...Miss Head, if You're Nasty

Monday, October 30, 2006

Ice Pack

I stopped dressing up for Halloween parties several years ago. I have a witch costume somewhere--a hat and some shapeless dress. I only bought that because it was easy and I never had to worry about whether or not it would fit. Before that, it had been years since I'd dressed up for a party. Well, any party other than the 80's parties we used to throw in college. And those pictures are hidden.

But this year, I was talking to some friends and came up with what I thought was a pretty good idea: a roller derby girl. It seemed like the perfect combination. Slightly slutty. Attention-getting. Funny. And pretty easy. So I thought.

Of course, the first priority in dressing up like a roller derby girl is...well, skates. I haven't owned skates since I was in 7th grade. They were white and had baby blue pom poms on them. I, like every girl my age, spent a lot of time at the roller rink. I could skate backward and could do the cross-foot move around the ends of the rink in the turn. My skill was challenged, however, by the squatting move where you stick your foot out in front of you, or to the side. That, I belive, is a skill best left to young gay men in rainbow suspenders.

I got a line on some skates. My friend's husband's father apparently used to skate pretty regularly. I'm still unclear as to whether he actually participated in derby skating or if he was part of some rural skate posse that patrolled the edge of town for wrong-doers. Suffice to say that the brake bumper of the right skate was worn to the nub and my friend told me to be very careful because her father-in-law always said they were "speed skates."

I borrowed kneepads (keep your jokes to yourself) and gloves from another friend who engages regularly in sports that could cause serious injury, but turned down the helmet. Because Halloween is for many things and big hair is one of them. I have a leather jacket and, even better, a pleather skirt. I invested in trampy fishnets, some ridiculous earrings and fake eyelashes and was ready to suit up.

Before donning all this gear, I decided that I might want to take a turn around the parking lot to determine if I still had my mad skating skillz. So I strapped these things on. Mind you, each skate weighed approximately 15 pounds and looked like they had been dropped on unsuspecting German hausfraus during the Dresden bombings. But they work. The skillz? Yeah, not so much. I did manage to keep my feet and didn't fall and, by the end of my fifteen minute training session, I felt like I could keep on my feet for most of the evening, as long as I didn't drink too much beer.

So I got dressed. The result was less "roller derby" than "hooker on skates" but, really, isn't that what Halloween is about these days. I went to pick up my friend, Kim, and her pirate eyepatch, and we were on our way.

The first stop was to a party that I go to every year--my friends got married about five years ago on Halloween weekend and they throw an annual get-together. I managed to get up the stairs to their house without incident. Luckily, they have a number of area rugs thrown over their hardwood floors and I did eventually negotiate my way over the tile floor of the kitchen in order to get to the wine. When we left, I took the skates off and ran in stocking feet to the car.

Next stop: the bowling alley. Yeah, I know, it sounds...well, kinda sad. That being said, I had a really good time. It was 80's heavy metal night at the bar and everyone had their mullet wigs on. The band is made up of some guys that Kim is friends with and there were a number of folks there with whom I know in a...well, a professional capacity, we'll say.

So the band starts playing. And people start dancing. "Living on a Prayer." "Smokin' in the Boy's Room." "Round and Round." "She's Only Seventeen." All the oldies but goodies. Songs that I still have on mix tapes stashed in my basement somewhere. Because, Lord knows, posterity needs tapes pairing hairbands and New Wave. And Dr. Dirty.

Kim and a number of other women decide that we need to go dance. Someone grabs my hand and pulls me out toward the dance floor. Which was remarkably easy to do, considering I had wheels on my feet and a beer in my hand.

You know where this is going, don't you?

I'm on this dance floor, in front of easily 200 people that I have met, on various occasions, over the past nine years that I have lived in this town. People that don't really know me outside of my job. People that are used to seeing me in a suit. People that probably think I can be a bit of a bitch.

And I fall on my ass.

Those skates whipped right out from under me and I went ass over teakettle onto the floor. I'm certain that I looked like the Coyote before he falls into the chasm--a look of bewildered puzzlement on his face. I landed sitting up, mostly, and thanking Heaven that I hadn't split my pleather skirt.

Later, people told me that they didn't even know that I had skates on until that moment (which doesn't speak so well for my dancing, I suppose). They also told me how amazed they were that I managed to keep my beer in a full and upright position on the way down. I was rather amazed, myself.

I changed my shoes, went back out and spent the rest of the night on the dance floor. To do anything else would have been to admit defeat.

Yesterday, I spent on the couch. With an icepack. The bruise on my right hip still hasn't really come out yet, which does not bode well for me. Walking is rather painful. I think I might have whiplash. And my elbow is a lovely shade of red. But, really, the only thing broken is my pride.

I'll be going back to the witch's costume next year. With ballet flats.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Off Track

Dear Diary:

Well, I think I finally found the perfect place to meet eligible men, Diary. I mean, the guys at the Crazy Horse are okay, I guess, but they lack a certain refinement. And the desk seargent at the county jail won't let me in to see the guys I pull up on the inmate admission website anymore, so I'll have to wait until he gets switched back out onto road patrol before I go back there. But I think I finally found a great pond to fish in.

Dorothea suggested it. You remember Dorothea, don't you Diary? The bartender at Crazy Horse. I guess she got tired of seeing me bang my head against the wall. Or, I guess, more like Tommy banging my head against the bar. She told me that she met her second husband, Max, at the off-track betting parlour at the racetrack the next town over. She couldn't speak more highly of him, really, Diary. Randy agreed with her, saying they still have him over to dinner all the time, when Max isn't down at the mission. Randy is Dorothea's fifth husband. He's been on disability for so long, Diary--it is really sad. But at least it clears up his time so he can sit at Dorothea's bar while she works.

Anyway, so I went...alone...down to the track. I don't want to take Tammi down there yet until I establish that it is my turf. You know how she poaches my men.

It is a pretty big place. Lots of tvs, a big bar, tables. It was pretty quiet, Diary, for a Friday, although there were a lot of people there. But I have to say, men outnumbered women about four to one. And the men! They're mostly so distinguished--a bit of grey, nice jewelry, Le Tigre golf shirts. And no one seems to be married! At least, none of them are wearing wedding rings.

So I sat at the bar a while by myself, waiting for someone to come over. A few guys sidled up to buy drinks, but none of them really talked to me. They just looked down my shirt. I talked a bit to Dave, the bartender, about betting on horses, but I only brought enough money to buy a few Pink Squirrels, so I decided to hold off on that for now. It is so complicated, with all the races and horses and numbers. I just kept asking Dave if it was the fourth down, yet, so I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. It was hard to catch anyone's eye to talk to, since they all kept watching the televisions above the bar, the light flickering on their faces. I never thought it would be so had to meet someone in such a "target-rich environment", as Maverick would say. Or was it Goose? Hee, I love that movie.

I finally got up the nerve to go talk to one of the gentlemen at the other side of the bar. Oh, Diary, he was dreamy. Older, with a nice ring on his pinky and a navy blue sportcoat. And he had a briefcase. A briefcase! Like a professional type guy. And all these racing forms and paper and a calculator. At the bar! He was very impressive. And smart. When I finally got him to talk, he wouldn't stop--just kept trying to explain trifectas and odds and the weights of the jockeys. I didn't get much of it, but he sure was good at math.

And money! Wow, Diary, this one's a catch. He kept going up to the window to place bets. He had a whole roll of ones--just like I used to when I worked at the Pussycat. Hee. I didn't mention that to him. I thought maybe he'd buy me a drink, but I ended up just getting water after my second Pink Squirrel. So, yeah, a lot of money and not afraid to spend it on things he likes. Like betting. I think things are looking up for me, Diary, don't you?

Gary (that's his name, Diary--I read it on his driver's license when he went up to place a bet on the Northwoods ninth) is very passionate, too. In a loving way. He really tried to encourage those horses through those races. He talked to them constantly. He only raised his voice...well, a couple of times. I could really feel the bond he shared with the horses. It was like he was sending mind messages to them through the television. Too bad they didn't seem to be listening much, I don't think. He didn't seem to happy with them, anyway, by the end. But I think that would be a great way to deal with the kids we're going to have, me and Gary. He'll really be able to motivate them, like he was motivating those horses last night. Gentle, but tough. That's Gary.

Turns out, Gary's car was out of gas, so I drove him home. He complimented the teal color on my Cavalier. I hope he didn't see the big dent from when Tommy...well, you remember, Diary. We even stopped at Taco Bell and split a chicken soft taco--I saved the wrapper as a momento. Then, I took him to his house and dropped him off and, well, I have to tell you, Diary, it is beautiful. And he's so wonderful, because he lets his mom and dad live with him and have the whole upstairs, while he lives in the basement. Isn't that sweet?!?! I told Tammi about him and she thinks it is weird that a guy that old would still live with his parents, but he's really just looking after their health. This one is a keeper, Diary.

He even already asked me out, kinda, for next week. Gary told me he needed a ride to his GA meeting on Tuesday, so I offered to pick him up. Maybe we could go to Taco Bell again. So we're doing that. I just don't really get why he thinks Grey's Anatomy is on Tuesday.

Gotta run, Diary. Wish me luck!

Friday, October 27, 2006

South of Town

On the road for work today, heading south from town, I was almost to another county's boarder. I kept a lookout for street signs, looking for a numbered county road.

Instead, I saw "XY Road."

Which I read as "KY Road."

I then wanted to drive down it and see if there was a "slippery when wet" sign.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

2:11

What the hell time is it? Oh, of course, 2 in the a.m. What other time would it be? What other time do I wake up every single night of the week? Unless I take Nyquil. And the last time I did that, I slept through the alarm because I changed the radio station to listen to the Tigers.

The Tigers. Did they get to play? Do I care enough to get up and turn on ESPN?

That Michael Rappaport show...I used to like him so much. Then, on that show with what's-his-face...the guy who did Elf? Yeah, such a jackass in real life. Can't even hold a fork. Couldn't take him home to Mom. So glad Lost was on. Pretty, pretty Sawyer. Couldn't really take him home to Mom, either.

Did the phone ring? Did that wake me up? Is it even plugged in? I don't think I ever plugged it back in after that...you know, that thing. Did I bring up the cell? Oh, yeah, no. I turned it off, even. Should I go get it? Turn it on? Nope. Bad idea. Close your eyes and think of England. Do not touch the phone.

Why, hello Cat. Yes, I can see that your nose is still really wet and cold. No, I'm not going to go feed you. I don't really get up yet. I just lay here and obsess about things for a while, then fall back to sleep for a few minutes before the alarm goes off. You know the drill. Go away. Away. Go away. Go. Go. No. Over there. Gooooo aawwaaaayyy.

The alarm is set, right?

Yes. All set. Right? The light is lit. Does that mean set or not? Dammit...

Yeah, I don't feel so good. Why is my stomach upset? What did I eat today? Cheese and crackers. A pretzle. And popcorn. Gee, I can't imagine why I don't feel well. I'd better have an apple in the morning. Or...just soon.

That thing earlier was wierd. Was that what I thought it was? Two words: Awk. Ward. What the hell am I going to do about that?

And the other? If I start thinking about that, I'll never get to sleep. No, don't go get the phone. I'm sure there's no message. Just...step away from the ledge there, missy.

So...Halloween. Yeah. Gotta get a costume for Saturday. I told them I'd go to the party. I should see if Mom still has my prom dress. Ha. That in and of itself would be scary. Then I could bust out the curling iron. Maybe some fingerless gloves and a tiara. Good times.

Whatever. I think I still have that witch's costume somewhere.

Do you think Steve and Jocelyn are really keeping score between me and Brady?

Gaaahhh, what time is it? Is there anything good on tv at this hour? I wonder if they're still playing Halloween movies on AMC?

Yes, Cat, I'm still awake. Go away. Go away. Goawaygoawaygoaway.

Did you see their faces tonight when I said I had 50 cats? Heeeee! But also, sad. Because I think they believed me for a while--more than a second, anyway. What the hell does that say about me?

Oh, I have to write something for the thing tomorrow. Hmmmm. Good stories, good stories. What's a good story? The wall of shame from college? The out-of-town dump? The trip to Mexico? The guy who told me I looked like Sandra Bullock? I miss him. The real reason I went to school out east? The other...oh no. I'm not gonna be That Girl. You know...the one who writes about...yeah, no.

Remember to call Mom tomorrow. And set up dinner plans before the open house. And be at work early for the meeting. And eat an apple. Do I have anything on my schedule? And where am I going Friday? I'm going somewhere. Do I need gas?

I really don't feel well. Do I have a fever? I'm hot. I'm sweating. What is wrong with me? Is there something going around? West Nile? My throat doesn't hurt. Just my stomach. And I'm so hot. What...is the electric blanket still on? Oh. And I'm taking off this sweatshirt...okay. That's better.

I'm wearing that skirt tomorrow. And the turtleneck, I think. Maybe Steve will ask me if I'm a lesbian again.

Did I turn down the thermostat? Do I care enough to go check? Not so much.

Cat? Where are you? Come keep me company.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Tools and Trees Don't Mix

When we last left our little heroine, she had just gotten home with her dad and her shiny new Christmas tree. We parked around the side so we could drag the sucker to the back porch in order to trim those pesky unsightly and droopy limbs at the bottom of the tree and put it in the ever-popular plastic tree stand. Dad went bargain-basement on the tree stand, as well as the tree. This, I believe, was the standard Walgreen's tree stand--plastic and resembling a headgear Devo may have worn at one point. It also had three very sturdy metal pieces that were designed to screw into the tree and hold it in place. Theoretically.

Dad trimmed the bottom of the tree and whittled it down best he could with his handy hand saw in order to fit it into the stand. We screwed in the screws, we stood up the tree, we shoved it through the sliding glass door and, suddenly, Christmas appeared in my living room. It looked good and smelled better. The only thing left to do: cut the cords bundling the tree tightly together so we can see what it really looks like.

*Snip* Needles flew across the room. The tree was lovely. And there appeared to be two of them. Because Dad didn't pick a tree with just one trunk. No. Dad picked the Wishbone Tree.

It split about a foot and a half up the bottom of the trunk into two minor trunks. It looked like a really big, bushy wishbone. But, it was standing, and it was...bushy. So we made some minor adjustments, put the water in the stand and Dad started to leave.

"Remember, let it soak in some water before you start decorating."
"Okay, Dad."

And off he went.

So I did what all young women of a certain age and no live-in boyfriend do--I got on the phone. I don't recall who I was talking to. Or what we were talking about. I can only imagine we were rehashing events of the night before, because I also seem to remember not being terribly coherent during the whole tree-shopping fiasco. Otherwise, I would have put up a bigger fight about picking a random tree from a random tree pile and giving Omar, King of the Michigan Gypsies ten of my hard-earned dollars.

So I'm on the phone, in the kitchen, when I hear, "Whooomp."

That couldn't be good.

I waledk into the dining area and there, to my surprise, was the tree. Lying on the dinner table. Leaking dirty warm water onto my cream-colored carpet.

The tree, being rather...unbalanced, took it upon itself to tip over into the dining area and onto the table. I swore, hung up the phone and ran over to prop the tree back up against the wall. Got back on the phone.

"Mom? Can you send Dad back over?"

By the time my father made it back to my house, the tree had fallen the other way, into the den, and leaked dirty water all over an entirely new and pristine area of cream carpeting.

I was rather hysterical by this point.

Dad dragged the tree back out onto my back porch and began sawing with a vengance. In his mind, the tree simply wasn't balanced correctly. This, however, could be changed, if he managed to carve the trunk into exactly the right configuration to balance the tree perfectly in the Devo tree stand. Which was plastic, as I stated before, and had absolutely no weight to it.

Dad sawed. And muttered. And muttered. And sawed some more. I started watching television. I'd check on him every so often but, really, this was a Dad project and he didn't need meddling. Meddling leads to cursing and cursing leads to crying and then Mom would get involved and that was never a good thing.

I finally went out to see how he was doing.

"What's up?"
"I think I've just...about...got it!"

He gave one last tug on the saw. He'd been sawing progressively higher and higher up the trunk, in an effort to get to the right balance point. And then, yes, he finally got to the point--just not the one he was hoping for.

He pulled the saw out and the tree...split in two.

We were left with two half-trees. It broke exactly at the point where the trunk split apart. They would have been perfect, if we were to nail them up. He tried to convince me to use the slightly-bushier half and just turn the naked side against the wall.

I just looked at him.

He bought me a good tree the next week. And a heavy-duty tree stand. I've never had a problem since.

Dad and the Mystery Tree

I moved into my own place in 2001. My own purchased place. I'd never lived anywhere that I actually owned before--I'd always rented or lived with my parents. And, similarly, I'd never had my own Christmas tree before. My parents had all my ornaments and I was usually going home for the holidays. I can't think of many Christmas Eves that I didn't spend sleeping at my parents' house.

But now I had my own place. And I was going to get my own tree. My mother gave me a bunch of ornaments that she had been hoarding for me and I was ready to rumble. Of course, that meant I had to actually go purchase a tree.

My father and I were always the tree searchers in the house. We'd go pick out the tallest, fattest tree we could get away with and strap that sucker onto the roof of whatever he was driving that particular year, unless it was during the years that he drove the VW Rabbit, which meant we shoved the tree in the back end and held the trunk the whole way home.

This year was no different. My mother had switched to a fake tree after years of yelling at my father for getting trees that were too fat for her taste. But I provided the perfect opportunity for our expert tree-purchasing skills.

So we head out one Sunday morning, a few weeks before Christmas. Now, you must understand that, in the part of the world in which I live, absolutely nothing is open on Sunday morning but churches. Some businesses don't open on Sundays at all. So we drove up and down the main drag, in search of a Christmas tree lot that had someone manning a cash register. We finally found some poor sod with his operation set up in the parking lot of Big Lots. That should have been my first clue.

He had some nice trees. Don't get me wrong. I had picked out a nice, short, good-smelling tree that I thought would be perfect in my living room--not taking up too much space but making a good statement. But Dad? He had other plans.

The tree I picked out cost approximately $30. Apparently, that was too rich for my father's blood. So he goes up to the gypsy king running the show and starts dickering.

"Is this really $30?"
"If that's what the tag says."
"Can't we go a little lower?"
"That's what the tag says."

My father apparently thought we lived near a Turkish bazaar where every price was negotiable. But then, his eyes lit up.

"Hey, what about if we take one of those," he said, pointing.
"$10."

My father, in his infinite wisdom, had found the perfect bargain. Trees filled the back of a large truck, still bundled and untrimmed, fresh off the farm. If we bought a tree that hadn't been gussied up yet, then we could get a bargain basement price.

By this point, I was so cold, I could've purchased Charlie Brown's tree and been perfectly happy, so I let my father pick one out and helped him tie the thing onto the roof of my Honda. Then we trundled home.

Next--Tools and Trees Don't Mix...

Monday, October 23, 2006

No Call, No Show

I used to be a waitress. And a hostess. Always front of the house. Although I dated the back of the house with some frequency. You'd think they'd cook for you more, really. Turns out, they mostly have problems with controlled substances. Mostly.

Working in a restaurant, like working all jobs, involves learning new terminology. Some is easy, like "order up" or "two-top." Others are a bit more obscure. Like "in the weeds." After being in the weeds a time or two, I technically knew what was involved in getting there, but I didn't really get the origin of the phrase until after I got out of the business. "In the weeds" is like getting stuck in a field of high, high, high grass and never ever being able to see your way out of it. The most frequent cause of getting into the weeds where I worked was having to hand-scoop Ben & Jerry's Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz ice cream into individual bowls for a six-top, as plates of roast beef and turkey and whipped potatoes sat baking under the lights and whatever kitchen Nazi was working as expeditor began screaming at you to pick up your orders.

Good times, I'll tell you. No wonder I went to grad school.

Anyway, another restaurant term is "no call, no show." This, as you might be able to tell, is a scheduling term and may very well be used in other industries. No call, no show usually occurred the day after a big party--staff Christmas parties (always in January), 4th of July, a random 3 a.m. afterparty--that sort of thing. No call, no show is when someone on the schedule didn't show up and never called in to say they'd be late or needed cover.

No call, no show didn't happen too often. It usually meant that someone had either gotten into a car wreck, been arrested, or quit. And, if none of those things were true, a no call, no show certainly meant a firing was imminent. It is the ultimate faux pas--the failure to help your fellow staff by letting them know that you are too hung over to make it in to close the night, thereby forcing someone to work a double, cursing your name the entire night.

I've been enduring a lot of no call, no show lately. Not at work, but personally. A lot of people have been taking the initial time to make it on the schedule. Buying drinks, asking for phone numbers, making an occasional follow-up call. But then. No call, no show.

I'm beginning to take it personally. Do I not give them the shifts they want? Are the benefits that...unattractive? Are they interviewing elsewhere? To be honest, yes, they probably are interviewing elsewhere. But then, I'm doing my share of interviews, too, in order to fill the position, so I can't fault them there.

However, the courtesey of a phone call is not to be overrated. It will certainly save on the cursing. And may even get you the closing shift in the good section, if you're nice to the manager...

Saturday, October 21, 2006

The First One

I bought a car recently. I love it. It is the car I've been dreaming of owning for years. It has every feature I could have ever wanted. It is the car I've in which I've pictured myself driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, through New England leaf-strewn byways, along deserted stretches of dark roads. Of course, during those daydreams I also have a kick-ass wardrobe, weigh 40 lbs. less and end up getting into a collision with Damien Lewis from Band of Brothers, who is out for a drive to get over his recent break-up. You know, those daydreams.

So, after soul-searching and checkbook balancing, I buy the car. It is "lightly used" as they say in the trade. I get a Car Fax report. It comes up clean. Perfect. No problems.

Except, yeah. Not so much.

I take the car to the carwash and a plastic piece flies off. Then the wind starts to whistle around the windows. Turns out, there was a roll-over accident. The car has a totally new roof. And windshield. And various other pieces and parts. So much for perfect. Plus, when I turn on the defroster, tiny pieces of shattered glass fly up out of the vents and onto the dashboard. Those driving goggles aren't just for show.

So I'm thinking about this car that turned out to be not so perfect. And I'm realizing that the car is much like a number of people I've met over the past few years. They seem really...normal...at first. Rational. Intelligent. No damage upon first inspection. But then, well, the glass starts flying out of the vents.

I've decided we need some sort of People Fax system. Not those websites where you can write in about all the issues you had with your ex-boyfriend and telling all women why they should stay away from him. But a real, objective listing of previous damages incurred by that particular model: The bad divorce. The child custody battle. The drug/alcohol/sex/porn/videogame addiction. The overprotective mother and absent father. Or the alcoholic father and enabling mother. The cheating ex. The needy ex. The sleezy, skeezy, I-still-want-to-get-in-his-pants ex. The lack of ambition. The lack of responsibility. The lack of common sense. The lack of any sense.

When I proposed this system to a friend, he asked me if I didn't think that would cut any potential relationship short. Why bother even getting to know someone if you know going into it that their issues are going to overwhelm any ties you might form? And really, wouldn't that be true for all relationships, both platonic and romantic?

But I don't think so. Because we all have issues. Some of my best, most interesting, most educational, wonderful and entertaining relationships were with some seriously flawed people. We're all flawed. Those flaws don't always doom a relationship. Sometimes those flaws open us up for new possibilities.

I mean, I still love the car. I just wish I'd known to invest in the goggles earlier.