Online Dating

A tip from me to you: the following words and phrases should NOT be used when online dating. These are above and beyond spelling errors and shirtless guys in their alleged photos (most of whom should have kept their shirts on). These words and phrases have been offered to me - and the world at-large - on a lovely silver platter and they immediately make me think, “No thanks.”

Alpha Male
Fetish
Prideful
“my grandchildren” (I’m not yet 40, is what I’m getting at)
“spend lots of time playing video games”
Lover (I just hate that word)
“can drink 1 ½ times my weight” (I hope that was a joke)
“Many women find me attractive.” (Oh, REALLY??)
“a member of the KISS Army”
Yankees fan (move along, pal)
“My cat thinks I’m purrrfect.” (and I think you’re gay)
No Baggage (yeah, buddy…me either)
No Drama (ditto)
Experienced (what the hell does THAT mean?) (Ohhhhh. Yeah, probably)

Man Overboard

Our offices were renovated, and we were displaced for some months last year (like a little asbestos is gonna kill ya...) and have been back here since mid-April. I moved right back to where I was before, in a little cluster of three cubicles. My other two cube-mates moved down a floor, and I'm rather isolated now. A lot of foot-traffic by my desk, but no one sitting on either side of me. Random work/study students use the desks now and again, but that's it. Lo and behold: a part-time guy shows up yesterday, and he’ll be here a couple of days a week. I'm not entirely sure what his job is - he doesn't work in my division - but he's quite the interesting fellow. I'm going to bet he's in his early 60s. First of all, he sat over there from about 1pm onward until I left...and didn't say a word. The woman who was showing him the ropes got him to talk a little, but not a lot. Primary reason: he doesn't seem to speak a lot of english. Going geographically by accent, I’ll call him Boris. I'm not even going to try to spell the last name. The most interesting part about him: the cologne. Good lord, he smells like...well, like I think those guys from “A Night at the Roxbury” must smell. He smells like a high school kid who just figured out what Axe Body Spray is. Over. The. Top. AND I'm pretty sure he freshened it up a bit some time during the late afternoon. Ewww. This morning: he’s back! As strong as ever.

El Presidente

7:30am this morning. I had something to drop off for signature in the Administration Building of the University where I work.
Ride up in the elevator to the Executive Floor...lights off everywhere except for the President's Office. Not unusual, but I did scoff a little...
I go to the office next door to the President and shove my envelope under the door...and who pops his head out to see who's there?? Our President.
"Wow! Hey, Dr. _____, I didn't expect to see you here. How's it going?"
(He doesn't know me from joe. He has no reason to. I mean, he knows he's seen me, and I've been to his home for various events, and he knows in some way I'm some vice president's assistant, but he doesn't exactly know me by name.)
He's a congenial fellow, though, so of course he says, "Good morning. How are you?" "Fine," I say, "Why are we the only two people working on this campus at this hour?" He says - and this just makes me laugh: "Well...SOMEbody's gotta run the place!" "Yes, sir...and I'm glad it's YOU." Hilarious.
I've repeated my story about five times today and no one finds it as funny as I do. Go figure.

B of A pisses me off

There, I've said it. I have been a B of A customer since, oh, let's say, the early 90's. Clark Howard has complained about them for years, but here's my gripe: their ATM cards BLOW. I can't tell you the number of times I have been asked to swipe, re-swipe, and triple-swipe my card. It happens at ATM's, the grocery store, random vendors...it doesn't matter. I end up having to use another card - which doesn't do B of A any good - and when I rush home and look up my balance (though I know there is money to cover my purchase) I freak out until I see that indeed I have plenty of money to cover.
I don't keep my cards piled on top of one another so that they wipe out the magnetic strip...and even if that was true, other cards are fine. Ridiculous.
Maybe B of A doesn't piss me off, maybe plastic does. ...or magnets do.

It's good to be back...complaining to no one.

Where'd that girl go, anyway?

Yeah...mid-October I'll have more time to write. Seriously, though.

Shut Yer Yap

There's a woman who works in my building who is exactly - to the day - one month older than I am. We are in our late 30's. Honest to god, this woman has more aches and pains, trouble, and assorted randomness in-general than anyone else I know.

I get to work typically 1 to 1-1/2 hours before her, partially for the better commute, but partially because I know that I can crank out a ton of work before she arrives. That way, when she gets here, I have the time to listen to the verbal diarrhea that will become Issue of the Day.

Her physical pain I COULD understand and sympathize with...if it wasn't for the constance of complaint. After a while...suck it up and deal...or stay home and whine there. The other stuff is, to me, truly odd. I'll call it: empathy by proxy.

Hypothetically, let's just say that one morning there's a plane crash in Bangladesh. News of the crash is all over the radio/TV/internet. This woman will more than likely come in the office telling me how sad she is about it and how sick she feels about it, her stomach is upset, and she can't even function, feeling sorry for those poor people and their families.

I'm sorry, do WHAT, now?? Is she from Bangladesh? Does she have family in Bangladesh? Does she have friends or co-workers traveling in the area? A giant, resounding NO to all of the above. ...and she's serious. She'll chat with her folks or her sister or some friend about it on the phone for a while (oh, and me, in person, for longer than I care to). For real. I pray, on a regular basis, for her to have sick days or vacation time.

Please, please make it stop.

There Goes the Neighborhood

I'm visiting my hometown, east of San Francisco, and I had an unexpected drive this morning. I planned to meet a friend for breakfast but was surprised to find the car battery dead when trying to leave the house. Called the breakfast place, found my friend, explained the situation, and moved on about my day.
Called AAA, they were here in no time, and got me jumped (and I liked it). The guy recommended that I not pass go, not collect $200, but by all means drive to the nearest place to get a new battery. So, off I go.
My hometown is an island - not Alcatraz, ya jokers - with about, oh, population of 70,000 I'd say, and is probably not more than 10 square miles of land, give or take. We used to have a naval base, but has been shut down for many years and the land is rented out to movie & TV production companies. Very picturesque, lovely views of the Oakland hills, south bay, and San Francisco itself.
I haven't lived here for 15 years, so driving around I thought I had a pretty good idea of where auto row/car parts stores would be. It was crazy to drive around and actually look at what my little city has become.
Tillie's Diner on Webster looks like it closed, that makes me sad. Lincoln's Address, the most hilariously named bar on Lincoln Avenue is now called something else. South Shore Shopping Center now has some fancy glitzed-up name and newer, better stores. Who knew my little hometown would tear down Penney's and the old Woolworth's and end up with a Barnes & Noble, Trader Joe's, and Kohl's? There are beautiful Victorian and Queen Anne homes that are now being lovingly restored, which is great to see. Streets have been re-named...all in all, the same but not the same.
Auto row doesn't exist anymore, but thankfully a Kragen did. Thanks, Kragen, I'm all charged up. Literally.

Rambo

Once upon a time in Fall 2002, I stage-managed the musical Gypsy. In prep for it, I was in constant summertime contact with our director, who was flying in for rehearsals from New York City. Really nice lady, and I knew working with her would be great - which it was. Her only true request: Mama Rose needs a REAL dog. Getting a trained dog was out of the question for the amount of money we'd have to spend.
Stage managers aren't typically involved in prop purchases, but for this particular theater at this particular time, I figured I could tackle it. ...and is a live dog REALLY a prop??
Since the cast was set and I had been in contact with all of them anyway for various scheduling, costume fittings and other random reasons, I decided to e-mail them and my crew en masse to ask if anyone might have a small dog already, handy and up for the task. Responses were all similar: "I have a doberman," "I have a St. Bernard." Fantastic. Until: "I don't, my my next-door neighbor is affiliated with a shelter and I'm sure she can help you." ...and so, St. Francis Rescue, Inc., came into my life.
Theater administration decided it would be great to get a stray and have audience members meet the dog after the show, learn it's story, contribute to the rescue league and maybe raffle the dog off at the end to the people who could provide the best home.
St. Francis called me to say they had the perfect stray: Pomeranian, red, male, approximately one year old, blind in one eye from birth. The blindness meant he was "on sale," and I had already told the theater I'd fork out the fee to adopt the dog. He was found wandering the mean streets of Birmingham and we could go pick him up right away. "We," by the way...was me. Perfect! Cut and dried, right? Wrong.
St. Francis representatives had to do a house visit to inspect the home where the dog would live. I had to fill out umpteen pages of information: personal info, personal banking info, credit info, have I ever euthanized a pet, would I ever euthanize a pet, what circumstances would it take for me to euthanize a pet, would I ever abandon a pet, had I ever abandoned a pet, mother's maiden name, future plans if I died unexpectedly as to what would happen to this pet...you get the idea. I wish that human parents were required to fill out as much paperwork to adopt human babies. Truly.
I was given a polaroid photo (old school even then) of "Rambo," sitting happily on a sofa and was told that he was found wandering a laundromat parking lot in the heat of summer, all sad, and was currently living in a home with the laundromat manager, her small children, 17 other dogs and sleeping in a banana crate. How to break my heart into small pieces: tell me a story like that. Thankfully, my home passed muster and off I drove on Labor Day 2002 to get this dog.
I was greeted by a scary, cowboy-killer-smoking, 400-pound woman who informed me that, "Rambo don't take kindly to strangers," as I knelt down to meet him. He bounced up into my lap, licking my hands and face, not indicating in any way that I was someone to not take kindly to. He let me pick him up and he pretty much collapsed in my arms in a very contented way and nuzzled there. Break my heart into little tiny pieces some more, please. "Well, he seems to like you quite a lot! Congratulations, girl, you got you a new dog!!" Thanks, lady. I gave her a check for her vet (adopters pay the vet, who has already neutered and vaccinated them, gratis) and we were on our way. We stopped at the AL/GA border to get to know each other and he seemed like a very sweet, albeit skitterish, dog. Within a few hours: welcome to the stage - rehearsals, tech, previews, and run. What the heck did he sign up for??
He was not a fan of small children in any way, shape, or form. Baby June got nipped, but trust me, she deserved it. No blood drawn, just a warning snap. He was not a fan of the orchestra, bright lights, applause, or much else. He tolerated Mama Rose and the other folks who had to hold him onstage, but some nights didn't make it through the scenes he was supposed to be in. Our director and I thought he had been abused fairly severely, judging by his odd behavior. He had been placed in a bizarre situation, but still. He WAS a fan of the attention when people would meet him after show, and he had fun with the actors backstage. For the most part, he was happy astride my arm whilst carried around and otherwise happy being fed, walked, and left alone to sleep.
He got a photo and write-up in the AJC's Peach Buzz as the only actor in the show with his own dressing room, albeit a cage in the Managing Director's office.
Rambo had a "wrangler," one of the theater interns, who spoiled him rotten, and since he wasn't needed after Scene 4 or so, he spent each intermission and Act 2 with me in the booth. He followed me around everywhere I went, and does to this day. I try not to anthropomorphize, but I think that somehow he knows that he's leading a tremendously better life than he would have, had I not come along. I'm sure you've guessed by now: we didn't raffle him off - the rescue league put the kibosh on that from the get-go.
Nearly 7 years later, he's nearly blind in the other eye, can barely hear, and is generally a grumpy and mean old man. He still "loves" me, and is sweet to humans, as long as those humans don't smell like a vet's office. That said, I spent my lunch hour today taking him to the vet to board while I'm away. He is all teeth there; big red sticker on his file: "Will Bite!" ...and he ain't kiddin'. It was a long and painful check-in, poor fella.
So. Be good, Rambo. I'll be back before you know it.

Si Mi Adoras…

…Bobby Cox: you’ll let Matt Diaz play more often
…Matt Diaz: you’ll hit a home run
…Tim Curry: you’ll make a good movie
…Mom: you’ll quit calling me every day
…Mother Nature: you’ll give me another summer of no triple-digit temps
…The Office: you won’t jump the shark now that Jim & Pam are pregnant
…This Blog: you won’t spoil The Office season finale for everyone who didn’t see it yet (Oops!)

A little tip from me to you

...turns out that when one puts one's blog notes in DRAFT, when one posts one's draft, one's draft is back-dated to when one began the draft.

"Business School" (below) was supposed to be dated today. Alas, its suddenly July again. Time doesn't fly after all.

Business School Can't Teach you Everything

So I'm driving down Moreland Avenue in Atlanta at 2pm on a Friday. It's 91 degrees with 40% humidity. There's a good amount of traffic headed to I-20, and I'm in a long line of cars waiting at the light. I notice this scraggly-lookin' dude walking inbetween cars with a plastic bag full of bottled water. He's selling them to drivers-by for $1.00 apiece. I know this because not only was I offered one (I didn't bite), but he's screaming his product and price at us SO LOUDLY that no one could help but hear him.

For the amount of time he's spending in the hot sun, on asphault, carrying a heavy bag, yelling, surrounded by exhaust from running vehicles, sweating his tuckus off ... seriously, is this a good business plan?? I mean, even if he's selling drugs that I can't see because I'm not a savvy drive-by drug buyer (though he's causing such a ruckus it's doubtful...he's drawing way too much attention), that STILL doesn't seem like a great way to spend one's summer afernoon.

False Comparison

I received an e-mail from a friend. I responded, and need to share:

From: Pedestrian in Motion
Sent: Thursday, July 23, 2009 9:34 AM
Subject: It's about time

Friends: Remember how many people didn’t truly begin to pay attention to AIDS until Rock Hudson – someone famous – died of it. Sadly I believe the same is true for cellphone use while driving. Until someone famous is tragically hurt or killed by a driver paying more attention to his toys than the road, it will receive limited attention. And now with the advent of texting, even less attention is being paid to the road. Here’s the latest on the damage that can be done. I’ve told y’all before and I’ll say it again—please do not call me while on the road. http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/23/opinion/23thu3.html?ref=opinion&pagewanted=print

From: AntiBlogger
Sent: Friday, July 24, 2009 11:43 AM
Subject: RE: It's about time

Hey, I’ve thought about this a full day before responding to make sure that I wasn’t having a knee-jerk reaction. Turns out, I wasn’t, so here goes:
I fully agree with you that cell phones in general (talking or texting) are distractions and I look forward to the day when their use is abolished in all 50 states and not just a handful of them.
Famous people, though apparently not famous enough, have suffered serious injury and death thanks to cell phone use. Most notably: supermodel Niki Taylor (serious injury) and most recently Josh Hancock of the St. Louis Cardinals (death). How many stories have we heard lately about bus and train conductors texting? Idiots, all.
That said, what really struck a nerve with me was your opening salvo.
The AIDS epidemic cannot and must not be minimized and compared to driving while distracted. There is no apples-to-apples comparison about it, whatsoever. Yes, Rock Hudson and others (Ryan White, Arthur Ashe, Anthony Perkins, Magic Johnson to name a few) bring a ton of attention, and that’s a good thing. It is not the same thing, I don’t care how you package and present it.
I am certain you meant absolutely no ill by your comparison, but I rabidly disagree with the comparison. You are my friend and I value your opinions and I enjoy our heart-to-hearts and get-togethers and hope to for many years to come. I simply couldn’t let this pass and needed to tell you how I feel. You know I’m not a boat-rocker, but I had to speak up.

Amusement

There's an amusement that a co-worker and I have shared for literally years now. I'm certain this game, or something like it, is played globally in one form or another by those of us who have an inner 7th-grade boy. We call it simply, "Fake Titles," and it involves taking a real movie title and altering it to invent a potential porn or fetish movie title. I certainly won't share the good 'n juicy ones here...that's just not cool...but trust me, we've got an excellent list going.

Some write themselves, of course, as legit flicks:

Above the Rim
Big
Die Hard
Easy Rider
Failure to Launch
Fire Down Below
Shooter
Snake Island
...etc.

A small sample of my not-too-graphic favorites we've managed to muster:

An Inconvenient Itch
Bend Over Like Beckham
Crotchless Panties Hidden Dragon
Cuckold School
Engorge of the Jungle
Lake Flaccid
Little Shop of Whores
My Big Fat Greek Wetting
Remember the Trojans

Funny thing is, I'm pretty sure some of these altered titles are actual movie titles somewhere in the world and I just don't care to subscribe to the right web sites to find out.

Please, please, begin your own list, you fellow filthy-minded fools. Trust me, it can be a daily giggle fest.

Share the Road??

I used to work for a cycling enthusiast. For six years I felt compelled to quench my absolute loathe and disgust for cyclists. That particular enthusiast hasn’t been my boss now for over a year, so I think it’s safe to let the bile seep out.

Who. The hell. Do you think you are, cyclists?? I see you on your sweet bike, in your sweet outfit that cost umpteen hundreds of dollars. I see you ahead of me, very much in my lane, in fact, you’re in the middle of it. Awesome. This is me, passing you, in my car. The car licensed to drive on the road, in an appropriate lane, in a safe manner. I obey the rules of the road, albeit on occasion I fail to follow the speed limit. Trust me, I’m a careful driver, and I see you. I’ve passed you now, and you’re in my rear-view mirror. Stay back there.

Wait. Don’t stay back there. Go to a park. Go to a cycling trail. You know, the kinds of trails crafted especially for you. There’s Stone Mountain Park. There’s the Silver Comet. That’s just two. There are many more, and I can even tell you how to get there. Why in god’s name must you ride on the same road as cars? There’s exhaust, there’s traffic lights, there’s all sorts of hazards, let alone…you. What’s fun in any way about behaving like a car when you can’t go anywhere near as fast as a car, and every car on the road HATES you? Get out of my way. Thank you.

Where in the World is Carmen San Diego??

Yes, I know. Nearly a month and all three of you (or two) (or one) (is anybody out there?) are maybe wondering, why is this Blogger such a slacker??

Little did you know: I started this thing purposefully to "anti-blog," or in my lingo: not talk about myself, per se. Why? I have been and am going through a time in my life when the only thing I feel motivated to do IS to talk about myself.

So...this is a test. (A what? A test. A what? A test. Oh...a test!) I have typed full missives and deleted them entirely because, as a close friend put it, "who the hell cares what [bloggers] have to say?" EXACTLY. I didn't force you here at gunpoint, you came here of your own accord. The least I could do is write something mildly entertaining, and then you can move on about your day. Introspection is for me, not for you. Back soon, I kinda promise.

Karma

Kindly draw your attention to the June 3, 2009 entry: Creepy or Cool? and/or recall my mention of the uber-precious conference room in my building. …and now, read on, cuz karma’s a bitch.

Sent: Wednesday, June 24, 2009 9:27 AM:
Unfortunately the ________ Room has sustained severe water damage. The leak was found this morning around 8:00AM and the leak continues. The renovation project manager has told us that the room cannot be currently be used, more than likely for several weeks. Water is being extracted from the rug and dehumidifiers are being brought in and will run 24/7.

A true pity. Chuckle, snort.

Comprehension

Am I the only one who doesn’t shampoo twice? The bottle is pretty straightforward. “Apply to wet hair. Rinse. Repeat.” Once is fine, though, right?

That’s beside the point. Point being: following instructions. Take this one, for example: “Tell your doctor if you are taking other medications.”

Do WHAT, now? (Sidebar: I’m not from these parts, but that’s one of my favorite southern phrases. I translate it as a mix of, “I beg your pardon,” “You’ve got to be kidding me,” and, “I don’t think I heard you properly.”)

“Tell your doctor if you are taking other medications.” Every prescription medication ad mentions that sentence amidst the legalese. Really? Do people go to different doctors and not mention, oh, I don’t know: heart condition, asthma, epilepsy, diabetes…whatever reason you might be taking medication. Really?

Remember when McDonald’s was successfully sued by the lady who scalded herself via coffee because the cup didn’t mention that coffee is…hot?? I’m just a little stunned by the lengths that companies have to go to in order to protect themselves from frivolity. Unbelievable.

Did You Get New Glasses?

In January of 2009 I got new eyeglasses. They are Ray Ban RX5136 and have, according to the specs, "dark green" frames.

Not one week has gone by in the past 5 months that someone - and most always it's someone who sees me regularly, mind you - says, "Did you get new glasses?" It happened AGAIN just moments ago.

The specs also say: "Colors in pictures may be slightly different than in the sunlight. Also individual perception of colors may be different."

I suppose it's what I'm wearing of a given day, but...dang.

What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love and Self-Examination?

I left the office today smiling to myself for the first time in a long time. Physically sloughing off the place. How odd that what made me smile further was think about one of the smartest moves I ever made some years back (2006, in fact), nothing whatsoever to do with work.

People break up - that's life. I heard an interview with (of all people!) Iggy Pop on Fresh Air last week. I'm not a fan, but it was a great interview (go find it on NPR or the Fresh Air site, I ain't linkin' it here). He's plugging a new album, of course, called Préliminaires. One of the songs they talked about specifically was a cover of an Antônio Carlos Jobim song, "How Insensitive." He was saying this song is so blissfully short and says exactly what it needs to say without droning on and on like so many emotional songs do. I'll tell ya: when you feel it and they don't...what can you do, you know?

How insensitive I must have seemed when he told me that he loved me
How unmoved and cold I must have seemed when he told me so sincerely
Why, he must have asked, did I just turn and stare in icy silence
What was I to say? What can you say when a love affair is over
Now he's gone away and I'm alone with a memory of him:
Last look vague and drawn and sad. I see it still. All his heartbreak in that last look.
How, he must have asked, could I just turn and stare in icy silence
What was I to do? What can one do when a love affair is over

"...and I'm alone with a memory of him," by the way, is a good thing. No idea what brought this specifically to mind today, but there you have it. Oh, and I know...the point of this blog is, it's not about me. OK, so today it is.

Creepy or Cool? -- UPDATE

Curiosity got the better of me and I entered The Room (unobserved). It’s a rose IN WATER, IN the carbonated beverage bottle (like a vase). Not the way I pictured it in my mind and perhaps conveyed, like laid out on a tomb. Doesn't change my opinion much.

Creepy or Cool?

Atlanta has a rich history, and speaking of rich -- lots of old money. Let's just say that a deceased benefactor earned plenty via a carbonated beverage . Let's just say that there is a Foundation that bears his last name and that my employer and many other non-profits around the world reap the benefits. Let's just say that a good number of buildings where I work also bear that last name. Let's just say that not only my building but a conference room IN my building bear his name. This conference room may only be reserved for "high-level" meetings -- and trust me, if you're found booking said room and your meeting isn't high-level enough, you will be asked to find another location. Really. I don't cross the threshold, let's just say.

My building was recently renovated and the Foundation Board is coming for a tour today. I went downstairs to the office of Buildings & Construction to prove that though I threatened it, no, I am not wearing daisy dukes, a tube top and rollerskates today (you know, for our esteemed guests).

I learned this: every Monday, a red rose and a bottle of that carbonated beverage are placed beneath his portrait, because that's what they do at the Foundation.

Creepy...or cool?

(Oh, and am I the only one who really wants to know now if said bottle is opened for him, too????)

Failure to Launch

Yes, this movie was made in 2006 and I'm just now getting around to a review. I pity the fool who saw it first-run. A co-worker handed this to me (i.e., they own it) last week and said how HILARIOUS the movie is and how much "the best friend" reminded them of me. Lovely compliment - the best friend is one of the few good parts of the movie. I'm 3 years behind with this easy joke, but: Failure to Launch did not fail to make ME launch.

I still can’t figure out if Sarah Jessica Parker is actually attractive or has some kind of mind-bending device that makes the world believe she is (a general comment not having to do with the movie in particular)
For the most part, McConaghey keeps his shirt on. Big mistake.
You know who DOES take his shirt off? For an entire scene?? Terry Bradshaw. Oh, and not just his shirt.
The DVD has no outtake/gag reel. That would have needed a separate stand-alone six-disc bonus materials special feature release.
Hollywood, listen to me: Zooey Deschanel is underused talent.
I don’t get the dead former girlfriend / “nephew” plot line, unless you need to have an adorable child in your movie, which you don’t.
The animals biting him and that being a metaphor for living your life…what???
The life preserver metaphor at the end??
Suddenly it’s the mom who wants to fix everything? Oh, and this is my surprised face to learn that it’s HER issues that make her keep her son at home @ 35. Crimeny.
Locking them in, in order to repair the damage? Extreme.
He FORGIVES her? Not only that, he forgives his PARENTS??
Oh, for god’s sake.

Quarantine

I hear tell that old folks and idiots are caught up into e-mail viruses all day, every day. I mean, honestly! What makes someone, legitimately with interest, click on any of this stuff? If you want to surf for porn, you go on and surf for porn, but clearly if THEY’RE e-mailing YOU, somethin’ ain’t right. Behold, some recent gems from the Spam Filter, porn-ish and otherwise (these are as-is and none have been made up by me):

From now you don't need a crane to lift your instrument up.
Woman with artificial butt
She wont need a magnifying glass from now to find your instrument.
From now you will be able to please any size-queen.
Your little friend is begging you to take a blue pill.
You must be The Real Man with huge dignity
Have your own decent hair effectively grown.

…and my personal favorites:

Were you drunk? Answer, bastard! (really, this was spam and not from someone I know)
Stop ruining yourself (my mom doesn't know how to use her e-mail)
I Am McLovin! (that's just plain pop culture funny)

Irrational Fears

In no particular order. One of these is not irrational.*

Mimes
Clowns
Snakes
Spiders
Doctors
Sleestaks
Drowning
Santa Claus
Costumed Mascots
Having your feet touched
Being run over while crossing the street Frogger-style

(*no, really…just one)

Abuse

Any good therapist would say: step away from men who abuse you. So I ask myself: why do I keep watching the Atlanta Braves?

Excuse List (let’s see how well I answer myself)
1. I made them do it. (FALSE: I don’t have that kind of power.)
2. I like to be hit/cat-called. (FALSE: I cry easily)
3. They’re only going to do to me what I allow them to do. (TRUE)
4. Why would I watch/go to games if they’re going to treat me like that? (Is that answerable?)
5. If I want to hit like a man, I ought to be hit like a man. (Wow. Can’t make this one funny.)
6. I must have done something to deserve it. (PLAUSIBLE)
7. I disrespected them. (TRUE…but they disrespected me first.) (Nyah nyah-nyah nyah nyahhhhh)
8. Some women know how to push their buttons, and so they “just snap.” (Again, don’t have that kind of power.)
9. Why would I wear revealing clothes if I didn't want negative attention? (Quit lookin’ at me, Matt Diaz.)
10. Some women think you don't love them if you don't hit them. (COMPROMISE: hit FOR me, not AT me)

I know nothing of the misery of, say, Chicago Cubs fans, so I should shut my yap right now. But. A 12-0 loss to the Diamondbacks last Saturday and I sat through every last second. Really. Then Jekyll & Hyde sets in: great win Sunday, great loss Monday, great win Tuesday…we’ll see what happens tonight. Bottom line: I love ‘em. Baseball is a ton of fun, and I enjoy rooting for the home team. I’m going to keep going back, no matter how much they hurt me.

Superciliousness

I am in a constant quest of karma cleansing, as I think bad things about others. A lot. I’m on the slow boat to hell even if purgatory exists and I get a free pass there instead of Gehenna itself. I don’t have enough friends to pray me out. Ever.

That said, here comes the latest spew of venom. I’ve had just about enough of supercilious jerkwads who think they’re better than everyone else. Sure, I have specific jerkwads in mind, but let me be general:

You work on the top floor of your building and your gigantic windows afford you a sweet view. You live in a great neighborhood and someone else mows your lawn and prunes your hedges. You drive an awesome car and have a hottie wife. Your children were raised by the hired help and all went to Ivy League schools, even though probably you had to pay their way both in and through.

I’m pretty sure you were a jerkwad even as a kid, but your mama told you how awesome you were and that she loved you no matter what anyone said, so it didn’t matter that you were fat or short or stole lunch money from the other kids or kicked sand on weaklings or made fun of poindexters or cheated on your prom date. Your mama still loves you, god rest her soul, and you’re a gift from on high to us all, lest we forget.

I pray for and await your downfall.

Staff Fest

I don’t feel like being appreciated today.
It’s Staff Fest at my place of employment. Once a year, all 23,500-odd employees are invited to the quadrangle for a few hours of appreciation.
In years past, we were encouraged to wear shorts & t-shirts, have free lunch & free ice cream, play volleyball, climb a rock wall, moon bounce, do the electric slide or ride the bucking bronc if we were so inclined.
In my head, that translates to: are you freaking kidding me? It’s 85 degrees outside and you want me to stand in line and show my ID to get your dumb plate of corn & bean salad, barbeque sandwich and dumb Coke and by the time I’m done eating, the ice cream ran out?
I’ve been here for nearly 13 years and I’m telling you it’s the same every year. Every year about 11:30am my co-workers come by wondering why I’m not going and why they can’t convince me to. Every year I tell them I wouldn’t go if you paid me…and oh, wait, you ARE paying me to sit at my desk and do the good work of the University.
Sure, it’s nice to see the President and all the other execs sloughing out food like workers at the local soup kitchen. It’s amusing to see your co-workers begin crispy sunburns for the weekend. It’s hilarious to watch the largest man you’ve ever seen re-creating his glory days at Studio 54…but I have YouTube for that now.
This year, we aren’t even being fed. I think we get ice cream, but like I said, it runs out quickly and there’s a line. If I want ice cream, I’ll buy my own and eat it in the shade, thankyouverymuch.
I was looking through some old stuff last night – my life during the year 1990, in fact. I found memos from my then-place of business. Our regional manager telling me how mindful I was of the budget and how much he appreciated my cost-savings. Our district manager telling me that my latest memo regarding whatever was well-written and well-received. My direct supervisor telling me…well, you get the picture. If I do something right, tell me. If I do something wrong, tell me that, too. Don’t think once a year is going to cut it, and don’t think that I’m the only one griping. If I hear one more person gripe about work and then follow it up with, “But in this economy I feel lucky just to HAVE a job.” Give me a break. That’s what workers do: gripe about work until we retire, then gripe about how we don’t have medicare, social security or retirement income.
Clearly, I’m employee of the year.

Oh, and what about parking?

Lord knows I’m not always the best when it comes to reading comprehension. So this is me, yet again, on a slow boat to hell for mocking others. The following is verbatim e-mail correspondence between me and the executive assistant of a local CEO. Names have been changed, and of course bolding of what floors me:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From: [Me]
Sent: Tuesday, May 12, 2009 9:24 AM
To: [Doe, Jane]
Subject: Checking in
Hey, [Jane] – thanks for letting [My Boss] know to keep you in the loop! Speaking of that upcoming meeting, [My Boss] asked me to check in to see if [Mr. CEO] can join us, at least for the morning session. The meeting will begin at 8:30am in the [Campus Location]. I haven’t received the full agenda yet, so the end time for the morning session is a bit up in the air, but as soon as I’ve seen something more definite, I can be back in touch.
Also let me know if I can help find [Mr. CEO] a place to park. Many thanks. –[Me]—

From: Doe, Jane
Sent: Tuesday, May 12, 2009 2:28 PM
To: [Me]
Subject: re: Checking in
Sorry for the delay in getting back to you, but yes he plans to attend. How long should I book for the morning session? Thanks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For the record, it took two additional e-mails on my part to pry out of her that, indeed, her boss needs parking. Shoot me now.

Star Trek

I admit it, and proudly: I'm a Trekkie.
Many a year ago, I was even seen at conventions. I will also admit, even more proudly: I never dressed up. OK, so maybe I own a phaser and maybe I own a communicator, but I draw the line at hours in the makeup chair unless it's Halloween...and even then, never as a Star Trek character. Seriously, though, if you've never been to a Star Trek convention, they're a must-see. Don't gape, they're all very serious about what they do.
So, the new Star Trek movie. I wasn't hesitant to go, and no love lost for the original...but it was great. Shatner can shove it, bein' all a hater. He's just jealous of the Nimoy.
I'm not here to give away plot or spoilers, but I will say a bit about the alternate reality. Alternate reality was a really nice set-up and lovely device for the director to use to say: I know you all know what happened in the series and in those subsequent movies, but guess what folks? All bets are off. Anyone could die or be injured or have their face burnt off or lose a limb...because what they do in this timeline might affect the future and create a different outcome. OK, I'm down with that. What I'm NOT down with is when Future Character meets Current Character. It's established that young Spock can't know about the existence of old Spock (who's allegedly in a different reality and timeline)...but give them an hour and young Spock finds out. Not only does he find out, but they meet face-to-face and have a little chat. That tilted my whirl just a bit.
That said, five outta five starts from me. Just a lovely job from the whole cast. Including Tyler Perry, who I wasn't expecting, and still don't know what business he had being there. My favorite bit: their nod to the red jersey-ed guy in the landing party you know ain't comin' back. Brilliant.

Pet Peeves

URGENT e-mail message labels
Leaving a message on both e-mail and voicemail. Pick one!
Those who put on makeup while they drive (car in motion)
Airports with poor signage
Kleenex that makes its way into your washer/dryer
Putting half of a sugar packet back in the bowl
Putting empty candy wrapper back in the bowl
Leaving the copier lid up when done
Leaving the paper cutter up when done
The phrase, “A little bit of this, a little bit of that…”
Using an umbrella as a parasol on a sunny day
Motorcyclists who wear a helmet and very little else
Not using turn indicators
Those who stand at the ATM for way too long

I Miss Phil

Phil saw me cry, on probably too many occasions. Phil never asked how I was feeling. Phil didn’t compliment outfits. Phil wasn’t curious about what I did over the weekend. Phil didn’t take into account anyone’s feelings when making a decision. Phil didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. Phil didn’t make it a point to greet me warmly in the morning and wish me a good evening.

However.

Phil was predictable. Phil didn’t make me read his mind. Phil didn’t rearrange his schedule on a whim at the last minute all day every day. Phil didn’t ask three people to do the same thing. Phil knew how to manage people. Phil used his time wisely. Phil didn’t second-guess himself. Phil didn’t fret. Phil didn’t sweat the small stuff. With Phil, no meant no and yes meant yes…and we were done.

Phil asked me to go with him and I didn’t. No regrets, but I sure do miss him.

Fair Labor Standards Act

Scene: Park bench, somewhere on the Emory University campus. Overcast. Perhaps it’s lunch time.
Characters: Man, Woman

Man sits on park bench with sandwich, apple, bottled water and some back-issue of “Men’s Health.” Woman enters with paperback novel.

Woman: (tossing her paperback angrily at bench) This is about the crappiest day ever.

Man: (while chewing) I’m sorry…are you talking to me?

Woman: (oblivious) I mean, for the love of god, what the hell are they trying to do to us?

Man: (picking up her book, which has fallen through the slats) Sartre? Mmm. That’s a little heavy for pleasure reading, don’t you think? …

Woman: (hands on hips) How long have you worked here?

Man: (amused) You can sit down, you know. Have some water – you’ll feel better.

Woman: How long have you worked here?? How long have you had to endure this??

Man: Look. The Counseling Center is just over there in the…

Woman: Do we not live in a free country? Is this not America? You know…land of the free?

Man: I love it when you get all worked up like this.

Woman: I mean, I could totally use the overtime pay, but there’s no way it’s in the budget.

Man: Maybe they’ll change the budget. Apple?

Woman: (sits, accepting the apple) …and what if… Oh, hell. I hate it here.

Man: (chewing again) I love peanut butter.

Woman: (holding back tears) I just want this to be over.

Man: Hey. I hear they’re letting us leave early today.

Woman: It’s cold in my office.

Man: I swear to god if you don’t stop moping right now I’ll never speak to you again.

Woman: You know what? Let’s blow this popsicle stand. Right now. You with me?

Man: Do I know you?

The Normal Heart

Originally written May 13, 2008 following a benefit reading of Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart: So, sure, I hang out in the theater community and there are plenty of reasons why the AIDS quilt and its memories and hopes for survivorship are near and dear to my heart. Last night’s reading was held at The Names Project, where the panels of The Quilt are housed. The reading was done under a tent and instead of tent walls, we were surrounded by quilt panels. Ticketholders had requested panels of their friends/family, plus other random quilt panels. They’re really powerful, if you’ve never seen them in person. A sad but cool statistic: there are so many panels now, there is nowhere on earth that they could again lie flat side-by-side as they did on the Washington Mall over a decade ago.

I still know several people living with AIDS, in various states of health, under various forms of treatment. I have had many friends - and family - die over the years and last night there was one in particular on my mind.

I met Barry in autumn of 1997 when he was both in and musical director of a show I assistant-stage managed. We had an elaborate set, lots of levels, one of the staircases high above the stage near the steel beams of the building. Barry clocked himself on one during a dress rehearsal and caught a sharp edge. We were in the middle of a number and I was the only one who saw him hit and go down. I went running upstairs. He was conscious, and immediately told me to back off. I was like, “Dude, you're bleeding.” He kept insisting that I back off and not come back unless I found rubber gloves. All at once I was like, “OH.” I found gloves + an ice pack and came back. I sat there cradling him with the ice pack to his head and he kept saying over and over and over, “please don’t...please don’t...” I didn’t think the cut was very deep, but I wanted him to go to the emergency room. Rehearsal was about done, and our lead actress took him. They were good friends and she knew what was up. Barry taught high school drama so had insurance and all, and thankfully didn’t need stitches. Just a slight concussion, so incredibly lucky.

We worked together twice more -- in spring 2000 and fall 2001. By the time fall of 2001 rolled around, it was becoming clear that Barry wasn’t well. I remember distinctly sitting out behind the theater late one night over cigarettes & beers talking with my friend Brit that this might be Barry’s last show.

In fall of 2002, we began rehearsals for another musical. Music rehearsals preceded acting rehearsals, at Barry’s home. He asked me, as his stage manager, to come a full hour earlier than the actors, so I did. He sat me down and explained that he was going to do his darndest, but needed my help. He was physically very weak and his memory was going -- fast. He wanted to tell everyone personally what was going on -- he had no choice anymore, and if I’d be his eyes & ears and memory...well, of course I could do that. I’m that anyway in any production, whether my director/music director is 100% healthy or not. I learned his medication schedule, doctors numbers, eating habits, warning signs...I kept him hydrated and fed...it was a grueling rehearsal process for him, and not three weeks in, he couldn’t take it anymore. We had to replace him with another music director and Barry went to the hospital. Most of our cast & crew didn’t get a lot of sleep for the remainder of rehearsal, because when we weren’t rehearsing, we were taking turns at the hospital. We had to follow universal precautions: booties, gowns, long gloves, masks, caps, goggles...we looked like astronauts.

I’ve never seen anything so awful up close. Morphine kept him out of pain, for the most part, but he was writhing almost constantly and making the most gutteral noises...not a lot of coherent english, but sometimes he’d have moments of clarity. He was gaunt, covered in lesions and attached to dozens of tubes, also restrained to the bed, because what strength he had manifested itself in great surges and stretches. You just wanted to touch him, rub his leg or his arm, and get him to calm down...but we weren't allowed to. By that time his brain was pretty much shot, and the constant stroking motion, we were told, registered badly instead of soothingly. So, to touch him at all meant a firm grip, and don’t move. Letting him know you were there was OK, but all you could do was hold on.

The doctors and nurses were kind enough to allow us 24/7 visitation, family or not. His family did come, thankfully -- a lot of people are abandoned when this disease arrives. There are a lot of hours in a day, so there were hours at a time sometimes when we’d just be there in groups of two or three, but often times solo for an hour or so. I had plenty of conversations with him (with myself, really, but out loud) and plenty of time for me to tell him -- and I did -- how absolutely furious I was. The disease is 100% preventable. It’s not like you go out and ask for it, but damn it, why in god’s name didn't he protect himself. Who knows when he got it or how he got it or who from...it could have been dormant for years, so maybe he contracted it before we knew to protect ourselves. It’s an awful feeling, feeling so damned sorry and so damned angry all at the same time. You poor, poor man...you rat bastard.

I got the call the morning of our tech rehearsal (the weekend before opening) that Barry died. One of the hardest bits of news to tell a group of people, let me tell you. We didn’t get a lot of work done that day -- and even thought about postponing the show to give everyone time to grieve, but we got through it. We dedicated the show to him. His memorial was amazingly bright...all his friends sang and several people spoke, lots of people from out of town he had worked with over the years, and some of his students were there...it was pretty great.

A quilt panel was made last night to commemorate the evening, and anyone could sign it. I don’t know if he already has a panel of his own -- I can’t imagine some of his closer friends didn’t make one -- but I signed a memorial to him, lit a candle, and felt a little better. He’s surely happier now than he was those last few weeks. He’s singing for sure, wherever he may be.

Stranger in Paradise

The sidewalks were crowded. I had never seen so many people. I couldn't remember what time of year it was. Where were they all going? They appeared to be comfortable, dressed in shorts, tank tops and sundresses, but I couldn't figure out why, because I was quite chilly. None of them would look at me. Well, they did, but quickly looked away and kept walking. A few of them stared, just long enough to laugh as they passed by. I didn't know what was so funny; I was just an old lady looking for a friendly face.
I thought I could find some warmth indoors. I turned around to face the wall behind me. It wasn't a real wall; it was a windowed wall with a door. I pushed the door open and heart cowbells clanging. I stepped back to avoid the stampede, but the bells were attached to the door. I walked inside and found a world full of color and light. There were no white tile floors like home; there were no dirty moss green carpets or curtains like there were at home. These colors were bright and cheerful and full of life – not like home.
I wandered along rows and rows of beautiful patterns. I couldn't resist touching them. My hands glided across the corduroy, satin and velvet textures. I pulled a purple-sequined cloth around my head and neck. I thought for just a moment that I was a gypsy. I imagined myself with big gold hoops in my ears as I whirled among the patterns – paisley, stripes, dots and plaids, multi-colored, multi-shaped beads and bows, feathers and glitter. I threw a gold-beaded wrap over my shoulder, dashed giddy, free and young-at-heart – a gypsy dancing madly in a wooded glade. This amazing place – this playland – made me happier than I had been in years.
"Can I help you?" a young lady said. I turned around quickly, startled by her question.
"Oh, I'm looking for a mirror. Does this place have one?"
"Yes, of course. Are you all right?" she asked me.
"Fine. I'm much warmer now," I answered.
"You must be," the young lady smiled, "Your dress is unbuttoned, you know."
"It is?" I stared at her. She led me to a mirror to prove it to me. I slowly stripped away my gypsy costume – I didn't look as much like one as I thought after all. Now I knew why all those people had laughed at me. I saw my reflection. An old lady, pale and worn, the glitter streaked through her grey hair. My dress, the blue and white pinstripe, beltless, with the entire front gaping open. My mouth hung open, too. "You'll catch flies," my mother used to say.
I remembered how I got there. I remembered leaving home. I had wanted a breath of fresh air. I just wanted to take a walk by myself. I just wanted to be free.
"Mrs. Drennan!" a voice called, "There you are!" It was Emily. She had come to rescue me.
Emily grabbed my hand. "Mrs. Drennan, you had us very worried. You are not to run away ever again!" she said.
"I didn't run away! I didn't!" I scanned her face, hoping for a smile. I didn't think I had run away.
"Well, thank goodness you're not hurt. Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"It's time to go home," Emily said quietly.
"Oh, no! I don't want to go home. It's lovely here. See? Don't you see the colors and prints? This is a wonderful place I've found." I couldn't believe she was taking me back. I had found a haven – a paradise. She was going to take me back to all those strange people and strange things. To me, whatever this place was, it wasn't as strange as home.
Back home. I wondered how I ever ended up there. Some of the strange people screamed, some of them stared at you, but most of them just sat there, lifeless. They scared me. I didn't want to be like them. I didn't want to forget what the outside world was like. I didn't want to forget this place. I didn't want to forget…
"It's nearly lunchtime, Mrs. Drennan. Here, let me help you with your dress," Emily said.
She buttoned my dress and led me out of the store. I cried silently; I looked as stupid as I felt. I was a silly old lady – the kind back at home – the kind I feared. I wanted to go back into the beautiful place I had left. I wanted to be a gypsy again, but knew I could not.

How Dare You

Why Blog if you can't stand the blogs of most others? The urge to write. Most Blogs aren't blogs at all...blog is short, I'm told, for Web Log. "Captain's Log, Stardate Whateverthehell..." is an audio diary. It's a diary, people. It informs you about what's going on of a day. Diaries are to share your thoughts...but really, who but you or the closest to you are ever expected to read it? I don't want to know your most intimate thoughts, though! Who the heck does?? Don't you dare tell me that blogging like that is to keep your family informed about your life in an accessible way -- I seriously doubt you ever shared your high school diary with your mom, so don't do so decades later.

Blogs I Hate: Today I woke up cursing the sky because my period started. Walked my very expensive, highly bred dog while eating a bran muffin because sometimes I have bowel issues. Put on my Chanel suit and drove to the office in my 2010 BMW, stopping by Starbucks for a triple latte and a quick visit to the ATM where I withdrew $500 because I plan to get wasted this weekend and that's expensive. My job sucks and I'm better than this and my boss is a total chode. My nose is running. I love my boyfriend -- he's superawesome and does me regularly in crazy ways that I'll discuss in full detail later, just you wait. My nieces and nephews are the brightest, funniest children in the world and you'll hear all about them, too. I hate my dad because he beat me relentlessly as a child and I hate my mom because she let him. I'm going to pour my issues out in front of you, though I pay my analyst thousands of dollars a year for the same privilege. Et cetera.

Blogs I Enjoy: Hello, world. Here is what I think about [random thing]. I'm not here to convince you of anything, I'm not here to argue with you. I think I convey my ideas well, and hope you do, too, whether you agree or disagree. Please enjoy.

So, dear reader, whomever you may be...this I vow: I may bitch about my job, I may bitch about my life, but if you're expecting superpersonal things, this ain't the place. Writing is cathartic, in general, and for me personally. Stay tuned.