I Believe

I wrote a letter to Santa.
I've wrapped boxes full of things I adore for people I love.
I've hung my wreathes.
I've decorated my puppies.
I've watched more than 20 specials on the TV.

I believe in the twinkle lights and glitter and the really good "cheer" and my tremendous stash of friends and the ribbons and bows and Lifetime Made for Television holiday fare and all the rest of the magic that goes with this time of year!

What I don't believe in is buying gifts for people I barely know or hardly see, being forced to participate in festive gatherings out of obligation, spending a fortune on presents for children, using the season as an excuse for gluttony, trying to "make a point," and insincere expressions of merriment.

I really thought I had something more in me on this, but I just don't. Maybe we should just consider this a reminder that you will receive in return that which you gave. I believe!

None for Me, Thank You Very Much!

Christmas can be an awkward time for those of us who intentionally hold no religious affiliation. It’s fraught with the declining of invitations to attend pageants and services and yet another, “come with us to see our neighbor’s nativity scene!" This rant is dedicated to those of you who extend these invitations/commands year after year as though something is going to dramatically change and we'll suddenly decide that everything we hold dear is of no consequence and come running whatnot... enthusiastically.

First, I would like to offer some advice on how to gracefully accept “no” as an answer.

1. Do not ask “why not?” It’s in poor form.
2. Do not plead or bribe. The answer will now be an agitated “no!”
3. Appreciate that your non-religious, non-conformist friend(s) will find a way to avoid you at the holidays going forward if you don’t respect their holiday traditions - or lack thereof.

[Sidebar: When you say no – to anyone for any reason – it is absolutely NOT necessary to offer up an explanation. When faced with an invitation that makes you want to run screaming to the back of your closet with a bottle of vodka rather than accept, your options are few: lie (always a bad idea); be truthful and risk hurting someone’s feelings; or silence. I recommend the third.]

I think we'd all like you to spend a little time mulling over why you’re so dead-set on getting us to your little shindigs in the first place. Is it really worth how annoyed I'd be just so you can add one more person to the audience when your 7-year-old son performs his ear-piercing violin rendition of Silent Night, or your grossly overweight daughter appears as a manger animal?

We of the non-religious persuasion are not curmudgeons. Quite the opposite, actually. I think we’re often more filled with the spirit of the season than many of our “religious” friends. And it’s not just the spirit we call booze! We don't feel the need to bust out a religious holiday in order to have an excuse for doing what people should do all the time anyway. We don’t need the guilt or fear of organized religion to make us "do unto others as we would have done unto us.” We heed the Golden Rule on principle, and we're mindful of  the power of "karmageddeon!"

Now, before you make me wear a new kind of letter on my pinafore, put an armband on my sleeve, or send over the bible-thumpers to save my poor soul from eternal damnation, let me type out loud that I’m not an atheist. Technically, I’m not agnostic either. By definition, an atheist, in the broadest sense of the term, is one who does not believe in any God or deity. Operative word: any.

To say one is agnostic, by definition, is to believe that the truth of a deity or other metaphysical power is unknowable. We could get into the semantics of this, but really. Why?

I consider myself simply a non-religious person. I do believe in the power of The Universe; I do not believe in any one God. I go with what I know and in this I have tremendous faith. For instance:

I have faith that I will, in fact, eat all of the orange cinnamon rolls if left alone with them.
I have faith that at least two people at some holiday gathering will irritate me to the point of having to keep a glass of “spirit” to my lips for hours on end in a gallant effort not to tell them to shut the hell up!
I have faith in inherent good.
I have faith that The Universe will never stop surprising me.
I have faith that as long as we continue to rise above the mire, we will continue not to get dirty… and I’m not a fan of dirt.

Now I'm wondering if I need to point out that Faith and Belief are two very different things. Belief is based in circumstances concreted into our own personal facts. For instance:

I believe that one must be cautious after dark.
I believe that four martinis will make just about anyone wear a lampshade.
I believe that no matter what, I cannot change – by choice or desire – the ultimate outcome of anything.
I believe that those without faith in their friendships are destined to chase something they’ll never catch.
I believe in my hairstylist’s innate sense of confidentiality.
I know you can’t change what other people want or need to believe.

I take great comfort in knowing that I will never be confused with a Christmas Catholic or Hanukkah Jew. I know what I know and that’s enough, thank you very much. Happy celebrations of whatever, Dear Readers!

Ah, the Romance

I. Watch. Too. Many. Romantic. Movies.

I’ve seen a lot of tragedy in my life – the vast majority of which was completely out of my control. For a control freak like me, that’s a tough nut. Nonetheless, those are the facts. That said, one would think I could do a better job controlling the things I can… like not watching romantic movies.

I figure these are written by women who, just like me, want to live in this crazy fantasyland where, through a series of serendipitous circumstances, whatever it is we want most in this world can be ours. I know it’s completely irrational and that spending even a minute hoping it’s possible is a minute wasted.

But still…

I dedicate hours on end to classics like Philadelphia Story (though in my defense, it’s one of the best movies ever produced) His Girl Friday, Sabrina (the original) and Adam’s Rib. I can spend entire weekends watching the romance-a-thon on Turner Classic Movies.

But I’m not a romance snob…

I grab a tissue box to watch The Lake House every time it comes on just to wrap myself in the feeling of true dedication to a relationship.

And who in their right mind wouldn’t pop some corn to watch When Harry Met Sally, You’ve Got Mail, Kate & Leopold – or any Meg Ryan romantic comedy for that matter? You know those are always heading for an uplifting and hopeful end.

Love Actually, My Best Friend’s Wedding, Notting Hill, High Fidelity, About a Boy, Did You Hear About the Morgans?, Dying Young, Autumn in New York, The Truth About Cats and Dogs, Serendipity. Oh! The Holiday! *swoons*

Really, I could name thousands.

It’s a freakin’ sickness with me, these movies. Part escapism, part wishful thinking, part artistry and part hopeful romantic… I just keep curling up on the sofa to watch, knowing perfectly well that in the end, I’ll only be one of two things: hopeful, or wrung-out depressed.

I wonder how many of the romantic comedies are written by men, and of those, how many are married? Are they all full of witty banter and graceful handling at home, or are they just a bunch of schmuggs?

I’m not sure how to go about breaking this bad habit, though frankly, I’m not convinced I really want to give up on the possibilities these movies present. Sure, it’s completely unrealistic to think those wonderful scenarios can play out in real life… but if someone thought to write it, surely it's not completely impossible.

*sighs*

Now that I’m done with that topic, this seems like a good time to talk about popcorn. How about giving up the non-biodegradable microwave popcorn bags and try this. Get a lunch sack, fill it with a ½ cup of popcorn kernels, fold the top over twice (do not clip or staple or do anything else stupid). Pop it into the microwave on high for 2-3 minutes or until the popping is down to 2-3 per second. Now top with about a pound of real butter and salt it like crazy! Voila!

Black Friday

This entire month nearly came and went without a word from me. Technically, I suppose it still will as this is a repost from last year. Nonetheless, some things bear repeating.
 
I don’t care what time of year it is, when I’m paying $5 for a cup of coffee, I want what I want, and I want it however I ask for it. Do not raise your eyebrows at me little Miss Barista, when I politely tell you that I would like a venti, non-fat, no foam, almond, gingerbread latte, with two extra shots. This is America and I’m perversely self-entitled. It’s my prerogative. Much like my un-American boycott of Black Friday.

Clarification: Said boycott actually has less to do with the long reaching, economic predictor holiday arm than it does with an early life discovery that the bars are open and the bartenders are bored. Holiday spending and gift-giving probably does induce pre- and post-seasonal depression. I say it’s kinder to keep that to yourself. It’s a different kind of holiday giving.

I think the whole Black Friday tradition of beating the hell out of people for 24 to 72 hours in an effort to procure bargains completely defies logic. What sane individual willingly leaves their home in a state of post-Thanksgiving lethargy, to get into a moving vehicle, negotiate traffic, circle endlessly in search of up front parking (because we don’t want to burn off any excess calories by parking at a distance from the destination), elbow mannerless other shoppers out of the way, and wait on endless lines all for the possibility of saving a few dollars, only to return home exhausted and further financially burdened?

NEWSFLASH PEOPLE: These same deals are available online and I haven’t paid for shipping in years. There’s a code for that…

I learned a long time ago that the whole of holiday shopping is something best done in the seclusion of my home office with a strong toddy. It’s been and will remain a perfect arrangement and my own personal holiday tradition.

If it’s the “spirit of the season” that forces you out of the house, I have an idea. Remember that bartender? Take your fancy phone with its fancy applications and park yourself on a stool in front of him… or her. Now you not only have the comfort of a chair and a cocktail, you also have a shopping mate. Believe me when I say, some of my best, and most unusual, gift ideas have come from bartenders. Not only do they know stuff, they know people. They’re a wealth of information, from who hates what newest electronic gadget and why; to all the reasons you might reconsider purchasing that diamond solitaire based on last weekend’s shenanigans.

Disclaimer: If you have reason to believe that I know you were planning that diamond purchase and are now wondering what I know that you don’t – it purely coincidental. I don’t know anything about anyone. Move along, People. There’s no show here.

OK. That’s all I have on this. Drink and shop responsibly.

Don't Pet My Peeve

For some time now, I’ve been putting together a random list of my pet peeves… so imagine my surprise when I read two of them on Sarcasm Society this morning. Ba!

The upside is that it lit a fire under me to share these little bits of insight and wisdom. Note that this list was not put together in a rush or ill advisedly. I’m also not certain it’s complete…

“I could care less”
Really? Could you? Then perhaps you should. The idiom is, “I couldn’t care less,” meaning the amount you care doesn't even exist at rock-bottom. I promise that if you use this phrase incorrectly, I will gently correct you by saying, very slowly in hopes your feeble mind will take note, “I could not possibly care any less.”

“Trust me…”
Because… why? You normally lie but this time you’re telling the truth? Because you think you know more about a given situation than anyone else? Are you seriously that self-involved that you believe you’re the ultimate authority? Just hearing you say that immediately generates a knee-jerk reaction from me not to trust you.

“I want to say…”
Well then go ahead, say it. I had a friend once who thought making fun of people who said this was absolutely the funniest, make-you-snort-with-laughter thing ever. Agreed. If you don’t know, just say you don’t know. Don’t guess and preface it with that expression. It’s ridiculous. Consider it said.

“LOL”
This is not something you type in a text, IM, or chat room just to fill the silence. And are you really laughing out loud? I doubt it. If you are actually chortling, how about employing the use of a phrase less pedestrian?

And while we’re on the topic of texting, why oh why do you think I want to waste time locating my chirping cell just to read your conversation ending, “K.” Here’s the thing: acquiescence is implied by your silence. For example: “I’ll meet you at the bar at 9.” If for some reason you’re not going to make it, then respond as such. Otherwise, go on about the business of preparation so you’re not late.

Oh, the perpetually tardy. You can judge an adult’s sense of respect for others based solely on whether or not they can manage to consistently be on time. I’ve ranted through this topic on numerous occasions, but if you missed it, go read Time Time Time.

Whistling. Some would say this bothers me because I can’t do it. I say I can’t do it because, well, why would I want to? I fail to see any reason why someone would fill a car with this harsh, high-pitched racket when there’s a perfectly conversational companion in the next seat. There is absolutely no call for walking around the office or anywhere else you’re not alone making this incredibly annoying noise. Let’s make a deal, I promise to continue only singing in the shower if you promise to only whistle there. And to be specific, your own shower, not mine. Preferably in another state. Thank you for your cooperation.

I know people who lie about the most asinine things. Things no one actually cares about anyway. It’s part of a game of one-upmanship and I have no tolerance for this sort of behavior. In what Universe do you suppose telling me how wonderful or dedicated or whatever you are is going to make a difference in my life? I live in my own little Jana Bubble. If it doesn’t directly impact me or my serenity I don’t give a shit what you do, when you do it, or who you’re doing it with. Lie about it though and you’re dead to me.

This list goes on to include things like bad table manners, no manners, loud-mouthed women, white after Labor Day no matter what “fashion” says this year, people who can’t hold their liquor or behave properly under the influence of one-too-many, children who don’t understand the phrase “seen but not heard” and the insecure parents who let them get away with acts of total disrespect, pettiness, and the slovenly.

*whew*

After all of that, it might seem like it’s difficult to be with me. It’s not. Merely think before you speak, and consider the outcome before you act. *shrugs*

All the Single Ladies

Are you seriously telling me that you can’t/won’t walk into a bar or restaurant alone? Good grief. *eyeroll* Next you’re going to tell me that you can’t/won’t eat out on your own or go to a movie solo!

Girls, as hard as this may be to digest, when you enter a building alone, people are not staring at you. To be brutally honest, the chance that anyone even noticed is slim. What? Now you’re insulted? Don’t be. It’s your own fault. You slink in hoping no one will see you, and sure enough, no one will.

I don’t mind waiting for someone at the bar (I’m habitually early) or dining out by myself. I know people aren’t staring at me or whispering about the woman sitting alone. In fact, I suspect some are actually envious. Whatever. The point I’m trying to make is that doing this is not scary or weird. In fact, for those living in Singledom, it can really work in your favor.

Irrespective of the other qualities on the list – great rack, sense of humor, millionaire – you’ll find that everyone is supposedly looking for a partner with confidence. Sure, you say you’re confident… then you cower in your car pretending to be on a call until you see your friends roll up. Really? You’re ridiculous.

There’s something hot, and kind of mysterious, about someone who can sit alone and enjoy a cocktail without “props.” That’s right. Put your phone down. Unless you’re actually a surgeon or an emergency veterinarian, you are not that important. The phone only serves to make you look desperate. And it’s just sad. So stop it. Need something to do while you wait?

• Sit up straight. Slouching is not only pathetic, it makes you look fat.
• Make eye contact and smile. Not that skeevy “come hither” smile you use in the clubs; just a little upturn of the mouth. Girls: men will find it charming; women will feel a kinship with you. Boys: flip that. It’s a win-win.
• People watch. Don’t be all Creep McGreeps about it, but take a sincere look. You’ll quickly realize that you’re not the topic of conversation, and most likely there are other people who are waiting on their inconsiderate, late friends, too. You are not alone.

When dining unaccompanied, I make this concession: feel free to use this time to catch up on your reading. Food service isn’t always paced to my liking and since I’m always 2-3 months behind on my magazines and desperately trying to finish a book, it’s like multi-tasking. And I’m always surprised how often some random person will send me a glass of wine. It’s nice.

[A note of caution: be aware that you’re a “1-top” and the server will want to turn your table with all due speed. If you’re camping out, order and tip accordingly. The Rule: appropriate tip for camping is 20% of what the bill would have been if you were a 2-top… so 40% minimum of your check.]

As for the movies, there are few things in this life I enjoy more than going to a show by myself. If you’ve never done this, or you’re not comfortable doing things on your own, choose a movie time that falls shortly after your next appointment with your shrink, and give it a go. I promise it’s fantastic. No one talks to you. No one asks you what was just said onscreen. You don’t have to explain the jokes, and most importantly, no one is shoving their big bear paw into your 2-gallon bucket of popcorn turning all the fluffy deliciousness into crumbs.

Bottom line: get over yourself. Everyone else is already over you.

Time, Time, Time...

I know, I’ve harped on this topic before, but it bears repeating. I’ll be brief.
There are very few things in this world we actually have control over. The sooner you grasp that concept the better off you’ll be. Something we can control is our time – more specifically, our time management skills.

You’ve been performing the shower, shampoo, and shine dance since you were a teenager. You know exactly how long it takes to go from bath to door. My question is this: why the hell are you always late?

Aside from the fact that it’s inexcusably intolerable, think about what this says about YOU. You’re telling people – your friends! – that your time is more valuable than their time; that it’s more important to you to jack around, dallying about with whatever distraction, than it is to be respectful.

Being late does not make you appear “cool” or oh-so-busy that you just couldn’t get where you were going on time what with being in such high demand. To the contrary, it serves to cement the fact that you’re selfish and inconsiderate.

So! For those of you who “just can’t” be on time, here’s a little time management gift from me to you.

1. Accept invitation
2. Post invitation wherever necessary so as not to forget
3. Determine location of meeting place using whatever means at your disposal
4. Mentally gauge how long it will take you to transport yourself to said location based on time of day
5. Factor in any additional stops which may be required such as filling your gas tank or that “quick” detour by your parent’s house
6. Determine how long preparations for rendezvous will take
7. Now use the following formula:

• Event Time – (transportation time + 10 minus) – (preparation time + 10 minutes) = Bath Time

I do realize that if you can’t consistently arrive at a designated location at a designated time, math might be a bit over your head, so try tucking into this:

• 8:00PM meet at favorite bar – (15 minutes to get there + 10 minutes just in case) – (1 hour to get ready + 10 minutes to change mind about hair style) = 6:20PM bath time

Note that by building in an extra 10 minutes to preparation time, I can reassess my ensemble if need be. The additional 10 in transportation ensures that if traffic is particularly congested, I’m still in line to arrive promptly.

If you’re reading this and mentally composing your scathing “Comment” for insertion below, mull this scenario over first:

You’re going out on “a big date.” He’s said he’ll pick you up at 7pm.
At 7:05 you're checking out the peep hole.
At 7:15, you’re blatantly throwing open the curtains to check the street.
At 7:25 you turn out all the lights and swear you’re not opening the door when he arrives.
At 7:26 you’re not sure you have the right night so you turn on the lights to check whatever mechanism you stored this big event reminder on.
At 7:40 you’ve decided to change into jeans and bail when there’s a knock at the door.
Remember how pissed you were a minute ago? There you have it. You’re glad your date hasn’t stood you up but you’re looking for a mighty damn good explanation for being treated with such gross disrespect. After all, you could’ve spent that time doing plenty of things other than waiting.

The principle of this scenario plays out the same when you keep your girlfriends waiting. It’s just as rude and inconsiderate and just so we’re clear, I won’t wait. If you’re late because you didn’t want to be alone waiting for me, you’re in for a longer wait than you thought.

From time to time, unexpected circumstances arise which put you off schedule. I get that; I’m not a complete hard-ass. You’re late. But you know you’re late. You knew you were late well before the pre-determined meeting time. So call whomever you’re meeting! And don’t wait until after you’re late – they already know! You don't wait until 5 minutes before you're supposed to be somewhere. You place that call the moment you realize you're going to keep someone waiting. For all you know they may have had something come up and now they’re busting their ass to be on time – and making it – but could slow down and take a breath knowing that there’s been a 30 minute delay.

If your “big issue” is that you’re just not comfortable walking into a bar or restaurant alone, get over it! Walk in, sit down, order a drink and look around. No one is staring at you! Quit acting like a school kid.

Being on time doesn’t appear desperate. Quite the opposite, really. It shows your friends, family, or business acquaintances that you’re excited and reliable. People do not respect those who cannot be depended on to do what they commit to doing.

Being on time is easy and 100% under your control. Grow up.

Speak No Evil

You’d think that with six weeks off while my hands healed I would’ve come up with a huge list of topics, injustices, and social faux pas to discuss. I didn’t. Actually this little respite found me mulling over just about nothing…

…except this.

It’s hard to tell your friends the hard truths. I would itemize specific “hard truths” but even though I’ve been asked to, I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell the friends in question. I’m pretty sure they’d recognize themselves here and that’s just cowardly.

People always say things like, “I’d want you to tell me.” Ha! Yeah. In theory! How about this; how about you don’t shoot the messenger?

It’s like asking someone’s honest opinion then getting shitty when you don’t like what you hear. How about this; how about you just don’t ask?

The only thing that attitude serves to accomplish is ensuring that the next time you ask me, oh yeah… I’m totally going to tell you whatever it is you want to hear. It’s not worth the grief.

As for those things that need to be said but nobody has manned-up to, I’m wondering why I’m the chosen one so often. Why do I have to be the one to say something? Is it because, in the words of someone whose company I do not enjoy, I’m “all business and no joke”? So… what?

Yeah, I’m one tough broad (*giggles*) but I’m not unsympathetic! And I do have feelings… somewhere… maybe in a bag in the back of my closet. Still! That doesn’t mean I’m keen to go in all willy-nilly to deliver information that could very well be unwelcome.

Maybe it’s cowardly to join the masses and keep my trap shut. Even more cowardly than the fact that I’ve stood by making excuses for said friends instead of actually having the conversation. But in my defense, no one is actually getting hurt; there’s no felony in the making; no blood will be shed nor relationship ruined…

… except perhaps ours.

We're here! We're here!

Due to an unfortunate incident last week, I'm left typing with just two fingers. Fear not... I look to be employing the use of additional digits soon! In the meantime, cull the archives. Surely something there will pique your interest!

Love Stinks

I’ve never denied that I’m a little broken. Most of us are, really. I suppose “most” want to hide this fact, but from where I stand, I can’t see the point. I used to be one of the “most” but then discovered that trying to hide the mammoth pile that constitutes my flaws only sets me up to disappoint myself or someone else. Besides, broken is my cash cow!

Living amongst the excruciatingly long list of my many, many flaws is an entire section devoted to my extensive experience in disastrous decisions, inclusive of subsections containing chapters, footnotes, cross-references and my personal journals cataloged into a bibliography. I suppose that’s why people are comfortable seeking out my thoughts on their equally screwed up lives. (Note: I did not say advice. That would be counterproductive on their part, obviously.) I have a lot of relationship material to draw on; great relationships and ghastly ones, horrifying and seemingly endless serial dating, paralyzing break-ups, ridiculously stupid affairs, and dodgy one-night stands. It would then stand to good reasoning that I’ve developed some thoughts on the topic of relationships.

By way of disclaimer, I’m not suggesting that I’ve managed to employ the following in anything more than theory. Sometimes you just have to do as I say, not as I do. I am, and for you Dear Readers I will remain, your constant source for a cautionary tale.

Okay. Here we go:

Mull this: shouldn’t we hold out for the person who doesn’t just tolerate our little quirks, but actually likes them? You deserve to be with someone who understands your brand of happiness.

People who complicate your life rather than make it easier for you to breathe are not good for you, no matter how bangin’ the body or fantastic the hair. Simplify. Close the circle a bit. If your responsibilities within the relationship leave you overwrought by the struggle to hold it together alone, remind yourself that it will never, ever get any better or easier.

I read somewhere – maybe in a toilet stall – that there are people who take the heart out of you and there are people who put it back. There’s no sense crying yourself to sleep for nights on end. That will only guarantee a pissy morning of trying to get your eyelashes on, or a lousy ballgame after work. Take a deep breath and look around. Someone is waiting, and excited about you.

ALL relationships, whether with friends or lovers, ebb and wane. Rule of thumb: when caught in the riptide, don’t fight it. Swim parallel to the shore.

Try to remember that love doesn’t hurt. Disappointment, broken trust, lack of respect, a kick in the shins… these things hurt. These things are not love. Take solace in knowing that once you leave that kind of “love” behind, the pain goes away pretty quickly. While you wait you can reflect on the lesson you just learned.

Love does not take hostages. We tend to get wrapped up, tied down, and brainwashed into thinking that if it’s not working, we deserve the misery because we failed. Own your half and get the hell out. Waiting a week, a month, a year, is not going to change the outcome. It will only ensure you have to wait longer for someone who wants to be with you.

You cannot retrieve a missed opportunity. Stop worrying about looking like an ass and just say what you have to say.
“I love you whether you care or not.”
“I hate you and that should matter.”
“Helloooo, hot pants! What’s your sign!”
Don’t spend so much time in your head thinking about what you want to say. Just blurt it out. It may go great, it may go rot. Either way, you can say you were brave enough to do it. We all make mistakes… don’t make yours one of “what-might-have-been.” And don’t wait. Time is always of the essence.

For your own sake and the sensibilities of your friends, learn to say “no.” It’s the only real way to avoid bitterness and repeated bad reconciliations. It’s equally as important to remember that no means no. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you feel, and offering one will have you halfway back to yes. Stand your ground! I would suggest doing so in the yard with a beverage.

Don’t be afraid to fail in a HUGE way! Huge risk makes success sweeter and failure funnier.

When someone doesn’t remember things you’ve said or requests you’ve made, know that it’s not because they have a poor memory. It’s because you don’t matter enough for them to bother paying attention. This is an irrefutable fact. Sorry.

Change. Change yourself, your circumstance, your hair color, whatever isn’t working. That said, do not make changes for someone else that are not a personal improvement. For example, it’s an easy thing to dash off your habit of leaving your crap strewn all over your abode if it bothers the people/person you live with. This is a personal change that has been scientifically proven to aid in clearer, more productive thought processing, thus, a positive personal change. There is no positive personal change in giving up your standards, morals, convictions, or money to someone else.

Learn when to let go. It’s a waste of time to wish for the impossible.

Three of a Kind

“What we’ve got here, is a failure to communicate.” ~ Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke (1967)


Though not the intention, when applied to relationships between men and women, truer words were never spoken. What men say and what women hear could not possibly be more at odds. In most cases we could close the gap if, as women, we would quit trying to read between the lines and just accept the actual words.

I’ll be the first to admit that for years I thought all of this was nothing more than propaganda generated to allow men an “out” for being too damned lazy to actually participate in the parts of a relationship that don’t involve sex. If that makes you want to throw yourself into the bottom of a vodka bottle, take heed: rumor has it some men actually understand that work is required on their part too, if they intend to consistently have sex for the rest of their lives.

Sorry, no, I don’t have those phone numbers…

“Men are either playing with you, or planning with you.” ~ Steve Harvey
I’m a big fan of Mr. Harvey’s book, “Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man.” Here’s the thing though… if you’re not willing to take a hard look at your own crazy behavior, girls you are not going to like what he has to say. I’m not saying I agree with all of it (Mr. Harvey – it’s impossible for me to take your “power” away from you, sir), but he does make some valid if hard to swallow points. Make this your mantra: He’s either playing with me or planning with me. Figure that out then you can decide if you’re going to be his booty-call or his partner.

“Men are only as loyal as their options.” ~ Bill Maher
This is true from the beer they drink to the dates they keep. I’ve never heard a guy say “no, thanks” to a beer just because it’s not his preferred brand. They think of dating the same way. “Sure, she’s not the one I want, but I’ll totally take her for now.” Now, do you really want to be his emergency-back-up-spare? Of course not! But as long as there are options, he’ll be making choices. Your success is based on your ability is to limit the options - not by shortening his leash, but by becoming the only beer he wants to drink. If he’s a true blue Bud man and you’re offering up the ice-cold mountains of the Rockies, what do you suppose he’s going to do?

“A man has two reasons for doing anything: a good reason, and the real reason.” ~ JP Morgan
This means if you come home to discover flowers “just because you deserve them” – which is totally true; your dry cleaning has mysteriously appeared in your closet or dinner is on the table “because I know how busy you are,” go shave your legs. He believes in his actions, which = a good reason. He also knows that this is the quickest way to get you into the bed = the real reason.

There you are, ladies – three very different men with the same idea. If you can master these, you’re armed with all the knowledge to keep or discard any man in your life, on your terms. To all non-believers I say this: eventually you will have to embrace the fact that men are, in essence, just simple… and incredibly self-indulgent. They think using their small words. If you just listen to them, you’ll get all the information you need.

Here are your new rules:

1. Do not assume there’s ever an “implied” anything. They don’t know how to do that. Implying things is strictly girl territory; a bad habit which should be broken posthaste.

2. If his words were, “I’ll text you” (ewww! really?) and you don’t hear from him until late one Saturday night with the excuse that he lost his phone – that’s playing with you.

3. Another example of playing not planning: you invite him to a BBQ next weekend and he says, “I’ll have to let you know.” Oh, he already knows… he’s just gonna confirm that nothing better comes along before committing.

4. If a man wants to be with you, he will find a way to make that happen! Go ahead, I'll wait while you read it again.

5. Stop being so accommodating. You just look easy.

6. Remember that if he needs a short leash, he’s a runner. In the long run that’s just entirely too much work for too little return.

7. As long as he has options, so do you. Exercise yours not to look like a pathetic, spineless, sad-sack by clinging on to something that doesn’t exist.

Lastly, please stop dragging your girlfriends through your mind-numbing renditions of every conversation, text, or email. It’s very difficult for us to tell you what you truly already know: that he’s a cad. Hear what he says and save a friendship. It’s a win-win.

Malapropism

In an effort to stem the tidal wave of your hate mail right upfront, I’m going to kick this off by telling you that I have a vocal accent… of the Southern variety. That said, I’m the perfect person to take issue with word pronunciation given that I use entirely too many vowels, and alongside everyone else in the great state of Texas I was once forced to learn how to say “Sesquicentennial.” Seems to me that the word “ask” shouldn’t be that tough.

Inasmuch as I support the expansion of the English language with real words, I find the social acceptance of mispronunciation abhorrent. If we’re going to stand by the notion that we don’t want people to judge us by how we look, and according some of the misbegotten suggestions left in the Comments section of DNR: The English Language, we shouldn’t be judged by how we communicate, how then should we go about the process of forming impressions of people? Do you really want to paint yourself into that corner?

Bottom line is this: like it or not, you are going to be judged by how you speak: your ability to conjugate a verb correctly, your basic grammar skills, and your level of competent enunciation. No one is asking you to get Sesquicentennial right the first time; my exception here is with the pure laziness of not bothering - even with the easy ones. Here are a few, in no particular order, to demonstrate the point:

Woof: this is something an animal does. In this case, the animal is question is a wolf. See the “L”? Don’t be afraid to use it.

Gawf: that’s the best I can communicate that one. The word is “golf” – see above.

Birfday: I’ve said it before… unless you’re missing teeth or in speech therapy, just stop it. Contrary to the movie running in your head, it’s not cute and puts your maturity level in question.

Feberary: say it slowly: Feb ru ary. It’s almost as though that first “r” is silent… which would be a nice direction for those who refuse to get this right.

Valentime: time to find a new Valentine, I’d say.

Libary: really? Isn’t there a dictionary stored there?

Probly or Prolly: *eyeroll* probably going to cement that position in a minimum wage job.

Supposively: I… I… I don’t even know where to start with this one. What is a supposive? *sighs* It’s supposedly. That’s right… with a “d.”

Spayded: let’s hope the mother of that imbecile was spayed after this runt was born.

You may ask, "why should I heed this advice?"
Because people don’t take you seriously. You sound like an illiterate imbecile. Yeeees, I get that there are colloquial variations - we've already talked aboout my vowels, and nobody loves the sound of a man from Boston or Brooklyn more than I do! But knowing the difference and monitoring your pronunciation is essential if you don’t want people to treat you like the village idiot... or a drunk.

Don’t go getting all salty over that remark. A “handler” once told me that my accent was distracting and made me sound uneducated. I was wholly insulted… at first. Then I began to see a modicum of validity. Sure, lots of folks – mostly men – find my accent charming. But when I’m standing in front of a room full of people, is “charming” what I want the audience to walk away with? It’s really not any different than when a woman shows too much cleavage. No one is taking her seriously. They’re completely focused on whether or not she did it on purpose. Mispronunciation is the equivalent of mental boobage. Don't believe me? Watch their faces when you "ax" if there are questions.

Just so I'm perfectly clear, the issue at hand is not with accents. No one is telling you to shed yours. Only to know the difference and to stop pronouncing words like a three-year old because you think it's cute, or because you're too damned lazy to use your tongue. That doesn't bode well for anyone...

I was thinking that I might also take issue with using words whose definitions you don't know but you've decided make you sound smart - when in truth you just “showed a nipple” - but I’ll save it for another time. Besides, I’m sure that much like my previous rants on the issues of grammar and the degeneration of our language, it's a moot point… so don't be afraid to stay mute and ensure you don’t show your ass as well as your boobs.

Kid-Free America!

During my morning perusal of all things new in the overnight, I tripped over a link titled “One thing 1 in 5 Women Will Never Do.” Well, well, well! Interest piqued!

*click*

According to the Pew Research Center we’re not having children. That’s right, apparently The Universe alongside Impolite Society are going to have to throw in the towel on catty comments and pressuring the childless. The report cites factors such as the increased effectiveness of birth control and the fact that women are delaying that little sashay down the aisle longer in order to advance their career, partake in the joie de vivre longer, or just find the right man for a change – though marital status not does not skew the numbers here. Bottom line: women are choosing not to have a posse of little snot-nosed heathen screaming for attention and breaking the Waterford.

This all made perfect sense to me and I was thrilled to see the legion growing.

Not surprisingly, and the actual point of the research, the women most likely not to have children are the most educated of our gender. Reaction: “of course! They make the most money and have better stuff”… followed by: “oh shit.”

Now before you gals with children start scroll-racing to the Comments section to compose your scathing remarks because you’ve decided I just called you stupid, let me clarify here that all women are making choices! You may chose to settle into a life of never doing anything without a minimum of 6 hours prep time, while 20% of the adult female population is now saying, “sure! I can be out the door in 15 minutes. Send a car!” This is all about a recorded change in the reproductive dynamic, so just keep reading.

Just the facts, ma’am:

Of women with a college education, the following childless-ness was determined:
Bachelor’s: 1 in 4.34 (yeah… I don’t know how they divide a woman.)
Master’s: 1 in 4
Ph.D.: 1 in 4.34
No college degree: only 1 in 15-18 does NOT have a child, depending on total education

Outside of the education issue, women of all races are beginning to take a pass on the childbearing. I was just beginning to speculate about that little tidbit...

And then!

The researchers began asking for opinions. Yippee! Nothing makes me happier than an opportunity for people to let their own unresolved issues and poor judgment influence the lives of others!

When the study participants were asked if they felt people (meaning both men and women) “lead an empty life,” if they didn’t shoot mini-mes from their loins, 39% said yes. The remaining 61% apparently laughed.

Also baffling, 41% said that children were an important part of achieving a successful marriage. Hmmm. Apparently the 1950’s are resurging. “If we just have a baby everything will be okay!” *eyeroll* Luckily this number is on the decline too, because as far as I’m concerned the only old school thinking that should be experiencing a revival is the Retrosexual Man and polite society.

All those statistics aside, we know that children whose parents completed college are more likely to follow suit. If the number of women holding a degree who also feel that Baby Gap is Mecca continues to decline, where will that leave us? I’m just thinking that this trend could mean the continued degeneration of native innovation and world domination!

Given the general “dumbing down” of our society - from spoon feeding politics to disregarding the very basics of grammar and good communication - it seems ill-advised for the women with the highest education to choose Louboutin’s over prams. Now just so we’re clear, I totally get it; I’m one women you’ll never see running behind a jog-stroller, tossing aside my very high heels for mommy-friendly flats, or forgoing a case of good wine for Gymboree registration. I do not vacation places where I might be exposed to or otherwise experience a child, when "child" is defined as anyone not old enough to buy me a martini.

So sadly, girls, if we’re not planning to leave behind what will eventually degenerate into a third-world country, I think some of ya’ll are going to have to take one for the team.

Show of hands?
Anyone?
Anyone?
Maybe in the back?

Stop! Thief!

I know a lot of writers who also blog.
I know a lot of bloggers who also do things other than write.

For the sake of general clarification, when I say “I know” I don’t always mean it in a “we’ve-had-coffee-or-latkes-together” way. Some of us really only know one another via our writing and that teeny tiny photo. We are each other’s biggest fans and harshest critics. It’s what makes it easy to post scathing comments from our readers. But I digress…

So there’s this blogger-“friend” of mine, not so much a participant as a lurker, who is stealing my hard thought, vodka-sopped, painstakingly written ideas.

[Sidebar: I’m going to try to remain gender neutral here so please forgive the use of random pronouns.]

This person reads my work, cleans up the language, dumbs down the idea, then repeats it using flowery adjectives. Really? Is this what the world of online writing has come to? You can’t have an original thought without it being shoplifted, only to see it turn up in another store? And the really shitty bit is that sometimes, I actually like this person’s version. Not very often mind you because frankly I don’t believe he/she/it has the life experience and general wherewithal to fully appreciate my perspective. And of course, since it was my idea/thought/rant to begin with, I can only assume that the style is stolen, too.

I’m not so sure imitation is the sincerest form of flattery in the case of writing. I feel violated and I’m not certain why. I mean, this isn’t out and out plagiarism. That, my friends, would bring down a wrath of fury unlike any to be court recorded since…

*decides probably not allowed to discuss that yet*

Where was I…

Right.  This isn’t so much plagiarism as it is…. personality theft.  Now why people would want to steal one instead of developing their own, I can’t begin to imagine.

Weird as it seems, we all know at least one person who morphs into the people he/she spends time with. I know this guy –  let's call him Fred – who is a master at this and I’m not sure he even knows. The crazy thing is, way back in the beginning, when we first met, I thought he had the best personality. Fred was interesting and funny and had opinions that belonged to him, not the people around him. I haven’t seen “that guy” in a long time. Which is a shame, really. People are so much more attractive and compelling when they’re not busy stealing someone else’s personality/mannerisms/ideas/opinions/cadence/shoes.

In a world where the boundaries that used to separate people are blurring at a nearly phenomenal rate, being different and original is an asset. Long gone is the “in crowd.” It’s been replaced by supremely interesting people who think unassisted.

I’ve decided that the only real remedy for my malady is to stay away from everything written by the thief.  I’m just going to suck it up and hope that they aren’t selling the material… for her sake.

What Do You Wanna Be?

“I’ll ask a kid, ‘What do you want to be?’ and no one has ever told me, ‘I want to be a dope dealer.’ They all want to be somebody; they want to be something.” ~ Oral Lee “Mama” Brown


I guess I've never really thought about it…

*mulls*

Well of course no one grows up saying they want to be a dope dealer! People don't grow up saying they want to be the biggest gossip on the block, or a manipulative cad either. And yet… there they are: opportunists who degrade good deeds or prey on other’s misfortune in an effort to elevate themselves away from their personal failures.

I’ve thought about how opportunity breeds success – and also how it can breed contempt, false ego, jealousy, hate, love, and disappointment. Pretty slippery slope if you ask me.

Semi-interesting thought: do we measure our success based on other people’s failure? I’m in no way condoning the use or distribution of mood altering illegal substances here, but for the sake of argument, is the dealer a success when he’s the first in his family to own a car? Or a failure based on his means of procurement?

Am I a success because I write every day, or a failure because I haven’t finished my book?

Are you a success because you “won” an argument, or a failure for not acting like a grown-up?

I was once told – by the least likely of people – to stop being disappointed when friends turn out to be merely opportunists. Man, there’s some advice I should’ve heeded! But I didn’t. I’m still stupidly compelled to believe in people, to give them the opportunity to be who they always wanted to be, or to use a mulligan. I learned this from my sister.

When I was little I wanted to be Miss America, a Kansas City Chiefette, a junior high school teacher, a movie star, a singer, a lawyer, a US senator, an orphan, a dancer, or a writer. I suppose three out of ten isn’t so bad, but still… none were quite how I imagined.

I guess that’s the point, really.

We all wanted to be something when we were small, but opportunity or chance or luck or good timing or bad timing or a left turn or a question or a person or a tragedy or love… changed what we wanted to become, into who we would become.

Own it. Change it. Live it. Embrace it or toss it away. It’s a life of your own making. I don't believe it’s ever too late to start again.

"It's never too late to be who you might have been." ~ George Eliot

Mulligan!

Fathers

I think every grown woman has a memory of dancing with her father as a little girl. Standing on his shoes and learning the waltz…

My dad taught me to waltz. He taught me all of the waltzes. He taught me the quick step and the tango. I learned to mambo and merengue.  These were not his dances, but he thought it was important for me to know them just the same.

He was a dancer. I would become a dancer, too. Seven days a week were spent in the studio – sometimes for an hour; sometimes for six or eight. It was all about technique. I was short for this vocation so everything had to be bigger, better, more dynamic and more acrobatic. When my quadruple pirouette was perfect, he insisted on five, then six, and ultimately nine – because he believed that no one would ever expect me to do ten perfectly balanced rotations.

My arabesques needed to be higher, longer. My back had to be strong enough to support elegant overhead positions, and flexible enough to catch myself if… when… I fell. Arms were to be graceful, yet powerful; hands delicate yet firm. My feet should turn both out and in with equal ease. I would jump higher, stay suspended longer, and master the art of silently returning to the floor.

I would take more classes every week in the studio than I did in school. I would miss formals and football games in order to take Master Classes with renowned teachers. He would beam at my successes, and walk me through the places where I failed. Side by side we would eat sandwich lunches, setting them down from time to time to try something new… often times forgetting about them altogether.

So much discipline…

Though I no longer dance, except for my own enjoyment, I remain dedicated to all I was taught. I was given the tools to push on and dig deeper when I felt I had nothing left; to try again when I’d already fallen time after time; to stand tall and out of my hips in the face of adversity.

I miss my dad. I miss our sandwiches. I miss dancing on his shoes…

Happy Father's Day.

Retrosexual Man

I’m in love with the Retrosexual Man!
No, he’s not just a Metrosexual in a great hat. This is a man of the most Frank Sinatra and James Bond ilk. And much to the delight and breathlessness of women everywhere, he’s making a magnificent resurgence.

I think that in a world where men use course language as a matter of casual conversation, and picking up the check means somebody is “putting out” later, we could use an influx of good old-fashioned manliness - a Menaissance. Here’s my take on the whole thing.

“Good manners will open doors that the best education cannot.” ~ Clarence Thomas

Boys, include bedroom doors because I promise you, we don’t care how many degrees you have hanging on your office wall, if you act like a buffoon or lord your knowledge of French literature over a woman, you’re only locking yourself out in the hallway. Good manners - not just the “show” of manners - and the understanding that treating others with dignity and respect is the truest sign of a man in charge. And chicks dig that.

Every man should be able to save his own life… and mine. According to Earle Liederman in Endurance (1926):
“Every man should be able to save his own life. He should be able to swim far enough, run fast and long enough to save his life in case of emergency and necessity. He also should be able to chin himself a reasonable number of times, as well as dip a number of times, and he should be able to jump a reasonable height and distance.”

… or pay to have someone on call to take care of these things!

I’ve never been one of those ridiculous girls to get salty if a man holds a door, picks up a check, assists with a coat, or in any way treats me with the respect due a lady. Quite to the contrary, those gentlemen are held in very high regard, indeed. They’re not looking for my approval, and I’m not looking to be in a situation where I have to give it. They’re confident in who they are already, which means I’m not going to be expected to coo and ego-stroke.

The Retrosexual Man wears a suit that fits properly. His shoes are shined and in good repair. He’s showered, shaven, combed, and smells like a man… not like he just cruised the cologne counter at Bloomingdale’s for a date. He does not show up at the door in torn anything or with exposed toes. (The only exception to the sandal rule is if the destination is the beach or pool-side.)

He thinks before he speaks and he does so without the need for grand gestures or the kind of language that would get one expelled from school. At least not in mixed company! He doesn’t speak using filler words such as “like” or “ya know” or “um” because he knows that doing so implies he isn’t confident in what he’s saying. He commands a room quietly by placing his focus on other people instead of himself. He’s engaging. He’ll ask you to dance when no one else is; he knows how to take the lead. Honestly girls, isn’t it nice to not be in charge for awhile?

Those manly-men we love from old movies didn’t go for the weeping willow of a girl. Oh sure, he’d take her out, but he wasn’t looking to spend more than a few sweaty nights in her company. They were looking for the strong, independent, wise and sometimes wise-cracking gal who could hold her own, or hold her tongue – her decision.

Just so I’m clear, this Retrosexual Man movement isn’t about getting women barefooted and back into the kitchen. These men want us to keep what we worked for – it’s what they love about us. But I suspect the old adage, “there’s no such thing as a free lunch” does come into play. Though I haven’t found any of these gentlemen to say it out loud, it’s time to remember that there’s a feminine side to feminism. Take off your boyfriend-cut jeans and tank top, and slip into a pretty dress from time to time. Cover your ass crack and get rid of that muffin-top. Clean up your language and find a lipstick that suits you. Put your drama in a journal instead of using your outdoor voice in a crowded room. Learn to hold your liquor. Spend an afternoon with the Grand Matriarch of your family for a refresher course in charm and table manners. It’s a very small price to pay to spend time with a man of quality.

I suppose there will be some backlash from this movement but I suspect it’ll come from insecure women who believe their only power is in their title… whatever that might be.

Here’s my idea. How about instead of trying to turn men into women, we celebrate masculinity so we can quit losing our salon and manicure appointments to Guidos and the like. Let boys be boys. Remind men to be men. I think we have a real have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too opportunity, girls!



For those of you who looking to strike out for additional information, I beg of you to disregard this wildly personal and crazily macho dissertation called the Retrosexual Code of Ethics. Its self-serving, gun-waving, down-on-your-knees propaganda is a wreck. Instead, Google yourself a little Brett McKay or see him at WithLeather – a very guy-oriented “girls, t.v., and sports” site. Discover The Art of Manliness, though be advised that it’s somewhat tongue-in-cheek in my opinion.

DNR: The English Language

Code blue!
Charge the paddles to 300!
Our language is DYING!!!

I’m starting to wonder if there is a “Do Not Resuscitate” posted on the English language. Between reality television and corporate America “inventing” words and phrases that mean nothing, I’m beginning to think that we’ve dropped so far below the bar it’s soon going to be impossible for me to order a martini.

I learned this communication device we call the English language in schools whose (not who’s) focus was on something other than sports and teen pregnancy. I’m not blaming our educational system for all of it. I’d like to take this opportunity to blame disengaged parenting and crap television. I point my finger in the direction of corporate communications “specialist” who hears someone use a phrase or metaphor that “sounds” like it’s right, then proceeds to repeat it incessantly until such time as others decide it must be right, too. Case in point:

“…the below table…”
Um. Are you kidding me? Who graduated you from college? The afore-referenced should always read: “… the table below…” Shame on you for calling yourself a professional.

It is with much cynicism and sarcasm that I’ve compiled the Top 10 words and phrases that aggravate me most - in no particular order, just the way they popped up... which may or may not be meaningful. This is by no means exhaustive, as that would require an entire month of entries. No, these are just the ones that make me bristle the hardest.

#1 “I could care less”
Really? Could you? Then perhaps you should! If you don’t care about something then it stands to reason, and a modicum of word usage comprehension, that you could not care less.

#2 “Th” and “F” are not the same sound.
Unless you’re under the age of five, don’t have all of your teeth, or are being treated for a speech impediment, how about speaking and spelling like a grown-up. "Birfday" is not a word.

#3 “For all intensive purposes”
I don’t even know what that means. What exactly is an intensive purpose? Pretty sure what you’re trying to say is “intents and purposes.” See? Doesn’t that sound more like what you meant?

#4 Simply put…
Than = comparison
Then = time
"Jane determined that pears were less expensive at Safeway than at Kroger, then set off to make her purchase."

#5 Ax
An ax is a yard tool, not a request. I suppose there’s a case to be made for “getting the ax,” - as in being fired… but that’s not a request either.

#6 Coming in as a group:

• Your is not the same as you’re. Your: showing possessive ownership. You’re: you are.
• Their, they’re, and there: the first is possessive; the second means “they are”; the third is a place. How about not making me read something three times because I have no idea what it is you’re writing.
• We’re and were: This one defies explanation. We’re = we are; were is past tense for where you once existed. Geez, they’re not even close, People!
• Its vs it’s: It’s not that confusing. “Its” is a possessive pronoun, like “his.” It’s is the contraction for “it is”…pretty easy to identify what with the apostrophe and all.

#7 Cannot
See how two words can be squished together? That’s called a compound word. That’s what cannot is. One word, People! Not two.

#8 The Preposition
Some people say it’s okay – by virtue of the fact that the practice has run rampant and there’s no stopping it – but I still hold on to the old school rule of NOT ending a sentence with a preposition. It’s very simple: say the sentence in your head. If the meaning doesn’t change, then drop the preposition.
Example:
Where are you at? *shudders so hard hair stands up*
Where are you? Apparently I’m in remedial English class.

#9 Woulda Coulda Shoulda
… used the word “have,” not “of.” If you're reaching for the contraction, "would've" then you should first be aware of what it means: would have.Would of? Could of? Should of? Should have figured out by now that bastardizing the language makes people question the intelligence of the speaker/writer.

#10 e.g. versus i.e.
Dear corporate writers, copywriters, writers of all kind:
I’m embarrassed for all of us collectively when some of you don’t use this very basic abbreviation correctly. It’s even worse when you combine them as though they’re interchangeable. I’ll do it slowly for those of you who slept through this class:

exempli gratia: e.g.
There’s your acronym. Latin meaning: for example… an actual example of something by name.
Id est: i.e.
And your acronym again. Latin meaning: that is. We use it when we’re referring to a type of something, but not a specific thing. Please copy this onto a sticky note for future reference.

There are so, so many more, and that’s before we even start on punctuation. As native speakers we should have a better handle on our own language. We want every immigrant to learn it – which I wholly support; my question is how? Thank The Universe that the toddlers still have Sesame Street because parents either can’t or won’t conjugate a verb properly.

*sighs*

Break out the white sheet, and book the small church. No one is even going to notice when our language is officially dead…

The Waiting Game

I hate games and I'll be the first to admit that I am NOT a good player.

You’d think that as the 5th of 7 children, I would've grown up to be be very, very good at waiting… Interestingly enough, that's sooo not the case. I think it’s unbearably and undeniably rude. I can’t imagine any circumstance by which making someone wait is acceptable. Obviously, I’m not talking about unavoidable “little waiting” like one does on line at the convenience store. That my friend, is inevitable and certainly expected, therefore tolerable.

No, the types of waiting I’m talking about fall into two distinct categories: the Professional kind, and the Personal kind.

The Professional kind of waiting done is in doctor’s offices or next to the phone for lab results that are days late. It's done by managers and customer service people. These “Professionals” are painfully well aware of the fact that they’re chipping away at our will to maintain our sensibilities, and yet, it seems to make no difference whatsoever. Apparently their time is infinitely more valuable than our time. What??? How about my sanity? Is that more or less valuable than your time?!?!?

*jumps up to dance off irritation*

Moving on…

The Personal kind of waiting is even more abhorrent. It’s kind we do for chronically late friends or family. It also happens to be the most disrespectful and wholly unacceptable type of tardiness. To those people I pose:

You’re meeting someone you love and/or respect. You’re well aware of the designated meet time and place; nonetheless, you’re late. In essence, you’re saying - in your own passive aggressive way - that your time and your wants/needs/desires are infinitely more important than anyone else’s. How do I know this? BECAUASE YOU’RE LATE! You know you’re late. What I’d really like to know why? Why are you chronically late? How about you call with an ETA before the person you're meeting is beyond agitated! They managed to get their shit together enough to be on time. That’s what people with a modicum of good manners and grace do…

There's no doubt that Personal tardiness falls into one of these buckets: insecurity, total self-absorption, lack of respect, or acutely poor breeding. Irrespective of which, both Professional and Personal forced waiting ultimately boils down to nothing more than a power trip. You want to feel in control of your life? Get control over your time management skills!

I think I'd like to launch a campaign. I'd propose a day whereby everyone in the world arrives, telephones, reports, and completes on time. Worldwide On Time Day!

Worldwide?
Yep. Though based on the chronic American acceptance of tardiness, turnout would undoubtedly be very poor. Perhaps we should enlist the Japanese to ensure measurable numbers.

*nods seriously*.

I like August 18th for no particular reason other than it happens to be a Wednesday in the middle of a month when nothing interesting ever happens. And it seems like the middle of the week would be an easy enough day to schedule everything in a timely manner. The sticky bit is that it's impossible to make someone do something they don't actually want to do, and since the chronically late take twisted pleasure in making others wait…

*sighs*

Right then. Another perfectly simple yet far from executable idea down the tubes, never to be heard from again… You must admit though. It was a rather good idea, in theory...

Strappies - It's Not Just About the Shoes

I keep stuff.
I keep stuff long past the time it’s useful, I want it, or even remember owning it.

For example, we all know how hard it is to find a pair of navy blue strappy sandals. You have to get out there the day Easter grass appears in the supermarkets to start culling your favorite shoe haunts. Some years it, “Yes!” Others, we walk away disappointed and mentally discarding huge portions our spring/summer wardrobe. Because of this, I’ve always taken particular care of my navy blue strappies. Each Labor Day I ensure they’re clean and not showing wear, then gently wrap them in tissue and carefully repack for the winter.

I’m reorganizing my dressing room because, frankly – it’s a wreck. To that end, I decided it prudent to get all the shoes back into their boxes for inventory. After much sorting and rearranging, I ran across two identical pair of navy blue strappy sandals.

*sigh*

I’m not sure what it says about my “collection” that I had two pair of the exact shoe. Sure, in different colors that would totally make sense. I do that all the time. But these were clearly purchased separately. On the obvious hand, it says that I really must have liked them. On the other, it says I’m not always as conscientious as I should be about my stuff.

Reader’s Digest version: I slipped the first pair on; pulled my yoga pants up over my knees and strutted in front of the mirror a couple of times; then I tossed both pair into the charity pile. It occurred to me that if I owned two pair and hadn’t worn either one even once last year, there was no sense holding on to them. Sure, that means I’m down to one measly pair of navy blue strappy sandals, but why not! I can live precariously close to the shoe edge for one season.

Once I started, I was like a madwoman. I tried on, pranced around, and then discarded shoe after shoe. By the end only 63 pair remained.

*looking around*

Hmmm. What else has run its course? White blouses: check! Two suits I must’ve bought on sale: check! Handbags! Check! Brassieres, grey socks, “fat” jeans, and where did this hideous red Old Navy sweatshirt come from? Yikes!

Hanging on is never the answer if all you’re trying to do is fill the closet. I tend to fixate, mull, analyze and dissect every available inch. I’m just not sure why. After all, I create both the full and empty spaces. I don’t know why I’m not willing to just wave good-bye and skip off when something has lost its appeal or has gone out of style. I know that it’s always cathartic to finally make the decision then eliminate stuff that no longer makes me happy. And hanging on only prolongs the inevitable…

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a hoarder by any stretch. I just don’t normally have “single season” things in my life. I’m a classic, long haul gal. I go in 100% - heart and pocketbook – for things that are timeless and lasting. But you gotta know when it’s time to just stop with the crazy “what ifs.”

What if I don’t have time to get a new trouser hemmed? I’ll NEED these!

What if I’m asked to be an emergency-back-up-spare date to an outdoor afternoon wedding in the middle of August? That dress is my only option if I don’t have time to buy a new one!

What if I end up back stage at the Bret Michaels concert in September? Those are the only pair of jeans cool enough!

As the old saying goes, “don’t woulda, coulda, shoulda all over yourself.” You know when the time has come. You know there will be some separation anxiety at first, and you’ll probably go to your dressing room looking for something and wishing you still had it. But! You also know that when or if you want to replace what you gave away, the opportunity is always there. It may feel like replacing your favorite *insert here* will never be the same. But it will. I know it will. It has to be. What are the choices?

*runs to charity pile for one pair of navy blue strappies*

Just in case…

FB: Friend or Foe

Though I've discussed social networking sites before in Social Networking (men and their issues) and Random Whatnots - Part II, at the utterly disgusted request of a girlfriend in the South, I’ve taken a look at the following topic, and here are my thoughts.

Let me just say right off that I think social networking sites are fantastic. It gives us a quick way to keep up with our friends, brag about our dogs, promote our businesses or websites, send impromptu invitations for drinks, and waste valuable hours we can never get back playing games no one else wants to hear about.

Sadly, with every great technology stride forward, there comes the inevitable social backslide. We’ve now found the electronic version of “hate books,” passing notes in the cafeteria, or tossing a drink in someone’s face. Apparently this has been going on for quite some time, but we all know I live in my own little Me Bubble and rarely take notice of things that don’t directly affect my ability to eat, drink, write, or buy shoes.

This disturbing practice is, for lack of a better way to put it, “Facebook fighting.” People play out their barely suppressed immaturity by posting statuses and/or snarky comments – supposedly employing “code” or innuendo - to insult, anger, or admonish someone else within the network.

Wow...

First, these folks must think mighty highly of themselves to believe something like that will even be seen, let alone read by the intended party. But for the sake of argument, let’s just say it is. Then what? What, exactly, is the point? What is the expected course of action? Is the person the comment was directed at supposed to return the insult? Lash out wildly in retaliation? Tuck tail and run? Are their “friends” twelve years old?

I kinda get that teens and tweens do this. They have a lot of time and all those uncontrollable hormones. But it’s shocking to me that supposedly grown adults participate in this behavior. They try to be a bit more sophisticated about it, but it’s pretty much like the kid-version. And sadly, it comes as no real shock to me that it’s mostly women playing in this.

*heavy sigh*

The most entertaining Facebook fighting I've found is what I call “pissing on the tree.” This is when one part of a “couple” stalks the other’s page, reading into every comment from anyone perceived as a possible threat to the relationship, then leaving not-so-thinly-veiled salacious remarks of their own in an effort to be the Dominate Female. For example:

Random Girl: “Great running into you last night! Don’t be such a stranger!”
Girlfriend: “Can’t wait for our super-special getaway weekend! xoxo”

*gags*
*gags again*

Then there’s the *heart* pissing. That’s where the girlfriend (why, oh why, is it always the women?!?) writes on Her Man’s wall repeatedly: “i *heart* u!” after every female post. It’s pathetic. She’s the same girl who will insist he “untag” photos of himself with other women. I propose that these little chicky-monkies be banned from all social networking sites due to their innate lack of language skills, then shunned into single-dom for their sins.

For even more entertainment, catch the the girl-on-girl “cat-fighting.” These comments are always catty and always embarrassingly obvious. It begs the question, “were you trying to confirm your uselessness, or are you just not very bright?”

All of this behavior makes me hang my head in shame for my entire gender.

We know a lot more about each other than we used to, and the information is being used for evil as much as good it seems. It’s a sad commentary on our society; the discovery that instead of embracing life, finding love, or investing a week’s pay in a pair of this summer’s gorgeous strappy sandals, folks are locked down with their computers, Blackberries, and iPhones – terrified they’re going to “miss” something online.

I don’t understand the thought process behind this ridiculous carrying on, and frankly I don’t want to. From where I sit cross-legged in my twirly chair, it appears that some people have entirely too much time on their hands and no drive to do anything productive with it.

Read a newspaper!
Learn a language! (start with your native tongue since it seems to have escaped you)
Unplug and repeat, “I’m not that important!”
Go live your life!

*switches off computer*

The Naked Truth 2

Oh the naked.

I’m pretty sure that the only people who think they look good naked are the beefcakes from Jersey. Wow. I just said beefcake. How disappointing…

Not, however, as disappointing as that first summer day when, knowing it’s going to be glorious outdoors, you mad-dash to the not yet unpacked boxes marked “Summer Clothes.” Oh the horror of holding up a pair of shorts and knowing, without even trying, that they’ll never fit. Sure, you can get them on… but looking into the mirror you know there’s no way you’re leaving the house.

Like everyone else, I blame the media for our sense of physical inadequacy. While on one television channel we find ourselves watching impossibly thin women living impossibly fantastic lives, on the next we’re faced with “foodies” taunting us with delicious delectables whose first ingredient is a full stick of butter.

Adding insult to injury, it’s not as though only women are watching. The men in our lives now expect us to be both trophy and chef – a feat I’ve found completely impossible... and I’m pretty sure moderation is not the answer. To achieve that kind of thin, you’d have to swear off all caloric intake outside of lettuce and sugar-free Red Bull and replace every “spare” moment of your day with aerobics and pilates. Where’s the life balance in that?

I keep reading about this “new normal” whereby a muffin top is apparently considered okay. *shudders* I just can’t believe any non-desperate man would find that acceptably attractive. That’s like saying a too tight tank top that reveals the exact location of your belly button made out of fabric so thin you could read the newspaper through it is acceptable. It’s not! This “new normal” idea was obviously mass marketed by women who are either terrified someone is going to snatch their man, or those too lazy to lose the gut.

On the upside, I’ve noticed a decided trend toward “fullness” on the male-front. The difference is that they don’t seem to care if they’re somewhat less fit than they used to be. They’re still prancing about like they have their 17-year-old forms. I would venture to say it has something to do with NOT being bombarded by unrealistic media images. That, or their attention span really is so short they forget they should be concerned about it. Either way, I’m fraught with envy.

When you get down to the nut-cuttin’, the naked truth of it all is that we’re stuck with the basics of our genetic make-up. That’s no excuse, but there are some undeniable truths here. For example, I can say with 100% certainty that I will never crest the 5’1” mark; that my “pear” shape can only be tortured into a smaller piece of the same fruit; and that these Irish eyes will always long for food with the highest amount of all things dastardly. Because of these – none of which are my own fault, but rather the curse handed down by my gene pool – it’s safe to say that I will never really think I look good naked.

So what’s the answer?

I decided someone really needed to work on this question in earnest because, after all, it affects every part of our lives, from shopping to sex.

[sidebar: Oh yes, fellas… it’s true. If we don’t feel like we look good, there’s no way you’re getting a look at the goods. I haven’t sashayed around the house in a thong since the day I discovered my ass was starting to fall. It’s been full-bottom panties since.]

Employing my standard method of problem solving - many hours of mulling over my vodka - the answer naturally came to me. I popped upstairs to my dressing room and threw a sheet over my cheval mirror. Ta da! Problem solved! If I can’t see it, then I can’t obsess over it. I figure that if the only naked I see is when I’m showering, and I can still see all of my parts without bending over, then everything is still where it’s supposed to be and I’m good!

My Nana used to say, “Eventually, every woman’s looks will fade. When that happens, you’d better have something interesting to say.” I think I’ll go obsess over that for awhile.

April: Check!

Last day of the month.

I know I've been lackadaisical about posting, and sadly, this one doesn't actually count. I just want to follow up on a request so that I'm not thought rude.

Earlier this month I asked in *crickets* for y'all to send me your thoughts and ideas for blog topics... because yes, I'm that lazy.
And the email came...

I was indeed surprised by how many people would like to hear more from Jimmy Sprinkles! Good news on that front. It's nearly summer so he should be donning his ginny shirt, gold chains, and packin' heat soon. After all, Jimmy does love a good yard party!
 
As for the rest, yes - I read them all. And yes, some of y'all are not right in the head... no disrespect intended. I asked myself why some of y'all aren't writing these yourself. There was some really funny stuff in there! In an effort not to disappoint when I don't use your idea, you should know that I don't write about actual s e x. It's not that I'm in any way opposed! I have some stuff to say about that! It's that my Google AdSense then sends all these "undesireable" links to my page. So other than those ideas, I've added quite a few of yours to my ongoing "blog thoughts and ideas" for further mulling and marinating. *dips olive in martini*
 
I'm thinking about replacing March Madness soon with something of a more "girly" nature... maybe... if I'm that brave... we'll see.
 
So that's it. April goes out with a bar-be-que! Many and sincere thanks to all of you for the piles and piles of email. It's nice to know you're out there. xoxo

Quelle Surprise!

It’s a well-known fact amongst my friends that I do not like to be surprised.

I’ve said many times it’s because I’m always wearing the wrong shoes. Some people think that’s my way of deflecting attention; others wonder how it’s possible that with upwards of 70 pair of shoes, I could possibly be caught in the “wrong” ones. Coincidence? Perhaps. Nonetheless, statistically proven.

When I got engaged the first time, I was wearing hiking boots. The second time: Sketchers, little boy’s size 3. I was the unexpected guest of honor at a party a couple of years ago… in clogs. Clogs! I might as well been wearing flip-flops or Crocs! The list goes on and on.

There’s just one other little thing about surprises…

I’m a bit of a control freak. No, I’m definitely not all-crazy-gotta-be-in-the-middle-of-everything. In fact, I’d much rather not be in the middle of anything! However, when I’m involved with an occasion of importance, I want it done right. This means that I’ll do it all myself, or request the assistance of a very small group of “like-minded” people to help. Admittedly, I’m just now learning how to ask for help with anything… and it still doesn’t sit right… Even so, I’m trying to let go and trust the other freaks like me who refuse to let anything get fucked up and appreciate the importance of sticking to a plan.

I was watching something on the T.V. over the weekend and that commercial for eHarmony came on. You know the one where the personality traits fade in and out while we watch two well-paid actors talk about how lucky they are to have filled out that questionnaire? Well, up pops the word “spontaneous.” I frowned then said out loud and with full conviction to no one but the dogs, “I’m spontaneous!” Followed by, “No I’m not. I used to be…”

I continued my conversation with the dogs as I meandered to the kitchen. “I like a plan. It doesn’t have to be concrete, but I certainly need a general schedule of events. There’s nothing wrong with that! It’s totally normal and grown-up. After all, I can’t be whisked off to another country if I don’t have my passport with me! And I can’t very well sashay into a 5-star restaurant in shredded Levi’s."

"I’m sure I don’t understand what the whole surprise thing is all about anyway. Just makes people look awkward and feel uncomfortable…” The puppies wagged their tails in total agreement. Or for cheese. Tough call.

Now, I confess that I do love to surprise other people. But that’s totally different... because I’m thoughtful and I’d never make someone look like an ass in public. For instance, if I were throwing a surprise party, I would subtly ensure that the guest of honor was aware that “party clothes” would be a good idea for whatever pretense being used to get to the event, if that were necessary. I would not let a girlfriend show up in sweats and flip-flops, or a boy-friend roll up in sneakers and ratty jeans.

So here’s a well-worn bit of etiquette to put into practice: if you know a surprise is coming, treat it like the secret it is! A soon-to-be bride does not want her proposal ruined by you. A party should not be revealed because you need to prove you’re “in the know.” A runaway vacation will be less thrilling if you’re dropping hints, making innuendo, or insinuating that you’re privy to a clandestine event! You want to be an important part of something? Make sure your friend is wearing the right shoes.

Pride and Dignity

My girlfriend Marti recently posed the following question:
“With no holes barred, serious or funny… what’s the one thing you’d never want to go a day without? You can only pick one thing, and it cannot be a person.”

*thinks*
*taps fingernail incessantly on mouse *
*thinks*

Hours passed while I contemplated this. I’m a fairly simple creature, crazy hair aside. There are very few things in my life that are indispensable.

*sighs*

Okay….
Coffee? Too obvious.
Vodka? We don’t put that sort of thing into The Universe.
The joy that is my job? *choke* Ha! Not doing that with a straight face.

I returned to Marti’s page to see what other people were saying. It was a little bit like cheating, but then, I didn’t have any ideas of my own so I figured, what’s the harm?

Diet Mountain Dew; toilet paper; laughter (*eyeroll*); cell phone… and then, jackpot! There it was, in all caps: “MY SELF-RESPECT!!!” with yes, three exclamation points.

*snicker*
Seriously? Who thinks like that?

As far as I’m concerned, as long as you can live with your actions, it’s really no one else’s business how you go about it, as long as you’re not hurting anybody. Yes, I think we should all treat ourselves well, be forgiving of our shortcomings, and lead balanced lives – but I’m not your mother. Drink yourself stupid, smoke yourself unconscious; eat your way into a stupor; turn on your red light and call yourself Roxanne for all I care. If you can live with it; I can live with it… or choose not to and remove myself.

How many times have you heard someone snarl, “Where’s her self-respect?” at a person they already talk shit about? Like we need one more way for blowhards to belittle the actions of people they don’t value in the first place. And who’s in charge of the self-respect yardstick anyway? I imagine hookers have self-respect based on their skill-set. What makes theirs different from anyone else’s? Where is the panel of judges here, and what are the criteria?

No one can take something like self-respect away from you! You can certainly give it away… but take it? It’s not a car, an empty cocktail glass, or your virginity. We make our own choices – even when it feels like we don’t have one. You’re not allowed to blame someone else if you throw yourself under the bus. Choosing to stay on the sidewalk, now that’s self-respect!

Returning to the original question, and with everyone else’s answers in mind, I crafted my response… sort of:

Q:
“With no holes barred, serious or funny… what’s the one thing you’d never want to go a day without? You can only pick one thing, and it cannot be a person.”

A:
“I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s not my self-respect, because apparently that’s been sitting at the bar alongside my pride and my dignity for some years now.”

Don’t judge. At least I know where mine are!

*crickets*

I know.
I've been terribly quiet as of late.
Which is weird.

I'd offer up an excuse for why there's been so little to read, if I had one. But I don't. In the past it's been pure laziness. And for awhile in what? March? I just didn't have anything of merit to say. It's like there was nothing but a dial tone in my head where words and voices used to be.

How about you help a girl out. Fuel my fire, as it were. Email me YOUR ideas, rants, topics for musing. Ah ha! Not that easy, eh!

Looking forward to hearing from you!
PeaceOutCat2@aol.com

To Everything There is a Season

This gives me a case of The Anxiety every year… packing away the piles of winter-wear in order to take a good hard look at my summer wardrobe.

*groan*

My first serious error in judgment was going into this “un-lubricated.” Spring and summer-wear is no joke after a long hibernation period, and though mentally prepared for the horror of trying shorts on legs so pale they’re virtually transparent, I was not prepared for the not-so-subtle southern direction my form seems to be taking.

Time to regroup.

Vodka #1:
First, throw a sheet over the obviously distorted image reflecting a panty-clad person I’ve never seen before, here or in a dark bar. That task completed, I began the truly notable trek through 2 closets and 7 drawers of summer clothes.

[sidebar: to those of you who gasped at the thought of that much space being consumed by what is in essence casual-wear, bear in mind that I am/was from Houston. Necessities. Not gratuitous fun-wear.]

Soooo, let’s call it an hour later:

Vodka #2:
To the untrained eye, I imagine it might look as though a bomb exploded clothing into every corner of my 3rd floor. In truth, very difficult decisions are afoot: trash it, donate it, cut the price tag off of it, or keep it. My girlfriend Jenny has been up my ass since I bought my house to perform this little chore if for no other reason than out of a sense of decency. Hmm, wonder if she’d like a vodka…

Vodka #3:
Stroke of pure genius! I should develop a "support" garment… something along the lines of a full body Spanx apparatus… plus a girdle... with extra rubber banding in the middle... and a ¾-length sleeve to disguise my arms. And chin support. I wonder if there's a way to lift my ass off the back of my thighs while keeping it safely secured inside my waistband.

Then it hit me…the sudden realization that there’s no real way to fight Father Time. What! How can this be?

*pass the vodka*

I mean, I eat right; I work out every day; I generally keep my alcohol consumption to one type per day, I rarely drink beer anymore; and I can certainly blame my sibling’s mother for the shitty gene pool. Honestly, what else can be done this side of “the knife?” This isn't fair. This isn't fair at all!

Bearing in mind that every aspect of my life should be considered a cautionary tale and never emulated, I feel obligated to share the results of this recent discovery and research in an effort to stave off any surprise, and possibly your downward spiral into the murky waters of anti-depressants.

Brace yourself.

You should know that, eventually, you’re not going to be able to locate those once prominent abdominal muscles. The skin around your thighs is going to start to sag, and while inspecting your new gray hairs you'll discover that one ear is conspicuously larger than the other. This will all come to you while staring into the mirror from the toilet wondering if you're really done peeing, or if you just think you are... In due time your eyebrows will either become bushy feather dusters, or fall out altogether, leaving gaping holes to be filled with eyebrow pencil like the old woman at the Walgreen’s check out. There will be jowls. And most likely bat-wings – those stubborn flaps you once called triceps. You may have seen the last of your feet.

Kindly remove the stink-eye. That ends my public service announcement.

Returning to my newly pared down summer wardrobe, I’ve decided that the answer here is dresses. Lots and lots of patterned dresses that will both distract and give the illusion that I’m still exactly as I was last year! And by “last year” I mean when I was 24…

*giggle*

Everybody Talk Talk

Yes. The rumors are true.

And?

And… if I’ve learned nothing else in this life it’s that someone else’s story is not mine to tell.

I live in “Horse Country.” That’s what the locals call it in an effort to make it sound more glamorous than it is. As far as I’m concerned you can call it Utopia, it’s still just a giant vortex of bored gossip where flip-flops are considered appropriate party footwear. I am unquestionably a Big City Girl, so you can imagine the profound effect this has had on my lifestyle… not to mention my wardrobe and my psyche…

Admittedly, Big City living can be somewhat like Small Town living, but with actual options. In a city filled with millions of people, you create several small towns of your own. You have your circle of immediate friends, your peripherals, the bars and restaurants you frequent, your health club, your workplace. Whether they overlap occasionally, or the sides touch regularly, they’re still very separate. This inspires a sense of anonymity; thus people are prone to just mind their own lives instead of interjecting themselves into the lives of others.

And you have more choices for take-away meals, which is nice.

In a Small Town there is absolutely no sense of privacy and very little to do after the beer store closes. This is a dangerous combination. A powder keg next to an open flame, I tell you!

In an effort to protect other City Girls from the horror of adapting to forced country living unprepared, I thought perhaps I’d just provide a bit more insight on what to expect.

When you’re the new girl in a Small Town, you will experience the phenomenon of being immediately Loved or Shunned for no apparent reason. Rest assured, there is a reason and it’s based on absolutely nothing more than what can be seen. This can be a little unnerving, but let it go. Ulterior motives are in play and it’s not really about you.

Should you find yourself in the position of being “Loved” by people you don’t know, acknowledge it for exactly what it is: an effort to collect all available information so They can decide whether or not you’re a threat to their little world. You know, lock up the Husbands and institute a curfew for anything with a penis.

If you’re Shunned, might I suggest staying that way and getting a hobby. I promise you that even the civic committees and organizations are never thrilled to see someone with those new-fangled, modern ideas show up to help.

Their Decision and Your Position in the “grand” hierarchy of Small Town is based on your look, your presence, and whether or not you innately possess the capacity to slip effortlessly down to a personal low of stereotyping, criticizing, abusing those of whom you’re jealous, and can employ unimaginative methods for ruining the lives of others.

Needless to say, I didn’t fare so well. I failed Busybody; I couldn’t master Ruination; and sadly I was completely inept when it came to actually giving a rat’s ass about what people did with their lives if I wasn’t directly and specifically involved.

I’ve pontificated on this topic before and people probably wonder why I don’t just collect my belongings, and head to a place where I can reclaim my privacy and a sense of civility. *sighs* Honestly, I wonder the same thing. Apparently my work here isn’t done because The Universe isn’t letting me have any part of reclaiming my life. When that day comes, I’m sure a number of the locals will relish the opportunity to help me pack.

In the meantime, might I suggest choosing your gossip wisely? You’d be surprised what people “know.”