Employment

When you kick a dog, over and over, during the course of years? Don't be surprised when it doesn't jump up and lather you with puppy kisses when you decide, on rare occasions, to treat it with some kind of respect.

Ettiquette

So my friends sucked me onto Facebook.

It was only supposed to be for my college friends. We are planning to get together this summer in Chicago. This is because the last time we were in Bloomington, two of the crowd managed to get arrested. We now have to move to new turf.

So we started a Facebook group to talk about getting together at some point. But then people started finding me.

People from high school. People from work. People I worked with overseas.

These were people I liked, for the most part. I have no problem with them seeing what I am up to on any given day.

But then I started getting weird ones. From the kid in elementary school who picked his nose on the bus. From the parent of a client. From the suspected murderer next door.

Okay, that's not true. I mean, he is a suspected murderer, but he hasn't tried to "friend" me. Yet.

I have a running discussion with a friend: when is it okay to "ignore" a friend request. When your ex sister-in-law friends you? When your ex friends you? When someone from high school you spent one unfortunate evening with friends you? When your boss friends you?

And if you do "friend" them, then when is it okay to remove them? I mean, do you want your ex husband to know you are dating someone new? And do you want him to know who it is? If you are living in England, probably not so much, since husbands there tend to kill women who change their relationship status on their accounts.

Who knew the internet age would usher in so many questions of ettiquette. Where is Emily Post's internet edition when you need it?

History

I watched the inauguration at a local watering hole. We went to a sports bar, my friend and I, knowing that they would have many televisions and they couldn't have Sportscenter on all of them. Not that there is anything wrong with SC. Nothing like SC on a cold winter morning to make you realize that March Madness isn't that far away. That just wasn't my purpose that day.

We sat pretty close to the televisions. It is a buffet type place and we got up once while Feinstein was going on and on and on. The room in the place started to fill up. I couldn't tell if these were people who just happened to come on that day, looking for huge portions of pizza and pasta or if they knew there would be televisions tuned to CNN showing the crowds in Washington.

Most people didn't talk. Some did. The girl behind me? Would. Not. Shut. Up. She was in her 20s and clearly an imbicile in the most Three Stooges fashion. She kept up a running commentary on just about everything going on in her life, none of it applicable to the moment at hand.

There was another table of two older men. They sat and chatted like nothing was going on, like we were all sitting around watching soap operas and they had better things to do. From their grey suits and wingtips, I could tell who they voted for.

Then the good stuff got going and I forgot about going up for a second plateful of carbs. The words were hard to hear, since the sound system in the place is geared more toward catching the roar of the crowd, rather than the nuances of great oratory. But I could see the crowd. And I could read lips, when the cameras stayed focused on our new president. And I know the scope, both of the National Mall and of history.

I got teary, I won't deny it. Then I saw George H.W. Bush and his sartorial choices and I got over being weepy.

At the end, we waited for our check, with most of the people in the place leaving. When the room emptied out a bit, I noticed an African-American couple sitting up by the wall. They'd clearly been there for the event and were just finishing their own lunch.

And they had a half bottle of champagne on their table.

A great many things made me smile that day. But that moment was the best.

The Cold

I'm not usually bothered overmuch by weather. I've lived in cold places. I've lived in hot places. You look out the window, you decide what you're going to wear. You make sure your hair is dry before you leave the house or you risk showing up somewhere with frozen hair. You wear layers so you can add and subtract during the day, depending on air conditioning levels at the office and whether the secretary nearest the thermostat is having hot flashes.

It has been pretty cold here over the past few weeks. If you live here, I don't have to say it. If you don't, it is cold. Highs in the teens. Lows? Lower than that. Not that it matters all that much, as long as you have gloves and a scarf, since no one spends more than a minute outside, between their car and their door, unless they have to scrape ice off their windshield.

This morning I walked outside and was struck dumb for a second at the depth of the cold. When I took a breath, it slipped inside my lungs like liquid coolant. I literally couldn't move for a second, it was so cold.

When I got in my car, the temperature measured 12 degrees. By the time I got to work, it was 4 degrees.

In the grand scheme of things, it isn't the coldest I've been. That record is held by a day I spent driving home from DC to Michigan in December while on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when I ran out of wiper fluid and had to buy more at a rest stop. I stood in the cold, no gloves, pouring wiper fluid into my car, spilling it on my hands, while snow fell on me in hard, wet clumps.

Nor was it as bad as those really crisp, white, sparkling mornings in Vermont when you could step outside onto the porch and breath in through your nose, only to have the hairs in your nostrils harden up and freeze.

But I was warm in my bed this morning. Warm and happy and not thinking about much of anything until I went outside and the cold air hit me and I came to the realization that, yes, it is Monday and there is no escape from it.

Unexpected

I had one of those days the other day. One of those days where you plan to meet someone for a drink or two, then maybe go to the store, cook a healthy dinner, read a book and go to bed. Maybe do some laundry. And vacuum. Do your nails or something. A health day.

But then...it becomes one of those days. A drink or two turns into going to another bar. And another bar. And then just one more. And why don't you come over for dinner? And you buy a bottle of wine. And a cheesecake.

And there's a guy at one of the bars who is cleaning his teeth with his finger, then touching your olives. And then there's the guy with no neck. And the girl who looks kind of like Wil Wheaton. And the group of freaks, including the girl with a wig who is wearing a shirt as a dress. And the family who looks like they just arrived from BFE.

And you have pickles for breakfast. With onion rings to follow.

Those days? Those are days you cannot plan. They come along rarely.

Savor them when they occur.

Rockin' In

Every NewYear's Eve, for the past seven years or so, I have hung out with my friend, Linda. There was the year we threw things off her 20-something floor balcony and drunk people kept showing up at her place. There was the year it snowed, I cried, someone else left, my boyfriend drank and Linda hid in her room. There was the year my neighbor may have killed someone and we watched movies in the dark. There was the year we were on the phone. The year I got stuck in the driveway and we had, like, ten pounds of shrimp. And the year I slept in my car.

This year was fairly tame. The sparkling winery down the road from her house was closed for New Year's Eve so we didn't get quite as sloshed quite as quickly as we have before. There were just three of us this year, so we didn't need quite as much beer as we have in the past. We had more than enough food and drink and conversation, so the hours passed quickly. Lasagne can do that...make time pass. We looked out onto the lake quite a bit, wondering at the fact that it might get warm again, sometime. We spent a long time answering questions about our lives: What question might we ask God if we had the chance? Where would you most like to live if not the in U.S.? Which is more important, science or art?

Then the television coverage began and the evening quickly degenerated from thoughtful and insightful conversation to name calling and general snarkery. All on my part, of course.

Because, honestly, Taylor Swift is a pretty, pretty girl. And I appreciate the fact that she had to appear on a television show with her possibly gay ex-boyfriend, brother #1 from whoever the hell the band is with all the brothers that isn't Hanson or a television show about WWII. But put on some goddamn clothing! And if you were warmer, you might sing better. Because you sounded bad. And you made me be nice to Katy Perry, which is something I absolutely hate to do, Taylor! I hate it. Because I don't like her or her music or her "maybe I fooled around with a girl but probably not because my preacher-father would kill me and this is all a publicity stunt anyway" attitude. And her clothes suck. But she can sing, Taylor. She sang much better than you! And that made me sad.

What else made me sad? My God, could Carson Daly hate life any more? He stood there like a freakin' block of wood, announcing crap performer after crap perfomer and showed absolutely no expression on his face. Like he's about to be marched onto the trains to the camps. Seriously. And, although everyone else wearing turtlenecks and scarves gets that kind of fat-faced look? Carson still looks like a cadaver.

And Kelly Pickler needs to learn to use consonants. I mean, I grew up in the South and all, but come on. And who wears jewelry over their gloves? And she kept using "right" as some kind of verbal crutch. Like she wanted to be Canadian and say "eh" all the time but couldn't remember what she was supposed to say.

The banter portion of the evening between the afore-mentioned Ryan Seacrest and Mr. Clark of the Rocking Eve can also be eliminated tout-sweet, as they used to say. I appreciate that Dick is still alive and kicking and some people see him as a beacon of hope and accomplishment. But I cannot watch him without being mean and I don't want to be mean to Dick Clark. And were his tuxedo lapels...padded? What was up with that?

And no more pre-taped crap from LA, where they look smart enough to be indoors but we all know they don't have the sense God gave a turkey. And turkeys frequently drown when caught in rainstorms. So there you go.

Also? Shut up, Fergie. Your dress is cute but your diction is poor.

So now I'm looking out over frozen lake on New Year's Day in 2009, wondering if it will ever be warm again and wondering when the powers that be will figure out that live television is awesome and ridiculous and they should either outlaw it or show it all the time. And on this snowy, cold, barren New Year's morning, I'm resolving to be more like the fabulous Mr. Seacrest: if you keep talking and jumping around, maybe no one will notice how dumb you really sound! Smoke and mirrors, baby!