I See Your Barf Bag and Raise You a Bloody Napkin

Did you hear about the woman who was forced to stay on a flight for 10 hours while sitting next to a corpse the entire time? If not, you should read it here.  Her story reminded me of my story that, although it did not involve a corpse, came pretty close.

I am actually referencing # 11 on this list.  It was on a flight back from #1 on that same list.  My coworker and I were on a return flight from Vegas. We were in a three seat row with I on the end, my coworker "S" in the middle, and unknown passenger by the window.  At first, it started off fine. One of our seminar speakers sat down. Boring as he may have been, it would have made our flight a lot more bearable if he had stayed put. Unfortunately, he was traveling with his wife and wanted to sit next to her. So, when her seat mate showed up, I asked if they could switch seats, being the nice person that I am. I like to call that MISTAKE NO. 1.

New guy immediately sat down, put his head against the window and passed out. He reeked of alcohol and looked disheveled.  S was not amused. We took off and all seemed to go well although we kept a worried eye on Drunk Guy. Within 20 minutes, Drunk Guy jumped up, yelled "I HAVE TO GO TO THE RESTROOM" which spurred me into such immediate action, I spilled my drink.  He then proceeded to spend the next 20 minutes in the bathroom banging around.  S was SO not amused.  

He came back, sat down and grabbed a barf bag.  I warned S. I like to call that MISTAKE NO. 2.  She basically started sitting in my lap in order to avoid being thrown up on. While this was occurring, I realize Drunk Guy has a bloody nose and is wiping it with the barf bag.  I immediately tell S to watch out for wayward body fluids. I like to call that MISTAKE NO. 3.  Now S is over my lap and in the aisle declaring that she cannot and WILL not sit next to the guy. They have to move him to some other part of the plane. Panic has set in.

After assuring her that there was no secret place on the plane to put a grown drunk man, I come up with a solution - we switch seats.  All this does is manage to calm her growing panic. However, we spent the next three hours half perched in our seats looking warily at drunk guy expecting the worse.  Any idea how uncomfortable that is? Hugely.

Good news! Drunk guy never puked next to us. In fact, he never moved again.  Bad news! He continued to bleed all over himself until such time as I offered him a napkin. He was down to wiping it on his coat collar.  Sexy!

I learned a lot that flight.  First class is always a better option. You might still have a drunk as a seat mate, but you will have more room. Also, know your coworkers and their phobias before you go on 3 hour plane rides with them. 

I can only hope Drunk Guy learned something too.

Doubtful.



 

It Appears You May Have Lost a Limb or Two...

You know the neighbor behind us, the long-grassed man? B is holding a bit of a grudge against him. It is not because he has long grass, or because he likes to journal his entire life,or sit outside and do teleconferences and teach classes from his computer, or because he used his grass as a storage unit for months on end. It is not even because he puts his composter right at our fence line.

It is his tree.

He has this old tree that is impinging on our property line and interfering with our ability to replace the fence. And we really want to replace the fence.

With a privacy fence.

Nevada loves the tree. It is a mulberry tree and all of these mulberries fall into our yard. Nevada eats them like she has never been fed.  B loves this.

The tree also has enormous branches that are hanging all over the wires. So B called the electric company, oh, about a few months ago. They finally got around to coming to deal with it this weekend.  I can say that the branches are no longer interfering with their lines.  I can't say they are not interfering with anything else. I also cannot give props to a job well done because, well, take a look yourself:

And then look a little closer:

That does not look at all ridiculous does it?  You will note that the majority of the tree is STILL hanging over into our yard. Nevada is relieved. More mulberries for her. YAY.  B just wants the tree gone. I just think this is the stupidest thing I have ever seen. Seriously, I am dumbfounded.

Look at that tree!

So, B's new plan is for me to charm the long-grassed man into removing the tree. Right...we all know how that worked with the neighbors and the air conditioning, right?

Just how high can a privacy fence go anyway?

 

Knock! Knock! Mo Fo Karma Wants Her Five Dollars Back

Sometimes karma doesn't come around until much later. So much later, in fact, that the person wishing for karma to come back around never really knows if it does. That was not the case for my friend last week.

My friend was on her way back to the office and stopped to get gas. She noticed a beat up old van with a walker visible in the window and a man that appeared to need assistance. He told her that he just got out of the hospital and needed gas money to get home.  Feeling in a caring mood, she offered him the $5 that was in her wallet. He graciously accepted it and thanked her profusely.  Before my friend could put her gas cap back on, he was gone. He did not get gas.

That got her goat.  

If she had a goat.

You know what I mean.

Karma was on duty and caused my friend to look across the street where she spotted the man's van pulling into the liquor store.

That got her goat.

See above.

She hopped in her car and went to the liquor store. She rushed inside and found the man, not even buying liquor, but buying a lotto ticket. Then it went a little something like this:

She:  Gas money? REALLY? Gas? Where's the GAS?

Man: What? It's only a lottery ticket.

She:  I want my $5 back! NOW!

The man rifled through his pockets. The cashier grinned and gave my friend a thumbs up. The man then said he must have left it in his car.

She: Oh good. Then I will just follow you out to your car to retrieve it.

Apparently, he did not think she would go through with it as when they got to his van, he pulled the $5 out of his pocket and meekly handed it to her. Then he got THE LECTURE:

She: You are what is wrong with people today! You are what makes people like me not want to give to people in need because they might get scammed by people like you!

Then she went to her office.  Still mad.

Without her goat.

Or is it with her goat?

I don't even know what that expression means. I do know that there is a man out there that might think twice before he pulls that scam again.

Or at least maybe buy his lotto ticket at the gas station.

 

P.S. The first part of my title is from The Bloggess. If you are not reading her blog, you should be. In fact, you should start with this post.

Poka to You, Poka to My Sanity

The building where I work houses a variety of different ethnic groups and we constantly hear a billion languages being spoken at once. This is particularly true on the floor my office is on as there is another business there that is quite large and employs a good number of people.  We will hear them in the hall on their quick 5 minute breaks speaking Chinese, Spanish, Russian and some other ones I probably could not identify.

So when I was in the bathroom yesterday, I was not surprised to hear two women speaking to each other in Russian.  However, I did not expect a voice from the stall next to me to demand from her stall that they entertain her by providing Russian words:

Russian ladies: {speaking Russian I do not understand}
Stall lady:  Say "Goodbye" in Russian!
Russian ladies: {more Russian}
Stall lady: SAY "GOODBYE" IN RUSSIAN
Russian ladies: Poka
Stall lady:  GOODBYE, say it in Russian
Russian ladies: POKA
Stall lady: What?
Russian Ladies: POKA
Stall lady: Huh?
Russian Ladies: It is easy, poka, P-O-K-A
Stall lady; Poka?
Russian Ladies: Yes
Stall lady: Well then POKA
Russian Ladies: Poka to you

Poka indeed.  I am pretty sure their next word the said as going out the door was Russian for fool.*

*That's "durak" people. Spelled phonetically of course.
**The More you Know...

What Happens If You Unfriend Your Only Friend? Are You Friendless or Are You Free?

I heard somewhere that today is National Unfriend Day or something. Facebook users are supposed to pare down their friend list and get rid of the unnecessary bulk.  This topic is extremely timely as I have found that I have recently been defriended by a few people.

Now, I do not particularly care if someone defriends me. Except maybe my mom, although she is not on Facebook.  Okay, maybe my brother, my husband, my best friend, that would be sad.  Random people that I reconnected with, but haven't really talked to much? I take no offense.  Time is short. Life is hard. Facebook is full of posts.  Although in my defense, I don't post a lot. Wait. Maybe I am boring people?

In any event, I typically only notice I have been defriended when it is someone that posts a lot and then all of a sudden they stop.  No, they didn't stop. They are still posting endlessly on Facebook, I just don't get to see it.  On to the next 100 posts from friends and family.

But you know what is strange? When you get defriended by someone who only has one friend on Facebook - YOU.  Seriously this just happened to me. Actually, I don't know when it happened because you are not exactly notified when your friendship has been deactivated.  I will pretend it just happened.

So, I am going through my old facebook messages and I find one from this friend that I invited to Facebook. That's right, he wasn't even on Facebook until I came calling. Better yet, I was his only friend. That was a bit strange.  You know what else is strange?  He would post things to his wall, news articles and tidbits and I realized, as his only friend, he was posting directly to me!  Was I supposed to comment on every thing he posted? Why did he think I wanted to read articles from the Wall Street Journal? Was he trying to tell me something?  I guess now I will never know.

You know what is stranger? He is still on Facebook. Without any friends.  Yes, I have been defriended by someone who would rather have no friends than be my friend.  It is like he is the king of Facebook, but he doesn't have any subjects.  

Facebook = bringing people together, tearing them apart, and killing all self esteem.

Now who can *I* defriend??

I See Your Quarter and Raise You a What the Hell Just Happened?

Getting through the security lines at the courthouse is always an adventure. There is one particular court that is always changing the rules - keys out, keys in, no cell phones, who cares about cell phones, feel free to bring your bayonet in by all means.  There is also no telling as to what will set the metal detector off except that it undoubtedly will not be metal.

So it was no surprise that we were waiting there, me and 20 other people, stuck behind a lady that basically had to undress to get through.  I could sense some annoyance coming from behind me, but I decided to focus on my own annoyance instead. First mistake.

As soon as the woman in front of me was cleared and before I could even think to take a step toward the detectors, a woman behind me practically barges her way through me to get into line.  My usual decorum evaporated:

Me: "Oh, EXCUSE ME!

Lady: "What?"

As I stand there with my arms open wide and about to shout "what do you think", she points to the ground behind me and says "There's a quarter."  

Here's where I would tell you that I retorted with a "Nice try old woman. Don't try to distract me with shiny things.  I don't need money that bad" while pushing her out of the way and running through the metal detectors screaming "I am coming your honor."  Sadly, that did not happen.

What happened? I was totally caught off guard and turned to find that there WAS a quarter there on the ground. I then wondered why there was a quarter there and how she knew there was a quarter there and if she was a member of MENSA.  Meanwhile, she was through the detector and off like an apparition.

That is, until I caught up with her on the elevator and she proceeded to answer her cellphone like this:

I AM ON THE ELEVATOR IN COURT AND I CANNOT TALK RIGHT NOW SO I WILL HAVE TO HANG UP, BUT WHY ARE YOU CALLING?

Luckily, I got off one floor after the phone call came in and before I totally lost my hearing.  Later when I relived this event with those that I work with, I could only think of one thing:

I really wanted to pick up that quarter.

Cheese Should Not Pretend to Be a Bug and a Bug Should Not Pretend to Be a Wet Noodle

You know I have issues with bugs, right? At least you know I have issues with centipedes. Although, really, who doesn't? Are there any big centipede lovers out there? I didn't think so. I am pretty sure no one cried foul when the game Centipede came out. In fact, it was probably a smashing hit because everyone wants to blow those little buggers to bits.  But, I digress.

I lived on my own quite some time before I met B so I was forced to be the big bug killer, or ignorer, as the case may be. I thought I was tough.  Never did kill spiders though because I figured they would do their job and kill the rest of the bugs.  Hopefully I didn't swallow any of them in the process.

In any event, a while ago I think I slept with a centipede.  The thought of it makes my skin crawl this many months later.  I was all set for bed, glasses off, bed ready to jump in when I see a dark spot on the ceiling.  Mistake #1 - I go to check it out. Mistake #2 - I get REALLY close because I cannot see well without the glasses. It was a frickin' centipede. I ran out of our bedroom screaming like a girl imitating a girl screaming.  B was convinced that he needed to kill it, but it couldn't be found. I had no choice but to go to bed with pillows covering my ears, my mouth sealed shut and praying that it didn't like nostrils.

Shudder.

So now that I am spoiled with a boy, a dog and three killer cats, bugs freak me the hell out.  I don't want to kill them. I want to run screaming and have someone else step in. This doesn't always work out for me, but a lot of times it does.  And, sometimes, like yesterday, there is not even a bug involved.  I was going downstairs with a mostly empty bowl of pasta and went to turn off the light when I felt something graze my skin:

Me: AHHHHHHHHHH

B: WHAT?

Me: Never mind. It was a piece of cheese.

Me; I thought it was a bug.

B: OH. MY. GOD.  You are insane.

B: Did you think the cats were going to run up here and save you?

With no cats in sight, apparently not.

Fast forward to this morning. Jersey and I came in from outside and I saw Brad eating something in the dining room. I picked it up, looking like a small wet macaroni noodle and was carrying it to the kitchen garbage, saying along the way:

Me: You eat the strangest things Brad.

Me: Where do you find noodles?

And then I poked it. And then it turned over. And then it was a very wet, but very alive BUG IN MY HAND THAT LOOKED LIKE A CENTIPEDE BUT WASN'T.

The only appropriate response was:

Me: AHHHHHHHHHH

And I screamed. And I jumped. And Jersey came over to help me but she didn't know what the problem was. Then she thought it was playtime. Then I couldn't find the bug. Brad was still in the dining room staring intently at the floor where the bug used to be hoping it would materialize.  And I kept shaking my hand while looking for the bug because I COULD STILL FEEL IT.  Finally, I found it and threw it in the trash still alive.

I hope it isn't creating an army in there.

Jersey Doesn't Like Amish People. Or Horses. Or Both. It Must Be a Dog Thing.

On the drive up north to the cottage* we ended up behind a car with a handicap plate. B has a theory about driving on the freeway behind people with handicap plates, but I will leave that for another day. Perhaps a guest post? In any event, as I was contemplating how to get around this woman, B alerted me to the fact that there was an Amish buggy ahead. Sure enough, there was a horse drawn buggy. It passed in front of the woman ahead of us at which time a dog suddenly appeared out of nowhere from within her vehicle and started barking furiously. B and I laughed and wondered what would make a dog so crazay about a horse drawn buggy of Amish people as as we drove by with Jersey barely even glancing in that direction.

That is, until we had to pass another Amish buggy, this time on the road with us. As soon as we were even with the buggy, Jersey let out a ferocious growl and started barking up a storm, much to our surprise. I may have shouted out something ridiculous like "JERSEY! They are AMISH!" As if that made any sense or as if the dog could understand something that involved.

Here to illustrate is Jersey. She went from looking like this:


Such a sweet, out-of-focus, crooked face. To this:

Ferocious! Too bad she was looking at B when that shot was taken.

Then she went to this:

Where are they?

Let me at 'em.

Okay, maybe she was just trying to get some air and crush B in the process. A 45 lb dog on your lap attempting to stand? NOT comfortable. Also not comfortable? Being jolted awake on a road trip because that same 45 lb dog has climbed over the back seat and is SITTING ON YOUR SHOULDER. Good times.

After passing the second Amish buggy, I pondered about the fact that the woman was driving. B responded with:

B: Perhaps she thinks it is weird that YOU are driving.

Me: Maybe. However, I wasn't born in the 1900s when such things were unusual.

B: Um...you only spent almost your ENTIRE life in the 1900s.

Me: Huh. Whatever.

So we let Jersey take the wheel:

Isn't she a natural?

EYES ON THE ROAD JERSEY! I swear that dog is trying to kill us.

Or maybe just the Amish...

*This trip has given me a lot of material. Cottage trips more often!!

Crime Watch Wednesday: Fanning the Flame of Friendship

This week's Crime Watch Chronicles brings us the story of a friendship gone bad and a crime that didn't quite take:

A former friend was found to be a suspect in an attempted arson. A woman came home to find a small puddle of liquid, thought to be lighter fluid, and a burned cigarette under the front tire of her vehicle. Around that same time the woman received a text message from her former friend, who had been harassing her and threatening her for weeks, that read:

"I tried to light on fire ur shit"

Yes, yes you did. You tried to light on fire the woman's shit. But you didn't. You know what else you did? You ADMITTED TO A CRIME. And you did so via a poorly worded text message. That is traceable to your phone number. Apparently, also the phone number used to harass and threaten this same woman for weeks. Now the police are asking for any additional information, but the truth is? They have all of the information they need. They have:

• your name
• your phone number
• your CONFESSION

You didn't start the fire, babe, but you are still going to get burned.

Case closed.

On a side note, who the hell attempts to start a fire, fails, and then announces the ridiculous attempt to their enemy. That would be like firing an arrow at a person while standing behind a tree and then after missing jumping out and yelling "I tried to shoot this arrow through your heart."

No shit, but you didn't.

Crime Watch Wednesday: Man's Got Balls!

This week's Crime Watch Chronicles brings us a story of something we all wish we could do...send projectile objects in our neighbors' direction:

A woman reported that her neighbor was hitting golf balls in the middle of the afternoon. Unfortunately for the woman's father, the neighbor was not on the golf course, but in his backyard at the time. The woman reported that one of the balls nearly hit her father in the head. Despite her best efforts, she was unable to reach a resolution with said neighbor. Police discovered a golf net in the suspect's backyard facing the woman's house as well as some golf balls in her yard. The suspect would only admit to one ball having gone into the woman's yard. Probably the one that nearly brained her father.

That guy has balls. I kid. No, really. Not only does he send flying objects directly into his neighbor's yard, but he also aims right for it. Yes, he had a "net", but the net was facing her house. And it couldn't have been a very good net, seeing as how many balls made it into her backyard. Then there's the whole hitting-the-ball-when-someone-is-in-the-yard thing. I am sure that was "accidental."

This story has given me many great ideas. Or at least one. B has golf clubs. B has balls.* We have a neighbor that won't cut his grass. We have neighbors that didn't want to let us get air.** I can hit a ball with a club. However, I cannot guarantee in which direction it will go.

At this time, I would like to apologize in advance to the hip young couple that lives across the street (who invited us to game night last weekend, which we didn't attend because B was working and I was doing something better***) for the golf ball through the window. It was really intended for the guy behind us.

Fore!

*Golf balls, people. GOLF BALLS.

**We got air anyway. It is so quiet, they cannot hear it. They now LOVE us and think we are geniuses. I am still bitter.

***Something better was falling asleep in front of the TV. Good times!

Crime Watch Wednesday: I Think You Dropped This...

This week's crime watch chronicles brings us the sad tale of losing one's property, but this time it is the thief that lost out:

A concerned citizen called the police after finding an unusual black container on the corner of the street. It contained a marijuana pipe as well as some marijuana. The citizen had seen a vehicle driving back and forth and stopping at that very corner. The citizen asked the driver what he was doing and the driver stated he was "looking for a package" for his friend. The citizen told him he should check with the police because they had the package. The driver left, never to be seen again.

Point.check.match. And citizen for the win! How awesome would it be to say to a person looking for his stash "you should check with the police because they have it" when you know damn well they dropped it on the corner because they thought they were being followed. Hilarious.

As the old song goes, paranoia will destroy ya.*

*Some Black Sabbath for you, although not official lyrics to the song. How's that for some trivia?

I Was a Rock Star Groupie Once

I have always loved musicians. Mostly I think it is their creativity and their ability to make music that people listen to and love. My heart really belongs to singers and songwriters though. When I hear a well crafted lyric, I swoon. It is no wonder, then, that I was a groupie for a while.

So now you are thinking I have wonderful stories to tell a la Almost Famous. Sorry to disappoint you, but my stories are not that glamorous and involve more driving than sex or drugs (as my Mom thanks the Lord and crosses herself). They do not involve touring the country on a bus with the band while living in a fantasy love affair with the guitarist. I loved that movie too though. Sigh.

Anyway, my stories are grittier and in most cases, more boring. Take a gander:

1. There was the time that I met Nelson. Don't know who Nelson is? Long blond haired twin rockers? No? Anyway, they were touring with Cinderella and some other hard rocking 90s glam rock band. My mom's friend knew a guy that worked the venue, my cousin and I threw his name around and the next thing you know, we were watching the concert from backstage. Albeit, it was the last song but still a rocking good time. And when I got cold, the roadie gave me a jacket. I then had to give it back.

2. I met Nelson again, up close and personal this time. The day after the last time. Yes, the roadie guys we met invited us to their next show a few cities away. Yes, a road trip. In our car - my cousin and I. Really not Almost Famous at all. This encounter involved watching a rehearsal where Nelson threw guitar picks at us, a meet and greet where we got our picture taken, front row seating to the concert and hanging with the roadies on the bus where I was asked to show ID (that would SO not happen in Almost Famous). My cousin, the underage one, however, was not. (That will show you Nelson roadies - we pulled a fast one on you!) This also prompted a picture with the roadies that my Dad later deemed to be "inappropriate" because he thought the one guy's hand was on my boob. Yes, because it is always my goal to show my father a picture of a guy holding my boob. This also prompted a decade long pen pal/friendship with the roadie. Wherever you are Louie, you rock!

3. Ratt was in town. Ratt is my favorite band. I hope I do not lose readers now. I know it is cheesy and bad, but I cannot help it. Same venue, same venue guy. Sadly, he could not get us back stage so he did the next best thing - he gave us the name of the hotel that the band was staying at and off we went. What we hoped to accomplish is anyone's guess. We got to the hotel and I was inches away from Stephen Pearcy - inches!! As we all headed into the hotel, wise security personnel seeing a gaggle of miniskirted big haired girls decided they needed to be carded. And just like that, it ended. We were not 21. Stephen Pearcy tried his best, exclaiming "These are ALL my girlfriends," but the security personnel did not care. As we left, circling the hotel, we saw a girl trying to sneak into a side door only to find it was locked. She wailed out to us as we drove by "but I will be 21 in just a couple of daysssssss." We felt her pain.

4. The Danzig disaster. Not that Danzig was a disaster, he was cool. The rest of the trip? Not so much. Yep, another road trip down a state or two to see Metallica, Danzig and whomever else was playing. To make a LONG story short - our ride was insane and after being pulled over for speeding would only drive 30 miles per hour. It took us HOURS to get there and we missed most of the show. Finagling our way back stage one at a time (um, for some reason our connection could only get one back stage pass), we ended up hanging with some roadies and then heading to the hotel to catch up with them and the band. The "band" ended up being Danzig. Next thing I know, I am stuck in a hotel room with five blonds and a guy (no idea why he was there) all waiting for Danzig who had made an appearance moments prior. After 20 insane minutes with screeching and mind numbing conversation, I realized my cousin had deserted me. So off I went to find her. Yeah, I found her in Danzig's room having a nice quiet conversation (no, really it WAS a conversation) with him. Total down to earth, cool guy that seemed bemused at the gaggle of girls I had left behind. No matter how cool he was, it did not make up for the four hour ride home while sitting in the middle of a two seater manual truck making conversation with a former enemy to ensure she didn't crash the car due to lack of sleep while my cousin snored beside me. Ah memories...

Which all brings me to today. I was at Potbelly's grabbing some lunch when I heard a version of a song that sounded really cool. Ten minutes later I realized that it was being played live by a guy in the corner who could sing REALLY good. That's when I remembered I love musicians.

As I left I turned and the guy looked straight at me and sang to me. My stomach jumped and for a moment I was transported back to earlier times and those rock star memories and thought "he looked at ME, the singer looked at ME!"

Then I looked at the short, very young, dorky guy behind the microphone, turned and walked out, closing the door, and those groupie days, behind me.

Public Service Announcement to the Makers of Coupons

Dear Makers of Manufactured Coupons:

Please stop making your coupons so large that they cannot fit into any of my coupon holders. Coupons should not require my carting around some kind of carrier that is the size of a legal sized document. Coupons do not need huge pictures of the product on them. Can you just stick with the facts, please? What do I need to buy, how many do I need to buy, how much is the coupon worth and when does it expire. This can all fit into a 3" by 5" piece of paper. Trust me it can.

If you insist on making your coupons the size of greeting cards, I will not be clipping them. If I don't clip them, chances are I am not going to be purchasing your product.

Consider yourself warned.

Love,

The girl who loves coupons but does not love carrying a full size accordion file with her to Kroger.

Just the Fax Ma'am

And you think I am bad with technology? Well, I am. But that is besides the point. Today, expecting a fax from another office, I instead received 11 blank pages with the fax transmittal header on it. I call the woman back and we have the following exchange:

Woman: Hi, did you get it?
Me: No. Actually I got 11 blank pages with your header on it.*
Woman: Huh!
Me: Do you think maybe you faxed it upside down?
Woman: Maybe.
Me: I have been known to do that [I haven't, but was trying to make her feel like less of an idiot]
Woman: I will try again.

And, again, I get 11 blank pagers with a transmittal header. I call her again:

Woman: Did it come through?
Me: 11 blank pages with a header came through.
Woman: I think there is something wrong with our fax machine.
Me: I would say so.
Woman: It is scary because I have been faxing papers all day. IMPORTANT papers. And people have been telling me they haven't received them.
Me: Can you email them to me?
Woman: We have another fax machine.
Me: Okay....
Woman: I will just email them to you.
Me: Sounds great.

Let's review:

1. She has been faxing papers all day
2. These papers are IMPORTANT
3. People have told her they aren't receiving the papers
4. She has a second fax machine
5. She has scanning capabilities
6. Despite the importance of these papers, she still chooses to continue to use the fax machine that people have been telling her is (a) not sending or (b) sending blank papers

Wow.

*When I first typed this, I had "with your head on it" instead of header. I think that is much more appropriate considering I wanted to rip this woman's head off. I changed it anyway.

You Can Call Me Sharon...

Yes, we are still on  Monday.  A lot happened on Monday. After being set free from the office, I drove home chatting with my Mom about not being in the office and other important stuff.  Upon arriving inside I noted to her that we had received a really pretty Christmas card.  It was three trees that stood up.  I looked inside and it said "Merry Christmas from Margaret." I had no clue who Margaret was.  I looked around for an envelope and found nothing. Convinced B must have thrown it out when he opened it, I looked in the recycling - nothing. Looked in the garbage - nothing.  I told my Mom that I must go solve this riddle and would call her back.  After hanging up, I realized I needed to check B's garbage and that is when I found the envelope.  There was no addresses on it so it was clearly placed into our mailbox or door. It said:

Sharon and B

Sharon? Who the heck is Sharon?  It dawned on me then that Margaret is our zany downstairs neighbor.  But where did she get the idea my name is Sharon? It is not even close to my name. And she put it first implying that she was closer to, or knew me more than, B.  Or at least she was closer to Sharon, whomever that may be.

I should not even be that surprised.  This is the same lady that almost burned the house down.  She is also the lady that decided she wanted to get a dog and then decided she wanted to get everyone's permission.  Nice gesture, I suppose, although there are no rules against animals in our complex.  This made for a priceless moment.  First she tried to ask me:

Me answering door: Hello?

Neighbor: I want to get a dog and I am asking everyone if it is okay.

Me: Well I don't see why it would be a problem, but you should really ask B as he owns this place not me.

This was before we were married. I am pretty sure she didn't call me Sharon. And I know I didn't introduce myself as Sharon.  Anyway...

I warned B that she was going to talk to him. He spent the next week dodging her figuring she would just give up.  Nope.  She cornered him in the parking lot one day and he reluctantly rolled down his car window:

Neighbor: I want to get a dog and I am asking everyone if it is okay.

B:  What kind of dog?

Neighbor:  A brown one.

HAHAHAHA - a brown one. I am pretty sure that B meant what BREED of dog, not what COLOR when he asked what KIND.  In fact, he confirmed this to me when he told me she was insane.  Of course he always says that.

So in the end...she got a black and white dog.

Does black and white equal brown?

Maybe Sharon* knows.

*I have told B that he now has to walk around the house yelling SHARONNNNN like Ozzy does.  So far he has refused.

The Lunch That Was Much Ado About Nothing

The other day three partners and I went out to lunch to celebrate something or be thanked or something. I forget. It has been a long week.  As usual, we went to a hobsnobbing place, although not to hobsnob, but to be congratulated or thanked.  Quite often well known people and local semi-celebrities will frequent the place.  This day was no exception.  As we are sitting there, a partner says "Oh look, Doug Smith just came in."  Doug Smith is a newscaster on a local TV station.  I CANNOT STAND Doug Smith so I snort in disdain or something along those lines and say "don't even get me started about Doug Smith."  The partner that lived through my Amityville tirade says "uh oh," the first partner remains silent as he is used to my tirades, but the third partner is new to our scene and he makes the mistake of asking "Why? What's wrong with Doug Smith?"  Game on.  I unleash with this tirade:

"Well how about for starters that he READS from the teleprompter. I know that they all do it, but he is so OBVIOUS about it. It is not like he is new. We have had to put up with this for years and years.  Why is he always looking down right?  Why Doug Smith? WHY?  This leads me to constantly scream at the TV screen I AM UP HERE - YOO HOO - HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SCREEN.  It totally distracts from my news viewing and I do not understand why he just cannot do it correctly. I just do NOT understand."  

Shaking my head in disgust, I was done.

After a brief discussion about the proper placement of TV teleprompters, we go back to our meal. Some time later, the first partner says "It is getting late, does Doug Smith know he has to be on the air at 5?"  I respond "I am quite sure that he knows when he has to be there as he is there every day.  And, really, what's the rush? It is not like he has to learn his lines or anything."   A few minutes later, not entirely convinced, partner renewed his desire to go over there and tell Doug Smith to get to work.  That just riled me up some more, "No! What you need to do is go over there and tell him that perhaps he should get there EARLY so he has time to READ HIS STORIES so he is not READING the teleprompter."

Nobody said anything. We left, walking by Doug Smith.  As we waited for our car, I told first partner "Wait until I tell B who I saw, he will immediately know my tirade at just the mention of his name."  Later that night when I got home, I said to B "guess who I saw at lunch today - Doug Smith."  B's response? "La...dee...da..."  Um, not quite the response I was expecting so I pressed on:

Me: Well, you know how I feel about Doug Smith, right?

B:  That he reads?

Me: Yes!! [thinking B and I are SO on the same page and love is bliss]

B: Don't you mean Sean Gold? Isn't he the one that reads?

Me: Huh.

B: Remember Doug Smith is the one that sometimes they put all that pancake makeup on and he looks dead on our HDTV, like literally should be in a coffin.

Me: Huh.

B: Yep, that's our only problem with Doug Smith.

Me: ...[thinking I need to take B with me everywhere I go so I can keep my tirades straight]

Me: Well, GREAT...now my outburst today was ALL FOR NOTHING!!

Me: Huh. Oh well.

Do you think I will tell my partners the truth? Probably not. In fact, in all likelihood what will happen is we will all be out again, Doug Smith will arrive and one of them will ask "isn't that the guy who you cannot stand because he reads the teleprompter?" And I will nonchalantly say, "nah - wrong guy" with no further explanation.  

That's how I right my wrongs - nonchalant denial.

*Speaking of Amityville, there is a spider living in my house and stalking me as I type.  I did not kill him even though he charged at me in the bathroom as I figured he was more scared of me than him... blah, blah, blah.  However, when I mentioned our bathroom guest to B, he notified me that the spider had moved to living in our bedroom. That is NOT acceptable.  I do not need to swallow a spider while sleeping. It happens folks.  And guess what?  Since B said that, I cannot find the spider.  Either he and B are in cahoots to play a cruel joke on me or one of us is full of extra protein.

The Write Way

Today is election day. I know, you probably hadn't noticed.  Personally, I am excited for all of the campaigning and ads to stop. Then I can go back to my ad free life watching The Hills.*  But before that happens, voting must occur.  So, I have decided to write myself in as candidate for President of the United States of America.  Why not? I think I have the experience.  After all, I was President of a group at law school.  And, I was actually a successful write in candidate for student representative my first year.  That's a winning combination if I ever heard one.  Let me take you back about 9 years or so....

We were in the middle of a full fledged campaign for student something or another at school. There were probably about four candidates for the spot in our class although I only remember two of them and for two reasons.  First, they were my friends (yes both of them).  Second, they were running on a platform together although there was only one spot...and only one of them could win...so technically they were running together, but against, each other. Confusing, I know.

In the midst of all of this confusion, a few people remarked that I should have put my bid in for the spot.  The more remarks were made, the more I thought they were right. Why wasn't I running?  Well, alas, it was only two days before election.  Too late to do anything but ponder what could have been.  However, someone wiser than me, an upperclassman, suggested I should be a write in candidate. After researching and getting a permission slip or something, it was approved.  But how does one go about becoming a write in candidate - how do you get the word out?

Campaign posters were out.  We were told that I could put them up but the other candidates made such a stink that I modestly declared they "weren't necessary."  For the next two days, I and my upperclassman friend, proceeded to spread, via word of mouth, my message. That message consisted of "elect me" or something equally benign yet clever.  Word quickly spread like fire. Why, I don't know. Everyone wanted me to win, although perhaps not my opponents. The day of the election was upon us and we did not stop campaigning.  In fact, I sat by the election table introducing myself to everyone.  My opponents - the together yet against each other team - despite being my friends** did not trust me so they, too, sat by the table.  After a long hard day/night, the tally was in.

I won.

Yep - I, a write in candidate, two days before election, with no signs, won. Victory.  The power was ALL mine.  Never had I been so successful, wanted something so badly, that I took it and seized it, trampling foes and friends alike in my thirst.  I was riding high.

Until my first meeting.  That is when I realized being a representative was annoying as hell. All anyone did was bitch and moan and nothing good happened.  Victory quickly became lackluster enthusiasm which dwindled to pure hatred.

I imagine that might be what it is like to be elected President of the United States.  At least, that is what I will tell myself when my write in candidacy campaign fails.

UPDATE: Another candidate has declared his write in candidacy. He may win on cuteness alone.

*Yeah I like mindless TV. Who doesn't?

**Not much of a friend was I? Running against them like that. However, how could they even explain their dual platform for a single election? So puzzling.

She Who Laughs Last Gets the Cookie

At a reader request, I have diagrammed my parking story where a lady parked behind me after I drove through the parking space and then inexplicably wanted me to move after I apologized.  Not sure the diagram really helps though. I believe it is puzzling because it just does not make any sense. We were both parked - no reason for anyone to move. As you can see she would have been only slightly closer to the store if she had been where I was.  

Posting this, however, reminded me of another story of cutting in front of people but this time I was the cutee* or the-one-who-was-cut-in-front-of.  A few weeks ago I decided to go to Panera to get some yummy soup for lunch.  I was on the phone with my mom while I waited to be called next in line.  (No worries, I do not talk on the phone or hold it to my ear while I am ordering and paying at a restaurant, or in a bank or in a store -  I have some manners). The way this place is set up, there are five different cashiers spread out over about 12 feet.  So, people form one general line and wait for the next available cashier to wave them over.  At the time, I was the only "people" waiting. Suddenly, I see two men walk in, walk AROUND me and proceed to stand in front of me as I if I were just standing there like some lost little child.  I immediately said to my mom "I have to go, it's an emergency" and hung up my phone.  I needed total concentration.

I put on my real angry face and huffed.  No one listened. The guys got called to a register and, as luck would have it, I was called to one two down from them. There was another customer between us.  I ordered my soup and drink and also a chocolate chip cookies (god, I love those things).  The cookies are usually placed out in front of the cash registers and can disappear quickly.  I had not yet taken my cookie, and was just about to put my change away, when I hear one of the two rude guys say "and a chocolate chip cookie."  That was it - game on!!

As soon as I heard those words, I quickly scanned the cookies, saw ONE chocolate chip cookie and swooped right in. I reached ACROSS the person in between us and snatched the last chocolate chip cookie while saying Ha! inside my head.  As I took the cookie, I heard the cashier say "it appears we have no more chocolate chip cookies."  Double Ha!  Who's going to cut in front of me now? Huh? The person WITHOUT a chocolate chip cookie.  That's who.

Guess who didn't have the last laugh? That would be me. I sauntered over to the pop machine, all proud of myself and my not so secret revenge**, and as I put my cup down on the counter and reached for a straw, rude man came and filled his glass, right under my nose.  Well played, rude man, well played.  He probably deserved a cookie for that slick maneuver. Too bad, I had the last one.

Maybe I did have the last laugh after all.  

UPDATE:  This post made me want Panera so I went today. The cashier must have recognized me because after I said I wanted a cookie and then noticed there were no chocolate chip ones, I started to say "do you have any..." and she replied "yes" and went to retrive a chocolate chip cookie without me specifying what kind.  So, she either thinks I am (a) a crazy lunatic that will do evil unspeakable things for a chocolate chip cookie or (b) I am a cool avenger righting the wrongs in the world one cookie at a time.  I'd like to think (a) but the truth is she probably thinks (b) and just wanted me the heck out of the place!

*this is obviously not a word. Spell check keeps wanting to make it cutey, but that would take away from the viciousness of this crime.

**I am not normally so vengeful. At least, I don't normally act on my vengence.  Don't judge.  It was a cookie you know. A very, very good cookie.  

Dear Riddler...

No this is a not a letter to me, but I sure wish it was and that I was an advice columnist because I would have plenty to say.  Of course, no one would send me any letters after reading my advice and the column would quickly dry up and I would be broke in no time, but I would have had some good times.

So,  I get a bunch of magazines.  Too many, I am sure B would say. Well he does say that while accusatorily pointing at the stack and failing to realize how many Esquires and Maxims are mixed in.  Those aren't mine, ya know. Anyway, some of these magazines are what we call "girl" or "women" magazines. Not girlie magazines. And not Playgirl.  Magazines for the young woman or family gal.  One that I regularly read is Redbook.  Another is Cosmo, but I am about to cancel that because really, are there honestly 100 different ways to please your man EVERY month? Wouldn't that equate to 1200 ways to please your man in the course of a year? Who has that much time?  Sounds exhausting. Can't you just pick a couple that are good and stick with those?  

In these magazines, there are always advice columns.  Cosmo's questions, to no surprise, are about sex. Didn't they cover that from cover to cover? (Say THAT three times fast).  While Redbook's questions, on the other hand, tend to be broader and cover a wider range of topics such as family issues, health and apparently, work.  The latest issue offers this letter. I thought it was a joke:

I have a coworker who won't confide in me or anyone

else at our job anymore.  Also, when I dish to her about

other people we work with, she doesn't even respond. I

want her to confide in me because I think she needs my 

help to get her life together - she's made some very bad

dating choices in the past, and I don't really care for how she

does her makeup or hair.  I think she needs my friendship, 

because she sounds so pathetic.  The other coworkers

suspect that she stopped confiding in us because she

thinks we talk about her behind her back - buy we only

do it because we care.  How do I get this coworker to let

down her guard and let me back in?

(Redbook, November 2008)

I kid you not, that is the letter.  Now the advice columnist was probably kinder than I would have been although she was straight to the point in declaring who exactly was pathetic, without using those exact words.  I, on the other hand would start by saying unless you are God himself, you should not be authoring that letter and I would venture to say even He would not do that.  I would follow that with these points:

• is this a joke?
• really...you can tell me.
• I won't dish to anyone I swear. I don't even know what dish is when used as a verb, I just use it to describe my nouns, the dishes.
• but if you want me to gossip, I'll gossip. I can gossip with the best of them. Did you hear about the coworker who thinks she's above everyone and has better relationships, hair, makeup, friendship and life?
• you didn't huh? Maybe no one is confiding in you.
• I wonder why they have their guard up around you. Why is there this wall?
• it is like they cannot let anyone in and "be themselves" around you. Strange.
• maybe if you try harder you can be let back in. 
• perhaps you can start by offering unsolicited advice about their relationships...
• and their makeup...
• and their hair.
• but not directly to them...
• behind their back...
• because you care, of course.

Now, I could give real advice in response to this letter. But I will let the professional at Redbook do that.   She is paid and probaby certified and licensed and such.  I am just a girl, not yet a woman, or something like that.  I will just stick to what I know.

About those 100 different ways to please your man...

Double Secret Blind Date

I know you are wondering, how can a blind date be double secret? Isn't a blind date, well, a blind date? The answer of course is no.  Let me fill you in on the double secret blind date of which I just became aware of today.*  A guy I know told me he had a date.  Not that he is an infrequent dater by any means. In fact, he dates a lot. He only tells me about the unusual, unique or downright hilarious ones.  So I brace myself for a doozy of a story. Instead I get a voicemail. His voicemail.  It went something like this:

"Hi Riddler's Friend. You don't know me but a mutual friend told me that I should call you so that we could go out.  I am 5'4, lean, with long blond hair and big boobs. So give me a call."

I decide this is a joke. This is a joke, right? No, says my friend. He insists he talked to this woman on the phone and he is going out with her tonight. During their conversation he found out she is a personal trainer, runs triathlons, and could kick his ass. I am convinced she is a boy.  What he did not find out is (1) who told her to call him and (2) her name. (I don't know how he called her without knowing her name. I presume she just answered).  You heard that right. He is going out with an unnamed woman whom he does not know referred to him by some alleged unnamed friend.  How much more double secret could it get?

Even though he is a boy, I ask him if he is taking a friend, or perhaps a weapon, with him?  He just laughs.  I remind him that (a) she sounds like a boy, or at least a mean-kick-your-ass girl, (b) she can kick his ass and (c) HE DOES NOT KNOW HER NAME.  Really - we may never hear from him again after tonight. He assures me he is going somewhere where he knows a lot of people.  Yep, everyone but her I guess.

And let's get back to the voicemail. Pretend this is real. Who describes themselves like that? Really?  Who says 5'4", lean, long blond hair and BIG BOOBS?  A boob that's who.  Not sure it would be someone I wanted to date. Can you imagine, girls, if a boy called you and said this:

"I am 6'2", athletic, dark hair and I have a big penis."

On second thought, maybe she has the right idea...

*Yep, I just coined the phrase double secret blind date. Feel free to use it in the future. Just don't actually go on one.