VH1

Have you watched the new and fairly hideous reality show on VH1? Sunset Tan? It encapsulates every horrible job you ever had, every idiot manager that ever bossed you around, every stupid management meeting you ever had to sit through, every moronic co-worker you ever had to cover for because they were clearly too dumb to live, much less close the business at the end of the night. The fact that they've plopped all these folks down in the middle of LA doesn't change the fact that this could be any job, anywhere.

Except, of course, that the managers are running around a pool, naked, in front of their employees.

Dude, I would so be that girl from Oklahoma. I'm wondering if they're concentrating on her because they know that she'll appeal to the flyover crowd, who pretty much agrees with her assessment of her employers acting like asshats, or because they think she's a ridiculous prude.

All I Want For Christmas

My birthday is coming up soon. I've decided that all I really want is every single volume of R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet" masterpiece for my MP3 player so I can listen to him talk about midgets every single day of my life.

* * *

Long holiday weekend. Managed to get the five-finger discount on both a keychain and a mug. Always good to keep those skills handy. I then had to pull the mug out of my sweater at the grocery store, as the checkout girl clearly thought I had a steak tucked up there. I felt like the kid in "Animal House."

What Dreams Fell Flat

I had a friend who tried to commit suicide. We had one of those friendships where we wouldn't see each other or talk to each other for a year or so, then we'd run into each other some Saturday afternoon at a deck party or while he was bartending and we'd start hanging out again. Going to the library. Going to dinner. Getting his phone calls at 2 a.m. when he was really drunk and needing a ride somewhere. Golfing. I think of him every time I go over a wooden bridge in a golf cart and mutter, "Who's that trap, trap, trapping on my bridge?"

We'd drifted apart again for a while when I got a phone call from him. He'd recently gotten out of the hospital. He'd tried to cut his wrists. He wanted to hang out and do normal stuff, vainly struggling to stay away from the bar scene that he loved to troll so well.

"Wanna go to a movie?" he asked.

"Sure. Name the place."

I picked him up. I never knew him to actually own a car. He must have, at some point, since he eventually fled the state while on probation for drunk driving. But during this period of time, he was pedestrian all the way.

He told me the name of the movie. I'd seen commercials but didn't really know what it was about. Robin Williams is okay but not someone I'm dying to see in every movie that comes out. I mean, "Patch Adams"? I don't think so.

We get to the theatre. We're not talking too much. What does one say to someone who just tried to cut their wrists open? Does one criticize the attempted suicide's methodology? Since everyone knows that, to do it right, one must cut vertically, not horizontally. Does one ask the motivation of the potential suicide? Or does one simply discuss politics, religion and one's take-home wages--all more comfortable subjects of conversation?

We might have caught dinner first. Then we went in. Grabbed a seat. The lights went down. The curtain came up.

"What Dreams May Come" starts.

Had I known that the movie was all about the hell someone is sent to after committing suicide, I like to think that I would have discouraged him from going. I don't know that I would have been successful, but I would have tried. Unfortunately, I hadn't watched E! enough to even know what the hell the movie was about.

About two-thirds of the way through the movie, I turned to him. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

"I just want you to know, " I whispered, "that you're the one that picked this stupid movie."

He winced. "I know. I'm sorry."

"You should be. Not only is it in poor taste, considering. More importantly, it sucks."

Magic

Being in love is magical. Sometimes I don't know that I'll get there again. Other times, I feel like it is waiting right around the corner, just out in the lobby of my building, standing on the street outside of the restaurant I'm sitting in.

There are things I love about being in love. The feeling you get when you look in someone's eyes and see the whole world there. The realization that your hands fit together just so. Learning every square centimeter of someone's body, from the freckles behind their ears to the fact that their feet are always cold. Realizing that you're thinking the same things at the same time just by looking at each other. Knowing that, the moment you lay eyes on them, you start smiling like an idiot and you cannot stop. Legs touching under the table. Recognizing their scent in a room you walk into. Thinking of them first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Imagining a life together: sunny Sunday mornings together in bed, long vacations at the beach, showing each other our favorite places.

Then there are things that scare me. The thought that it might not happen. The thought that it might not work. The thought that the last time will be the very last time. The idea that you might love them more than they love you and that, soon, you'll find that out in the most painful way possible. Wondering if what you have is enough. Wondering if you can give them everything they deserve. Knowing that they are a better person than you are and that they'll come to that discovery sooner than later.

Still, the good outweighs the bad. To quote that favorite chick flick, "I'd rather have 30 minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special." I hope I get to the good part soon.

Saturday in a Small Town

When I was young, between third and eighth grade, my family lived in Atlanta, Georgia. My dad worked for a paint company with a production plant outside the city, in a little town called Morrow. There wasn't much in Morrow, as I remember. Dad told me that the stage front for Tara was put up there for filming during the making of "Gone With the Wind". I remember thinking that the false front was still there somewhere, falling apart on some windswept hillside, just waiting for me to find it. I imagined holding tea parties on the front porch, recapturing the lost glory of the South.

I had a rather overactive imagination as a child.

Now that I'm looking at the map, Morrow isn't so far outside of Atlanta and is just off I-75 south of town. It probably really was in the path of Sherman's march, but north of Jonesboro. More like around Hood's lines.

God, I'm a dork.

I remember going there a few times--to my dad's plant. He didn't go in on the weekends very often. Sometimes he'd take me. This was always a big event. We'd stop and get breakfast. We'd drive to the plant. I'd get to walk around in the facility, look into the big paint vats, smell the chemicals, peer through the glass into the labs. One time, we took home plates to take samples and grow them--sugar water and blood. I remember taking samples near the cat's litter box. Whoo, Mom did not like the look of what grew on that plate.

Occasionally, Dad would take the long way, down semi-rural roads and by-ways. I imagine those pastoral towns are long gone, swallowed up into suburban Atlanta sprawl by now. It is a different city now than it was then. Anyway, we drove through small town after small town, little crossroads in the middle of nowhere with a post office on one corner and a general store on the other. Good places to grow up. Places people were proud to call home.

It was summer, or late spring. We had the windows open and the leaves were on the trees. I was really young, probably third grade. I recall sitting in the front seat of Dad's old car, the one we called "the Scab" because the leather top was peeling in the Georgia sun. We slowed, approaching one of those crossroads with a gathering of buildings, indicating a town. There was a fair amount of traffic, for a Saturday. And there was a traffic light for the two-lane highway. We stopped.

Someone came up to the car window. They were collecting money. You'll see them on summer weekend mornings, collecting for the Lions or the Jaycees or some other charitable organization. I wasn't particularly shocked or scared to have been approached. This was something that happened in small towns. Support your local fire department or put a new roof on the church.

But this man? Didn't have a bib on indicating what charity he belonged to. He didn't have a fez. He might have had a sign on the bucket he held, but I don't think I saw it. If I did, I can't recall.

He was wearing a white robe. And a white pointy hat. His face wasn't covered. He wasn't looking at me through eyeholes. He wasn't trying to hide himself. He was proud of what he was doing. I didn't know, until years later, exactly what he was and what he stood for. All I knew was that he scared me. And he made my father angry.

I have no idea what my father said to him. I know he didn't give him money. I think he rolled up the window. And we were quiet the rest of the way to his office.

I think of that intersection from time to time. Whenever I'm stopped in a small town to donate money to a worthy cause. I wonder if Klan members still beg for change in that town in order to support whatever supposed good works they claim to do. I wonder if we live in a world where such things are still possible. I think the answer to that question, unfortunately, is yes.

Harlequin Romance

I went to visit my grandparents in Cleveland a number of years ago when my grandfather was still alive. When would this have been? During college? Or grad school? Somewhere during that period of time. They still lived in their ranch house on Parkwood with the glassblock windows and shower door with a frosted swan imprinted on it. The basement was a shrine to Woody Hayes and the bar had every kind of booze you could possibly want.

While I don't remember when or why I was there, I do remember sitting and talking to my grandmother during that visit. That might have been the time that she talked about her first husband, my mom's natural father. And it might have been the time when she told me about going to Cuba before Castro. And it might have been the time when she told me about my great-grandmother making fun of my mother's training bra in front of a roomful of old women while my mom was coming down the stairs. I know I've heard all those stories. But I can't remember if I heard them during that trip.

Why? Because I only really remember one thing about that trip. The question about the book.

We were sitting in her breakfast nook, the place we only ate breakfast and, occasionally, lunch. Where she used the Currier & Ives dishware. Where she used to stand, washing the dishes and exchanging verbal barbs with my grandfather, all 5'2" of her going at it with the man who once made me cry because I ordered steak instead of prime rib and was, therefore, a spoiled brat. Good times.

There was a shelf behind the bench surrounding the table on two sides. On the shelf was a book.

"So I've been reading this book from the library," she starts, reaching behind her and grabbing a trade paperback that looked reasonably well-thumbed.

"Is it any good?"

"Well, yes. But I'm a little confused. I wanted to ask you about it."

"About what?"

She puts on her bifocal glasses and begins thumbing through the book.

"There's this sex scene in the book."

Thank God she's looking at the book and not at me.

"Mmmmm hmmmm."

"And they talk about the woman ejaculating..."

I start to slowly slip down on the bench, hoping I can slide under the table and escape as I used to do as a five-year-old. Unfortunately, my body no longer works that way.

"And I was wondering if you knew anything about that. I mean, actually ejaculating like a man does. Outside of the body. Can women really do that?"

What, pray tell, is the correct answer to that question? Yes, Grandma, I know all about female ejaculate. Let me tell you ALL ABOUT IT!!! BECAUSE I HAVE SEX ALL THE TIME. I've been having sex for years and years and years. I've lost count, frankly. AND I EJACULATE ALL THE TIME. Tell you what, let's call Mom on speakerphone and continue this conversation. At length. Because there's nothing more fun than discussing sex with one's mother and grandmother. I only wish Mom were here to experience this with me.

"Ummm, well, I think I might have read about that somewhere."

Weird

I dreamed last night that my ex-boyfriend was a Nazi. And that he had red bracelets like those Livestrong bracelets, but with swastikas on them. But I didn't find this out until he'd already ratted out my cell of good guys, who were formulating methods of escape in the crawlspace of the house in which we were imprisoned.

I think I watch war movies too frequently.

Ten Things I Hate About You

As I was driving back from picking up lunch today, I was stuck waiting for a left turn. A man with a Christian school's bumper sticker who had stopped in front of me opened his car door, leaned out, and spit. He was probably about 60-65. I almost got out of the car and started yelling at him. So, in honor of that little slice of life, a list of things I hate:

People spitting on the ground. They make handkerchiefs and kleenex for a reason, folks.

Expensive razor blades. They know you won't buy a razor that has blades that cost $9.00 for three, so they send you the razor free. Bastards.

Listening to my secretary take personal calls when I'm waiting for her to finish something for me.

White cat hair.

Fighting over the air conditioning in my office.

Wasps.

Men, or boys, who wear baseball hats while eating. Breakfast, okay. Bar food, okay. Date? Absolutely not.

Chipped nail polish.

The way my nose gets chapped in the spring because not every stocks Puffs with lotion. Now I'm stuck smearing lotion on my nose, thereby experiencing breakouts and dry skin simultaneously.

People who don't return my calls after I've called twice. Once? Forgiveable. Twice, not so much.

Nancy Grace. Enough said.

People who cannot drive with the flow of traffic.

Parking tickets.

Local cable access channels. You are using up the space I could be watching SciFi on.

People who call at five minutes to 5:00 p.m.

Having to work for a living.

Political advertising.

Divots.

Big Fun

My cat recently attempted suicide.

I don't think it is because she doesn't like me. Or that I don't feed her. Or that she doesn't get enough attention. Or because I don't let her lick cheese spread directly off a spoon. Although I do need to clean the litter box...

I frequently hang articles of clothing from furniture. Sweaters on chairs. Coats on doors. Panties on lampshades. You know, the usual.

Instead of throwing a bra in a drawer, I'll frequently hang it from my bedroom doorknob. This does make it interesting if anyone comes over. Kinda like Russian Roulette. Are my lacy, pretty underthings hanging off the doorknob? Or is it the ugly industrial Bali? Which would I rather my mother see if she's coming over to drop off some lasagna?

The other night, I was dozing off. The cat was not in bed with me, which isn't terribly unusual. She usually waits until I'm almost asleep to leap onto the bed and curl up in the exact middle of the mattress, forcing me to roll over around her. Which does teach me to do gymnastics in bed. But not in a good way.

Through my doze, I can hear thumping. Since I live alone, next to the suspected murderer, I'm alert to any noises out of the ordinary.

"Who's there!" I whisper. "Anyone? Bueller?"

The thumping continues.

I roll over and turn on the light.

It is the closet door. The bra on the closet door. Which my cat has managed to partially walk through, then twist around her neck. So she's slowly strangling herself with a bra strap while hanging from my closet doorknob.

She looks at me. She's ashamed, clearly. Which makes her struggle even more. Her eyes are starting to bug out of their sockets.

I get out of bed and start over to rescue her. The humiliation gives her sudden super-feline strength and she manages to tear herself out of the noose, scampering down the stairs and into the dark.

I go back to bed, remembering what they said in Heathers: Teenage suicide. Don't do it.