiting from me. But that's neither here nor there.

Next week we'll tackle immigration reform; stay tuned.

can't truss it

I don't trust anyone. I'm not proud of this, nor am I happy about it, but I also didn't choose this route voluntarily. See, I didn't grow up in the place where everything was fine, love conquered all and people banded together and protected each other. In my youth, the basic needs were met out of an extreme sense of duty, but if one wanted love and acceptance, you were in the wrong joint. It was an environment where you could and would get sold out if you made a mistake, shit got rough, or the other person(s) just didn't feel like putting in the effort to help you out. Your options were to be perfect or face total rejection.

Consequently, my friendships kind of went like that and my relationships sure as hell did. I have had a penchant with all but one person, of choosing people who have no chance of reciprocating any real or genuine love and affection. This is mostly due to the fact that we attract our own, generally speaking. You want to find friends or boyfriends who are going to be loyal to you and take care of you as they expect you to take care of them, but guess what....if you didn't grow up in that kind of environment, you're not playing with a full deck and it's sure as shit that you're gonna pick some other sorry asshole who's just like you, wanting a happy life and healthy relationships, but wandering around aimlessly, without a map or a plan, trying to find them.

But you really like each other, so you check it all out anyway....you hang out, you have things in common, you laugh and tell stories and have sex and maybe even make some nebulous future plans. What you don't realize, is that you are like two blind people holding hands and running through a field of landmines, and that eventually, as is destined to happen, you'll get your leg blown off and never have seen it coming. You'll find out that your friends have been talking shit, your boyfriend is spending as much or more time and affection on someone else and the earrings he gave you were a pair that he stole off of her dresser. All of the little white lies, the times when things didn't quite line up, but you let it go anyway - now they've all caught up and make sense. You feel like a total asshole. So now what?

At the outset and prior to the inevitable, what you failed to realize in your deluded state of hope and optimism, is that all of these little, seemingly harmless situations and circumstances lead to one road....Lack of Trust Dr. Once you are on this road, there are no exits unless you build them, so you'd better get used to the view if you don't intend to put in some serious work. But the work....ay, there's the rub.

There are only a handful of people that I have met in my years on this earth, who aren't inherently distrustful of everyone around them. This is not to say that these people are not cautious or aware, but they seem to be able to take people purely at face value and people generally seem to do right by them. I marvel at this. How do they accomplish this monumental feat? I wouldn't say that I am a jealous or even a very cynical person, but I will say, even if I've known you for years, I still harbor the assumption that one day, you're gonna fuck me over and bail, should the circumstance present itself. Not that you would be looking to do that, mind you, but it's happened "accidentally" enough times, that this is the taste and expectation I'm left with. I battle inwardly for a new set of expectations, daily.

See, everyone goes into relationships looking for someone to fit with them. Fit with their ideas, their plans, their friends, their likes and their dislikes. What people fail to realize, is that you have to do some fitting in as well. The more rigid we are about ourselves and our lives, the more difficult it will be to fit someone else in and the less we'll be able to fit in anywhere else either. The trust required to show someone who you are; to give them information about you, to love them, to let them love you back....that trust is fragile and it's hard to dole out when it feels like you're giving away your protection.

And therein lies the quandry, I suppose. Be alone with your friends and your normal routine and be "protected" from hurt, or take a chance on trusting someone with your peccadilloes. It might just add a dimension to your life you would never before have thought you'd experience. 'Sup to you.....

exposed

I had my ass grabbed while walking to work the other day. It was made to look like an accident and the perpetrator was quickly off into the stream of black trenches and wingtips. I never really even got to see more detail of him than that he was wearing jeans and a black t shirt and was shorter than me. But who isn't. I thought about getting mad and yelling something, but it seemed futile. So, that time I just continued on my way to the office, not bothering to feel violated. If he had stopped or stayed closer, I could have wrecked his day. Besides, how do you yell at someone who exhibits sociopathic behavior? What do you say to them that will actually make them stop? Do you really think anything you say is gonna make a dent?

Last week, I was dry humped on a train, while crammed into an uptown 6 train on my way to the event I was attending. The man in question was discrete and slightly haphazard about it at first. As if I wouldn't notice that there was a hard penis, shrouded by a ridiculously long, gunmetal grey t-shirt pressing against my back? The train was so full that there weren't many other places to move, so the only option was to shift. I tried to move, he moved with me. Tried to shove him off, he came right back like I had magnets in my ass. I thought of yelling, but then everyone would be staring at me like I was the weirdo and nothing would be accomplished there, except for my own horrified embarrassment. So I elbowed him in the ribs as hard as I could.

He coughed a little, but didn't react other than that except to squirm his way through the other train patrons until he was out of my reach altogether. When he did this, I also noticed him pull his pants up from his thighs to the appropriate location on his waste. I wanted to vomit. What makes a person decide to do that? It's not even that he did it so much, but why? He got out at the next stop and switched cars. . I saw him do this twice. Who did he disgust in those cars? How many shots does that guy take in the ribs everyday and more importantly is it worth it?

Why would a man come up and just expose himself, or rub on someone he has never met and knows nothing about? Why would a man be walking around arbitrarily ass-grabbing women who are focused on getting to work ontime and in relative peace? What is to be accomplished with this behavior and how is this the best course of action for anything? What percentage of the time does this work out favorably for our perp? Using that criterion alone, I would think the behavior in question would stop due to the repeated failure.

But I forget; this is not the behavior of a rational, intelligent or even otherwise productive individual, so there is no real way for a logician like myself to explain. I suppose I just have to elbows sharp enough to throw with a promise of damage. How ya like that ass now, fucker?

the blowhard

I can hear him down the hall (but only after 10:30am), voice booming through a conversation about nothing relevant to business. Next comes the requisite, spurious laughter, which is perpetually too enthusiastic for the subject at hand. He sweeps through the halls with his Nordic smile and perfect hair wave and then all but disappears for the rest of the day. Sometimes he comes over and sucks a half hour out of a random person for a "get-to-know-you" moment, but you can see in his face, you might as well be standing there saying blah, blah, blah. Nothin' you say is gonna stick.

Occasionally he will come back from an afternoon "meeting" freshly shorn or with a new and fun array of gadgets. He will also occasionally grace an actual meeting with my comrades and I, feeling fantastic about himself for having shown up. All of those things, while grating, are tolerable. It's when he starts talking in those meetings that I really start to bristle.

He begins to speak and it's like he grows....upward and outward, right before your very eyes. He inflates like Dig-Dug, seizes a moment and booms with all his might about productivity and responsibility and support and diligence. He talks about "putting in the hours" and passion for one's work and he glances softly up into the distance, as if seeing a vision of what is and will be. Sometimes he'll even lob out a threat, cleverly disguised as a "motivational" comment and finally, he will charge the group to go out there and giterdun.

What he doesn't take into account however, is that the do-as-i-say-not-as-i-do system only works on people in their pre-teen years. Mister Blowhard, we all know what time you come in, what time you leave and how many Fridays you take off. We are all aware that when you are in your office, behind closed doors, you are calling the pool company or the maid service or your architect to help you design a new hallway bath, that will look better than your next door neighbor's.

Your words fall on deaf ears because they mean nothing to those of us who make 1/5th your salary, but work twice your hours, hammering away to feed the machine. You are the one, despite your trumpeting and feigned inspirational monologues, who elicits the acidic review in the pantry because you are full of hot air and as you blow it all out on your lemmings, you dry up their patience and respect.

Ever wonder why it's hard to find good people, but even harder to keep them?

the wedding planner

"Oh, I know....I just can't seem to narrow in on a dress. I know....it's like a full time job picking some of this stuff out; it's just crazy! Oh thank you, I know, when he gave it to me I almost fainted, it was soooooooo beautiful......."

This goes on for hours -- no, daaaayyyysss. The perky, little laugh coming out of such an innocent, little creature who has finally snagged her dream of getting engaged so she can get married and start havin' babies. You think I'm poking fun, but I'm not. Okay, that's a lie, I am poking fun, but what I'm not doing is exaggerating. The lovely woman in question became engaged about a month or so ago and ever since, it's been a nauseating display of ring-flashing, dress choosing, cake crises and a streaming, inbound phone marathon from relatives and friends, all anxious to hear the story.

I've heard about it in the pantry, while making lunch. In the bathroom while washing my hands, in the aisles of multiple different areas of my company and I've heard about it while sitting in my cube, trying desperately to get excited about data.

I'm going to call attention to what this obviously sounds like and dispel any misunderstandings. I am not irritated over the fact that she became engaged. I do not begrudge this woman her "perfect day" or her happiness. In fact, I think it's fantastic that there is love in the world and that she and her beau want to share it with each other. I wish her nothing but fine silk and perfectly moist cakes and a beautiful first dance. I wish her large houses and designer SUV's and Tiffany baby rattles. I really do. But I don't wish to hear about them all day at work at an elevated volume.

See, there's a big difference between sharing parts of your life with your friends at work and ambuscading everyone within a 10-cube radius with the back story on every single flower that comes in celebration of their love and every phone call made to set up an appointment to check out napkin samples for the upcoming $50k wedding. A once-weekly, thirty-second synopsis would do just fine. For fuck's sakes, you could get a full update of the world's news headlines in that time. Considering the wedding isn't for a fucking year, she could probably just go quietly about it and point out the highlights when the major details are sewn up.

Or I could put my headphones on and hide away until the next time I have an instant message flashing "no more fucking wedding talk!" on my screen. See, it's not just me!

me-ist

The world is full of opinion. The world is also full of people willing to spew their opinion of just about anything to anyone who wants to, or is forced to listen. This is rarely a one-sided endeavor, however, because the listener soon feels assaulted and bamboozled and wants to then assert himself as well.

However, not every conversation is an opining session gone awry. Sometimes, Person A is just looking for a sounding board and a conversation or relevant feedback, not to lecture or be lectured to. But, if person B is of a certain personality type, Person A never really had a chance in this encounter and mayhem is sure to ensue.

So person B, formerly the listener (supposedly), deftly turns the tide of the conversation and begins to regale person A with tales of his own woe, drawing bogus parallels and going on at length until the subject at hand is firmly back to his problems, his successes, experiences and opinions. Occasionally this will result in Person A trying to maintain the original conversation by inserting something in a blind effort to regain footing and finish the original thought. When this happens, neither A nor B is listening to the other and therefore nothing, conversationally anyway, is getting accomplished.

Upon closer inspection, what is happening however, is Person A is getting a good look at where Person B's interests really lie. There are people out there who will participate in a conversation both as willing listeners and contributors. If a person like that has begun a conversation and the topic is himself at the outset, he will often finish the story or conversation string and then ask how the other person is doing and what new news is up. He will then listen not only for the purpose of appearing interested, but because he is interested and is taking in and considering the things he is hearing. People like this type of listener / contributor are few and far between. I have a couple of them in my life and they are, understandably, counted among my dearest friends. Hard to find people like that.

Then there are the rest of the people, in varying degrees of selfishness and blatant indifference. People who are, what I like to call "obtusely self-involved". The basic translation, means that these people are not only quite disinterested in subjects that are outside of making them look good in some way, but they actually believe that they are genuinely interested in what other people are saying and doing around them. This person will fight with you if you call them on this behavior. He or she may even recite some element of the last conversation you had in order to prove that they were listening. Even though what they will puke back to you has nothing at all to do with the point of the conversation, this person will feel justified as a good listener and move on, feeling exonerated.

So what is a person (A) to do? I don't have the answer to that, but things to consider are:

1. Don't wait for Person B to change. He or she may have some moments of real interest and participation, but by and large, will only be concerned with how what you are doing directly affects or enhances his life.

2. Don't count on this person to be the one to whom you tell your most personal or confusing thoughts. He or she will not be able to offer any relevant advice or feedback, because she will be too busy trying to decipher exactly how this relates to her and what is the appropriate platitude if it doesn't.

3. Don't bother being upset by it. You will be the only person upset in that scenario, because Person B cannot see too far past herself to say anything other than "you'll figure it out". The translation of that is: I've been through more than you and you don't see ME talking about it. Person B cannot grasp that importance and struggle varies from person to person, because people all have different circumstances. She can only see that she has stuff to gripe about and cannot do it now, because she is so busy "listening" to you and your stupid shit.

The point here....you're on your own. If you're lucky enough to have one good listener or supportive person in your life, thank your god, energy, higher power or whatever. 'Cause there aint many out there and Person B is sure not gonna sit around listening to your sorry ass.

SoCal fires

This affects me, but more importantly, it directly affects members of my family. This is an exerpt from an e mail that my brother wrote, detailing pretty much exactly what is going on in Southern California right now with the 17 fires raging from San Diego to above Los Angeles.


First, some geography. We are located in Santee, which is just South and East of the Miramar Air Base extension on the west side of Interstate 15 freeway. From our front door, you can see the back of the base and in the canyon beyond the freeway is a recycling plant. The section we live next to is a much narrower swatch of land than the actual base. Poway is the first city North the airbase. Lakeside is the first city East of our city.

The Witch creek fire started near Ramona and has moved West and South. It is currently 196k acres, 1% contained with 500 confirmed homes damaged, 250 destroyed and 150 other structures destroyed. The southern line has spread down the 67 freeway and has finally made it to Lakeside outskirts. This is the fire we are concerned with. The 2003 cedar fire spread this way, then went onto the airbase and down the 52 freeway (right by our home), almost to the ocean. The fire spreading east jumped the 15 and has devastated Rancho Bernardo and moved on to Solana Beach. It may go all the way to the ocean this time.

The other big fire is the Harris which started near Descanso, right on the border and has moved North to Rancho San Diego and West to Eastlake/Chula Vista. It has 72k acres burned and 10% containment. That fire is slowly moving and they have evacuated almost to where we used to live in Spring Valley. There are alos fires in San Marcos (contained) and Fallbrook (Rice fire), to the North. The rice fire may hook up with a fire in Temecula and spread. Finally, there is a fire in Imperial Valley which was contained. The Witch Creek fire has recently moved North to Riverside county and East to Harbison Canyon out near Sis in Law's work, the Viejas reservation.

We were packed yesterday morning and have spent two days inside due to the horrible air quality. Niece's school was closed for the week as is Sis in Law's work. I am the acting supervisor for my unit, so I had to go in yesterday and they are open tomorrow, which I think is a terrible idea. Today, I left to go to a doctor's appointment and we took a brief trip to get charcoal in case of a power outage, but that has been it for Sis in Law and Niece. The main power source in the South was knocked out by the Portrero fire by the border and the North line is threatened.

Yesterday, my work was dismissed early, so I was home early. I made sure the weatherstripping on the front door was sound and the back door, which has the dog door, was re-stripped. I asked Sis in Law to go to Lowe's very early to get some as I had run out, and the smoke had not yet reached us. She said the masks were all out and there was a lot of activity there. We have replaced the air filter and the house is pretty much air tight. We already had plenty of food storage, portable food, first aid kits, high rank emergency air masks, emergency packs and our important documents are in one small file cabinet which is easily moved. We also have battery and crank powered flashlights, candles and battery powered radios. We also have a large supply of water as well, and I know how to tap into our water main if needed. I am so thankful the church stresses emergency preparedness and my parents were good examples.

I went to the store on my way home yesterday, to pick up a few small "non-necessity comfort" items, and the store was in chaos. People had no preparation and the water supply and bottled water was stripped to nothing. People were wandering the area near the water complaining about how the store did not stock enough water. They did not seem to figure out it was their fault for not being prepared. The first aid area was pretty well raided as well, and canned food was holding out ok. People were asking about grills and other sources to heat food.

I had started a project of donating clothing, books and other items to the Salvation Army about 9 months ago, in order to clear out clutter in the house and it just so happened that I was working on blankets. I made a run last night to Qualcomm stadium, which is an evacuation center, and handed over blankets, pillows and sleeping bags.

In total, we have about 300k evacuees throughout the county and about 6 major rescue centers. Across the street, there are about 3-4 motorhomes in the restaurant parking lot and at the store we saw about 6-7 more, so some people are finding places to stay and getting permission from the stores/restaurants where they are at.


Please keep all of these people in your thoughts. There's nothing we can do right now, but hope the wind dies down.