Two turntables and a microphone

Many years ago, a good friend of mine was in Atlanta finishing graduate school. His roommate was supplementing his meager graduate student lifestyle by DJ’ing on the weekends. As Cinco de Mayo weekend approached, the roommate found himself in a bit of DJ quandry: sit for a review of his upcoming boards or forfeit a job for several thousand dollars. Career must prevail but he couldn’t afford to lose the job.

Spying us in the living room, he dangles a carrot: Do the gig for him and collect half the money. My friend, nicknamed DJ Dr. J, already knew the drill from a few previous fill-ins. I did not but the idea seemed intriguing. The roommate, who I always found to be a bit of a tool, asks me if I “really think I can learn how to do it in one day?”

Ummm, no offense, but do you need John Digweed? The party wasn’t exactly Club MTV. And I think if someone like Tommy from Eight is Enough can do it, I am up for the challenge.

So DJ Dr. J and I go to this crazy Mexican restaurant and set up in the parking lot. Several hundred people come to this bash and it is a total blast. I mean, really, give me music and a microphone and feel free to stand back. And we got paid which was not even my motivation. I just wanted to be completely in charge of the music and dropping a little lyric or two from Prince into the middle of other songs. We met fun people, had delicious sunshine all day, and even more delicious Pacificos. I volunteered for future gigs.

Later that summer, a friend, the GM of a club, was getting ready for a private party. The full time DJ gets sick. They have no backup. They call DJ Dr. J but he is going out of town. Can I fill in that night? A quick cancel of plans, an even quicker tutorial on the hightech system and the promise that I did not have to play ANY techno, I was aglow. Sparkly tube top and he was actually paying me to play mashups of Run DMC and Salt and Pepa? This was clearly more fun than a day negotiating contractual terms.

Fast forward: several months later I am at a big fundraiser. At the bar with friends, I am chatting with someone at the bar when I notice the man standing behind him in line. We make the double-take recognition of “I know you but I don’t know how I know you.” We start with the “Are you, do you know, did you work at…” and suddenly he says, “Oh, I met you last May. You were the DJ at that Mexican restaurant.”

Hmmm. This is interesting.

The man I was chatting with gives me an odd look, “I thought you said you were an attorney?”
“I am.”
“I don’t know many attorneys working as DJs in Mexican restaurants.”
“HA. I didn’t work there. I just worked in the parking lot. And I am not a DJ, I just play one on TV.”


Alas, DJ Dr. J graduated and moved to FL as did his roommate so my days of two turntables and a microphone. But given the chance, I am sure that just like Ralph Malph, I still got it.

Come on baby, light my fire.

There was a time in my life where I attempted to smoke. And the occasions in which these attempts arose were primarily liquor- laced. I was not an actual smoker but let's face it, alcohol has been helping us make poor decisions for centuries. 


And then I tried something new. A spicy, sweet, tasty treat. The clove cigarette.  My best girlfriends in college, Muppet, KitKat, KariO and Smack and I would go in our rooms and put towels beneath the door (as if that flimsy cotton would stop that super strong stench from seeping out in the hall. Why not smoke the ganja? Or cat shat. Those two things smell just as mysterious and secretive.) But oh how we loved to feel like superstars, after all, to us the clove cigarette was the smoking choice of the classy lassy.  The good thing about clove cigarettes is you really could not smoke many of them. Three in a row and your mouth, throat and lungs would bleed. 

Ironically, I detested the smell and taste of regular cigarettes but the potpourri cigarette? Slide me a that sorority cup full of Keystone and apparently, I am Puff the Magic Dragon. 

But this bad habit stuck with me off and on post-undergrad, post-grad school AND my move to Atlanta.  One night my girlfriend and I are out at a fab restaurant / bar (this was years ago and before the sweeping smoking ban across America). As we were all dolled up and smoking our clove cigarettes, one of the surly bartenders actually yells: WHO THE F___ IS SMOKING THAT _____ CLOVE ______ CIGARETTE?  Well, several eyes turn towards us. Our feeble smiles are met with  GET THE ________ OUT OF THIS  BAR!  Ouch. Apparently, we did not need to offer him one. 

And yes, when he said Get the F out he really and truly meant it. Excuse me, according to the quality show Cops, you only get thrown out of bars if you 1. start a fight 2. wear cut off jean shorts 3. remove your shirt 4. Say things like "F the Po-Po" 5. are a man because women who do nothing OR do ALL of those things simultaneously get asked to stand up on TOP of the bar and dance.


Fast forward to the next year and at yet another sultry lounge with guys and dolls, I am all glammed up (in my opinion) and feeling sassy. I light up my fancy Turkish imported clove cigarette and smoke it up like an episode of Mad Men. A fabulous girl in a smashing dress turns toward me and asks, "Oh, is that a clove cigarette?"

I answer, "oui" with a smile.  She says, "I used to love those! I smoked them in 8th grade!"


The thing is, she wasn't being mean. But here was my sickly sweet smoky parade and her "8th grade" comment was the rain all upon it.  Did it deter me? Not quite yet. 

Later that year, I noticed that I was getting headaches, wretched and frequent. A friend said one night after I inhaled some Advil that perhaps the disgusting clove cigarette, albeit occasional, was the culprit.  Why yes, I believe you are right.  And I never touched another one. 


Now the simple smell of cigarette smoke ails me. And the smokers are banned from virtually every restaurant and bar in the U.S. The rule doesn't make it any easier for true smokers but it certainly makes me appreciate I am over my clove cigarette phase.

Boo Boo Kitty

Sitting in a meeting, we had a discussion with a client. Client wanted us to share information with a third party which we can not do. Client complained. Client said in his previous line of work, he decided who had information or not. Client complained some more.

Years ago, and long before our current state of economic crisis for many people, I worked for a Fortune 15 Company. F15Co bought other companies like my Mom used to buy doughnuts for us at the bakery: O' Plenty.

These companies and employees would be absorbed, sometimes quickly, into our labyrinth. This absorption can be challenging, understood. Most people, happy to still be employed, make the transition smoothly. Some do not.

What I grew very quickly to enjoy very little is this:

Why do we have to do that? To which an explanation was given. And then, sometimes much too often, I would get this: When we worked at Company X (the purchased company) we didn't have to do that.

Listen, I get it. I really do. I think the F15Co I worked at tried very hard to make the transition easy for people. And I came to F15Co from a previous corporation bought in a hostile takeover the ugliness of which was covered in every major news and business chronicle. Because of this I personally attest to how difficult it is to work at a company and be bought and absorbed into another company where corporate missions, cultures, and protocols do not necessarily (or easily) mesh. And I get that sometimes the transition is rough. I worked at F15Co and moved offices three times in one year. Put up a fight about it? NO. It's an office. That I don't own. In a building. I don't own. In a corporation. I also don't own. Its not my living room. I don't care if I move offices ten times.

But, there is a small group of people convinced that "because I didn't have to before" is simple and feasible reply . Guess what? Is is not.  

And this is for whom I coined the phrase Boo Boo Kitty. And it is said sometimes while I pretend to whisk tears off my cheeks.

This is what I dealt with in the legal department:

Angry employee: Is that what we have to do now? At our "new company?" Well, I am NOT going to do that and "new company" can kiss my arse.

The first several times, I was empathetic. Again, many people do not like change or handle it well. But at what point do you simply need to adapt? Can you run around asking "who moved my cheese?" for the next 12 months? NO.

So after dozens of conversations like this I once provided a different response.

Me: Let me explain something about commerce to you. An analogy if you will. "Your company" is like the girl standing on the corner of 14th and Crescent at 2:30 am. "New company" is the man in the long black sedan who pulls up with a curious and healthy interest in your services. Guess who decides what is going to happen? The man with the cash.

Bottom line: the person who signs the check is the one who decides how things will be done. If you don't like it, and new company isn't for you, move along.

And after about the 100th time I heard We did not have to do this before I decided I no longer liked that response. So to the 101st person who said it to me, she got this response:

Listen, I get it. I know you didn't have to do this before (maybe Company X SHOULD HAVE done this and you would still have a Company X to drive to everyday). However, I did not have to pay my own bills or cook my own meals at one point in my life either. When I lived at my parents house. But that is not the day I am living in any more. So I need you to get on board.

I know you hate all the new policies. Do you like having a job though?

Awwwwwwwwww, Boo Boo Kitty.

So, sometimes Boo Boo Kitty is a handy expression. And I will admit, I have used it multiple times since there in a variety of ways, for a variety of people. Admittedly, I have even used it in self-reference when I might have allegedly been salty about something, with my lip out like a 2 year old, acting like, well, a perfect Boo Boo Kitty.

I thought you said just a splash….

Several months ago I got a flat tire during the busiest time of day, at the busiest intersection in Atlanta. I needed tire TLC so I made an appointment to take the car to the dealership. The last time I was at the dealership, it was to drop off the loaner car which had been semi-coated in Monster.

Upon arriving at the dealership, a comedy of errors ensued. The dealership indicates it will take 90 minutes to fix so the car service took me home. Forgot my house key at the dealership? No problem. Keypad entry to the house always works. My service tech indicated I would be phoned around 11 to be picked up and returned to the dealership. Perfect. 

Hours pass and no call. As I am home with NO vehicle which thwarts my many plans, I call at 3 pm. They are almost finished but they have no drivers to pick me up. Hmmm. They put me on hold.  Back on the line, they tell me a service tech will come and get me but he is new and young so I should be prepared.

Me: Young like he is spunky with a vigor for life or young like he has just gotten his driver’s license?

Him: Hahahahahaha. Young just out of college but he has never driven in Atlanta.

Me: Hmmmmm. Ok. (Not remotely confident in his ability to transport me safely.)

The young man calls me to get directions. He could not be more nervous. He arrives and I enter the car.  He is still so nervous, he is literally driving about 20 mph below the speed limit.

We take 30 minutes to do a 10 minute drive. All fine. Despite the horn honks and a few New York City style finger waves, he could not be any nicer. Valet leaves to pull my car around so I wait outside. It is 22 degrees which makes 5 minutes feel like 50. I finally go inside because I am turning blue. Then I am told they can not find the car.

What?

I see a car that looks like ours and say “Is that it?” To which the young man who looks JUST like McLovin says, “No, your car is white.”

Me: Mmmm. My car is silver. Just like that car.
Him: Oh!

He goes outside again. No luck.

Upon his return, McLovin says he can’t find it. This has never happened I assure you. I tell him to hit the key fob because the car will beep. The admin says that only works within a certain distance. How about 15 feet since I am pretty sure that is my car visible from the front waiting area. 20 more minutes pass and finally my Service Manager comes and asks me WTF I am still doing there. I tell him. He calls McLovin, gets my key fob, walks right outside to the car I already think is mine, hits the sound and sure enough. BEEP BEEP and he hands me my keys. Thanks Jim Rockford.

I go on my way after a completely hijacked day, and a VERY long period of time waiting at the dealership during which I had to reroute my Hub to fetch our child. 

As I drive away, I swear I hear a karmic whisper from the underbelly of the dealership: Ahhh...we remember you...we thought you said it was just a "splash". 

The simplest way to kill romance

The simplest way to kill romance with your husband: 

Wait until your son is fast asleep.

Enjoy a fabulous meal and glasses of vino with husband.

Thoroughly enjoy that this meal and beverage is without your son's frequent call of " MOMMMMMMY" and "DADDDDDDDDY" which goes on, oh, about 20 times per day and sounds VERY MUCH like Whitney Houston calling "BOBBBBY, BOBBBBBBBBBBY."

Enjoy the vino a little too much and have several additional glasses.

Fail to realize that vino + waking up at 6 am + a long run that day does not equal high energy.

Let vino catch up to you but not before your husband goes to make his move.

As you promenade to your boudoir start singing "Mr. Golden Sun" a toddler song you learned from your son.

Fail to realize that "Mr. Golden Sun" while popular in your son's classroom, is NOT popular with your husband.

Fail to stop singing "Mr. Golden Sun" so your husband exits boudoir to brush his teeth, hoping, you will cease and pronto.

Fall asleep before your husband returns.
_____

I could blame it on the early morning, long run and extra vino but we have had all that before. I blame it on Mr. Golden Sun.

Word to the wise: Singing "Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me..." = NOT an aphrodisiac.

Not too hot for teacher

My last year of undergrad, I taught a freshman course. It was a Student Leadership class focused on current events as well as basic University 101 to ease transition from high school to college. I taught two semesters and had about 30 freshman in each class. Most of them were fantastic. However, you will always have at least one jackass challenge.

Early on in my first semester of teaching, one particular student loved to ask banal questions irrelevant to the discussion. This went on three times a week. Usually harmless albeit annoying. His topics ranged from Rice Krispies to why can't freshman drink legally. One day he brought up University policies and the Chancellor. I encouraged him to stay on topic but would be happy to chat after class.  He asked me what I was going to do when his Dad called me to ask the same questions.

I said, “I am going to tell your Dad that I hope he enjoyed making his initial investment to the University and perhaps he could come to campus for a game or two before you fail all your classes and don’t return for next semester."

Silence.

Then: “I am not going to fall all my classes,” he said with less veracity.
"Likely failing this one.”

He was much more congenial after that episode. But he didn’t quite get me the world's best teacher mug that year.

The second semester, all of my students were great. And the semester clicked along well. However, the week after spring break, when people are still in vacation mode and hesitant to jump back into academia too quickly, one night found me out with many friends at a great bar across the river called Johnny’s. In addition to consumption, there was loud music, dancing on chairs, and there may or may not have been a cigarette or two involved. At one point, while on top of chair wailing away to that once awesome song, Here Comes the Hotstepper, I get a tap on my leg. There is Josh, a student from my Student Leadership class. As I get down from the chair, long neck of Bud in one hand, and possibly a Marlboro Light in the other (during a very brief social smoking phase), he turns to the man next to him and says (quasi-shouts) “Dad, this is Jenny. I am in one of her classes. ”
 

Uncomfortable.
We move away from the vortex of the mayhem and the conversation continues. 

The Dad says, “My son tells me you’re one of his professors.” I think it was a question more than a statement. I am certain he is envisioning how much simpler it would be too simply take his money and throw it in the river for how impressed he can certainly NOT be with the vignette he is seeing.

Uncomfortable.
Me: No, I am not a professor actually. And certainly not a drinking, smoking, dancing on a chair professor but I do teach one of his classes. I smile. See, isn't this conversation fun!

The Dad: They allow non-faculty members to teach classes?
Me: Well, I am an honors student and it is a student leadership class.
The Dad: What year are you?
Me: I graduate this semester.
The Dad: And then what?

Uncomfortable. And wow, this feels like a significant number of questions. I notice Josh seems giddy like its a day at the beach club.

Me: And then I will be attending law school.

I am certain he is envisioning how the legal profession is no longer straight and narrow. Thankfully I am not wearing a crop top which I assure you were 1. fashionable at the time and 2. a staple in my wardrobe. I wait for the blow, except he tells me he is an attorney. And that it never hurts to blow off a little steam.

Steam! Precisely! And at the time it made me realize, as a kid or even a high school student you have no idea what your teachers are like as people. And I am sure many of them are driven to drink after spending the day with other people's children. Even the good ones.

The following week, Josh tells me how “awesome” it was that he saw me “out tearing it up”. I told him his parents must be pretty cool. He said his Mom was pretty displeased when she found out he was in a bar with a fake ID but that she was none too thrilled when he told her he was "partying" with one of his teachers there. Another shot at the title mug, ruined.

(And next class lesson included just a few words about the art of discretion for example do NOT tell your Mom you think it is "awesome" you saw your teacher "out tearing it up". Ever. Dads might like to hear their son make this statement. Moms will not.)

Love in a brown paper bag

MiniMac's school has a chef. He explained to me on the way home last night that he had cornbread and grilled chicken for lunch. I have had some great lunches in my day but certainly not cornbread and grilled chicken. Especially as a four year old. It did remind me of something though. Do remember sack lunches? The kind we used to carry to school way, way back in the day?

In high school, I was a picky eater and we often opted to exit campus. Unless, of course, it was tater tot and yummy chocolate brownie day and then I would be first in line in the cafeteria.  But before this time frame, when I believed Tater Tots and Grape Slurpees were perfect food groups, I used to take my lunch to school in that old familiar brown paper bag.  

Every day, I mandated virtually the same contents. Unsavvy to the foodie world as a little elementary school child, don’t think for a minute I was furnishing mozzarella and basil on foccacia during lunchtime. I was fully committed to the dual champions: Peanut Butter and Jam OR Peanut Butter and Honey. I would only use raspberry jam and wanted no jelly of any kind. And heaven forbid some silly parent in my house tried to fool me and use the very end piece of the bread to make my sandwich. We called this very end piece the "butt" of the bread. That had as much appeal as a tray of dog food.  And certainly remember fighting with my brother over who would NOT have to have the "butt" of the bread at dinner. I often won. But not without a punch in the arm in exchange.

As for the bread it was white bread only, don’t try to multi-grain me. Once, my Mom sent me to school with wheat bread. Poor spoiled girl, you would think my sandwich with laced with plutonium. And I liked fruit but please don’t try to put some carrot sticks in there. We are getting nowhere fast with carrot sticks. And once I stayed over at my Father’s and he sent me to school with some kind of corned beef and cabbage. That gave me all the trading power of a plate of dead bluebirds. It must have scarred me because to this day I have never eaten that sandwich. Yes, I am sure  it is good. Yes, I should move past it. But I don't seem to have it in me.

And the days my Mom's homemade chocolate chip cookies were hidden inside? The best. Followed by her PB cookies. Then snicker doodles. Then gingersnaps.

But what I remember most were the notes.

Every day my Mom would spend the time to write out a note. A little reminder. Maybe a tiny poem. A tribute to us and how much we were loved. Often, the front of the pale and nondescript bag was decorated as well.

For 9 months out of the year, if that brown bag went to school, so did that note. We knew we were loved, but the notes were just extra testimony. And when you are a kid, who believes you are 9 feet tall and indestructible, the note was a warm reminder. But on the day when you got into an argument with a friend, or your team lost kickball, or you did poorly on a spelling test, those things seem like insurmountable and devastating events in the mind of an 8 year old. And on those days, that note was a powerful reminder that everything would be fine. If not at school that day, then the minute you got home.  

Maybe the sack lunches are a thing of the past. Kids use debit cards to buy lunches from the "green" counter and have unlimited text messaging so notes might not even be necessary. Maybe I will slip MiniMac a note one day in the fine gray area of time before his parents are not his favorite people and a simple note would embarrass him. But they never embarrassed me.  To me, those tiny notes were a giant symbol. 

Of course, as long as they were not wrapped around any carrot sticks. Or tucked next to a sandwich made from the “butt” of the bread.

Jenny, Jenny, who can I turn to?

One of my close friends in undergrad, Jen, later went to medical school. During her second year of residency, she was out gallivanting one evening and met a handsome rascal. As he chatted her up, she asked him what he did for work. He told her he just started medical school. She asked him a few questions about classes, to which he gave vague answers in a smarmy voice. And then with a wink and a smile he concluded it was probably over her head. 

I am not an expert, but I might suggest that one definitive way not to get an invite home is to basically tell a very attractive girl she is too stupid to understand you are elbow deep in cadavers and learning about biochemistry, neuroscience, and clinical ethics. 

She, being ever poised, merely laughed inside. Young buck, oh so full of confidence and swell. Later that night she ran into him again and he actually asked for her number, she smiled. She then got a bar napkin upon which she wrote:

Dr. Jennifer  _________
867-5309

Not only did she handle it with class, but because she was still smart ass enough to write the phone number Tommy Tutone made famous. And clearly, who is the idiot? I don't think you need to be the rock star of Trivia Thursdays to recognize that number if you merely say it out loud. And now I can say that the definitive way not to get invited into PantyTown is to tell a super cute girl she is too stupid to understand medical school when she is already a DOCTOR. 
Brilliant.

Not your average sleepover...

Long before meeting JohnnyMac, I was a girl about town. More Charlotte York than Samantha Jones, mind you, but I fully embraced the freedom, experiences, and sometimes antics and anecdotes singlehood provided.

I would not change my life one bit, because each of these roads led me to to where I am now, which is exactly where I want to be.

But, let's be candid. While all of my experiences have intertwined in different ways to make this caravan of my life a great one, all roads are not created equal. Some roads were the autobahn, some were slick two lane highways, and a few, well, a few were bumpy dirt roads strewn with handfuls of empty beer bottles. And some roads were laden with rather funny stories. And those stories should be shared. This is one of those stories.

And my memory was prompted as my Mom and I were watching something this weekend and during an odd scene involving an odd character, she leaned over to me and whispered, "chicken lady..."

Let's get down to the grit. Oh, it is not exactly brief. Get your coffee.

Back in grad school, and out on the town one night, I met a guy and we began to fraternize fairly frequently. He was already a decade out of college and working downtown. One evening, after watching one of his baseball games, I make the mistake of not going home to read Criminal Procedure, and instead I join him and his team for consumption of cocktails.

We were far from the sleeping over stage but after many o' beverage, I was in no way going to drive home. He asks me to sleep over, you know, really for my safety than to try to mack on me. Mmm hmm. I ride with him, and his friend follows in my car. Such gentlemen. My car safely parked, we bid his friend adieu.

We enter this absolutely stunning house. Even in the pitch black I can tell it is massive. We go upstairs and in the midst of playing all kinds of 7th grade style grab-ass, I hear the following in a weird and whispery tone:

Darren....... would you like some chicken?

It is PITCH BLACK and I literally jump out of my skin. What is that? He flips on a light and look there, a woman is sitting on a kitchen chair. He says, "Hi Mom."

My mind is lightening quick with questions. Things like, why is your Mom at your house, in the middle of the night, sitting in the dark, offering savory snacks like its all perfectly normal.

I could not adequately voice the severity of my discomfort.  He declines the chicken. And she immediately asks Who is your friend? Not quite Joan Crawford-ish but not June Cleaver, either. Giving him a severe pummeling seemed like a fantastic idea at the moment. He grabs my hand, two bottles of water and leads us away from the situation. His first statement is something only Matlock could have deduced: He lives with his parents. He was 32. Really? I figured it out. Sign me up for 21 Jump Street.

Now we are downstairs in his man-den. A man-den which includes the entire basement of his parents house, also known as his living quarters. Fooseball. Pool table. Donkey Kong. Living at home had its perks for this cat. He tries to explain his situation and yet nothing comforts me from the previous scenario involving a creepy person lurking in the dark with a plate of barbeque fowl. So I smile brightly, like, OF COURSE! This is FANTASTIC!!

And then I see behind his pool table what appears to be a collection of Playboys. And by "collection" I mean WOW, there are hundreds and hundreds of Playboys. Playboys from back in the day when Hef wanted to name it Stag Party. He immediately told me they belonged to a friend. A friend with a big affinity for the visuals, I see. The mags were not a deterrent because any naughty intent on his part was washed out with cold water when his Mom appeared.

He then asks if I want to watch a movie. I am still buzzed, can not count the minutes fast enough until I escape, but I need more time before I can drive. So he then tells me we can watch his favorite movie. What might be his favorite movie? Godfather? No. Tommy Boy? Not quite. Good Will Hunting? Oh no. This:

Are you KIDDING ME!?!?!?! I don't even have that movie. Wait, what is that sound? Oh..that? It is your stock falling.

I fall asleep in a big chair before he wakes me up and asks if I want to sleep in his bed to be more comfortable. Sure.

It is a water bed. Because the hits just KEEP ON COMING. Water bed? 1997? Those two words and that date do NOT go hand in hand.

I decide to sleep all bundled up. As he attempts to kiss my forehead goodnight, his shoulder hits the nightstand sending a 32 ounce cup of water onto me and the pillow and sheets.

He says we can change the sheets.

Except he has no more clean sheets.

Because while having your own Donkey Kong machine MIGHT seem like the best value-add of living at home, I would rank it BEHIND another bonus called clean laundry.

But no. He chose Donkey Kong. And the late night chicken platter option. I ask if I can sleep on the couch in his man- den. He only says, "I wouldn't". OH, yum. Free DNA samples.

No buzz in the world could last thing long but now I am exhausted. I hoped that sleep would bring me a better perspective.

I wake up a few hours later. Blanketed up, rather burrito style on the Partridge Family-esque water bed. Gray light creeping through the windows. And daylight has the skill of making this place look even worse. Dim lighting is a sloppy bachelor's friend. Daylight is not.

But perhaps what is most startling is the fact there was a face about 4 inches from my face. And it wasn't his.

His Mother had come down to check on me. And to ask me if I wanted breakfast. And if I slept alright because she noticed the sheets bundled up on the floor. And was there something wrong with those sheets to cause them to be on the floor? And to imply she hoped I was dressed under my burrito blanket. I am sure the next question was going to be whether I preferred my carcass being dumped in the river or in the woods but I had no time for that.

She left and I was gathering my wits and my belongings, he woke up. I told him in a wee bit of a hiss/terse fashion You're mother was just down here asking me a dozen questions.

His answer?

I know. I pretended to be asleep.

WTF!?!?!?!

He got up to walk me out. No thank you. He tried to kiss me goodbye. No thank you. He told me he would call me later. No thank you. He asked if I still wanted to go to the Counting Crows concert. YES. DAMMIT, I really wanted to go to that concert but No, no, no and no thank you.

Because the only thing better than a 32 year old bachelor who conveniently forgets he lives at his parents house, has a Mom who sits up and waits for him to return home in a lurky fashion, has a stash of about 3000 Playboys but of course only for "a friend". The same man to whom it never occurs it might be wise to say the Lord of the Dance DVD also belongs to "a friend" and has not a clean sheet to be found, is all of those same exact qualities in a 32 year old who pretends to be asleep while his overnight guest gets interrogated by his Mommy.

See, I told you some of the roads might have been dirty and bumpy, but they were not without their share of comic value.

A LongTalker walks into a bar

A LongTalker walks into a bar. And that is one more reason people drink: Getting stuck with a LongTalker. Oh, the LongTalker. I know you know what I mean. Someone who turns a tale that merits two minutes of time into a 30 minute sitcom (or dramcom. Or borecom.) segment.

I am all about details so do not think I am throwing rocks. Believe it, I can tell a story that takes us halfway through dinner. But is that story funny? Or entertaining? If so, tell it, tell it, tell it. And while I love details, I can trim and snip a story into 20 words or less. By that I mean, if you ask me what I made yesterday, I don't simply answer cake. I say, I made the most amazing chocolate layer cake with Italian Cream filling and raspberries in the layers. See? It is detailed but succinctly detailed. Do you know how a long talker answers?

Well, I got up and it was so beautiful and then I decided what should I make and it occurred to me I hadn't made this cake in ages. You know, I made it for a friend once, and she claimed it was better than a NY bakery. And then as I was getting the ingredients out, my friend from college phoned, and she and I were thick as thieves back in the day, have you ever been to the campus at.....

Are you picking up what I'm putting down? I believe you are. Now, I know I have LongTalked it up especially back in college when feelings were involved but I didn't know better. Now, especially in a corporate workplace, nothing moves me to malcontent quicker than sitting in meetings with LongTalkers. I used to work with a LongTalker that drove me coo coo bananas every time I would get cornered by him in the elevator. It wasn't a simple "Hi, how are you?"

But I got the full throttle of his aches, his pains, his kids, their aches, their pains all which drove my inner monologue to ask where is the cyanide and how quickly can I have a taste.

My malaise for the long talker is because at times, I am with but a scant modicum of patience. I try to mask it by envisioning this person as lonely or in need of conversation. But then you realize that most LongTalkers are this way with everyone they encounter, and their stories are so long and meaningless they often can not recall which details have previously been shared so why not reiterate them all again.

There is a guy in our neighborhood who is a LongTalker and has been nicknamed (of course he has a nickname) as The Trapper. Because he traps you with his longlonglonglong story. I will even share he once told me a story so long I prayed for acid rain. Why? Because I am not patient, his story was meaningless, and it included many details of his tummy troubles. I swear if you LongTalk me and the word diarrhea is involved, I will carry earplugs (or mace) next time.

If you know a tip for either dissuading the LongTalker, besides either carrying my cell phone and immediately pretending to be on a call, which will not work in meetings OR pretending I too have tummy troubles, I am all ears. As long as your tip is not wrapped up in a Long Talk.

That's unfortunate

Jules at Mean Girl Garage did a hilarious post a long time ago on reform suggestions for the profanity addict. One of the suggestions is to select new verbiage in lieu of saying WTF or Are you f'ing kidding me which I have already admitted I have said a time or two. Instead of using these phrases, and in the interest of cleaning up your sassy and salty mouth, you should instead opt to say That's interesting. 

That's interesting is one of my favorite responses. And sometimes it actually means "that's interesting" and sometimes it means one (or both) of the other two above. Another one of my favorite expressions is "That's unfortunate." 

While I may not have a Poker Face, I do have some Poker Phrases.

My college (and grad school) boyfriend(s) despised these expressions. You would think they all would have rejoiced in the occasions in which I elected to use as few words as possible. But I think they knew what I was implying. No decoder ring needed.  

That's unfortunate is as descriptive as it is ambiguous. Most often for me, it indicates I am going to need this situation to end. Immediately.   Examples from 2010:


1. When I was using the auto hand dryer in the women's room of a hotel, another woman, standing next to me said, "You aren't doing it right." I didn't respond because I could certainly attest I did not have my dial set to NUTSO and no stranger would be schooling me on how to use a hand dryer. But, I was wrong. And that's unfortunate.

She went on further to step right next to me and show me how I was to rub my hands vigorously while telling me I needed to rub said hands vigorously instead of the apparently super lazy ass method I had chosen. How about you get off my _____ing hipbone and skedaddle along? Busybodies abound. And that's unfortunate.

2. When I was was working from home one day last week, it was a perfect enough morning to actually open windows and have fresh, cool air. It was also a great time to blast my stereo at high decibels. While belting out Erotic City quite loudly, I also opted at one point to do some kind of horrible cabaret-Liza Minelli style version, and I failed to see the landscapers in the yard below. They enjoyed it a great deal. That's unfortunate.

3. I was speaking to my Mom on the phone one day and had to use the restroom. I do not want to be rude and flush so I delay flushing until I am off the phone. I forget. My Hub comes home and discovers my momentary forgetfulness. He teases me and asks if I forgot something in the bathroom. The adults in this house aren't really down with O.P.P (in this case, Other People's Production) so I am not excited about this discovery. I say, " I will talk to our son about that...." to which my Hub bursts out laughing because our son flushes the toilet 500 times if he goes peepee in it once. While not a catastrophe, this is still unfortunate.

4. While at the Doctor's office recently, I had to get blood work done. When poked with the needle, I chose to shout JESUS. The nurse gave me a serious scowl. So I quickly added, "LOVES ME!" She, not amused, asks, "Didn't you have a baby?" I say, "Not out of my arm with a needle!" And then she said, "You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain." She has the needle so I give no rebuttal. I am now needle-holed, and reprimanded. That's unfortunate.

All of these circumstances merited much stronger responses, but I had the opportunity for reform. And only hope these circumstances don't repeat themselves in 2011 or I will likely choose alternative and certainly more sassy and salty expressions to use, which indeed will be unfortunate.

A positive and negative of holiday shopping

Scenario 1:  I visit a swank boutique last week. A girlfriend recently bought a gorgeous Kill City leather jacket and I wanted one. The boutique hunts one down for me and I am delighted to go and try it on. A beautiful and uber sassy boy behind the counter helps me. I try the jacket on and return it to him. The following conversation ensues:

Him: Uh oh. (Makes a sad face.)
Me: I love it but I did not realize it is cropped in the back.
Him: Girl, who cares! Everyone loves cropped!
Me: Everyone? Maybe Mary Kate and Ashley but not necessarily everyone.
Him: Didn't you say your friend wore this jacket the other night?
Me: Yes, but I did not realize it was cropped only in the back.
Him:  (with venom) PROBABLY BECAUSE IT LOOKED GOOD!

Me: 1. Jacket: 0. Final verdict: Negative. There are various methods to sell me a gorgeous garment. The verbal betch slap method is not on that list. But bless that sassy heart.


Scenario 2: Shopping in Bloomingdales for possible holiday gifts for JMac, I peruse one section of the men's department. An older, well-dressed, distinguished- looking man appears to be looking for something. From about ten feet away, he politely calls to the Associate with whom I am speaking.

Him: and says, "Show me to your pants, please?"
Her: Brief pause. Then: Excuse me?
Him: Ma'am?
Her: My panties?
Me: WTF?
Him, very slowly: Show me to your pants. Please.
Her: Hand over mouth, mortified look on face. Then: Oh, I am terribly sorry. Men's pants are one section behind you.
Me: HAHAHAHAHA.

Yes, he phrased the question in an unusual way. BUT even the randiest codger does not walk into Bloomingdales during the holiday shopping frenzy and ask one of the Associates: Show me your panties. Poor girl. She needed a cocktail on the spot. Final verdict: Positive because I witnessed it and it was hilarious. And you know she laughed her arse off later. At least I hope she did.

10 simple life lessons, as learned from Cinema

Last year was a great year for movie theaters. It marked the first time in seven years consumer actually spent more dollars watching movies out than in.

Will 2010 be the same or better for the theaters? I doubt it.

There seems to be a declining number of five star productions. Where are all the blockbusters? The competing titles? The fervor over new releases? It has dissipated culminating in some good movies and a lot of flops including the paltry sales of the much awaited Sex And The City II.  But if consumers are spending top dollar at the theaters, it must be for more than pure entertainment.Perhaps, it might also be the vast knowledge one can glean from a simple two-hour visit to the cinema.

The top 10 simple life lessons I have learned over a box of popcorn and some Twizzlers.

1. If it is late at night and you are frightened by an unknown sound outside, simply strip to your underwear, and run outside. The culprit will appear instantly. You do not need a knife, you can simply carry your Swiffer. And when it is time to run away, the most efficient way to do this is wearing high heels.

2. If you want to be a professional basketball player, it matters not if you are 5 feet tall, all you need to do is dream.

3. If your dog gets lost 2,000 miles away from your home, do not fret, your dog will make a friend, hitchhike toward home, and be at your front door in a day or two.

4. All important meetings between underhanded men will occur in a strip club. All employees of the strip club are "working their way through medical school."

5. All important meetings between gossipy women will occur in the spa. All male employees at the spa look like The Rock.

6. All important meetings between two lovers, who are not supposed to be lovers, will take place in the elevator. There is never an alarm bell when the STOP ELEVATOR button is pushed either. When the elevator resumes, all disheveled hair and clothes will reveal nothing to the people getting in the elevator.

7. All offices in the world have blinds that can shut when a young fraulein steps in the boss man's office. All disheveled hair and clothes will reveal nothing when the blinds are opened, often 4 minutes later.

8. All children who run away in anger from their parents are found on a busy street by a kindly stranger who will provide incredible wisdom to set that child straight. A stranger can do in 5 minutes what parents cannot do in 15 years.

9. If you are female and heartbroken, simply visit a lake or a beach and stare off into space. A sweet love song will automatically start playing and it will soothe your broken little heart. While you are being soothed, another man will appear, much hotter, wearing no shirt but likely riding a horse or coaching a team of underprivileged children, your eyes will lock and you will forget all about that first guy.

10. If you are male and heartbroken, all you have to do is go to a bar, get wasted, hook up with some girl that is not the girl you really love, wake up the next morning feeling lonely and disheveled, and you will instantly write a poem even though you have never written one in your entire life. That poem will be about the girl you really love, which you will accidentally leave one day at Starbucks, she will find it, not know you wrote it, be smitten, and you will get back together the following week over a pumpkin latte.

So regardless of profits made inside the theater, think of everything you can learn. Had only I known #9 when I was a teenage girl.

*This is my third published post on Technorati!

Tis the season....

I hope you all had a great long weekend whether that meant TurkeyFest or BlackFridayShoppaPalooza. I had a fantastic five days with my family. The menu for Thanksgiving turned out beautifully. Oh, except for the turkey. I did at one point call the turkey an inappropriate name. The turkey wanted more time. The turkey said, " I am not predictable." The turkey wanted to ease into our relationship. I despise that turkey. BUT, everything else was gorgeous and it is just one more reason I don't really like turkey. But the hours of cooking were worth the 30 minutes of eating. Believe it. And again, apologies to my Mom who happened to be in the kitchen when I upbraided the turkey.

And the weekend also marked the kick-off of holiday decorating. Since my family was in town, we spent yesterday afternoon decorating the house and tree, and talking to MiniMac about going to see Santa. We are members at Atlanta Botanical Garden which  is also a location of interest because we were married there. Santa was visiting yesterday afternoon so we mentioned it to MiniMac multiple times over the past few weeks. Why the prep? Oh, because our son has NO interest in meeting Santa or engaging in parental paparazzi photo sessions with him either. At one point yesterday he indicated he would say hello to him but did not want to sit on his lap. He already wrote him a letter but I could give it to Santa instead. He would get a photo taken if he sat next to me, and I sat next to Santa. I did not have high hopes of a warm engagement and was fine with simply being outside in a gorgeous venue on a beautiful albeit brisk day.

But the introduction did take place and while my son confirmed my presence was of the utmost importance, the conversation between my son and Santa was one of the best conversations I have heard all year.

As we left, MiniMac shook Santa's hand and said, "It was really nice to meet you. Travel safely..." and my heart bloomed with pride. We highlight the importance of manners and communication in our house and to see our son so readily demonstrate this was awesome. I take my tiny son's hand in mine with a giant smile on my face. We walked away and when we were about 25 feet from Santa, my precious son turned around and yelled back at Santa, "Oh, and NO GIRL TOYS."

Thankfully Santa and his elves laughed uproariously. As did MiniMac's uncle and Grandmother. His Mom still has not a single clue where the "no girl toys" concept derived from but something tells me, this is just the beginning.

Walk O' Shame

Back in the day, before I was a wife and mother, I may have had an adventure or two (hundred.) While I was certainly no wild trixie, I was with as much certainty, no daughter of John Winthrop either.

Perchance a few of these adventures caused the inability for me to arrive home safely to my own bed. In college and grad school, I am sure it was primarily from all that studying which led to sleepiness which led to guest over-nighting somewhere. Or it was the cocktails. And the libido. Whichever. Might you too have a memory bank filled with such circumstances? Some memories we reminisce about with a glimmer of joie de vivre. Others, well, more like a going through turbulence on an airplane. You can manage it...but it is not much fun.

The highs and lows of over-nighting which produce the inevitable trajectory back to your own abode. Ahhh, also known as The Walk of Shame. Haven't ever done it? Shine that halo, little angel. You will be one of the few I know.

I was recently chatting with a girlfriend from college. The beauty of good friends, amongst many things, is their ability to recall certain memories of you that you intentionally deleted from both your cortex and your hippocampus. BUT, since such shenanigans are infinitely more humorous to me now, why would I resist sharing? You are right, I won't resist. PS: You have to look at some of your antics and laugh. If you don't, you are likely the only one who has not so in an definitive measure to laugh at myself, here you go:

The Classic Walk of Shame: Sophomore Year of College

My roommate, Action Jackson, and I went to a fraternity formal. We wore ball gowns. We had big hair. (All praise 1990.) We had big fun.

We apparently studied too hard during the day. I got very sleepy at some point. Lights out.

I wake up the next am. In my date's bed. The last time it had been cleaned? Maybe 1980. I am thankfully fully clothed. Royal blue ball gown and all. I actually wore white pantyhose. EGADS. I get shivers thinking about them. Luckily, these were also still on my body. I might have been sleepy but at least I wasn't being a dirty vixen.

Waking up hurts my feelings. I do not feel my best. I feel like a bag of hammers. Must. Exit. IMMEDIATELY. I realize to my dismay, I have no shoes. In the current state, I could not debate the pros and cons of leaving such shoes. Until I recalled the shoes were dyed to match my dress. I can NOT leave blue shoe evidence behind. I search high and low and over many other sleeping bodies. Not a shoe to be seen. I must not tarry.

I haul arse out of there, down stairs, and to the street. I know most of the boys in this fraternity so am highly interested in not being spotted. I get to the street. Nothing says class act like bright blue ball gown with no shoes meandering down the road. I have about 10 fraternities and sororities to pass. MUST MOVE QUICKLY.

As I cross the parking lot, I hear voices exiting the annex where several of the Seniors lived. I duck across the lot hoping the blueness of this dress is so bright that it serves as a distraction from my face. A guy and girl come outside and they are engaged in full on argument. She does not want him to drive her home. He insists. She is mad, he is mad, I am merely dodging bullets here. I scurry, and I do mean scurry, across the street. Seen a rat scurry? This was my method. Only to hear him say in an acid tone, "At least you aren't that girl, walking home BY HERSELF." No one needs a highlighter pen or a spotlight to know that girl he mentions is me.

I tuck my head down and duck in between two buildings. I think I am scot-free when I spy my house nearby. Only to discover, my roommate AND her boyfriend asleep on our daybed in our room. WTF. I quickly change and head to the sleeping dorm but not before seeing this note:

JennyMac: Sorry I left you. You would NOT get up.

You: drank almost an entire of bottle of vodka. Threw up out T's window. Onto the heads of people below. You actually did an awesome job though singing an entire version of "Blame It On the Rain" by Milli Vanilli. No one believed it was rain. I could not find your shoes. However, someone will. They are bright blue. Don't be mad I left you. T's roommate was pissed you passed out on him and wanted to put a bicycle lock around your neck. I stopped this from happening.  Your BFF, Action Jackson

I promise you NOTHING like this ever happened again. That blue dress went to gown heaven.

The shoes were never recovered. On a post-even visit to that same house, someone asked me if I lost a pair of blue shoes at the formal. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "No. I wasn't wearing blue." Unfortunately, photographic evidence to contrary could not be destroyed. Luckily, there were no pictures of me "sleeping."

AND just to get that image of me in my ugly white pantyhose out of your mind, CONGRATULATIONS to Kristy M. the winner of the Williams-Sonoma Thanksgiving Entertaining Book. Email me and I will mail your book. AND please let us know what time you are serving, we would love to see your feast.

Do these jeans make our closet look fat?

My husband is fully aware I have a proclivity towards shopping. I am not a hang out at the mall type of girl, but I do love fashion. And our closet reflects this or what I call my earnest interest in supporting our economy.  When I first purchased the house, I had one wall of the walk in made into shoe shelves. Beautiful, necessary shoe shelves. About 10 feet high and 10 feet wide. Awesome for me. NOT awesome for the man who would later share that closet. (Clearly, his shoes are not welcome in my shoe shelves.) I have them organized by color, heel height. (Yes, feel free to mock it all you want BUT I know exactly where to find the exact shoe I am looking for, right? Right. Same goes for all the clothes, sorted by color and by sleeve length. NO it is not anal. It is called organized. It might be busy in there but my closet is not going to be a hot mess.)

JohnnyMac has not a single issue with these purchases but years ago began to strongly encourage me to adopt the “one in, one out” policy. My initial response: just because Oprah said it is a good policy, doesn't make it right for everyone! But later, I have responded to this suggestion and have discarded of plenty of things. He said throwing out old lipstick is not the same as one pair of shoes in, one pair of shoes out. I do discard bags of old or unwanted items twice annually, but let us say what he and I consider a “full bag” are not the same thing.

Well, my little brother came in the spring and he loves to team up with JMac and hard time me about my closets. My little brother is very stylish, and also loves to purchase so this is what I call being a hypocrite. He offered to ‘help’ me pare down my closet, especially the shoes. By ‘help’ I imply that he would hold up almost every item of apparel and ask when the last time I wore it. Things not worn in the past six months needed to go. This is not realistic, I asserted. I am not Punky Brewster. I can’t wear 19 items at a time.

As he was pulling things out, I would merely go back and put them in their proper place. And as he is spinning around like a dervish, he discovers this shelf that due to construction, is not immediately visible. On the shelf lies about 30 pairs of jeans. Ironically, I not a frequent jeans wearer but the pairs I have, I love. He called JMac into our room to point out the stash.  For some reason, this was the source of much entertainment for them. Not entertaining like “WOW, you are a denim addict” but more like “WOW, you are a ^#*&^# hoarder.”

Some of these jeans have seen some pretty fantastic days. That is not to be taken lightly. And they all fit, but I have discovered similar to Halloween candy, when I like a little something,  like Earl or Seven, I buy more than needed.  We successfully made additional room in the closet (some of it just moved to one of the other bedroom closets) and a great big bag to donate. I thought to get them both out of my clothes business, I would send them to look at the garage. That turned out worse because the first thing said to me was “ALL of this wrapping paper and bags of ribbon need.to.go.” I offered to make bloody mary’s instead. Bloody Mary’s were a great distraction.

I recently bought a pair of skinny jeans. JMac likes them. I asked if he thought these jeans make our closet look fat. For some reason, he didn’t answer. Must be that his filter for sarcasm was  set to high.

Are you a hog?

I don’t mean the type chomping on acorns and sauntering through the woods. Let me explain.

I know people who receive things like great treats, awesome deals, information, or fab prizes and they hide those babies under lock and key so they can keep all the goodness to themselves. I know other people who will share whatever they have even if they are down to their last cup of coffee or thumb-sized cookie.  I grew up in a (predominantly) generous family. A lot of the women in my family cook so my history was frequently woven with the sharing of recipes and stories to accompany those recipes. People in my family are also generous with time and what they are willing to invest in other people. This is the model I learned. This is the model I will pass along. I had a previous neighbor who clearly grew up in the household of “share nothing” as if all our resources were precious and it was the Great Depression. No, she was not struggling with finances. She just did not like to share.

Are these behaviors innate? Or are they learned? I am sure you know people who fit into both categories too. The categories I like to title Hoggers and Sharers.  

I think sharing is the best bet. I don’t mean share your knickers or the last bite of pasta on your plate (unless you want to, of course.) I mean the overall general concept of sharing. I think being stingy is par for the course in certain circumstances. Like when you are two years old and haven’t been told yet. I think stingy at the adult level is odd. And sucky.

Listen, if you don’t want to share things with other people, you might have a great reason. My Mom used to hide things from me when I was a kid because well, I liked to explore in her jewelry box and help myself to things I liked. There were many things I liked. I went exploring in her jewelry box often. Perhaps everything fetched out of there did not quite make it back. She declared a brief moratorium on sharing jewelry with JennyMac. But it didn't last because my Mom is a Sharer.

Years ago, I worked with a woman who often brought desserts to the office. By now, you all know I liken myself a baking maven, so I loved seeing (and sampling) her creations. Once for a holiday party, we both made some taste treats well-received by our colleagues. Many people asked for our recipes and once, while sharing mine, she was in earshot.

Her: You just freely give out your recipes?

Me: Yes. (I know I have a weird look on my face as I reply because, after all, the request is for my recipe. Not my liver, or plutonium, or a kilo of heroin.)

Her: That is so generous of you.

Me: I actually got it from a cookbook so….

Her: (whispering conspiratorially) When people ask me for my recipes, I often leave one ingredient out.

Me: Blank stare

Her: Isn’t that coy? She winks.

My mental response: Yes. That is coy. Since apparently coy now means idiotic and juvenile.

Me: (out loud this time) Oh, so you are one of those women?

Her: What women?

Me:  A recipe hog. You don’t want to share the good stuff.

Her: I work really hard on my recipes and I don’t want people copying them.

Me: Good thing Ina Garten doesn’t feel that way! (And then I laughed.)

Her: (Slightly pouty face but thinks I am joking) Those are my recipes!

Me: I totally hear you, Betty Crocker! (I laughed more. And scurried away because I just learned who my least favorite co-worker was: The Hogger.)

Now, if you are hogging Halloween candy, well, that is a different story. I know you are only doing it to protect those around you, whom you love dearly, from getting cavities. 

Not your average Jack-o-lantern

One of my roommates during grad school, The Coat, was friends with a completely wayward rogue. We called said rogue O’Shame. Every time I watched LOST and see Sawyer, I was reminded of O’Shame in that same gritty, dirty, muscled, kind of sexy, but really mostly gritty and dirty kind of way. 

During law school, we used to frequent this fabulous dump called The Grenada. Thursday nights heralded in the beginning of the weekend (for us) but also 80's night AND Dollar Pitchers at The Grenada. Few other things on earth scream "I am serious about my education" than flocking with all your law school friends to a giant bar to dance to Come On Eileen and swill down pitcher after pitcher of Keystone Light. But flock we did, and OH, I loved every minute of those 50 weeks a year.

Now, dirty O'Shame would often join. The following is one of his more hilarious antics. 

While at The Grenada, a fertile ground for impermanent relationships, O'Shame met himself a little lass.  While engaged in a full on teen-age make out party, O'Shame, like Tarzan, or King Kong, lifts her up and puts her on the rail so they can take their PDA to a whole new classy level while she wraps herself around him. He is earnestly kissing her. How do I know? 

Because he was leaning so far into her they both FLIPPED over the rail. She landed on her back about five feet below. He landed on her. His face landed on the floor. Only when they finished making out did he rise, dust himself off. He rises and we see blood coming from his mouth and a big snaggle tooth jutting out of his mug. The remainder of his tooth apparently left on the dirty floor. He uses his hand as a towel to wipe the blood from his face. He gets napkins to ward off the flow. He sees no reason to get medical attention. Never mind your face was on the filthy floor. Might that merit at least a rinse or maybe a hand wash? NO. As he continues to bleed, his wife-for-the- night thinks he looks "rugged." As she fetches more napkins for him, he looks at us and asks if it looks ok. Does your broken tooth look ok? Is YES ever an answer to this question? 

The Coat, not wanting to inhibit his prowess, said "I think it is fine."
MarciaGarcia said, "WOW, O'Shame is dirrrrrty."
ShaNaNa (our nice friend) asked, "Are you ok?!?!"
I say, "You look like a jack-o-lantern."
The Social Chairman, in an areyou___ingkiddingme tone said, "More like a JackASS-O- Lantern."

Did it stop O'Shame? No. Even being told you look like a human snaggle-toothed jack-o-lantern couldn't stop that train. And it is awesome when being drunk and hooking up is FAR more important than your health. God forbid you miss a tongue dance while you take a time out to get your smacked gob looked at by medical personnel. 

Now all the rest of you little pumpkins, be good this Halloween. MiniMac is dressing up as a blue m&m. Have a safe and fabulous weekend. And like the black cats, don't let any jackass-o-lanterns cross your path. 

Rock Star Parking

Some people have what we call "rock star" parking status. Everywhere we go this special talent is realized. My mom is one of those people. Want front row at Nordstrom during holiday season? Ride with her. Want to park as close as possible to Costco? On a Saturday? Handled. Want to park downtown Seattle on the same block as the theater, in order to see a show that hundreds of other people are also going to see? Fret not. She's the machine that will get you there. It is a given, a guarantee. 

Now, I may have a trickle of that luck but not in the "sure thing" kind of fashion for which she is accustomed. One balmy afternoon, she and I decide to drive separately but meet at Costco. Both in our vehicles, we spy the same car leaving and we both jockey for position. Because of direction, I have clear access while the other car pulls out and blocks her. Therefore, I prevail. Since we know each other, we obviously think it is all fun and games.

To add to the parody, my beautiful and typically more demure mom rolls down her window and says, "That was my spot you, b*tch!"

So I laugh and shout, "Not anymore lady. I am younger and much faster!"
(All very reminiscent of a scene from Fried Green Tomatoes.)

As I close my window and exit my car, a sweet older woman pushing her cart reprimands me by stating, "Miss, that woman was waiting for that spot."

"Oh, that is just my mom," I say. I laugh. All quite laissez-faire, as I am trying to scuttle away.

"Then you are very rude."

I try to explain it was a joke. She is stoic.  As I dart away, and she launches into a diatribe about children today. I pause to further explain before realizing, it won't sink in. I am sure the woman was shocked. My mom and I had a quick laugh, and of course, my mom got a better spot. All fun and games indeed.

Do you know when it isn't fun and games? When I am actually waiting for spot, and some teenager driving a Kia, or a Tata, or a matchbox car because it was so tiny, does swoop in and take my spot. On a rainy day. At 6 pm. At the grocery. When I have a munchkin with me. Did you see that blinker? Isn't that the universal sign that I am pulling in here?

Hmmm. What do you do? Pick up his tiny car and put it in the nearest trash receptacle ? Key it even though your car key is bigger? Kick it like a soccer ball? Write a note saying "YOU SUCK"? Launch into a diatribe about children today?

No. Because it is raining. And you have a toddler with you. So you simply wait, since by all means, there is no one else trying to park at the grocery store at 6 pm. And next time, you borrow the rock star parking pass.

Is this your first time working a hose?

In law school, I went with my then beau to his parents house one afternoon. The purpose: a grill out (Non-college style. Translation: no tasty libations.) We lounged about outside in the sun chatting and playing with his dog. At one point, his Father goes to the driveway to wash his vehicle. Mine, covered in dust, needed a bath as well so we queued up for some soap and suds. His parents had an amazing lawn and garden which would justify the reason the sprayer on the end of the hose looked like it was built by NASA.

When it was our turn to wash my mobile, his Father asked me if I needed a quick demo on how to use this gadget. Me, considering myself capable of the task at hand, reply without thinking “I’ve handled a few hoses.” To which, then beau bursts out laughing. Double entendre, please sit down.

Well, I did need a demo because the first time I put the hose down, I dropped it on the handle which activated the hose. Have you ever seen those sitcom-like situations where the hose whips around like the tail of Black Lab and sprays everything in sight? Well, I wished it was that scene. Because instead, the hose was precariously close to me so when the handle engaged, the stream sprayed straight up into my face.  At full force.

My need to turn it off was instant, however, my ability to see the actual nozzle highly impacted by the water spraying in my face. My hindered vision similar to Mr. McGoo in a snow storm. My then boyfriend intervened ONLY after he watched, laughed, called his Dad to witness the melee, and then laughed some more. Perhaps a little less sass on my part would have provoked a little earlier help.

By the time the mere minutes passed, I was completely drenched. Adding insult to injury was that it turned out to be an imperfect day to wear a white t-shirt.

And for years afterward, I would be hazed about how I just couldn’t handle the hose.

An impromptu wet t-shirt contest at the home of your boyfriend’s conservative parents? NOT recommended.