Profile This...

Today I’m accepting an award at work. They’re doing a profile about me for the global magazine and online presence, all set alongside a photo or two.

Photography. It’s problematic for me at best.

Mr. Man #1 once asked if we had a single picture of me without a cocktail in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and my mouth closed. Sadly, he wasn’t being facetious.  Simply factual because we needed to find one. But that was a long time ago, in a land far, far away. Still, I never did learn to photograph well. At the very sight of a camera it’s all clenched jaw, high shoulders, and a look as though I’m about to dive out of the frame.

In thinking about this whole thing – the questions they may ask, the witty repartee, and what this might do to/for my career – it occurred to me that I should probably not to show up looking like I just jumped out of the bottom of the Goodwill bin, complete with bird’s nest hair, as we all usually do.

So last night I began the arduous task of taming the tresses. This is a huge undertaking, and as such, I rarely bother. I generally just “shampoo and shake,” letting it follow its own path. My hair and I are Zen like that. Nevertheless, there I am, 25 minutes into:

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(repeat until arms are sure to fall off)

…bored out of my mind with my own company and the whirring of 1875 watts, but feeling a little like a Miss America contestant, it seemed a good time to consider my animal advocacy platform – you know, in case it came up during the interview portion of my profile.

I absently began ticking off the name of every pet I'd ever had in order of appearance. First there was the Standard Poodle (I think. I was only 3 or 4 years old) whose name I used to remember but no longer do; followed by Harvey the German Shepherd who literally just showed up at our back door and never left when I was 5 or 6; the Miniature Collie so creatively named, that’s right, Lassie; then… then…

Romeo and Gertrude.

Oh how I’d begged for those gerbils and I was tearfully happy when my sibling’s mother bought them for my 10^th Christmas! Best. Gift. EVER.

Why Romeo and Gertrude? I wondered.

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No disrespect intended here, but Gertrude is not the prettiest of names, while Juliette beautifully and easily presented for the choosing. And yet… Was I trying to be clever at the ripe old age of 10 years, 10 months? Seems unlikely. Clever, original, fanciful, grand, odd, unusual – these traits were neither fostered nor embraced by the matriarch. Instead, these things were met with ridicule, so how curious that I came out from under the radar when naming my two new best friends.

Perhaps everyone too was busy to notice.

Romeo.

Gertrude.

She was a chubby little thing. Kind of like me at the time.

Putting my blow dryer down a little harder than intended, I stared at my reflection, feeling a little unsteady. Was I already, at that tender age, assigning priority to the male of the species, while relegating the female to the role of less attractive, less important, just-lucky-to-have-someone-to-share-space-with role, mirroring how I felt about myself? Was I Gertrude? Am I still?

Gertrude was killed just a couple of days after Christmas when one of my sisters and her friend used my new BFF to play a prank.

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Scruffy. Sir Biffington Spots-a-lot. Wallis. George. Flash. Angus. Fredo. Mia. Sophia. Donato. Giada. Paisano.

Big day today. Sure hope I brought a comb.

A True Story

Fade in
Interior
A well-lit kitchen. There are pans on the stove and the oven light is on, indicating something baking inside. A woman moves from prep area to stove and back again, singing under her breath to a song coming from the living room.

The phone rings.

I heard myself sigh as I wiped my hands on my apron so I could check the Caller ID without leaving garlic remnants behind. Picking up the phone, I promptly dropped it against a pile of unripened avocados - which naturally connected the call. With what seemed at the time to be no other recourse...

"Hello?"

"Hi." (pause) "Is this (my real name)?"

"Yes it is! Who am I speaking with?" I asked, shoving the phone under my chin, freeing my hands to lift a lid and stir the sauce bubbling away on the gas top. After what seemed like an awkwardly long pause with no response... "Hello?"

"It's John."

John... John... John... Nothing was familiar about the voice. Nephew John, maybe...

"Hi John. Are you looking for Stephen?"

"Who's that?"

Once again I wiped my hands on my apron and tried to focus on the voice. Nothing. I opened the oven and poked the bread. Not ready.

Turning to face no one else in the room I said, "John, honey, I'm sorry. I'm really struggling to figure out who you are."

"Oh... um, I met you with your dog." Okay! Now we were getting somewhere. Must be a friend of someone or other. Or maybe someone from kickball. Or the park.

"Ah ha! Which dog?"

"How many do you have?"

"I have four." I checked the Caller ID: Unavailable.

"The mini greyhound." Okay, okay, okay. Think! Where had we been recently. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to remember where we'd been lately, and feeling really embarrassed that this John person is someone I should probably remember. "Um," he started again, "I got out and I keep thinking about her and wondering how she is."

Got out... GOT OUT???
Oh, CRAP.
My stupid handler badge.

[This is probably a good time to mention that the dog in question, an Italian Greyhound, is the "working end of the leash" - my therapy dog. We do community events and visit various inpatient facilities, one of which is a drug and alcohol rehab center. And not one of those white collar, voluntary stay, cushy facilities where the clients sit around drinking cucumber water between massages, either. Nope. We work every weekend at a "you really fucked up" mandatory rehab whose clientele is comprised of multi-offenders from all over the tri-state area.]

"Well, John. She's good. How are you?" I asked, wondering if he heard the trepidation in my voice as loudly as I did.

"I'm okay. Are all your dogs small too?"

"I'm glad to hear you're doing well. Are you sticking to the program; going to meetings and all that?"

"You have a really small dog, too, one smaller than her. Didn't you tell me that?"

I was becoming unnerved. Clearly, he remembered my name from my badge, and I could only assume he found my phone number online, which means he probably got my address, too.

Shit, shit, shit, fuck. Breathe...

"My dogs are all different sizes. Some bigger than others." That wasn't a lie. Mia Macy IS the biggest, but no need to share that little tidbit. Let him think there's something bigger than 12 pounds in the house. That seemed like a good plan. "So, John. You're doing good, right? You're writing in your journal and going to meetings, right?" I don't know why I felt compelled to ask again.

"I have to because of the halfway house. I wish you could come here with your dog. She's really cool."

"I wish I could, too," I half-lied, "but we just do inpatient visits. Do you want me to see if I can find another dog to come see you, because I can ask if you want."

"Nah... well... maybe. I really just wanted to see you guys again because you're really cool too, and I felt better when you guys came and we hung out because no one else did. I mean, my mom said she would but she didn't and my girlfriend didn't either."

"I hate it when people say they'll do something then they don't. It's not fair. Sometimes family is like that. I don't know why though." I was getting more uncomfortable by the second, measuring my words, hoping I sounded empathetic, but not as though I might invite him to dinner. Speaking of... "So John, I have to finish making dinner for the family so I'd better go before I burn something."

"Oh. Sorry. Okay."

"Stick with it, buddy. Even if it feels like no one is paying attention. I'll tell Mi... uh, my dog, you said hello and give her a hug."

"Maybe I'll see you guys again," he said, his voice not quite despondent but nowhere near happy.

"And I'll find out if another dog can come see you if you tell me where you are."

"Nah. Thanks anyway."

"Okay. Well, then... bye John."

The phone went dead.

Fade out as the woman slides down the kitchen wall to sit, dropping the phone on the floor beside her.

An Open Letter

This was originally written on January 28, 2014, but for whatever shiny-object reason, it just sat.

I’m sometimes surprised to see that weeks and weeks have passed since last I posted. I mean, it’s not like I’ve run out of things to say. It's more like... I’ve run out of a reason to say them. I’m utterly bored with my own company, though I’m not in a big hurry to seek out the company of others. Mostly because their imaginary problems annoy me…

So because she has been weighing on my mind and I haven’t done anything more than say, “fuck. I really should send a card,” and because I really should write something - preferably something useful, I feel like the two-birds-one-stone thing just seems smart.

Dear Katie,
You’re 24 (or you were when I wrote this). Yeah, I know you know that – but it struck me in an odd way as I was thinking about your imminent move, far, far away from everything and everyone you know. Clearly because I’m so self-involved, I found myself on an involuntary trip down memory lane as I considered your new life.

I was 24 when I left everything behind and took off alone for parts unknown. I had a plane ticket, $800 in cash, no car, no job and no place to live waiting for me when I got where I was going. But still I went, so strong was that sense of self-preservation.I know you get that.

You’ve seen a lot of life already, too much of it not fit for polite conversation, and it breaks my heart. I remember how that feels; how things stop surprising you; how a now jaded view of people leaves you sighing with exasperation; how you seriously cannot understand why and how people can be so hateful and small, hurting others because they can. You want to ask yourself how this is your life, but that sounds self-indulgent and weak, even to your own ears.

We may be many things, but we are not weak. Horror makes a girl tough. I wish you were softer.

So! You’re off! Or nearly anyway and I couldn’t be happier for you. That said, I do worry about you. I look at my life, and I’m sure I can see you waaaaaay back there, unknowingly walking in my footsteps. Cripes, girl. No good can come of that. None. Please take two giant steps to your right.

Here’s the part where I give you a ton of advice:

1. Don’t put your dog in a hunt that you don’t actually need to win.
2. Don’t be too tough. It’s too exhausting… and it causes premature aging.
3. Always use diplomacy, but never back down when you’re right. People will take advantage of you when they think they can.
4. Choose your friends slowly. I was never good at that and, well, you saw how some of those ended up. Yeah. Refer to #3.
5. Don’t become rigid, married to a set of rules or the way life “should be.” You’re not a “should be” kind of girl and that’s too special to waste.
6. Remember that You define You – so You can change, or choose not to, every single day.
7. Keep a good pair of sunglasses and a pretty lipstick next to the front door – Always! You never know when you’ll need to bolt out unexpectedly and my Grandmother always said a girl can get by in any emergency as long as she has those two things.

Though we rarely spoke about the less-than-attractive bits of our lives (because that's just unseemly), I find myself wishing now that we had. You’re so smart, a true master of self-preservation, but still… there will be things. And people. And though people like us have grown quite excellent at protecting our physical beings, we’ll never be as artful at protecting our psyche. We throw ourselves into every situation with reckless abandon, regardless of its sometimes unfortunate familiarity. It's a brutal way to check for the winds of change, particularly when we already know that wishful thinking won't change the answer. A better “favorite older sister” would tell you to stop that! But I can’t. Just…. stock up on Band-Aids. Having a few scars doesn’t make you any less wonderful; it makes you even more fascinating.

So, go! Go be You! With reckless abandon! Know that if you ever need anything, anything at all, I’m not so far away.

[Sidebar: yes, that includes bail, and emergency “Excuse me, I’m where??? How did I get to Minnesota last night?” airfare *grins*]

With a Little Help From a Friend

In my ongoing effort to find the end of the internet [read: waste time reading crap instead of doing my wash], I ran across a video that made me realize, in that weird "why do I stop moving long enough to mull?" crystal-clear way, two things:

First, I have no idea what it means to just "be." Like, in the moment or fully engaged in something or someone. I've read about this funny business, but by way of self-preservation I suppose, I'm way too busy for the sort of nonsense that can only lead to bottle after bottle of rethinking every decision I've made since I was 15 years old.

The second thing... well, that was more about who and what we choose to love. I mean, if we're really setting aside all of life's bullshit here, at the end of the day, we're in this life 100% alone, so what - or for the lucky - who, could instinctively bring you into this moment?

Here's a minute and a half of your life you won't want back...

http://laughingsquid.com/daughter-posts-video-catching-an-incredible-moment-between-non-verbal-father-with-alzheimers-and-loving-dog/

 

Load'em up, People!

Dear Parents:

If you insist on waiting for the bus with your kid at the end of your own freakin’ driveway, do the rest of us a favor and push the little brat out of your vehicle when you see the bus coming up the street, instead of forcing four lanes of traffic to stop while Little Timmy unbuckles his seatbelt (AT THE END OF THE DRIVEWAY FOR CHRISSAKE!), gathers his backpack, then hauls himself out of the backseat.

And while I’m on about it, if the bus is coming and you haven’t yet ensconced Little Tiffany into your cocoon of safety to make that 50 foot commute, DON’T! Just send the fatty down under her own steam. I promise it’ll be faster than:

1.    Open door

2.    Load backpack

3.    Load school project

4.    Load kid

5.    Buckle kid

6.    Close door

7.    Open driver’s door

8.    Get in

9.    Start engine

10. ROLL 50 FREAKIN' FEET!

11. Pop out of driver’s seat

12. Walk like you don’t have a care in the world to the passenger-side back door

13. Open door

14. Unbuckle kid

15. Unload kid

16. Unload school project

17. Unload backpack

18. Walk kid the remaining THREE FEET to the curb

19. Chat up the bus driver

20. Have conversation with kid while he stands on the bus steps

21. Wait for kid to FINALLY FREAKIN' SIT DOWN so that damned flashing red stop sign can be retracted.

Can you even begin to wrap your self-indulgent, paranoid, little pea brain around how much of MY TIME you’re stealing? Waiting on you leaves me with nothing to do but ponder what sort of consequences should be dealt for your total lack of consideration. I’m sure if I walked the line of 50 or so cars behind me, and the as-far-as-I-can-see number of cars in front of me, they would agree that your behavior is a stain on society.

Parents, if you haven’t taught/can’t teach your kids how to stand at the bus stop without getting into trouble, your troubles have just begun. You’re doing Little Timmy and Tiffany a terrible injustice; you’re stealing their baby-sense of independence; and you’re making me mad.

“Oh, but it’s so dangerous for kids nowadays!” you cry.

I cry, “Bullshit.”

Nothing has changed since we were kids besides the creation of the Amber Alert. I mean, it IS the fear of kidnapping that drives your ridiculous behavior, right? Cripes. Let’s put this in perspective. Those of us who are now over, let’s say 40, were in a much tougher spot growing up. We were taught to respect and always mind our elders. This was in direct opposition to “don’t talk to, or go with, strangers even if they say they know me.” There was the real danger, dear Parents. We had to be smart enough to figure out the difference between doing what we were told, and being “disrespectful” to an adult, all on our own. And apparently we did. (Probably all that time spent playing outside in the fresh air, and well away from where we could be seen by our parents.) As near as I can tell, most kids today are not taught anything that even vaguely resembles respect for their elders. And talking to strangers? That’s all they do on Twitter and FaceBook. I won’t even begin to get into their behavior on SnapChat.

So, tell me. Whose fault is it that “it’s so dangerous for kids today”?

Let me help: IT’S YOURS!

And you’re an ignorant, delusional ass if you believe otherwise.

By the way, I composed this entire post while waiting for your lazy ass to do something about loading your kid on the bus. Imagine what I might dream up if you had two kids.

Oh, it’s dangerous out there alright…

Celebratory Ridiculousness

Can I just take a minute to share how exasperated and frankly under-whelmed I am with this “phenomenon” of people (okay, woman) announcing that their birthday is coming up, followed by a proclamation that we should all dedicate an entire weekend, week, or month to the celebration of Her?

I’m fairly self-focused, but even I recognize that my sole contribution to my birthday was showing up in a hellfire storm of screaming. My first wild-eyed fit, as it were. I think it would be more appropriate to celebrate that, rather than merely my non-participatory entry into this world. I say let’s all raise a glass to the benchmark by which all future wild-eyed fits would/could/should be calibrated. We’ll gather, sans gifts, simply to perform an annual review of whether or not the birthday girl in question has properly measured up, then everyone can go on about their business.

I wonder if there’s a line of greeting cards in combining these two, because that’d be kind of hilarious…

“Good effort, Birthday Girl!

You sufficiently embarrassed yourself and/or your loved ones to the best of your ridiculous ability!

Go ahead, drag it out a few more days!

Cheers!”

“Too bad, Birthday Girl…

It wasn’t for lack of trying because the numbers were clearly on your side.

Hope you enjoy the one minute of celebration you deserve.

Better luck next year.”

“Sorry I missed your special day, Birthday Girl.

I was busy doing MY life,

But I’ll bet you made a brilliant ass of yourself again this year!

Salute! Cin cin!”

Cheese, Please!!!

I am not genetically predisposed to having a figure worth keeping the lights on for. In truth, I'm built kind of like a 5th grade boy: short, flat-chested, and a little awkward in my own skin. Still, it's better than the alternative; one I've visited a time or two. Adding insult to injury, it's occurred to me that I really AM getting older, as is evidenced daily by the weird noises my bones make.

Anyone who has ever been to market with me, or for that matter sat down to a meal, knows that as ridiculous it is, I do think there's a difference between ingesting 220 calories versus 250. I do the math on everything - not because I'm one of those granola-chopping, organic produce only health nuts, but because if there's a way to get out of doing even a single set of crunches or squats, I'm gonna find it.

[sidebar: For those of you thinking, "Oh my god, she actually DOES squats?" given that my ass started having cocktails with my knees about a decade ago, it's true. Fun fact: I've discovered that no amount of squats will ever give me a high and tight ass. I blame my parents.Cheers!]

Okay. Here's where we're going with this.

I'm in the market this morning, trying to race through before those good Christians with their mean-spirited, snotty-nosed little brats get out of church and swarm in with the sole intent of making me want to stuff someone into the freezer bin, when I finally get to the fancy cheeses.

I love cheese. All cheeses. Cheese is my favorite food in the world. Because of this, I like to focus on the great protein part of this particular food, as opposed to the detrimental high caloric and fat content. Like so many things we love (read: yeah, people), I know this one isn't really good for me. In the end, I'll feel bound up, a little depressed, and wondering when, oh when, will I finally just say "no!" to a relationship that's killing me!?!?

Quick time check: enough left to relax into making my selection.

I meandered slowly, looking to see what new offerings there might be; checking prices on stand-by favorites; trying to decide if I'm in a smoked-something-or-other mood, a dill horseradish mood, do I want something soft and buttery or something with some bite to it? Then... there it was.

"Light Brie"
Now, you'd think given my current ass situation, I'd be all over this. And I'll admit it, I did pick it up - purely out of curiosity - to read the label. 
Portion size: one ounce. 
Calories: 70. 
Fat: 6 grams.

*blink* *blink*

Not gonna lie, even I was a little surprised by what happened next. I did that thing we do when we've been presented with an option that is an improvement over our "usual": I tossed it back in the case and with a loud sigh said out loud to no one in particular, "oh, why bother." I grabbed the triple creme brie and headed for the cashier just as the faint wailing of over-indulged mini-thems descended on Aisle 1.

Just this last time, I promised myself, knowing perfectly well that I'll be back.
*snicker*

02-14-2014...

I know this comes off as lazy, but I really don't care. Clearly the sentiment stands since it's all I've fucking heard all day, so I'm reposting from Valentine's Day last year. Hey! I was gonna just stick in a link (the epitome of online laziness), thus forcing you to click through, but frankly, I wouldn't go to another page on the off-chance I missed something. Then I got to thinking it would force you to read more stuff...

*shrugs*

So here it is, in full form and by link. Do with all of that what you will. 
St. Valentine and the Hallmark Gold Crown

St. Valentine and the Hallmark Gold Crown
Over the years I've had quite a bit to say about St. Valentine's Day. And over the years, many people have stood atop their soapbox trying to make me feel like a sap by expounding the tired exclamation that it's nothing more than "a Hallmark holiday."

I call "hypocrite!"

You want a Hallmark holiday? How about Mother's Day! Father's Day! Grandparent's Day! These anti-Valantine's Day people who are too lazy or sad or pathetic or just looking for something to be sour about, are the same people who will mow you over and snatch the last musical birthday greeting card smooth out of your hands, because if you don't acknowledge others, they won't acknowledge yours... And that's where they're living!

Most common "excuse" for ignoring St. V's day?

"I tell my husband / wife / partner / girlfriend / boyfriend / mistress every day how much he/she means to me! I don't need Hallmark making money off it once a year!"

I call "bullshit!"

You do not. Nobody does that in real life. What we do do is take advantage of one another, push things off, put career before home, weigh the pros and cons of our actions then decide to ask forgiveness later, and generally see how much we can selfishly take from "the one we love."

It ain't pretty - but that's modern day "love."

Frankly, I think St. Valentine's Day does a huge service to couples everywhere. You can't avoid the commercialism, so it's not like you can forget about it. Unlike, say... your wedding anniversary?

[sidebar: Don't judge. I totally know mine... now.]

So why not indulge in a little silly romance? It doesn't hurt, and it can only help plead your case if you've been a less than stellar partner lately... or, ever.

Buy a card. Some flowers, maybe. Make a dinner reservation. Or feel free to think outside the box (just not too far..."the best laid plans" and all...). Spend five minutes thinking about the five million hints that have been dropped in your lap over the past 364 days - then execute something.

Advice for Men: Things Not to Plan

• Don't plan a picnic in bed. I'd like to believe the reasons are obvious.
• Do NOT, under any circumstances, sprinkle rose petals on the bed. Aside from staining the sheets and duvet, the next morning, it's like waking up in a bowl of Kellogg's Corn Flakes.
• Don't show up at any restaurant without a reservation. If she's hungry now, she's gonna be a real bitch in an hour.
• If you're running out for that last minute piece of sexy lingerie, do stay within the confines of the type of relationship y'all have. If she's not a black-sheer-cammie-with-matching-crotchless-panties kind of girl, then think bootie shorts and a fun t-shirt.
• And for gawd's sake, if she hates red, do not buy her red!

I didn't actually start out to end up giving advice. But there you have it.

Stop rolling your eyes and feeling put-upon, then come embrace the fun that is Valentine's Day - the gold crown of "Hallmark Holidays!"

*flips through cell phone for take-away options*

So THAT'S happening...

I can't believe the entire month of January, the beginning of a whole new year, passed by without a single thought from me. If I'm being honest, there hasn't been much worth sharing as I've been preoccupied with, oh let's just say it, The Big Day.

Coming sooner than I'm comfortable with is the anniversary of my birth - an event that, like all of my favorite celebrations, my only contribution to was showing up. Most years I simply nod in the general direction of the calendar and get on about my whatnots. But lately I've spent an inordinate amount of time mulling (read:obsessing) over my "legacy."

Who DOES that!
*raises hand guiltily*

Just to be 100% clear, I'm not staring out the window with a glass of wine questioning my child-free environment. At first that was first by design, then not so much. Either way, I imagine it was definitely for the best of everyone hypothetically involved. I only bring this into the conversation at all because it is, in fact, people's sniveling, over-indulged little brats running rampant through the supermarket who are circumstantially their legacy. They must be so proud (*sarcasm*).

In an effort to shake this funk, clearly the first recourse was to kick-off an assessment around where I am and how I got here. It was horrendously obvious within the first moments of that exercise what a huge mistake I'd embarked upon, so I immediately shut it down out of my newly recognized sense of self-preservation.

So what now...
Well obviously more wine.

To bore you further on this topic, there's this story whereby the... circumstances... around my birth served as a catalyst for unanticipated family behavior. It's a story better left untold but the point here is that said circumstances were, I believe, the reason my Nana said to me at least ten thousand times, "You're going to do something extraordinary." That woman was a saint, but as I flip the calendar year after year, I'm really feeling the pressure of what that meant. What the fuck was I supposed to do and how did I miss it!?!?!? I am after all, wholly self-involved and hyper-observant, so this seems like a freakish oversight on my part.

My like-life friends of a certain age all assure me this hysteria is perfectly normal; that I should refocus my energies on things infinitely more important, such as the comparative value of preventative wrinkle serums versus genetic predisposition (use it, or don't bother - buy shoes instead), are red shoes really just for children and whores, and organizing a wine-soaked group analysis around whether my legs still hold up to short hemlines.


I started to make a Bucket List then realized that like New Year's resolutions, it's stupid to set myself up for failure like that. Besides, I couldn't really think of anything. I'm too practical. If I could afford to see the Kremlin, I'd instinctively spend the money finding out what's going on with the foundation of my house instead.

So, let's recap. No kids of the two-legged variety left behind. I have a cool day job but gawd knows I'm not saving lives up in that piece. Maybe all I need is a new theme song to play in my head.

*walks away humming*