Karma

Sometimes karma really does come around to bite you in the ass. And sometimes it has bad aim.

I was telling a friend of mine the other day that sometimes I feel like I have to pay the karmic monster when I have a bout of good fortune. Like I go shopping and get a bunch of really great deals on suits or stockings or shoes, but leave a favorite scarf in the changing room (the scarf I wore overseas during those trips) and lose it forever. Or when I unexpectedly end up kissing a guy in the middle of the street and later discover that I lost the bracelet I was wearing at the time.

Karma has to get paid every once in a while.

I'd been having pretty good karma lately. Busy social life, good work routine, plans coming together. It all kind of imploded over Thanksgiving weekend and I've been in a funk ever since. So I've been spending more time at home, pondering what I can do to reverse the trend, thinking of ways I could get out of going to work, avoid phone calls, not speak to anyone. And I realized that I just kind of have to power through.

However, in the bad old days, at my old job, I used to sit and think of ways I could get out of work. Broken bones were good. Non-invasive operations and elective surgery were also high on the list. However, tops was a car accident on the way to work. Pretty fool-proof and without the necessity of all that planning and hospitalization, for the most part.

I was thinking of the car crash excuse today, when I was in the shower, miserable. But better sense prevailed and I went to work early. Early, early. Early enough to have to wait for Panera to open.

I'm sitting at my desk and my phone rings. My boss got hit head-on in the parking lot of Bob Evans this morning and his car is totalled.

My brain is beginning to scare me.

When it Rains

Went to dinner last night and was waited on by my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend. The one he was still living with when we started dating. I usually avoid this restaurant for just this reason, but I'd accidently run into her a few months ago and figured that all that was ancient history.

Which it is, really.

Except I have to hear about how wonderful her new boyfriend is, and his family is, and their great life and her plans and all that crap.

I'm wondering if I should start dating him now.

But She Breaks Just Like a Little Girl

I could go on and on about how crappy my life is right now. Work. Career. Personal crap. Lack of goals. Lack of funds. Lack, generally.

But I think the title says it all.

Query:

Is it still cockblocking if it is done by a woman? To another woman? In order to discourage a guy? Not because she wants the woman to herself but...for other various and nonsensical reasons? Or is there another term for that?

And, if so, what is it?

What a Feeling

My friend's husband told her the other day that she could stand to work on her butt.

To be fair, she asked him how her ass was looking these days. She's pregnant and her weight is getting all redistributed. Although she has probably lost weight up to this point, her body is changing and her clothes are fitting differently, so she's just trying to figure out what's changing. And, when you can't check out your own ass, you ask someone you love to check it out for you.

After the inevitable shit storm subsided, she took a practical approach and looked on the internet (because that is what we do at work) for some ass-appropriate exercises. Squats were the ultimate winner in the make-my-ass-look-better bonanza and it was my impression that, between episodes of Band of Brothers from On Demand and a recap of entertainment news on E!, she was going to fit some in last night.

I was rather inspired by her dedication and thought to myself, "Self, you should get on that bandwagon yourself. Everyone could stand to work on their butt a bit."

So I've got the television on, listening to Ryan Seacrest prattle about Paris and Brittney going out on the town together and, wow!, are her boobs big these days or what? Anyway, I push the chair out of the way and start on the squats.

Until I feel that look on the back of my neck.

Hello, cat.

The cat is sitting on the dining room table, at which I never eat, so quit your groaning about cat hair and such. Besides, you know you let your dog lick off your plates after you eat at them. Or lick your face. Whatever.

I can read the cat's expression:

"Who do you think you're fooling?"

"Shut up, cat. You don't know. I'm really going to do it this time."

"Whatever, girl. I've watched you do everything from that 6:30 yoga show on Oxygen to Tae Bo. Tae Bo--that was a hoot. You're lucky you didn't break something on that one."

"So I'm not that coordinated. I work out. I have weights. Lame weights, but weights."

"Girl, please. The only time you get those sad things out is when you're considering wearing something with short sleeves. Save your stories for someone who might believe you."

"Hey, I do so use those. The other night even. During Titanic."

"Is that the one where they yell 'Jack!' and "Rose!' at each other for thirty minutes and then you cry."

"I wasn't crying at that one. It was Hoosiers I cried at."

"Whatever."

So today, when I am thankful that my office chair has wheels because I can't haul myself out of it due to extreme muscle pain, I simply think to myself that this time, it'll be different. This time I really will stretch out and exercise three to four times a week. And I will eat more green leafy vegetables. And I will take vitamins. And I will stop drinking so much beer on Wednesdays. And I will stop making late night phone calls. Or sending text messages, for that matter. And I will get more calcium. And I will stop buying black heels, because, really, five pair are enough. And I will go to bed earlier. And get to work earlier. And I will stop keeping secrets and repeating gossip and being petty and thinking it is all about me and...

Oh, screw it. The cat's right. Who do I think I'm kidding?

Things I Learned (and Relearned) This Weekend

That turkey is overrated.

That even four days off in a row still isn't enough.

That sometimes people you think are your friends aren't.

That I shouldn't be allowed to have a cell phone.

That I deserve more.

That drinking wine at 3 a.m. is rarely a good idea.

That, even though I spend most of my work day and a lot of my free time with men, I still cannot, for the life of me, figure out what the hell they are all about.

That you should read a recipe all the way through before you make it.

That just because someone says they are going to call doesn't mean they will.

That cool tile feels really good on your face, even as late as six o'clock in the evening.

That leading more than one life is rather exhausting.

That I'm too old for this crap.

That I'm not too old to want to get into a bar fight.

That I am right on the brink of crawling into a figurative hole for the next six months so I don't have to speak to anyone about anything ever.

That you can golf in November, but probably not well.

That the horror of having no ibuprofen in the house cannot be overstated.

Christian Dad

I got to go to my annual exam this morning. Yes, ladies, that annual exam.

I made sure to shave my legs this morning, even though I was wearing pants. Plus, I gave myself a pedicure last night. Nothing like seeing nasty feet with bad chipped polish on the toenails up in stirrups to really make you wish you were somewhere else. Like you didn't wish you were somewhere else already.

My doctor is very nice. He's easy on the eyes and has no bedroom manner to speak of. My friend, who goes to the same office I do, always hated him and was ticked off when he got called in to deliver one of her babies. Until she started having problems. She said he looked at her, told her that they were going to get through this and she believed him--had total confidence that he could see her through. Totally competent, with absolutely no personality.

When I first started going there, we met in his office to chat. Big walnut desk. Dark, man-colored walls. Wooden blinds. It was kind of like the team owner's office in The Natural. Lots of pictures of his family. And little pieces of his kids' artwork.

Plus some lovely cross-stitched pieces obviously made for him by his family members. He has these hanging prominently for all to see. Some ladybugs hanging out together. A sleeping puppy. I think one has a stethoscope. There is obviously a progression of skill pictured here in these works of stitchery. And, my favorite: a blue and white tie, knotted, that he obviously got as a birthday or Father's Day gift. It has a motto stitched above it. More on that later.

So the exam begins. I get weighed--the best part first. Then blood pressure and the presentation of the laughingly-named "gown." Then the doctor comes in and we proceed apace.

I cannot describe to you the utter horror I face every year. It is always there, about five minutes into the actual exam. After the piece-of-meat breast exam. Before the big ticket item.

"So. How's your love life?"

I've fallen on my ass in the middle of a bar while on rollerskates. I've tripped down stairs during my first week of junior high. I've accidently sprayed bleach into my hair, thinking it was water, and gone to school, only to later realize that I had bleach spots all over my cool Coca-Cola shirt. I've been on stage, singing in front of a hall full of people, and forgotten every word to the song. Even worse, I've been drunk and sang karaoke in front of a bar full of people--and it was videotaped. And, while I've never asked a fat woman when she was due when she wasn't actually pregnant, I'm sure that day is coming.

I understand that he's trying. I understand that, technically, that information falls within his purview. However, there is no point lower in my life as an unmarried woman than having to discuss past boyfriends with a guy who's got a cross-stitch of a tie with the motto "Christian Dad" hanging in his office.

Let's Go Meijering

So I go to the grocery store last night. I'd spent my day first at my office, which is always a really fun and exciting way in which to spend a Sunday morning and afternoon. Then I went to a friend's house and helped him remove staples from his hardwood floors after he had ripped the carpeting up. This would explain the eraser-sized blister on the ring finger of my right hand. That's eraser-sized both in circumference and in length.

Then, Meijer. I usually like Meijer. Usually because I go at 8 a.m. on Sunday morning when everyone else in this godforsaken town is in church. Sunday night, not so much. I get into a one-sided screaming match with some guy at the stop sign. I was there first, dammit. So I yelled at him from the privacy of my car. Screeched, really. My throat hurt afterward.

Then I get it there. I get the cart with the wonky wheel. I'm surrounded by amatuers who can't get out of my way. Someone hits me in the back of the leg with their cart. They are out of my hair product. And I can't find the stuffing aisle. You'd think they'd have a special display somewhere for that this time of year, wouldn't you? At least the wine I like was on sale--I'd need it later.

After elbowing people in the produce section aside so I could buy real live cranberries (I saw some woman puzzling over cranberry jelly in a can and I wanted to cry), I finally made it to the register. The girl working it was really nice and had been there all day. I eavesdropped on her conversation with the woman checking out in front of me. They laughed together and it was my turn.

We chit chat. Small talk. She shows me a picture of her boyfriend on a pin in her pocket. He's okay. A little jail-baity for me. She tells me their mothers want to meet. All the time she's running my stuff through.

She tries to run the UPC for some rolls. Cheese twist rolls from the specialty bread shop. Runs it through. Runs it through again. She tries to type in the number. Nothing works. She finally decides to just put in the price under "Misc."

"$3.99? For these?"

"Let me tell you something, sweetheart. If I want your opinion on what I pay for my groceries, I'll ask you. The chances of this occuring are slim to non-existent. So, really, shut the hell up and tell me what I owe you."

Okay, I didn't say that. I just wrote a check.

Then I went home, drank wine and ate a cheese twist. And it was worth every penny.

Best Pizza in a Cup Around

One summer, while in graduate school, I came home to live with my parents. Our neighbor put in a good word for me with the management at his country club and I found myself working there as a waitress.

The staff at the club was the usual assortment of crazies that a country club will attract: older bartenders that have worked there for years, young ones that aren't fast enough to work at the clubs, waitresses that are more than reminiscent of Flo, migrant bus boys, slutty golf pros, slutty swim coaches, slutty waiters, a line cook from New Zealand that used to save me twice baked potatoes, a sous-chef that was the nicest man on earth, alcoholic management. You know, the usual.

The bar "manager" had just started bartending about a year before. He was a svelt 250 lbs at about 5'8". He allegedly had a sister that weighed about 500 lbs. He was inordinately proud of his $60 black pants from Structure that he wore to work. He was beginning to bald, had no prospects in life and I suspect he was gay.

Of course, you know that means that he had a crush on me.

I knew no one in this town. Save my mother and father. Not a soul. So I hung out with these people. And I had absolutely nothing else to do. So we drank beer after work, played pool, broke into the pool after hours, drove around on golf carts in the dark. Passed the time.

Eventually, Sad Sack gets up the guts to ask me out. I think it was around my birthday. He'd been working up to it for quite some time--paying for my drinks when we were out, making a point of having to sit next to me, always wanting to be my partner in pool. And I suck at pool.

I feel sorry for him. And, like I said, I had absolutely nothing else to do. So, I said I'd go.

He was all excited. He wanted to take me to the pizza place in his home town. Approximately 45 minutes away by car. 45 excruciating minutes to look forward to. He's gonna pick me up at 6:30. Goody.

So I'm sitting with my dad at the kitchen table, looking out onto the street and our driveway. I'd made it clear to my parents that I was regretting saying yes. I wanted to call him and tell him I was sick. Or had moved to a foreign country (an excuse I once used with success). But, no. I'd made the committment. So I'd go.

I think my dad and I were drinking beer. And I seem to remember that it was Wednesday. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, moping. Seriously. Head in hand. Eyes on the floor. Any signs of life had fled.

"Hey, I think your date's here," my dad says.

Without even looking, I get up, drag my purse off the table, and start the Bataan Death March out to the driveway. I walk to the front door, open it and begin to walk outside.

Only to see the garbage truck sitting in front of our house.

My father laughed so hard he fell off his chair.

The guy did eventually show up and proceeded to turn his baseball cap backwards so he could add oil to his car in my parents' driveway. We then drove an excessive distance to eat pizza (with mushrooms from a can) at a place that had both kinds of beer: Bud and Bud Light. I gave him the leftovers and began dating one of the bartenders the very next week.

Devil Inside

The first time I heard that song, "Lips of an Angel," I was driving through the middle of nowhere, listening to some college station in another state and thinking how lucky I was to have found a station that didn't play "Turn the Page" or "Low Rider" every other song. Or "Calling Baton Rouge," for that matter.

The song was pretty good, I thought. Harkened back to the power ballad days of my youth, when girls could well up at the thought of Vince Neil singing "Home Sweet Home" just to them. I didn't really listen to the lyrics more than to figure out what I needed to sing when they got the chorus.

(I am that girl. That girl that sings to herself in the car. Really loud. The girl that people look at when stopped at intersections.)

Now they're playing it quite a bit. And the video is getting regular airplay. Well, as regular as any video gets these days, which is to say between the hours of midnight and 7 a.m., before the Parental Control marathon starts. So I've listened to it more since then. And I must say that it is kinda pissing me off.

Honey why you calling me so late?
It's kinda hard to talk right now.
Honey why are you crying? Is everything okay?
I gotta whisper 'cause I can't be too loud

Well, my girl's in the next room
Sometimes I wish she was you
I guess we never really moved on...

And on. And on. He never wants to say goodbye and she makes it hard to be faithful with her angelic lips. Then he notes that, gee, it is weird she's calling 'cause he just had a dream about her. Then they compare notes about their respective others, wondering if their continued phone contact is going to cause problems with their new relationships. It is nice to know they are being so considerate. Then on and on about the lips of an angel and how hard it is to be faithful, yada, yada.

I'm not quite sure what it is about this song that irks me. I can understand why it is so popular. Everyone likes to put themselves in the place of the star-crossed lover. Women imagine themselves to be the girl on the phone, still exerting power over that poor schmuck they dumped five months ago because, while he was great in the sack, he always used to throw breadsticks at her at Olive Garden and was never going to advance further than assistant manager at the body shop. Namely, he's good enough to sleep with but you don't want to take him to the office Christmas party for fear of him wearing his keys chained to his belt.

The guy, of course, is pining for this woman who dumped him, the love of his life, the girl that first taught him that wine bottles sometimes come in bottles with corks rather than from boxes with taps. He wants her back, nothing can replace her. But, in the meantime, he's hooked up with the blonde waitress from the corner bar who is usually up for a good time. You know, on weekends when she doesn't have custody of her five kids. With three guys. Let me tell you, coordinating that is a bitch.

So, they carry on this clandestine phone relationship. She's now dating the manager of the local Kinko's. A real go-getter. But they just don't have the same chemistry. So she keeps the old guy on the line. He loves her. He wants her. But he's got needs, so there's the waitress.

Ah, romance.

The thing is, you listen to this song and you think you know just what that's like. Being a star-crossed lover. Having a relationship in which the timing was never right. Its the same old story: women want the man they could have had, men want the woman they couldn't.

But, honestly, when I listen to this song, and the more I listen to it, I find myself in the position of the waitress. I've been that girl who doesn't have a clue, as Mr. Hinder so artfully puts it in the second verse. And I think more people have been in the position of the cheated-on, whether they knew it or not, than the cheaters.

That's what ticks me off about this song. We're being sold a bill of goods: a portrait of a doomed love affair. We're being told that, really, these people have absolutely no choice--they've been swept away on a sea of lust and desire and fate. But, honestly, he can't keep his dick in his pants and she's the one who can't let go. The song is only a few steps away from Fatal Attraction before Glenn Close gets nuts. She would have totally called Michael Douglas in the middle of the night, crying, in an effort to get laid. It is almost Hard Candy without the pedophilia and maiming, because I wouldn't put anything past those two. It is just like that guy I dated at the resort I worked at who bought me roses after he stood me up for a date because he was busy getting busy with his ex-girlfriend. Well, kinda like that, anyway.

If you'll excuse me, I think I have to go listen to some Journey. Or Air Supply.

Or Buckcherry.

The Game

The Michigan-Ohio State game has always been a big deal in my life. No game was bigger, no stakes were higher, no tension greater. My mother came from a line of Ohio State graduates. Her father went to Ohio State at the same time Jesse Owens was there. My mother went. My uncle went and swam there. They had season football tickets. I have relatives that I have never met that live and love in Columbus, having gone to OSU and decided never to leave. That what makes my mother's decision so puzzling.

She and my dad got married in the late 60's. Earlier that decade, my father played as guard for U of M. He went to the 1964 Rose Bowl, although he wasn't in the starting lineup that year. To hear him tell, that just freed up his time so he could go to the Whiskey A Go Go in LA. They got an early version of gift bags, with a commemorative bowl, some binoculars, a watch (if I remember correctly) and some other stuff that I'm sure I was never privy to.

At the time of their marriage, my mother was working at a department store for, to hear her tell it, Adolf Hitler's young cousin. The man wouldn't let her out of work to get married and go on a honeymoon, so she had to do everything on the one weekend she had off: the weekend of the game.

So my father and his ushers and the priest and the minister sat around the television until halftime, at which point the wedding could take place. I don't know if my mother's family was speaking to him at that point, but OSU won that year and my father got a wife out of the deal, so I guess that called that year good.

In the years following, we had special family rituals we had to follow. Dad would put on the "Best College Fight Songs" record and play it at full blast, singing along to "The Victors" while my mother rolled her eyes and made cheese spreads and deli trays for parties that they would habitually throw. Then we'd have the following exchange:

"You know what today is?"
"No, Dad. What?"
"It's another Big Ten football weekend!"

And they'd play the game. We had the Schembechler years, that went on forever. We had the Earl Bruce years. I even vaguely remember Woody Hayes coaching when I was young, back when my uncle was still trying to recruit my loyalty for OSU by buying t-shirts for me on the sly that said "Muck Fichigan." My Dad would always point at Woody whenever they showed him and related the story of when Woody came to recruit him and said he'd be betraying the Great State of Ohio if he went anywhere but OSU. I don't think that pitch worked really well, the way things turned out.

After each game, there was the obligatory phone call. The gloat. Depending on who won, that team's supporter got to make the call. Either Grandpa calling Dad, or the other way around. The glee that would arise from a Michigan victory was truly a glory to behold, no matter if their record was 7-2 or 2-7 at that point. The rest of the season didn't really matter. And it was even worse for OSU fans, according to my father. That's why the OSU teams that beat Michigan got what was called the "golden pants" award. My Dad always said they had to make a special occasion out of beating U of M, because it happened so rarely. Michigan, of course, had no such award.

We eventually moved back in the vicinity of the games after a long period living in the south, where people mistakenly worshipped between the hedges, rather than in the Big House. And that meant actually going to games. I think we went to a few at Michigan. And one at OSU. In my grandfather's seats. Dressed in our Michigan gear. In 2000, the last year Drew played before that evil OSU grad running the Yankees lured him away to a life of obscurity. In direct contrast to most accounts of games in Columbus, no one urinated in front of us, no one threw buckeyes at us, no one poured beer on us, and no one spit on us or vandalized our car. I think that was actually why my father took me--to act as a potential deterrent.

I always rooted for Michigan because I didn't want my father to be outnumbered. Then I rooted for Michigan because they were winners. Now I root for them because they were important to my dad and it is important for me to remember that now.

My dad died a year and a half ago. Looking at U of M's record last season, he may very well have preferred not to have been around to witness it. This year, however, I'll be thinking of him and hoping he'll get to gloat in front of my grandfather in that big house in the sky.

Me? I went to Indiana. No delusions of grandeur during football seasons there. However, from December until April, I absolutely hate Michigan.

Different

Please reflect upon the internal thoughts of one man and one woman on the occasion of them discovering that the person upon whom they nursed secret (or not-so-secret) crushes had, in the recent (or not-so-recent) past, hooked up with someone else:

The Man:

But, dude, he's unemployed. And ugly. And lives across the country. And I'm here. I'm employed. I'm fun. I have a really cool car. Women like me. Women love me. I get messages all the time from women who want to go out. There's that one, right over there. The one from the parking lot that one time. She wants me. She totally wants me. Wait. Oh yeah, that guy. He's nothing. He sucks. I'm way better than he is. This girl is crazy to want him over me. I'll show her. I'll never call her again. This ship has sailed. The love shack is closed. No more midnight rendevous. We're done. DONE, I say!

Maybe I'll call her later, during the game.



The Woman:

That girl? THAT one? Wait, I don't remember her. What does she look like? She's prettier than me, isn't she? And younger. She has to be younger. That's a given. And she's tan. Fake tan, but still. I might be smarter, but who wants the smarter girl? Of course, she's thinner than me. Everyone's thinner than me. I'm a fat pig. When did they hook up? Before me? After? Would he still be calling? Of course he would. I'm an idiot. Who wouldn't be running around with a cute, perky, young blonde instead of me? THIN, cute, perky, young blonde. Oh, he must think I'm a total moron. Do you think he knows that I know? Should I say anything? Or just play it off? This sucks. People suck. I hate everyone.

Is that her car parked in front of his house?

A Thanksgiving to Remember

As Thanksgiving fast approaches, I feel a certain nostalgia for holiday seasons past. Like the Thanksgiving at my aunt's when the disposal backed up into the washing machine in the basement and the house across the street caught fire. Or the year we cooked a turkey at college and accidently left the turkey neck inside the bird. But the family favorite is the year of Hearts.

At the time, my parents and I lived in Atlanta, Georgia. We'd been there a few years and had no other family in the area, so we felt no compulsion to stay in town. Somehow, my parents found this "resort" in the north Georgia mountains. It may still be there, so I won't name it by name, although it is scored into my brain like a tattoo.

On the way up, we stopped in Dalonegha, which is a north Georgia town famed for its brief but fully-documented-for-the-tourists gold rush. It is also known as a prime eating location. We had lunch there--a family-style lunch. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Ham. Beans. Fried Chicken. Greens. Every other carbohydrate known to man. Good stuff. We ate like we would never get a chance to eat again. I should point out that this was Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

So we continue our drive to the resort. Now, part of the point of going to this place was the fact that it had a gourmet restaurant. My parents planned to sleep in on Thursday, maybe take me fishing or horseback riding, then go to a fabulous dinner at a quaint resort. Good plan, altogether.

We get there. We check in. My mother, ever thoughtful, asks about reservations to the restaurant the next night for Thanksgiving dinner.

"Oh. We're closed for Thanksgiving."

Excellent.

Of course, not wanting to miss the possibility of eating in this fabulous gourmet restaurant, my parents make reservations for that night. So, on top of the trough-style lunch we'd eaten about five hours previously, we were forced to eat steak, potatoes, salad, side-dishes and dessert.

We took a wheelbarrow home.

And home? Well, let's just say it was...rustic. Actually, for the north Georgia mountains, it was fine. It was a cabin. They had a room. I had a room. Then there was a big room. And a sort-of kitchen. No tv. No radio. Little water pressure. A cottage, basically.

The problem was that, down the hillside, the resort had just built some lovely townhome-type places. With new carpeting. And nice appliances. And better water pressure.

Those townhouses mocked my mother. "Look at us, down the hill. We're all new and shiny and it looks like no one's staying here. Wouldn't you rather be down here with us?" She tried to shame my father into transferring us down there, but was unsuccessful in that endeavor.

So, for the actual Thanksgiving? No tv, so no football. No gourmet restaurant, so no turkey. We resorted to playing Hearts and eating peanut butter on crackers.

Hearts needs at least two people. This is the game where you pass three cards to your right and get three cards from the person on the right. The point is to end up taking absolutely no hearts or all of them, plus the Queen of Spades. Otherwise, you don't want the Queen--it is the highest amount of points and you want to end up with the least. You all have it on your computers, don't act like you've never played.

So we played Hearts. And I am not someone who collects them. I am not a risk taker. I want to give them up. As well as the Queen. My mother, however, kept passing me the Queen. I was, to put it mildly, not pleased.

I was probably 10 or 11 on this trip. Old enough to know some obscene finger gestures. Which I began employing liberally. Under the table. At my mother. And, apparently, not very slyly.

I got caught. And got sent to my "room." They might have withheld the peanut butter crackers, too. It was kinda like when Baby and her family went to the Poconos and her dad was mad because of the abortion and he wouldn't speak to her for weeks. But with a more rustic cabin, no Patrick Swayze and no sex.

We didn't play Hearts for a while after that one.

Ecletic

Last night, while watching television, I realized that I was switching exclusively between two shows with my instant recall button on the remote. The shows? One was the PBS special on, if I'm not mistaken, the Danish royal family. The other?

E!'s True Hollywood Story about Britney & Kevin.

Super Ninja Slapfight

From the local newswire:

Two local adults, a man and woman appearing to be in their 30's, were seen engaged in a physical altercation in the skywalk above town last night. They seemed to be singing "Beat It" by Michael Jackson and the altercation may have begun when they started to reenact the fight scene from the video of the same, in which a black man in white leather and a white man in black leather tie themselves together to engage in a switchblade battle/dance-off. Unfortunately, the local pair did not seem to have participated in any formal dance training in order to effectuate this reenactment.

The man and woman, who seemed to be at least partially intoxicated, then devolved into a slapfight, reminiscent of the fight in which George and Alex were engaged on last week's Grey's Anatomy. There was a brief lull in the fight when the man attempted to execute a ninja roll move in the lobby of a local hotel and ended up bashing his head against the wall. The woman then collapsed in what appeared to be a hysterical fit. The man then stole her shoe and threw it under a couch.

These events have been pieced together from minutes of surveillance video taken by cameras placed strategically throughout the skywalk. Local authorities are now attempting to locate the two in an effort to either arrest them or blackmail them.

White Creamy Foods

A friend told me this story the other night and, although I've already told it to the two people that even read this thing, I still have to write it down, because it makes me laugh every time I think of it.

A young man, recently married, is hanging out at his friend's house. The friend has just moved in with his girlfriend and is still getting used to all of the weird girl things that come with girlfriends. Hair products. Tampons. Dishtowels. Maybe an actual wineglass. Although they were in their early 20's at the time so, unless they were drinking white zin, probably not.

The friend goes to get a couple of beer from the fridge. He comes back and hands the young man a beer.

"Yeah, so my girlfriend? I guess she's got a yeast infection or something."
The young married man, wise to the ways of women at this point, simply nods.
"So, she's got all this yogurt," the friend says.
"Yeah, that helps, I guess," the young man replies.
"And she keeps using, like, half? And...leaving the other half there?"
The young man nods again.
"And it...it's strawberry."
"And?"
"Isn't that...well, kinda gross?"
"Dude, if it helps? What do you care?"
"Good point. Okay."

They are silent. Drinking together. Watching the game. Engaging in that silent man cameraderie thing that they do so well.

A few minutes later, the young married man turns to his friend.
"You do know that she's eating the yogurt, don't you?"

Avoid the Local Sausage

I went to the Dominican Republic a few years ago with some girlfriends. All-inclusive resort. All you can drink. Seven days of fun in the sun over Valentine's Day, when only one of the four of us had a boyfriend. A target-rich environment, we thought. Or at least some relaxation.

The first day. It is gorgeous. We run down the cliffside staircase to the beach. Tanned men bring us cold beer in tubs of ice. There's a buffet! Beach-side! Fabulous. Two of my friends, Anti-Tattoo and the One With the Boyfriend, go and sample the wares. They report back on the buffet: grilled meats and sausages. Perfect with some fruit. We go to bed early, exhausted from our flight and scary hour-long taxi ride to our hidden...very hidden...paradise.

The second day. Beach. Beer. An early morning swim in the pool. Hours spent avoiding the various married Canadian men on the prowl while their wives sleep in. We get dressed up for dinner, planning to go to the Argentinian restaurant on premises, in order to celebrate our vacation in style. I have a picture, commemmorating the moment. That last moment...without fear.

During dinner, A-T and OWtB aren't feeling well, Vic and I, the unadventurous eaters, aren't too keen on eating unidentified meal slices from shanks on skewers, anyway, so we leave early. Although they aren't feeling well, A-T and OWtB are kind enough to stay out late enough to see me sing my karaoke standard, "Stand By Your Man." Then, all hell breaks loose.

The third day. The four of us spend locating various bathroom locations in the resort. Our main bathroom, in our room, has issues. Namely, the chain has fallen off the lever, making it impossible to flush without lifting the lid off the tank. So we locate Auxillary One, near the bar, and Auxillary Two, near the giftshop. That way, at least three of us can be in a bathroom at any given time, if necessary.

The remainder of the days blur together. Needless to say, there was little beer-drinking or grilled meat-eating. The only other day...was the day of reckoning.

We went on a catamaran snorkle trip. I should preface this with the statement that I've never been seasick in my entire life. Ever. I've been on the Great Lakes in storms. I've been on cruises. I've been on sailboats in Long Island Sound. I've seen the Downeaster Alexis. Anyway...

So we get on the catamaran. And I'm facing backwards. Which is bad, I know. Because I start not feeling well. But I'm surviving. I'm drinking Sprite, handed to me by hardbodied young men with really bad feet who want tips. I'm trying, really, to have a good time. But by the time we get to the snorkling, I'm just so happy to be off the boat I could cry.

I get in the water. And I'm looking at the fish. They're feeding them bread, near the reef, to give the tourists some bang for their buck. The fish are cool--big parrotfish with cool colors.

Then I swallow the salt water.

I try to brave through it. But, on top of the queezy seasickness, I can't make it. "Go ahead, you'll feel better," I think to myself. "Just turn away so no one will see you." So I hurl.

And am immediately set upon by schools of hungry tropical fish, used to eating the leavings of tourists already. I felt like I was in that movie, Piranah, from the 70's, where the fish got loose in the river near the camp? Yeah, like that. They were almost in my mouth. So much for discretion.

I throw up again on the way back to the boat. Now there was no escape. Killer fish in the water, seasickness on deck. Once more off the side of the boat, in order to provide entertainment for the crew and my friends--who got really good photos of the tropical fish leaping out of the water by the side of the catamaran.

Suffice to say that the trip back to the hotel didn't get any better. But I will refrain from telling that tale, since A-T has paid me $20 to keep my mouth shut.

All I can say is that she did get our taxi driver's phone number out of the whole deal...

In-Transit Plate

I laughed out loud for the first time in a long time at How I Met Your Mother the other night when I realized that Lily was the hunchback that had been following Marshall's new girlfriend around.

There hasn't been much to laugh about otherwise.

Although I love, love, love elections and the fact that Brittney filed for divorce.

More on those issues later, once I recover some humor.

The Boredom Overtook Us...

I've been sick since Saturday. Sunday morning, Saturday night-ish. I coughed throughout a Lost and Grey's Anatomy TiVo session Saturday evening, but didn't feel that bad. Sunday morning, I woke and couldn't speak. I spent 40 of the next 48 hours in bed. What follows are thoughts from those 48 hours:

I am so bored. So bored. Bored. Bored. Boredboredboredbored. If you say that fast enough, it starts to sound like Borat. Borat. Borat. Bored. Boredboredboratboredborat. What do I care, I'm going to die before I ever get to another movie theater.

Electric blankets rock. Who first thought of running electric coils through fabric? Sheer genius.

I have cough medicine with hydrocodone in it in my fridge. That means I have to go downstairs.

I don't need the cough medicine that bad.

Who do I know that isn't at work at 10 a.m. that I could call and who would talk to me for an hour? And who wouldn't think I'm stalking them? Yeah. Nevermind.

How is it that Stone Barrington gets laid all the time? All the time?! Has he ever been turned down? And why is it that, when I read the first Holly Barker book, I thought she was a cool chick and now all she ever does is have sex with Stone Barrington? And no one in those books ever mentions any type of birth control or protection at all. Ever. Nada.

I wonder what Stone Barrington looks like...

Since Doogie came out, do you think they'll make Barney gay eventually? 'Cause I already kinda think he is. And that would be funny.

Does soup count as a beverage, when you warm it in the microwave?

How is it that I really like Justin Timberlake? And why do I watch this video with the rubber bands every single time it comes on?

Ooo! Dawson's Creek!

One day. One day I stay home sick. And that day? Is also leaf blowing day for the maintenance staff at my condo. Karma is, indeed, a bitch.

I have eaten only carbohydrates for the past three days. And fats. Don't forget the cheese on that frozen pizza.

Mfarzle wat. (I did go get the cough medicine.)

Oooo! The Long Hot Summer!

Why did I have get sick on the Sunday that they choose to run a Jennifer Lopez block of movies on TNT? Can't they just stop at Selina? Do we really have to keep showing Angel Eyes?

Should I be bothered that the only people who have called me today are my mother and the Republican party? And I think they're sharing phone lists anyway?

Bored. Booooorrrrreeeeeddddd. Seriously. Isn't there anyone I could call?
No.
Not him.
Yeah...no.
At work.
At work.
Moved.
On the lam.
No.
No way.
At work.
At work.
Heh, that'd be funny. No.
At the gym, likely. Meathead.
Nope.


Oh my God. I have no friends. I am a loser who will spend my life alone. And I feel this way without having finished a bottle of wine by myself. I know just how Bug felt on that Crossing Jordan episode. I don't belong, either, Bug. *sniff*

Ooooo, Halloween candy!

Shelly Hack

In the late 90's, I somehow became involved in monitoring elections overseas. I went over a number of times and hope to do so again in the future. It has always been, each time I've gone, an overwhelming experience that consistently teaches me new lessons. Like, always make friends with the military guys in your sector because they usually have bottled water. Or, make certain to bring your own roll of toilet paper unless you want to end up using waxed paper, which really isn't all that absorbent. And that young female interpreters often thing that Lady Speed Stick is perfume to be worn on the neck.

I also met wonderful people when I was working overseas, passionate about their work and their ideals. I met judges, students, election workers, lawyers...well, okay, they weren't all passionate about their ideals. Regardless, I did meet some really cool folks, a number of whom I kept in contact with for quite some time. One of whom was...we'll call him Ken.

Ken and I got to be pretty good friends. We lived relatively near each other in the states--close enough that we could meet up on weekends and hang out. He did computer work and had reasonably flexible hours. He broke up with his girlfriend and we hung out more. He read her diaries to me over the phone during the course of one especially bitter wine-filled weekend, then swore me to secrecy on the off-chance that I might ever see her again (I still haven't). We met the first time I went overseas and somehow ended up on the same flight the second time I went over to work.

The country we were sent to has a long and troubled history. Lucky for us, it is also near some great sea-side resort towns, where the powers that be saw fit to send us for training. We were to catch a flight from Dulles to this sea-side town in order to attend several days' worth of fascinating training (i.e. indoctrination). Although we weren't looking forward to the mind-numbing flight and subsequent pat-down in customs, I did recall getting small bottles of wine with each meal. I would usually save those to drink until right before the pat-down. Wine makes those more romantic.

So I'm standing in the airport, waiting for our handlers to gather all of us together for the flight, when I notice this woman standing near our group. She's blond. And pretty, in an ageless kind of way. Great skin. Flawless. (This memory is in no way influenced by my current breakout on my chin.) And she's wearing a pleated skirt.

Men will not understand a woman's issue with a pleated skirt. Pleated skirts take hours of maintenance. Hours. One cannot simply throw on a pleated skirt without forethought. Pleated skirts take time. And planning. And drycleaning. Only a woman very sure of herself and with a lot of luggage can afford to wear a pleated skirt on a ten-hour plane trip.

So...the woman. And the pleated skirt. And the longer I'm looking at her, the more I realize that I know her from somewhere. Finally, it hits me.

Charlie's Angels.

Shelly Hack, whose character replaced Sabrina on Charlie's Angels. That's who this woman was. Also, the wife in the horridly hacky The Stepfather, with the fabulous Terry O'Quinn.

Somehow, Ms. Hack got involved in this election monitoring business, too, and was being ferried along with our little group overseas. Excellent.

We fly. And fly. Eventually, we land in the little sea-side town and decamp to our hotels. Ken and I ended up in the same hotel. As did Ms. Hack.

Who immediately set up camp in the hotel lobby, holding court and accepting tribute. I cannot deny that the woman has star quality. You look at her and you know she is somebody. Unlike the time that I saw Kevin Pollack in a small midwestern airport and debated with myself for an hour as to whether or not it might be him before deciding that no one from the town we were in would ever dress like he was dressed, ergo, it must be Kevin Pollack. Shelly Hack was obviously somebody, even if you never watched Angels. Or Lifetime.

Men flocked to her. She had French policemen, Indian army guys, British diplomats, American expats all hanging on her every word. And who else? My partner in crime, Ken.

Ken was taken in by her golden locks and dulcet tones. He blew me off to stroll along the water with her and her gaggle of hangers on. And this, in the time before iPods, was a terrible blow.

He virtually disappeared for the three days of training. We only saw him at breaks, when he would rush out to get coffee for her. I luckily fell in with some other people and we proceeded to mercilessly mock him behind his back. But I had to give him credit--he was really putting the time in.

The night before we were to be deployed was the big night for him. He was going to try to make his move. I got this news over wedges of Laughing Cow cheese and rolls that morning during the breakfast buffet, as he was sqeezing lemons into hot water for his new lady love. I told him to get photographic proof or we'd never believe him.

The next day, we got on our respective buses. Ken and I had been sent to the same town, along with a number of other people I'd been spending time with over the previous few days. Those same people who'd been laughing at him behind his back. The look on his face as he got on the bus told me everything I needed to know about the night before. Suffice to say that he did not have, nor would he ever come close to getting, any type of photographic proof of his loving and meaningful relationship with the actress. I didn't say a word--I didn't need to. Yet.

We were stuck on the bus for about 8 to 10 hours. We had a lot of time to kill, especially when we got stuck in snow-covered mountains and had to put chains on the tires of the two-story bus. That's another story, altogether. We passed the time talking, sleeping, listening to music, discussing who'd had carnal relations most recently. I should mention that I did not win that one, although I remember who did. And we played games.

Someone started the name game. You know, you name a famous person: Henry Fonda. The next person has to name someone whose name starts with "F". Freddy Mercury. Miles Davis. Donny Osmond. Oliver Stone. And if someone gets a name with the same letters, like Sylvester Stallone, we reverse the order.

We kept playing. And playing. Michael Jackson. Jackie Robinson. Robert Redford. Robert Duvall. Diane Keaton. Kevin Costner. Round and round. Ken was playing. I was playing. And I was waiting. Just like a spider, as Mammy said to Scarlett.

"Charlie Daniels." That's it. "Dave Foley." Come on. A little closer. "Frank Sinatra." Finally.

I turned to Ken and smiled.

"Shelly Hack."

He pouted for the next three days. And I enjoyed each and every one of them.

Housebound

I keep getting email alerts directed "to women" to advise me of the various dangers I might face upon leaving my house every day. To this point, I've been warned about:

Getting out of my car to take post-its off the back window;
Wearing jewelry with the gems facing outward;
Not checking under my car before I get in;
Failing to wear my purse strap across my chest;
Listening to my "gift of fear."

I honestly do believe that I am lucky to be alive at this point in my life. However, I cannot attribute my continued state of living to checking under the car every time I get in to make sure some mugger doesn't cut my Achilles tendon and steal my purse.

Instead, I've relied upon the kindness of strangers, who have variously:

Driven me home at 4 a.m. after finding me wandering down the side of the road;
Spoke kindly to me at the airport car rental desk when the last leg of my flight home was cancelled after I'd already been in the air for approximately 62 hours, give or take an hour;
Allowed me to use their calling card to wake up my mother and tell her not to bother picking me up at the airport, since I was apparently stuck in Munich for the foreseeable future;
Invited me to eat Thanksgiving dinner with them;
Given me flat water to drink, rather than the horrible fizzy kind;
Come to my house and made me dinner when my dad died;
Tried to teach me to ride a bike;
Let me hang out with them, even though I was the most uncool person in the room.

Sunday Breakfast

I once shamed a man into moving out of town.

I probably shouldn't take all the credit for the move. But I like to.

When I went to school out east, I lived in a very small town. Very small doesn't really even cover it. We had to drive a half hour to another state to get to a grocery store. Or a car wash. Or a McDonald's. No wonder I lost all that weight.

Within the very small town was our very small school. Less than 500 people, all told. Some of them were married, but not very many of them. Mostly single people, in their mid to late 20's. Which led, of course, to a certain...familiarity.

We once made a chart, my friends and I. We connected everyone we knew who had...connected. It looked like those maps of internet hits. Lines everywhere, connecting the most unlikely people. The rich bitch and the pot head. The quiet girl and the guy in the band. The president of the student organization and the resident protestor against whatever cause struck his fancy. The guy and...the other guy.

No one actually "dated," whatever that means these days. I think, in three years out there, I went on one actual date with a guy I went to school with. I dated a lot of guys who weren't in school with me...that was the only way I could actually go on a date. Otherwise, you were stuck with clandestine hook-ups that you absolutely positively never admitted to during the light of day, or without having had imbibed at least a bottle of white zinfindel, the wine of choice at that time in my sad, misguided life. The only surefire way to tell if two people were together was if you saw them at breakfast together on Saturday or Sunday morning at the local pancake shack. Breakfast together was tatamount to publishing the banns.

So this guy moves to town. He's a friend of a guy in my class. He'd visited before and hooked up with a friend of mine during his brief visit. I was dating someone during that time, so I didn't pay him much attention when we met, other than ascertaining that we were both from Ohio. The second time...well, that was different.

Great eyes. Good hands. Nice body. He worked road crew somewhere, if I remember correctly. Reasonably bright. Really funny. And not someone who I'd spent every waking minute of the past two years of my life with, like every other guy in town. No baggage that lived within ten miles and no history he didn't choose to share.

We spent some quality time together. I remember hanging out with him at a Christmas party when the lights blew out because we'd overloaded the circuits. That was the year we left pints of Ben & Jerry's in the snow outside for after the Christmas potluck dinner. I had on a new dress that I don't think I ever fit into again. But we had fun.

Come to find out, I wasn't the only girl he was making time with. In fact, he was spending quality time with at least two other women who I knew fairly well. This all came out at a Super Bowl party his friend threw at their house--a party to which all three women, including myself, had been invited.

Two words: Awk. Ward.

It was rather like a Keystone Cops movie, or an old Scooby-Doo cartoon. He'd run outside to talk to one girl. Another girl would follow him. He'd come back in through another door to talk to whoever was left inside. The first girl would come back in. He'd go back outside. Eventually, he ended up inside and the three of us were outside, figuring out the entire sordid story.

At the time, I ran the student newspaper. Solicited stories. Ran the desktop publishing. Took everything to the next big town to get the thing printed. This all gave me a certain latitude. Like running anything I felt like writing.

I wrote a column about dating in town. How underground it was. How easy it was to pull the wool over people's eyes due to our inability to admit in public that we were seeing someone. How I had just gotten snookered. And it got published. And everyone read it.

He left town a few days later.

I don't know if he left because of the article or if there was other stuff going on. I just know that he left and I never saw him again and I always felt bad about the whole situation.

I didn't really mean to shame him. I was really trying to shame myself. Teach myself a lesson about seeing someone who wouldn't have the common courtesy to actually take me out in public and admit there might be something going on between the two of us. I'm worth breakfast, dammit. I just had to let myself know that, as well as him.