Labor Day - 2016

Labor Day Weekend. 
Four days of switching the summer closet for the winter one, storing away the strappy sandals, catching up on printing photos for the front of each shoebox, pulling the suede out of hibernation, re-evaluating everything I own for possible donation to those needier than I.

Every. Thing.

It's an habitual, annual "must-do-or-suffer-the-wrath-of..." situation. Honestly, I don't know who I think is going to make me suffer anything - but that's how I've gotten back here after a 35 month absence.

Normally I'd save the following pearls for a new year's day post, but I'm feeling like we can't wait. After all, the holidays are coming and it's a good idea not to murder anyone during the last quarter of the year... generally speaking.

The Short List.

1. You will NOT get what you want if you don't ask for it. Your spouse, employer, BFF, whomever - they cannot read your mind. CANNOT. If you're waiting around for that to happen, best lay in some significant wine supplies because it's going to be a while.
2. Stop giving in instead of holding your ground - when it's important. There's a difference between compromising, and being a doormat because you're scared.
3. Stop doing shit that IS NOT YOUR JOB! I'm the worst about this. Whether it's picking up Mr. Man's clothes in the bathroom (GRRRRR!), or finding creative ways to keep your boss' ass out of the fire. Not. Your. JOB. If that's a tough pill to swallow, ask yourself this: who's doing YOUR shit? Who's hauling YOUR ass outta the fire? Oh. Right. YOU are. Look around. You're on your own no matter what anyone else says.
4. You do not have to be anyone else's version of perfect. You don't even have to be your OWN version of perfect. It's okay, child. Just be your best you today.
5. If someone else is doing "him/her" and it doesn't sit well with your "you," get out. He/she will not bend to your will unless they actually WANT to, even if you implement #1 above. But you MUST ASK before you can legitimately pack his/her crap and leave it in the yard after changing the locks.

[Long sidebar: Number 4 is a daily battle for me leftover from those formative years between 7 and 12. The crazy thing is, not once has ANYONE opened my bureau and passed judgement on whether or not my four styles of panties are individually folded, stacked, and appropriately organized. And yet, I'm not comfortable in my own skin if anything in my life could POSSIBLY be, in any way, interpreted as less than perfect. From panties to hair, household to thighs - all of it creates chaos in my head. I've fired countless housekeepers due to dust on the baseboards - that NO ONE ELSE WOULD EVER NOTICE! I'm compelled to clear some nonsensical and unrealistic bar set by one of the many voices in my head that most likely belongs to some judgy family member who just isn't comfortable with the idea that it's okay to be more/different than they are/were.]

Six or seven years ago, my entire life was pulled from beneath me like a magic trick gone wrong. I was left with a whole lot of stuff I never wanted, and LITERALLY nothing that I did. But I righted myself. I dusted myself off. And then I made a whole pile of really, excruciatingly bad decisions. As one is wont to do... 

The thing about bad decisions is that there's a short window for undoing them. We're busy. We push it to tomorrow... or the next day.... because what we're doing now is infinitely more important than dealing with that steaming pile of crap we're otherwise embroiled in that, hey, might fix itself (*sarcasm**eyeroll*). In retrospect, I probably just shoud've let The Universe do whatever it was trying to do. But it's really fucking hard to look those decisions in the eye and say, "Oops. Sorry. Never mind. My bad." I get that. It's even harder when doing it is going to leave you facing fear greater than being caught wearing white after Labor Day.

*taps finger on desk*

I'm not really sure where I thought I was going with all this other than to say, you're doing yourself a huge injustice by selling out. No one is better than you. Different, perhaps. But that doesn't give anyone the right to tell you who to be, or for you to change who you are.

Say what you need to say - or stop bitching about it.

Don't be loud - be true.

You own your dignity - don't put a price on it.

You are a survivor - no matter what.

You be you - for YOU.

Postscript:

This was written as a single run-through. It hasn't been edited or re-organized, so it's probably imperfect... just like me.

Life Truths 2015 - Your Annual List

Here we are again, friends.
It's barely the end of 2014 and already 2015 feels weird. Somehow different and a little... sad, perhaps? I dunno. I mean, it's stupid, really. I've absolutely nothing to be sad about except for dreams unfulfilled - and everybody has those. I should mention here, Dear Reader, that I'll probably shut this blog down sometime in the coming year. Not because I don't love writing it - I've simply run out of uncensored things to say. So while I haven't been at all diligent about writing in 2014, expect that at some point in 2015, I'll stop altogether. THAT SAID...

I present to you, your harsh realities for use as you strive toward, well, whatever you're striving toward.

Here's The List

1. You are where you are because that, my friend, is where you put yourself. You don't get to blame your Higher Power, The Universe, or the people around you for your ill-conceived decisions.
2. It's okay to sweepingly eliminate people or situations from your life. If you weren't supposed to, The Universe will one day put them back - either to correct the 'mistake' or reteach you a lesson the hard way. Recognize the difference or that bitch will screw you twice.
3. Pay attention! This will solve almost all of your "problems." 
4. Yes. You're fat. Does that make you feel better? Get off your ass and do something about it. Otherwise, shut the fuck up and love yourself.
5. Do not spend more time in front of a mirror than is absolutely necessary to make your face or comb your hair. It only reflects your genetics. It is NOT who you are (regardless of what mass media or your mother would have you believe).
6. BE HUMBLE. That doesn't mean turning off your star-power. It means not tooting your own horn. Your sense of self-importance makes people roll their eyes.
7. Life is a "Bring Your Own Water Wings" affair so stop annoying the rest of us with how you've been wronged, and paddle already.
8. Keeping your word - the promises you make - is a direct reflection of who you really are - as opposed to who you'd like people to think you are. Anyone can make a promise. It's in the keeping that that we separate the wheat from the chaff.
9. The things you do not say will speak as loudly as those you do. Choose your silence wisely.
10. Facial moisturizing potions, along with the mani/pedi, should never be considered an unnecessary expense. You'll thank me for this one when you're older.
11. At the end of the day, you and you alone must live with your own inaction.
12. Breathe easy - don't break the law.
13. Be decent. To yourself, to the people you know, and to the people you don't. Nice is easy.
14. There is almost always a Brutus in your midst masquerading as a confidant, so learn the difference between those who appear trustworthy, and those you can actually trust.
15. When saying no - to anyone for any reason - it absolutely is not necessary to offer an explanation.
16. Do not shampoo your hair every day - no matter what.
17. Do not lie. To me or to yourself.
18. You can rescue animals, but not people. So do that. People must sort themselves out.
19. The only "perfect" relationships exist in books and movies (no matter what bullshit your girlfriend feeds you), and that's only because The End appears before shit gets real. Every relationship is flawed. Every.
20. A few minutes of your time - especially when you don't 'have' it - is worth hours to someone who needs it.
21. Take heed: a drunken man's words are a sober man's thoughts. 
22. Girls: wear high heels as often as possible. Boys: learn how to 'wear' a suit. Both of these are incredibly useful skills.
23. People are going to talk. What're you giving them to talk about?
24. Your behavior in all situations is 100% on you. Own it or change it. Those are your only options.
25. We all humiliate ourselves. Get over it. These are the stories that make you less unbearable.
26. Choosing not to engage in The Drama means forfeiting your right to defend yourself against what others say. Know that, ultimately, this is still the best course of action - especially when you factor in karma, comeuppance, and the opportunity to secretly point and laugh later.
27. Never put anything in writing that cannot be aired publicly. I keep stuff. It's useful. And rightfully scares people.
28. Always remember that, on your very worst day, there are people who would give literally anything to have had your day at all.
29. If you don't want to be treated like a whore, stop dressing like one.
30. People will take advantage of you until you make them stop. The tricky bit is in the approach, and I can't help you with that.

So that's it.
Perhaps we'll meet again - here or somewhere else. Until then, refer to #13.

 Reuse of this photo without permission is strictly prohibited under U.S. copyright laws - and because I said so.

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:

Section…

Clip…

Blow straight…

Unclip…

Section…

Clip…

Blow straight…

(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.

Unclip…

Section…

Clip…

Blow straight…

Unclip…

Section…

Clip…

Blow straight…

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.

Unclip…

Section…

Clip…

Blow straight…

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* 

The Annual Life Truths Post - 2014!

Here we are.
The beginning of another year - triggering my annual Life Truths: an updated list of harsh realities that we should all remember as we strive toward, well, whatever you're striving toward. This year though, I thought I'd first present three things for additional consideration... you know, for when you're standing outside alone, pondering the Universe with a bottle of wine.

• How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are? (33 yrs)
• What inspires you?
• What stops your inspiration dead in its tracks? Or is it a who?

I expect I'll have something to say about all of these over the course of the next year, but until then...

Here's The List

1. You are where you are because that, my friend, is where you put yourself. Do not blame your Higher Power, The Universe, or the people around you for your ill-conceived decisions.
2. It's okay to remove people or situations from your life because keeping them - however much easier that would be - is ultimately harder. If you're wrong, The Universe will one day put them back, either to correct the "mistake" or reteach you the lesson - the hard way. Recognize the difference.
3. Yes. You're fat. Does that make you feel better? Get off your ass and do something about it.
4. The Universe is trying to move you in the direction of your best opportunity. Quit acting like you know everything. You don't. So how about you just go ahead and get out of your own way? 
5. BE HUMBLE. That doesn't mean turning off your star-power. It means not tooting your own horn. Eventually rings flat with everyone. And it's incredibly poor form.
6. Life is a "Bring Your Own Water Wings" affair so stop annoying the rest of us with how you've been done oh-so-wrong, and paddle already.
7. Just because you want it does not mean it's yours to have.
8. In many cases, the things you do not say, speak as loudly as those you do. Think twice; speak once.
9. At the end of the day, you and you alone must live with your own inaction.
10. You always have a choice. Take the route that will make your grandmother proud.
11. Your true friends will say the things you don't want to hear because they love you... and because they have faith that you already know the truth, not because they're threatened by you.
12. Beware false allies and those who try too hard. Therein you will one day discover ulterior motive.
13. When saying no - to anyone for any reason - it absolutely is not necessary to offer an explanation.
14. Do not shampoo your hair every day - no matter what.
15. Do not lie. To me or to yourself.
16. Stop fighting The Universe and you'll stop making stupid mistakes.
17. One minute of your time - especially when you don't "have" it - is worth hours to someone who needs it.
18. Pay attention! This will solve almost all of your "problems."
19. Take heed: a drunken man's words are a sober man's thoughts.
20. People are going to talk. Your choice is in what you give them to talk about!
21. We all humiliate ourselves. Get over it. These are the stories that make you less dull.
22. Your behavior in all situations is 100% on you. Own it or change it. These are the only options.
23. Choosing not to engage means forfeiting your right to defend yourself against what others say. Know that, ultimately, this is still the best course of action - especially when you factor in karma, comeuppance, and the opportunity to secretly point and laugh later!
24. Never put anything in writing that cannot be aired publicly.
25. People will take advantage of you until you make them stop. The tricky bit is in the approach, and I can't help you with that.

So that's it. An updated version of my annual reminder - in no particular order. Now if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be.

Time-Out

I've been on a self-imposed technology time-out, and I must say, my suspicions about being too connected are very real. I'll keep this short because I *know* everyone is readily awaiting my annual Life Truths update for the 2014 kick-off.

1. I actually love being "inaccessible." I didn't feel the least bit harangued into reading my email, checking for text messages, or skimming FaceBook.
2. No one seems to have my old landline number except my gynecologist.
3. Upon my return to technology today, I discovered that - as suspected - nothing noteworthy happened in my absence. The world remained its usual uneventful self. I imagine something happened to someone somewhere and they probably posted a vague remark about it online in hopes people would express what is almost always insincere concern in a way that projects "love" just to be the first to obtain a slice of juicy gossip. Someone else got snarky about who knows or cares what and did the same, I'm sure. But if that happened, I missed it. Which is nice.

So let's all take a few moments to reflect on our sense of self-importance. As I say so often, if you're not a brain surgeon or emergency veterinarian,  put your phone down and take a look around. Your life is happening without you.

Exit. Stage Left

FADE IN:

INT – Conference room – morning. The busy cubicle farm seen in the background is full of holiday décor. I race in.

                                    ME

UGH! Hey y’all. Sorry I’m late.

(drops files, cell phone, and laptop onto conference room table and pulls out chair)

ALL

Hey!

What’s up.

Hi.

ME

Okay. Where are we?

SAM

We were waiting for you; talking about Christmas plans is all.

LIZA

I fuckin’ hate this time of year. Fuckin’ family breathing down my neck. Everybody wants something from me. Nobody is ever happy.

ME

I hear ya, sister! Preach it!

SAM

What’re you doing? You going home for the holidays?

AMBER

Where IS home? Your accent is weird. Sorry.

(Looks apologetic)

ME

(Opens mouth. Closes mouth. Makes several confusing facial expressions.)

Um. Weird. Okay. Yeah. I don’t guess I actually have a home. I mean in the classical Norman Rockwell, Charlie Brown and Snoopy sense of the word.

(Silence)

Home… is where my dogs are..?

FADE OUT:

THE END

Yeah. So THAT just happened…

On Accepting Invitations

Ah, the holidays. Filled with food, drink, annoying music, and invitations for all manner of gatherings. The thing about an invitation – and this is important – is that every single one requires a response. The good news is that you still have options.

Take the verbal. This one usually comes in person as a casual mention. You can accept, decline, or smile and say, “That sounds lovely. Thank you.”  You’re then open to make a decision based on what sort of hair day you’re having on the soiree date.

The eVite requires a bit more decisiveness. Yes. Maybe. No. If you’re on the fence, I would suggest clicking Maybe. This leaves your options open in case something else comes up while not appearing ungrateful for making The List.

Finally, there’s the old school paper invitation. You remember, the kind that shows up in your mailbox located close to the street. This one requires a firm decision before the RSVP date. A decision that no matter what, you cannot change.

[Sidebar: Every invitation requires some sort of response to which you are committed – no matter what. Now, stay with me. This is not a lesson in etiquette. That post can be found at Tis the Season… To Mind Yourself, December 2012.]

 was one of these that landed in my BFF’s hands, leaving her mouth agape at the inappropriateness of its receipt. At that moment, there was only one course of action. She shoved it into the bottom of pocketbook, raced the three miles to my house, grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, then shoved the invitation under my nose. She poured. I read.

I’ll admit, it took a moment for my brain to register the unsuitable nature of the request on ivory stock I was holding. A holiday cocktail party at the home of Mr. Wildly Misbegotten Decision made years ago.

“Clearly I’m your plus one,” I told her. I was going to throw myself under the bus on her behalf. After all, you never let your BFF walk into a lion’s den alone – or unsupervised. There could be repercussions. Or  a need to get the shovels from the shed and the map from beneath the mattress.

On the appointed evening, we arrived about 45 minutes late in an effort to blend in with the crowd. We handed off our coats, and as BFF went to present our host’s wife with the bottle of wine she’d chosen, I accepted a passing glass of wine and surveyed the territory.

Crossing the threshold, my BFF asked, “Why does it feel like everyone will be staring at me like my boobs are out?”

I meandered into the living room, raising my glass to inconspicuously peer through the bottom to survey the crowd… then choked. Loudly. I set the crystal on the fireplace mantel a bit harder than intended as I stepped between BFF and the other guests. “Don’t panic. Don’t look around. Hey! Eyes on me! The summer after your divorce – the one during which you had that unfortunate tryst with our host – well, get your coat. The trampage has come home to roost, and I’m counting four cockadoodle-doos!”

Trampage – v. Refers to that period post-long term relationship when a gal grabs her life by the balls again then sets out to exercises everyone else’s.

“No!” she whispered, eyes wide.

“Yes,” I hissed.

“Four???”

“Affirmative. And it’s still early. So I repeat, get your co…”

“Hey you two! Wow! It’s been a long time. BFF*, didn’t think I’d see YOU here.”

Oh, balls. The horror was officially unleashed.

BFF turned slowly, and though she smiled in that pleasant manner our grandmothers taught us, there was no color left on her face that hadn’t been artfully applied the hour before.

It took two more glasses of wine matching the number of horrifically uncomfortable conversations  to be had before we made what can only be described as our less than elegant departure – given that it consisted of grabbing our coats and literally racing down the sidewalk at the top speed afforded by 4” heels.

Destination: first bar. First round: “Patron! Stat! And hold the fruit unless he has a shoe connection!”

This cautionary tale has been brought to you by women who really should know better than to accept an inappropriate invitation… of any kind.

Highway to Hell

Dear Old People and Other non-Workers,

Consider this request both advice and fair warning. Stay out of your vehicle and off the road during the morning and afternoon rush hour. You don’t know how to drive and there is nowhere you need to be that’s more important than where the rest of us are going. 

In exchange, those of us who actually have a job will gladly give you the road between the hours of 9AM and 3:30PM. That’s over six hours of wide open lanes for you to putt down the road doing 35 miles per hour in a 50 mph zone, or sit nonchalantly through a green light because little Suzy wants to show you her latest crayon drawing from the backseat.

[sidebar: “stay at home mom”? NOT A FUCKING JOB! It’s a privilege so stop whining about the “fact” that you have no time to yourself. The rest of us are doing your “job” at the end of a 10 hour workday and frankly, we’re tired of listening to you complain… about anything!]

Now, should you people find yourselves unexpectedly on the road post- agreement; here are a few simple Rush Hour Rules to which you’d be well-counseled to follow:

1.     Stay out of the left lane. Period.

2.     If the posted speed limit is 50mph, assume that the Rush Hour Regulars will be doing 65mph. You’re not a regular. You’re not special. Shut up. Your choices are: go faster or pull over at the next Starbuck’s for your morning $6 non-fat, decaf latte. The rest of us have a life that you do not want to make us any later for, lest we just give up and follow you. And we don’t drink decaf.

3.     You do not know the traffic patterns, and this my friend, is the key to Rush Hour success. The regulars know which lane to be in on which stretch of road. We know that the number 4 bus that just turned into the lane ahead, is fixin’ to move to the left, so the smart money is to skirt it on the right. Jamming the rest of us up with your ignorance exposes your gross lack of necessary experience… and that makes us mad.

4.     A horn blast – regardless of length – is less insult and more warning; a reminder that my vehicle will in fact eat yours if you don’t start paying more attention to your driving and less to whatever else is going on in there.

5.     See that long skinny pedal on the right? ACCELERATOR! It’s what makes the car go fast. Do you understand fast? If not, refer to number 2 above.

6.     Are you the self-righteous ass who stoically insists on maintaining the speed limit or below no matter what; flipping the bird every time someone flys angrily past? Take a moment and wonder at that, then mull this: You – YOU – are going to be the direct cause of an accident. YOU are an unexpected hindrance who will kill or be killed. Get out of the way.

7.     When finding oneself behind or beside a bus, it is ones duty and moral obligation to take whatever steps necessary to get in front of said bus – be it school or metro – thus allowing ample room for others to navigate around it as well. Don’t be the dick who won’t speed up to go around. Maybe you’re perfectly happy stopping at every driveway and bus stop, but the rest of us are going to ambush you for keeping us trapped.

Here’s a little reminder to ruminate over while disrupting rush hour: we work for a paycheck of our very own. The bigger the vehicle the better the chance the driver is fully insured. Full coverage always translates into, “I’m not afraid of your angry words, finger flip, or need to unnecessarily slam your brakes because you think I’m following too closely.  Not. Even. A. Little.”

In fact, I would suggest you remember that I’m behind you. Eventually, you will have to stop; and a stop means time… and time means I can come give your window a little tap so that we may discuss the error of your ill-mannered behavior.

With my civic duty now complete, and knowing that you’ve read the Rules of Rush Hour so are duly informed, please sign the dotted line… before someone pushes you over it.