A practical application of Newton's third law of motion.

The world is full of sinners and saints. Hopefully I fit somewhere in between (and closer to the saint end of the spectrum, I am certain.) And as much as I do love good mockery of jackasses, I also love stories of human compassion and goodness which do exist if you look.

Here are two examples:

MiniMac and I were taking a sprint around Piedmont Park. It was a beautiful and warm day so after visiting the Farmer's Market held there every Saturday, we venture off to the sand volleyball courts to run and play.

A few minutes into our fun, a man is quickly approaching and asks if I am JennyMac. I am.
"You dropped this on the other side of the park," he says as he hands me my wallet. I hadn't realized that it fell out of the Bugaboo while shifting things around to accomodate Farmer's Market purchases. He spent 30 minutes trying to find me. I was so grateful I wanted to hug him. I thanked him profusely and thanks to him, I didn't have a much more challenging day. Its one thing to hand something to someone who dropped it unknowingly. Its another to spend 30 minutes trying to scan a park using only a driver's licence picture to locate someone who you know will be very unhappy and potentially distressed to discover their wallet missing. The kindness of strangers, not to be overlooked.

The second example happened last week. Remember this day?  Well, I didn't get my glass of wine in a timely fashion at the end of that day. Why? Because, after leaving the office and heading to the gym I got a flat tire. Not a partially deflated flat but a full flat punctured by a large steel eye screw.

I discovered this flat tire at 4:45 pm at one of the busiest intersection in Atlanta of Piedmont/Lenox/RoswellRd/400. Anyone who knows this terrain knows you don't want a flat tire here at ANY time let alone 4:45 pm. I am able to hobble into a driveway near the front of the building and push the SOS button inside the car.  As I am waiting outside with my hazards on, not one or two or three people stopped to see if I needed help. TEN people stopped to see if I needed help. Mind you, it was 22 degrees out.  22 degrees seems like an airtight alibi for not walking across a parking lot to see if someone needed help. But they all did it.

The day ended with a replaced tire, after not too much further delay, a safe ride home, and finally that long-awaited glass of Cabernet.

Kindness of strangers, again, not to be overlooked.

Which is why my practical application of Newton's third law of motion is that for every d-bag action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Always tip your server

Since JohnnyMac is an avid golfer, making as many attempts to keep his 7 handicap as feasible, the visits to the course are fairly regular during what he considers warm months. In Atlanta, that is 9 out of 12. Typically, his golf outings lack any sort of scintillating detail. However, our friend Big Leaguer, also an avid golfer, recently shared this precious little tale. Perhaps golf can be sordid after all.

Big Leaguer and some of his wolf pack went to Florida for a little man time and back to back days of golf. These are not 20 year olds either. The first night, they went to Hooters for dinner. Oh, I assure you it is because of those incredibly delicious wings. Mmm hmmmm.

After enjoying, oh, I am guessing about the 3rd round of beers, one of the quartet got a bit surly when he got his  second order of wings. It seems he ordered twelve wings, and the server only brought him ten. He summoned her back to the table, all the while, giving her a little attitude.

Been to Hooters? These dames deal with all kinds of men. From the normal guy to the Eminem-stylin' jackass. I don't even go there and I know better then to give them attitude.

So Surly proceeds to upbraid her for an unnecessary amount of time. And counts each wing outloud as if she needed the extra help.

You want your extra wings, she asks.

YES I DO, Surly replies, extra hot.

My pleasure.

So shortly, she brings him not just two additional but an entire basket of wings. Extra hot, the way he asked. Which he consumes with giddy delight. They finish out their evening and go home for some rest before the early morning tee time at a prominent golf course.

The next morning, Surly feels a little off and assumes it is because of the beer. Perhaps. But the level of intake was fairly modest.

Out on the course, he feels a rumble. They get through two holes and he feels another rumble. He proceeds to lay down. On the golf course. And then he hurls. On the golf course.

All kinds of boyish pandemonium breaks out because men would never fret over or soothe a sickly friend like women do. Never.

Surly must leave to avoid further mockery and to freshen up. He doesn't quite make it off the course before he is sick again. He then disappears.

Hours later, the men hunt him down. Laying down on the floor in the men's locker room. Not a bench but the floor. Clad only in a golf towel.

Have you seen a golf towel? Oh, they are tiny. And even more so when draped across the southpark of a large man.

WTF is wrong with you, they ask (Male dialogue often free of any unnecessary niceties.)

He replies that he doesn't feel well.

And where the F are your clothes?

In the garbage.

Why?

Long pause.

Because while I was barfing, I sh*t my pants.

He spent three days in bed. Well, either in bed or in the bathroom alternating between heads and tails. Oh, he just had to speak up about the two missing wings, didnt he? Just had to count out his shortchanged plate for her on his chicken wing abacus.

Hmmmm. Let's review:

1. Don't be rude to a server.
2. Especially one very skilled at handling jerk offs.
3. Even more so when she is one handling your food.
4. Especially when your food contains spicy condiments and a blanket of
heinous orange sauce which can hide or mask a multitude of other things
5. Unless, of course, you too would enjoy the legend that
could precede you about the guy who shat his pants on the golf course.

And who knows what that gal may have added to those wings. Maybe a little extra tabasco. Maybe some jalapeno sauce. Maybe some urinal cake. Maybe some cockroach.

Who's to say, but this is you why you give tip, not lip, to your waitstaff.

Copper Tone

A few years ago my hair styling guru took a very long vacation which forced me against my will to find another stylist. Oh, it may be immaterial to some but who cuts the coiffure is an issue of matter to me. I went to the most popular man in the place and he was fabulous with a pair of shears even if each haircut dominated the entire morning because he was a frequent-pause-to-tell-a-story type of guy. I just made sure that I quickly accepted that my 45 minute slot would NEVER finish in under 90 minutes. Never.

Even though I missed my former stylist and pined for his return, the replacement soon created stylist-client pleasant bliss. Until the incident.

I have long locks. I have hair shorn above the ear (Dorothy Hamill phase but then again in graduate school when a smooth talking and uber-sexy Italian man in London talked me into it….I didn't love the haircut but oh how I loooooved the haircut provider). JohnnyMac is not obsessed with hair and while I am sure he prefers it long, he is a modern man and realizes its my hair and I shall do with it what I like. And since I already live in his cave, the long hair is merely for aesthetics and not something by which to drag me around.

I once dated a man, he of the worst gift giving ever, and once at a party a friend of mine from college was talking about my very short hair back in the day. His comment (which took me by surprise) was that his wife would never be allowed to cut her hair. I am sure (not a bit) he was joking but over one more sip of martini I said, “Well, let’s just break up NOW, Archie Bunker.”

So one day as I sit in my new stylist chair, I tell him I want highlights. Not chunky- monkey -Cindy Lauper style highlights but just-back-from-Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat-sunkissed-around-the-temple highlights. He concurred but added the highlights would look smashing if we also lightened the whole coif. Mmmmm. Lightening the brunette? I vacillated between yes and no. He indicated we would go just a shade or two lighter. OK. Lighten away my Doyenne.

Hair color is not a quick process as many of you know. And by "know" I mean, know from a friend telling you. I am sure those blond tresses are your goldeny blond birthrights. And since it is not a quick process, time slowly ticks by but I look forward to what lies under all that potion.

And then the big reveal. He, smiling like a kitty on a brand-new satchel of catnip day, turns me in the chair to the mirror.

WOW, I say.

And there are several kinds of WOW.
WOW like I just found a smashing pair of Christian Louboutin’s in my size on sale for 100.00.
And WOW like I just heard someone talk about their jock itch.
And my WOW from the chair was NOT the shoe on sale kind of WOW.

Him: What do you think?
Me: It’s lighter (said with poker face which is rare for me.)

Him: It’s gorgeous
Me: Ummmm, it’s copper
Him: It’s multi-tonal
Me: It’s multi-tonal copper
Him: Its auburn. –ish.
Me: Copper. In fact, excellent camouflage for PENNIES.
Him: Darken it up a bit?
Me: How quickly can that occur?

Luckily for me, I learned my hair lightening lesson and the yummy icing on the cake was my stylist eventually returned.

And once, just for fun, I asked him about highlights.
“In your hair,” he asked. “NO.”
Perfect. I will keep him forever.

You don't need 50 dollars to make me holler.

We interrupt the regularly scheduled Saturday food porn programming with this little update:

I am completely honored to say I received two emails from great bloggers indicating they have nominated me for the Tenth Annual Weblog Awards. The Bloggies are a well-established Blog Awards showcase and by looking at the previous winners, I will be the first to say that even being suggested among that impressive list is incredibly humbling. And awesome. And proof that you don't need 50 dollars to make me holler.

Of the 30 categories, Let's have a cocktail has been nominated for:

Most Humorous weblog

Best Writing of a weblog

Best New weblog
Weblog of the Year

The selection process is still accepting nominations until January 12. The more nominations a blog receives, the more likelihood it will be selected for the final ballot. And the great thing about the nomination process is each category requires you to nominate three blogs. It is called spreading the love.

If you are bundled up inside on this cold, cold day, and have any interest in nominating your favorite blogs for the process,  here is an easy access point: the link. There are so many interesting, witty, and well-crafted blogs, let's share them. And should my blog make it on your list, I appreciate the support.

Have a fantastic weekend.

The Edge

Last weekend, MiniMac and I stopped by Barnes and Noble. While in line, MiniMac said, “Mommy, look at the edge.”

I inquired, “The edge of what, baby?”

And when I turned around to see his reference, only then did I notice that he didn’t mean the edge of anything.

He meant THE Edge.

And when we got home, he said, "The Edge plays the guitar like me."

I will say when I was two years old, I knew only albums involving fairy tale readings and the only adult figure I could recognize outside of my family MIGHT have been Captain Kangaroo.

My son is on his way to being so much cooler than me. And my son can thank me in 20 years that he NEVER had to watch Captain Kangaroo.

PS: And even if you have an aversion to kids, be it minor or major, you have to admit, a kid with a guitar is pretty cool. Come on, make a little soft spot in your heart for it. haha. 

PSS:  Because you are sitting there reading, and don't really want to get back to work or household chores do you? You are invited to read my interview at the beautiful SocieteAmore.  Thank you Rowe for the feature!

What's your excuse?

Yesterday I was a little salty about working out. I didn't want to run because it was 28 degrees here. Yes, I know that is 28 degrees warmer than some of you but one of the perks of living in the south is we don't do 28 degrees. And if any white flakes appear from the sky, you get vacation and call it a snow day.

Not only did running outdoors not interest me in the least, I didn't want to go the gym because of the mere minutes of exposure to the elements I would endure walking from parking lot to front door. Doing nothing is not part of my plan and unfortunately, I already know making excuses is not considered actual exercise. Poor little kitty. 

So in effort to stall the inevitable motivate myself, I read the news. And then I saw this:
 

Jose Fausto Gonzalez, also known as 'Pepe Fausto', is a Spanish cyclist.

He cycles everyday.
And he is EIGHTY.

Pepe Fausto doesn't get all poor little kitty about the cold. He doesn't make paltry excuses like being outside for 2 whole minutes is too much too bear. Sometimes you just need to get up and go. As I have said before, the ass won't lose itself.

You are outstanding Pepe Fausto. Or may I call you by your new pet name, El BadAss?

I can only hope that when I am his age, I can still rock it like a hurricane. Thanks for the inspiration, El BadAss, I needed it.



PS: Come visit Life 2 Us, a new website and the brainchild of Unknown Mami. I am one of their featured bloggers this month.

Signs, signs, everywhere there's signs

Upon leaving a meeting recently at a giant office building, I stopped to use the ladies room. Inside I spotted a sign asking the dames not to flush certain womanly products down the commode. My thought was straight and to the point as in, Who the ---- is old enough to be in this office building yet unaware of this piece of information?

When you are a young girl, the message of not flushing feminine products is reiterated to you in the neighborhood of 10,000 times at both your school and your home. Obviously someone skipped that stage of training, or posted signage would not be necessary.

I also recently saw a sign on a company break room fridge reading: Please check to see if your name is on the food you remove so you are not removing something that is not yours.

Do you know my secret trick for knowing what is mine or not without putting my name on it? It is called MEMORY. And when I have no memory of placing something in the communal fridge, I don't grab it and hope for the best.

And there is a new sign on one of the offices on my floor declaring it the "Lactation Room." Except no one knows who recently gave birth and is lactating. Frequently the sign is overturned to reveal "Lactation Room in Use" yet our staff is highly familiar with one another to the point one would easily know who has given birth. Let's call it what it is. Not Lactation Room but I Like To Have a Bit of a Catnap Throughout the Day. Codename: Lactation. 

And then Mom in High Heels posted this sign on her blog one day.

Which after I laughed, I thought surely anyone over age 8 using a urinal knows you don't put your fishing pole in it.

I ponder what, or who specifically necessitates these types of signs. Are they in jest? They must be because the messages are as common sense as:

Don't use the bacon in this package as clothing or
Cat Litter is not mouthwash or
Cheese does not make great surprise birthday party confetti.

But then I saw this...and had to take a picture.

Congratulations person who can't follow simple instructions, you have solved the mystery. You are the reason for the signs.

Is a Monica Lewinsky reference ever a good idea?

Multiple three-day weekends served me well. I think a permanent four day work week would benefit me (and many others) greatly in the near and long-term. However, I love my job so the return to work does not cause anguish. Typically, I am back in the saddle with seamless transition. However, yesterday served as a harbinger for the week. And a strong indication my head is clearly not in the game.

Example 1: I drove the wrong way to work. The wrong way which included merging onto I-75 in the middle of the city in the middle of morning rush hour traffic. I can certainly get to my office from the erroneous route. But I can also get to Florida from Atlanta by going to Tennessee first. It can be done but it sure wastes a lot of F___ING time.

Example 2: In a staff meeting, one colleague was discussing a client who wears a beret. My ultra-conservative boss says, “Do people wear berets anymore?” To which I say, “I think Monica Lewinsky ruined that trend for everyone.” To which he says, “She did make the beret a bit infamous.” To which I reply (because I just can’t resist) “The beret amongst many other things.”

Example 3: Someone rather irritating vivacious whom I interface with at work sent me an email to set up a meeting to talk about their feelings create a strategy and as I read it, in all of its wordiness, I gleefully accidentally hit the delete button without responding. And then felt remiss smiled.

Example 4: When on the phone with the company who monitors our home alarm system the service rep asks me to confirm my street address. I do. She corrects me on the pronunciation of the street I live on. I correct her while thinking: Yes, I get that hooked on phonics worked for you but I PROMISE YOU I am pronouncing it the right way. She says with edge, “Excuse me ma’am (which means bitch in the customer service world) I am just telling you what it says in the system. My response: You know what I didn’t request for Christmas? Your attitude. Put someone else on the phone.” Apparently that is my way of saying yesterday's  concern for Santa and his list has evaporated.

Example 5: My boss comes in my office and I am listening to Judas Priest sing Another Thing Coming. Better than the Ludacris that was on moments before but thankfully my docking station has a handy remote. Judas Priest = not office theme song material for a reason.

Example 6: Our admin asks me when I want to calendar time to do a certain task. My response: Schedule that sometime between 2012 and never. And then we both laughed.

Example 7: On phone with JohnnyMac at lunchtime I say, “Please pour wine the minute you hear the garage door open indicating my return.”

Next three day weekend: less than two weeks away!

Now that I've had my way with you...

Since Santa visited me already, and he visited me real nice like, I might regret a few small actions. Actions that make it appear as if I put on my goody- two- shoes only until he visited and now that I have had my way with him, I went ahead a made a few decisions that might not be in my best interest if I want him to come around again next year.

That being said, I will be the first to create a legal loophole in that my naughtiness occurred after Christmas but BEFORE New Year's Eve so technically on the 2010 Watch, these can't really count against me. You decide.

Is it nice or not nice that when I am standing in line to take MiniMac on a ride on the famous Pink Pig, and I am kneeling down to talk to him that the woman in front of me bends over to tie her shoe thereby placing her arse in my face that I do not see until I  1. turn my head and 2. it is TOOOO LATE to avoid that I say something kind and sweet like "GOOD GOD" before leaping back like a scalded dog and pulling MiniMac back as well. Just a suggestion: Kneel down to tie your shoes. One more suggestion: WTF took you so long to tie your shoe?????? You were bent over for what seemed like ten minutes.

Is it nice or not nice that when the kiosk guy in the middle of the mall tried several times to give me a free sample of jewelry cleaner/face cleaner/hair extensions/colonics that after smiling and shaking my head no, upon his persistence I spoke to him in Italian and pretended I could not understand him?

Is it nice or not nice that while I am standing in line to return something to Crate and Barrel that first off, I should KNOW BETTER than to go anytime between December 26 and January 3 but do so anyway, that the following occurs:

Historically, the Sales Associates at C&B are some of the nicest people on earth. They are going as fast as humanly possible to process gifts, gift returns, gift cards, and about 1000 questions. I know this which is why I love this store and spend much time and effort stimulating their economy. While waiting my turn, I fully expect the pace of the line to be as slow and painful as a Mariah Carey movie. I expect everyone in line to do the same. Silly me. Therefore, when the woman behind me is standing so close to me that her jacket is actually touching my jacket, I get a skosh uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, there are limited options at  my disposal. I move to the side which only causes her to move even closer into my zone. I am at least TEN people from the finish line so I attempt to ignore it. When we inch closer, she is literally touching me. I like a slow dance just like the average gal, but this is not what I prefer.  Finally, I am one away and besides the fact that I left my Kindle in the car which would have been a perfect distraction from spending 30 minutes in line, I am still getting bum rushed by this woman so I refuse to move forward.

I think I get a shoulder nudge. Yes, I most definitely got a shoulder nudge and not a "Hey how YOU doin'" shoulder nudge but a "Hey Missy, get moving shoulder nudge." I am trying to exercise courteousness since this woman, upon my assessment, is about 40 years older than me. I am going to be a grandmother too one day and will take no lippy sass from young rascals so I bite my tongue. UNTIL, she says to me, "You need to scoot up."

I ignore this.

"You need to scoot up." Again, I ignore.

She clears her throat. And the gloves come just a tiny bit off as I say, "Ma'am, short of me sitting ON the counter or perhaps crawling inside the till, there is no where for me to scoot up. Perhaps you can scoot back and alleviate the problem."

What did she do? NOTHING. She ignores me. Likely plotting which part of my soft flesh she would cut into when she cornered me in the parking lot. Of course, my only solace would be that Santa would see that too and then she wouldnt be getting gifts next year therefore I wouldnt see her at Crate and Barrel and have to deal with this in the future.

Sorry Santa. I am back to being mostly good now.