My Brain Has Been Rewired

I'm convinced that excessive computer usage has rewired my brain, and maybe yours, too. And not in a good way.

Yesterday morning I got up and of course (!) checked Facebook before I even had coffee. I was surprised at how many other people had posted that they were already up and had been unable to sleep. I'd had another unsatisfying night, myself. After going to bed I'd been bothered by restless leg syndrome (previously only experienced in times of extreme stress). I had to get up around midnight, take a hot bath and a Tylenol PM in order to get some rest, and I was still the first one up in my house the next morning. Also on the subject of sleeping/not sleeping: twice this past week I've dreamed of web surfing.

At work at my regular job, I check my office email over and over and over, a million times a day. I could set it to automatically notify me; but no, I'd rather obsess. In short moments of downtime, such as when I'm waiting for my printer to spit something out, I check my personal email or look at Facebook or hit a website for whatever topic has crossed my mind in the last few minutes. (My mother-in-law has mentioned that she can never think of anything she wants to look up. To me this is incomprehensible. I can't STOP thinking of things I want to look up.)

Saddest of all, and I've heard this expressed by other readers, is that my relationship with books has been altered. Books have been the love of my life and until the past year or two, I dove into them and easily became absorbed. But lately I find it much more difficult. At present I'm reading a new book--one I had long looked forward to--by a favorite author, and instead of savoring the beautiful prose I'm impatient for the story to get moving, already, and show me some action. I still do pretty well when I return to favorite books from the past, but NEW characters and stories have their work cut out for them, trying to wrest my attention away from this magic screen in front of me.

It's almost as though we've conditioned ourselves to have ADD. No longer is it a way of life to concentrate on one thing at a time; EVERY job description uses the term "multi-task." We go through our days trying to do one main thing while flipping back every few minutes (seconds?) to another. I find this all disturbing. You?

Ruby Slippers

When my daughter Bliss was little, Target used to sell sparkly jewel-encrusted red shoes that reminded me of the ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz. Every time I went in the store I would look at them and think how thrilled she would be if I bought her some. But then I'd think, Don't be frivolous. That's ten dollars, or whatever, that could be spent on something more practical.

A hundred times I looked at them, a hundred times I never bought them.

Eventually Bliss got too old to be delighted by such things as ruby slippers from Target. And then one day I realized that I would never in my whole life have another little girl to buy them for.

Moral of the story: that's ten bucks I should have spent.

Belated Good Idea

The Sewanee Writers' Conference is about to crank up again. Last year's conference seems like yesterday in that I can still remember every detail of every room I entered, etc. I'll just come on out with it--I didn't have a great time at Sewanee. I did find it a valuable experience, just not in the ways I expected to. Anyway, I don't feel like going into all that, I was only going to mention that I was struck by an idea today, approximately one year too late.

I was reading a book by Margot Livesey, who was on the faculty at Sewanee last year, and I was thinking that I guessed she and my own workshop leaders, Jill McCorkle and Tony Earley, would all be convening again pretty soon. And I thought, wouldn't it be neat if the story I took to be workshopped last year had been published since then. I'd mail Jill a copy and she'd get it after breakfast one day, on that table in the dining hall where they leave your mail.

And what made me mad was that if I'd had this brilliant thought right after I came home last year, I could have made it happen. The thought of Jill McCorkle picking that package up from the mail table would have been inspiration enough for me to actually submit the thing to the requisite four million places until somebody took it.

Instead, what really happened was that I procrastinated for months before I FINALLY revised it in light of the comments everybody in the workshop had made, and then one day in a burst of energy I had about ten copies made of it, and then I dumped them on my office floor where they've been gathering dust ever since.

I'm not sure whether to say that the Sewanee workshop dampened my enthusiasm for the story I took, but I don't know that I'd ever care to participate in another. I dislike dissecting the work of others--I always have, even in literature classes. And I'm afraid it's been detrimental to me to picture a roomful of people dissecting mine.

Before, when I sent out a story, I imagined a lone editor reading it (sometimes, I know, only a paragraph) and either tossing it on the "not my taste" pile, or continuing, liking it, maybe fighting to get it into an issue of the magazine. Now I'm afraid that the workshop--the one and only workshop group of my life--will stick in my head forever like a Greek chorus muttering. Passing judgment.

I think it's one of those life situations where I was happier when I knew less.

Career Move?

I am developing such a collection of hoochie shoes that I'm thinking about starting a website for foot fetishists. (That's just a joke but believe you me, if I thought I could make a living at it...)

Ya like these? I do. I wish the zippers were silver, but I still like 'em.

Still Sick

Five days later, I think I'm worse. Still coughing, sneezing, sniffling, and generally unable to breathe right. Throat feels OK sometimes, other times like I swallowed a razor blade. But most unpleasant are the earaches which sometimes decrease my hearing so much I feel like I have earplugs in. Also, I've barely slept.

Now for a tally: How many bowls of chicken soup have been made for me? How many times has my husband soothed my fevered brow or favored me with a sympathetic glance? How many times---in SPITE of the fact that he ADMITTED reading the previous post---has he so much as seemed to notice my proximity to the valley of death? You guessed it. ZERO.

But how many times has he said, "Did you start the laundry?" Approximately 4,927.

When Your Wife Doesn't Feel Well

I always think that if a man can't figure out how a woman wants to be treated, just look at how she treats her kids. However we mothers treat our children (if we're mentally normal and all) is bound to be our idea of what pure love is. How do we greet them? How do we talk to them? Comfort them? Hold them? Feed them. Whatever.

With that in mind, let me just say that when I am sick I would like the following:

I would like you to look at me with tender concern. (Fake it if necessary.)See if I have a fever.

I would like you to tell me to lie down and rest. Cover me up with a blanket. Ask me if I want anything to eat or drink. Ask me if I have taken any medicine and if I have not bothered, insist that I am going to take some and right now. Then bring it to me.

Touch me. I understand that you don't want my cooties. But my body aches, and you are better than Tylenol. I promise not to give you my germs if you just let me put my head in your lap, or if you hold me for a few minutes or rub my back. Maybe a kiss on top of my head would be nice.

If you fussed over me in this manner for about five good minutes, I would feel all warm and fuzzy and would then insist that you go do whatever you want to do. Which is what you do anyway, only I do not feel warm and fuzzy.

If you wait until I have a heart attack or stroke to hover by my bed, I'm not going to know it. Take care of me when I'm just lightly-to-moderately sick, and I will love you for it.

The Great Pretender

My son Brandon is a big Beatles fan; also a big pretender. He's growing out of it somewhat at 7, but when he was little he was always in a costume or carrying a prop, "being" somebody else.

Today he was apparently being Paul McCartney, and Paul was writing in his diary.

PAUL McCARTNEY (it said at the top of the page.)

Then it said:

"Today I will have fish and tea, and other British foods."

That was apparently as far as Paul got before he went out for a snack; a British one of course, old bean.

Only A Man Would Think of This Phrasing

Brian was in a recording studio this weekend doing a voiceover audition, and while there he went into the restroom. He told me he saw an interesting sign taped to the restroom wall. I may not quote it exactly right, but basically it said this:

If you are driving a long freight train,
Flush once and THEN use paper.

Not doing so may cause the train
to jump the tracks and flood the station.

How Alarming

At 1:30 this morning our house alarm went off, and if there had been an actual bad guy in the house, I would have rushed directly into his arms, so intent was I on silencing that piercing noise. I mean really. Our bedroom is mere steps from the kitchen, back door, and alarm control box thingy, and when my conscious memory of last night begins, I was already a few steps out of the bed and the phone was ringing and all I was thinking was STOP THAT NOISE. I turned the kitchen light on and noted that the kitchen door was OPEN a couple of inches, and still I was thinking SHUT UP, SHUT UP, how can I make this thing shut up. I closed and locked the door, maybe locking a bad guy inside with us, for all I knew. Brian had not arisen from the bed, where apparently he was having a chat with the alarm people and giving them the secret code word without bothering to ascertain that everything was actually okay. Although everything was, I guess.

It worried me, though. I had been in bed, but still awake, when Bliss came home at 11:25. I heard her turn off the alarm after her own entry and then reset it for the night. Then I guess I fell asleep while she was rattling around the kitchen fixing a snack. But the thing is, the door has to be shut for you to reset the alarm, so how did it come to be open two hours later? Brian theorizes that Bliss didn't shut it completely (much less lock it) and that our cat, who's always trying to make a break for it, worked on it bit by bit until he finally got it open. Pretty good theory, except that if the cat did painstakingly work until he got the door open, why was he still inside the house?

I had another alarm scare years ago that went like this: I was hugely pregnant with Bliss, and my then-husband worked at night, hence the whole decision to get an alarm. So on the evening after we got it installed, there I sat on the sofa, nervous, pregnant and alone, when suddenly a piercing BEEP, BEEP, BEEP caused me to leap up and then just stand there, paralyzed with fear, and wait for the intruder to appear. When he never did, I eventually figured out that the alarm company man (who had unplugged various appliances during the installation process) must have accidentally hit the button on big loud alarm clock in my kitchen, setting it to go off several hours later.

These incidents together suggest to me that the only thing an alarm is good for is to give me a few seconds' notice that I'm about to be murdered. Seriously, what we should have done last night was jump up and lock the bedroom doors, get the gun and wait for the cops to show up. Instead, I go running into the kitchen to silence the alarm so as to be killed more quietly. And to think I pay twenty-seven bucks a month for this protection.

Religious Cousin Cleans House, Finds Sex Toys

I have this dear first cousin who is very religious. (I apologize to her for encapsulating her in that one sentence, but I think her religiousness is the main quality that pertains to this dream.)She has also been known on at least one occasion to clean something in my house while visiting me. "TEN YEARS AGO," she'll yell when she sees this. Anyway.

So I had this dream a couple nights ago that she had come for a weekend visit. I was getting dressed to go someplace while she and my kids were outside. I looked out the window and saw that she had raked up a big pile of leaves. Next thing I knew, I heard a lawn mower start up. Thinking it was a neighbor, I looked out again, but here came my cousin, marching along behind the lawn mower, wearing a little a straw hat to keep the sun off. I rolled my eyes (which by the way is a lifelong trait that I learned from her). What visitor takes it upon herself to cut her host's grass? I wondered. But whatever--I don't ask her to do these things.

Still in the process of getting dressed, I went into a little vanity area of my house that normally has framed pictures all over the walls. But the pictures had all been taken down--for dusting, I assumed--by my cleaning cousin. I was beginning to feel irked by all this, when I noticed, on a shelf (which doesn't even exist in real life) a bunch of SEX TOYS that had been left lying around for all the world, including religious cleaning cousins, to see! I particularly noticed an oversized black one of the manly-shaped variety. My face burned with embarrassment, but of course I was mad at HER. I was all set to go out in the yard and give her a piece of my mind for having the nerve to clean my house to begin with. But I woke up.

You ask me, I'd say there's lotsa symbolism in this dream.

Gina Bingo

Gina is my very repetitive, very annoying chronic complainer of a coworker. As if it didn't suck enough to have to work in general, I have to sit right beside her. When she is not hacking and sneezing in my general direction, she is talking, which may be worse. She cannot stand to think that the rest of us may have failed to notice her for a moment, so she keeps up a stream-of-consciousness monologue all day.

There is not a lot going on in her brain, but whatever IS going on, we hear about it. So, since they don't allow us to play drinking games at work, I've decided to get some bingo cards printed up, to try to help us normal people survive the days with her. I think there could actually be several forms of Gina Bingo. We'll each keep the cards on our desks and put a little token on the square every time she says one of her trademark things.

The first game could be COMPLAINT BINGO. The squares on the cards could say: God, it's hot in here. God, it's cold in here.My husband's out of work. I'm broke and can't pay the bills. Mama's in the hospital again. I'm sick. My head/tummy/throat hurts. No matter what you do around here, it's not enough. This computer is so slow. This printer is so slow. This customer just chewed me out. I'm starving but I don't feel like eating anything. I'm hungry but I don't feel like going anywhere. Of course she doesn't feel like going anywhere--it's much more fun to stay in the office and complain! With any luck, someone will pay attention to her!

Once somebody has won a round of Complaint Bingo (which should only take a minute) we could play REPETITIVE ANNOYING STATEMENT BINGO. The squares on those cards could say, for example: I'm a Georgia peach all the way! I live in a lake community. I'd be more than glad to. The computer automatically does that.

Finally we could play VOCABULARY BINGO. Gina pronounces things however she wants to, and clings to her mistakes no matter what anybody tells her. The Vocabulary Bingo cards would say: "I was belivid." (livid.) "It was a hox." (hoax.) "I got tickets for Circus Delay." (Cirque de Soleil).

My only concern now is what the winner of each round will get to do. Oh, I know what we'd all LIKE to do. But that would be illegal, and not very nice either.

Our Hot Lingerie

So the other night we finished watching TV and got ready to clear out of the living room, and I felt compelled to remark upon Brian's appearance. His sleeping attire (he has several identical sets) consists of a gray t-shirt and a pair of white boxer shorts. He takes out his contacts at night, too, and wears these black-framed,nerdy-on-purpose Drew Carey kind of glasses.

It was the shorts that got me, though. The waistband of them always manages to slink down lower than his tummy, while the front of the shorts gets all wrinkled up and the fly gapes open. And once he's been sitting around in a chair for a while, the whole business tends to be sort of crooked on his body.

I shook my head at the sight of him. "God," I said, starting to laugh. "We've got to get you something to wear around the house that's not so terrible-looking."

He looked over at me--me, in my bleach-stained navy blue thermal pants topped by non-coordinating t-shirt and sweatshirts, neither of which disguised the fact that my chest was six inches further south than it is when I have a bra on. "Well, you know," he replied, "you ain't exactly setting the world on fire yourself."

Put These in Your Dictionary

I'll let you in on a couple of new words my daughter Bliss and I have coined. I like them so much that I wish I could find some way for us to get paid for thinking them up, or at least get the credit for them, but I've pretty well given up on that, so I hereby release them into the wilds of the English language.

The first one is hers--which figures, since she's in high school--and the word is IMPREGNITO. When you're pregnant but you're trying to conceal it, you're impregnito, see?

The other word, mine, is SARGASM. That's when you get finished having unfulfilling sex and your partner says "How was it?" and you roll your eyes and go, "Woo-wee, that was really something."

And come to think of it, it would really suck if you wound up impregnito when all you had was a sargasm.

My Son the Famous African American

A note came home from school with Brandon the other day. "Help us celebrate Black History Month," it said. "On Friday, dress your child as a famous African-American."

Why must they tempt me to mischief so?

Do you think they only gave us one day's notice due to rampant senses of humor in the Foster family which are liable to run amok if we had a little more time? That's my theory, but we still put our heads together to contrive a costume on one day's notice. Brandon does a hilarious imitation of Dave Chappelle doing Samuel L. Jackson, but it entails too much cussing. We had a lot of other great ideas for him--he could be JJ from Good Times, or Redd Foxx, or even Beyonce. I personally was voting for Flava Flav, since it would have been pretty easy just to tie a clock around his neck.

However he decided he'd be Barack Obama. He has a suit that used to be the Clark Kent part of a Superman costume, and an old cassette tape carrier that could be a mini-briefcase. All he needed was a mask. I called Party City and Spencer's. Nothing. All that was left was a rather uppity costume shop, but since we happened to wind up having supper at the Blimpie right beside it, we popped in to check.

An old fat queen--think Truman Capote without the voice--was sewing something when we walked in. His back was turned but after a few minutes he deigned to glance over his shoulders at us. "May I help you?" he asked boredly. I didn't like him already, but y'know, you do anything for kids, so I politely asked, "Would you happen to have a Barack Obama mask?" "NO," he snorted, as if this were the most obscure thing anybody could want. He then proceeded to recommend some oddball place in midtown or whatever, because he didn't get that I needed the mask right then.

So we were screwed, and Brandon just went to school in regular clothes this morning. Only tonight did we recall that he ALSO does a hilarious imitation of Lil John. So next year, we're gonna be ON the costume thing in advance. Get him some long dreads and dark shades and a grill and he'll be all set. YAY-uh!!

Product Recommendations

Three products have I to recommend unto you this evening.

The first, which somebody purchased for our restroom at work, is LYSOL CITRUS spray. I don't know whether it kills any germs, but it smells so damn good you'll be hoping one of your family members will get in there and stink up the bathroom just to give you an excuse to spray it.

The second product is ARM & HAMMER WHITENING BOOSTER. Or maybe it's called "tooth whitening booster." Anyway, it costs about four bucks and you put it on your toothbrush right on top of your regular toothpaste. Brian and I could both tell a difference in our teefs within a couple of days.

The final recipient of my kudos is KABOOM TUB & SHOWER CLEANER. It's not quite so miraculous as my beloved Mr. Clean in the pink and blue bottle, which they abruptly snatched off the market (after hearing how much I liked it, no doubt). I don't want you to get the idea that I like to clean things--in fact scrubbing a bathtub is my very least favorite household chore. That's why I like to buy a product that doesn't screw around. Don't mix it up with that Arm & Hammer stuff, though.

In all fairness I have to mention a product that sucked. I wasn't surprised that it sucked, but it did suck in that not only did it not work, at all, but it cost me twelve dollars. I am speaking of Garnier Nutritioniste Skin Renew Anti-Puff Eye Roller. WHATEVER. This fancily-named cosmetic thingy did nothing whatsoever to lessen my resemblance to an alcoholic racoon who just went a few rounds with Mike Tyson.

Do you have any recommendations for me?

Workplace Tale 4: Joanna and the Speculums

One time I worked in a doctor's office. We had this one nurse named Joanna who I guess maybe wasn't what you'd call a clean freak... though most of her failings were dog-related. I mean she had these dogs and she let them ride around in her car and get their fur all over it and mash their noses up against the windows and all, so we never went to lunch in Joanna's car.

Joanna also had some white nurse-pants that her dogs jumped on with muddy feet one day. At the time we figured that was the last we'd ever see of those pants, but no. The mud stains never came out but she continued to wear the pants at least once a week.

Still I can't say that her work habits were dirty, at least so far as I knew.
But one summer Monday I arrived at the office to find the waiting room doors propped open by electric fans, the patients gagging, and an aggressive smell in the air--a downright shocking odor suggesting that perhaps a corpse had been stuffed with expired tuna and left to decompose behind the magazine rack.

Joanna had forgotten to clean the speculums.

Apparently once speculums were used, the nurses dropped them into a container of cleaning solution temporarily and then sterilized them all at once when the day was over. Joanna had neglected this little duty, and the result, after a weekend of marination, was a smell so thick it made you embarrassed to be a girl.

I don't know if she got into trouble for it or if the doctors figured she was suffering enough already. I just remember thinking that I hoped it wasn't a first visit for any of the patients that morning. No excuse in the world could have convinced me to be examined in that office after one whiff.

Things We Talk About In Bed

"Hey," I said to Brian last night, in the dark. "If we were contestants on The $20,000 Pyramid and the category was "Things Associated with Rednecks," what clues would you give me?"

"Skoal," he answered immediately. "Nascar. Country music. Big belt buckles."

"Hmm," I said. "Those are good. I was thinking of camouflage clothes. Wrestling. Smoking." I paused, then added, "An unreasonable love of American-made cars."

He laughed, then we thought of some more: Rebel flags. Skynyrd. Bumper stickers about Jesus.

These are the kinds of things we talk about in bed.

Workplace Tale 3: The Pursuit of Employment

This is a 3-in-one post about job interviews. The first two are my personal stories while the third is a friend's.

I used to be a bartender. I went to Georgia School of Bartending which offered lifetime job placement, so whenever I was out of work I could call them up and they'd send me on interviews. One time, they advised me of an opening at a strip club that I believe was called the KitCat Club. Of course as a bartender I would keep my clothes on, so I thought, What the heck, I might make good money at a place like that. At the time I had never set foot in a strip club in my life but the guy at the bartending school told me to just ask for Jane. I got there and walked up to the door, and I told the guy who was collecting the cover charge that I had an appointment with Jane. He called her. I was picturing every other female restaurant manager I'd ever met--middle-aged, overweight, stern. Well. Jane soon appeared: long, lean, brunette, and topless. I found it quite hard to have a conversation with her and ignore her large naked breasts. The bartending job had already been filled anyway, but I got an interesting experience for my trouble.

Another time, the bartending school sent me to interview at a country club. The guy who interviewed me was either the food and beverage manager or the golf pro--I can't remember which, but anyway in my memory he looks and sounds just like John Madden, if that gives you a mental picture. It was a pretty standard interview; fill out an application, tell a little bit about where you worked before, etc. Then the guy followed up by asking me, "You never got caught f---ing any ni-g-rs in the back of a car or anything like that, did you?" I seem to recall that the club was closed that day; anyway there weren't many people around, and this question made the hair on my neck stand up, it was so creepy. I was like, No, dude. Now let me out of here before you come unhinged anymore than you already are. Needless to say, I didn't take the job.

Last story: Brian and I once had a friend named Jerri. She was a large woman, both tall and heavy. She shared the story of sitting down for an interview in a leather chair, and ripping a fart so loud that her interviewer could not control his laughter. He held a manila folder in front of his face to try to hide his mirth, but unfortunately the sound was not the only problem: "The man needed a gas mask," Jerri said. She hauled herself out of the leather chair, ran for the nearest restroom and burst into tears. But the interviewer eventually got himself together and sent his secretary to get Jerri, and he gave her the job anyway.

Workplace Tale 2: Psycho Christian Wife

One time I worked at a company that manufactured styrofoam boards. It was a small company. I was the receptionist and general office chick; I entered orders into the computer and stuff like that.

We had three outside salesmen who called in to the office numerous times daily, so I quickly got acquainted with them. Two were in Atlanta and actually came into the office fairly often. The other, whose name was John, was based in Alabama and never came in. Although I joked around and talked trash with both of the Atlanta reps, the FIRST thing I was ever told about John was that he was a "born-again Christian." To me this pretty well equates to "tight-ass stick in the mud," so I was never any more than mildly friendly and courteous when talking to him.

Once a week I put together a package of various reports and things to mail out to each sales rep. I felt rather sorry for John, stuck off by himself in Alabama and having no camaraderie with the rest of us, so I used to stick a Post-It note on top of his reports. It would say....brace yourself..."Hi, John!" Sometimes when I was feeling especially wild, I'd draw a smiley face.

So one day the office phone rang, and when I answered it, a lady asked to speak to one of my coworkers [who, it turned out, she wrongly thought was my boss]. The coworker was unavailable, so the lady then identified herself as, oh, let's call her Chrissy Christian--John's wife.

"Oh, HI, Chrissy!" I said in delighted surprise. I was just tickled pink to get to talk to her, since unlike the other salesmen's wives, she'd never called in before.
Turned out, though, that Chrissy had an agenda. She wanted to know what was the meaning of these notes I was sending to her husband. What was my intention? She and John had discussed it, she said, and he assured her he had never given me any encouragement. She didn't like it, didn't appreciate it, and wanted to know what it was all about. Oh and by the way, how old was I?

I was about twenty-three or -four, I guess, and COMPLETELY MORTIFIED. The very idea of these two married people sitting around their living room having a heated discussion about my inappropriate (???) notes to her husband! The very idea of HER (not John, who worked there) trying to call my BOSS over it! What was my intention? A friendly hello, you crazy bat.

I assured her that she would NEVER have to worry again--which was an understatement, because I was a frickin' iceberg to her gonadally-challenged husband from that day forward. When I hung up after her call I marched straight into the office of the lady she'd been trying to call about me, and bawled my eyes out, I was so embarrassed and so mad.

I wonder sometimes if these two lovely Christian folks stayed married. For all their fine principles, I think you'd have to be the most nightmarish kind of an insecure psycho shrew to call your husband's job and mess up his relationships with his coworkers over a Post-It note that said "Hi."

COMMENT, damn you!

You people are not fooling me--I know you're reading because my hit counter goes up.
So quit lurking around and speak up, whoever you are! I changed the settings so if you tried to comment in the past and it was a hassle, it should be easier.

Now please enjoy the first in my new series of anecdotes from my numerous jobs.

Workplace Tale #1: The Drive-Thru

This is a quick one--that's why I chose it for tonight. And by the way, if you know me personally you might have heard some of these tales before. But anyway:

One time I worked at a bank, and the building that it was in had previously been a Del Taco. It still had the Spanish-tiled roof, and once in a while people would walk in, look around in a dazed manner, and then exit without saying anything. We never knew but assumed they had been in search of a burrito rather than a car loan or whatever. I mention this only to establish that the bank was set amongst a bunch of fast food restaurants.

There was a Pizza Hut on one side of us and a Church's Chicken on the other. One day a particularly unobservant and nasally-voiced woman evidently turned into the wrong parking lot by mistake. Not to be deterred by the lack of a menu or speaker box, she pulled right up to the drive-thru teller window and drawled, "I want two chickin bray-usts and a Co-Cola."

The Pet Peeves I Promised You

I'm only posting this because I said I would, and I only said I would because I found this list stuck in my desk recently. I'm really all excited about what I'm going to post NEXT--because I had already planned a series of posts about crazy-ass things that have happened to me on various jobs over the years, but in the meantime, Brian has stunned me with a dirty confession that you'll probably like to hear about.

But for now, the pet peeves. Let's count 'em down. (I can't believe I haven't listed ten, since I'm so easily annoyed by so many things, but I've only got eight.)

8) People who sit right beside me in empty restaurants. (I know I've mentioned this before, that's why it's number 8.) And to this one I'll add those people who must sit directly in front of me at a movie when there are only about six couples in the whole place.

7)Cashiers who put coins on top of bills when giving me change. It's backwards.

6) People who blow their noses in public. God knows what debris from my snot-filled coworkers has landed on me, but I despise this practice in restaurants even more. I have seen people blow their noses in linen napkins at restaurants. I always want to go over and say,"Pardon me, but would it offend you if I vomit on you and ruin your meal the way you ruined mine?"

5)People who casually work things into conversation to let me know how much money they have. I don't begrudge anybody who's rich and happy about it but I'd rather they came right out and said "Hey, I'm a rich sonofabitch, whaddya think of that?" Then I could respond in kind and say, "Must be nice." But if they casually drop a comment about how they had a flat on their Jaguar, I'm just going to stare at them like they're speaking a different language, because I'd rather die than go, "Wow, you have a Jaguar?!COOL!" That would satisfy them too much.

4)People who make plans with me and then blow me off. I have permanently broken ties with more than one friend over this. I understand that things come up unexpectedly sometimes, or sometimes we just change our minds, but we all have telephones.

3)Nervous laughers. People who laugh after everything they say, even if it's not the least bit humorous. It's almost like they're apologetic for having spoken at all, so they add a laugh to everything in case anybody takes offense or disagrees. Then they can say, "Just kidding!" I think they should either grow a pair or shut up.

2)People who write YOUR instead of YOU'RE. This is just plain stupidity.

And my number one pet peeve of all time...is...

1) When people (other than Jim) say to me, "SMILE!" Jim is my friend and my old boyfriend, and he gets a pass on this one because he's been saying it to me for twenty-six years. But WOE BE UNTO STRANGERS who dare to insinuate that my facial expression does not suit them. It may not surprise you to hear that goody-goody, perky friendly nice people are not my favorite people anyway, but when they take it upon themselves (and really, they actually call out to me in parking lots and such)to demand that I rearrange my face, I am struck with the desire to rearrange theirs.

Public Admission

Here is a short list of things that I like, that I am not supposed to like. For various reasons, it is not cool to like these things. Liking them means that some people may consider me bourgeois. Luckily, I do not care. So here they are:

1)American Idol. Turn your nose up all you want--this show helps me get through the loathesome cold, dark nights of winter. I have loved it from day one, because I like to sing and I like to gossip and judge people, so the attraction is obvious. Thank you, Idol, for helping my winter weeks go by. You're a lifesaver.

2)The Olive Garden. I am sure that if I were privileged to dine in actual Italy, I would recognize this restaurant as a Disneyland sort of facsimile. I might be able to tell whether their entrees were authentically Italian. Fortunately I am ignorant of all such things, and so I love to go there. They bring me something good (and meatless) to eat, and the atmosphere is plenty Italian enough for me, because what do I know from Italy?

3)Canned Biscuits and Instant Potatoes. A can of Hungry Jack biscuits costs about a dollar and I can do about six things with them to create about three full meals. They are light and airy, they split open easily, and they taste good. Instant potatoes are just good comfort food when you want something warm and savory, and they also cost only a dollar or two for a big honking box that will keep in your pantry for the next couple of years. Hey, and while we're at it, I like buttermilk and cornbread, too. That is, you put cornbread in a glass and pour buttermilk on it. Call me a hillbilly, I don't care.

Conversely, here are some things that I am supposed to like, and don't.

1) Red wine. I'm not overly fond of any wine, but red wine is served at room temperature and tastes like dirt. What's to like? It doesn't even get you drunk very fast, I don't suppose, though I've never been able to choke down enough to tell. Sushi and caviar are also heinously gross, by the way.

2) Classical music. I don't mind a little Canon in D if I'm, oh, in an elevator or something, but I would never under any circumstances actually choose to sit around listening to classical music.

3)Christmas.

Next time I'm going to list some pet peeves I've been saving up.

Why Can't This Be My Life?

Today has been one of those good days when a kid is sick, but just a little bit. Just enough of a bona fide temperature to keep him home from school (and of course, me home from work) but not enough for any actual suffering to go on.

Here's what I did today. We were already dressed to leave for school when I kissed Brandon and discovered how hot he was, so we went on over to Publix and bought cold medicine and soup and stuff. We came back home and got into bed and I finished reading Revolutionary Road. After that I straightened up the house and took my sheets off the bed to start some laundry. I checked emails and fixed Brandon's lunch. The mail came. At 3 we went to pick Bliss up from school and to transact some business at the bank since ordinarily my weekdays are all tied up in golf ball hell. Then we picked up Bliss's new contacts that had been waiting at the optometrist's office, and came home.

See, now that's a life I can deal with. It would make perfect SENSE to me if my days were spent taking care of people and things I actually CARE about, and doing little things that would make life smoother for the whole family. It makes sense to me too, quite frankly, that there should be some time in there for things I want to do, at times of the day when I have the energy to do them.

I don't care if I'm 44 years old, I will never accept or understand who arranged the world in such a way that I have to spend all day every day doing something I hate, surrounded by people who irritate me, just to make enough money to enable me to get up and do it again. It makes me crazy to even consider the phrase, "spend my life." I'm literally SPENDING it--throwing huge handfuls of days at the least desirable thing I can imagine.

When I stayed home and lived off my severance pay for a year or whatever it was, it was one of the best times of my life. Life was just better for the whole family. I got the kids to school, I wrote, I took care of the house and the pet. If a child needed to go to the doctor, no problem. If an errand had to be done during business hours, I was on it. Brian came home to a meal on the table and no work waiting for him to do around the house.

And see, I'm not what you'd call high maintenance. I'm not a shopper, I don't need to get my hair and nails done, I don't care about driving a new car. All I really want to do is stay at home and have an existence where I'm not resentful and exhausted all the time. Why can't I have that?

Awards Ceremony

Brandon won some awards at school the other day, and I went to see the ceremony.

It's strange; I'm not the mushiest mother in the world, not that much into kid stuff generally, but school programs tend to turn me into a pitiful weepy ball of emotion. My heart fluttered, just watching Brandon and his first grade classmates lined up across the stage holding their certificates so proudly.

Think of it: their loved ones assembled to watch, applaud and photograph them as the biggest boss of the place shook their hands and said "Great job!" and handed them an award. The beaming children have no idea that life will only be that way for a little while, but the parents know it and I think that's why we cry.

The principal asked us to turn off all cell phones. "For the next little while, your boss doesn't need you," he said. "Your kids need you."

Then the first grade teachers took turns standing at the podium, calling the names of children who had perfect attendance and whose grades were admirable. A glamorous-looking daddy in a long black woolen coat had taken time from his day to be there. He intercepted his little girl as she descended from the stage and presented her with a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers. All of us flashed our cameras and our smiles, and gave our children hugs when the ceremony was over. We told them how proud we were.

"Brandon got a birthday present today," his teacher told me. That night, when Brandon showed us the gift he'd received from his friend Robert, I turned to mush all over again. In a tiny Christmas gift bag, Robert had placed an obviously-loved stuffed lion of his own. Onto a piece of notebook paper he had taped a pretty Christmas pencil, and under that he had drawn and colored a lion. "Happy Brday Brandon," his note said. The very idea of that little boy thinking of Brandon the night before and going around his own home gathering things to make a gift for him was enough to break my heart--in a good way. As my mother-in-law said, it almost gives you hope for the next generation.

But back to the topic of school programs: when Bliss was in elementary school, she sang in the talent show every year. I always went to see her and she did a great job, but the moment that stands out in my mind from all those shows involves a child I didn't know.

The performer was a tiny blonde girl who must have been in pre-K. She wore a light pink ballet leotard, tights and ballet shoes. Her mother stood to one side of the stage for moral support, and put on a CD of classical music. The little girl raised both arms gracefully over her head and simply ran, rather slowly, 'round and 'round in a big circle. That was all. She was too little to do anything fancier, but the rapturous look on her face was enough to kill me in my seat. She was so lovely and innocent it made your throat ache just to watch her, because you knew that in her future--like everybody's--there would eventually be troubles and heartaches of some kind. But she would always have this one moment where she stepped onto the stage and did a very simple thing, and everybody loved and applauded her for it. That time in life is so brief.

Brian and Brian and....

(In a previous post I mentioned that I had written this one but had taken it down in case I hurt Brian's feelings. He saw that and of course demanded to read the possibly-offensive post, only he thought it was funny and said I should put it back. So here it is.)



I usually don’t use my blog to poke fun at my husband because I fear his retaliation. He’ll say some shit that isn’t even funny, just to get me back. Oh and it won’t be TRUE, either. Yeah. But in the case of what I am about to tell you, I simply feel that the world needs to know.

My husband’s name is Brian. Let’s call him, for the purposes of this post, Brian F. He has a friend whose name is also Brian; let’s call him Brian L. These two guys have odd things in common; things that make a normal person go Hmmm. The biggest and most obvious thing (aside from their names, of course) is that they love game shows. I don’t just mean that given a choice of several types of TV shows, they would choose a game show. I mean they LOVE them. They belong to internet discussion groups about them. They read books about them. They sit around watching old game shows on tape. They have the home games. They make scornful references to failed hosts and crappy sets and burned-out light bulbs on the Family Feud board. Their brains are crammed with game show trivia.

Their brains are also crammed with more general trivia. They’re both terribly observant about things that regular people (like ME) either don’t notice in the first place, or notice in passing but don’t retain for long. For instance, they can tell you who recorded every song known to man, and who wrote it, and what year it came out, and what label it was on, and what year it was re-recorded and why, and blah, blah, blah.

I tend to leave the house when Brian L comes over.

But if all this isn’t weird enough, allow me to share with you the other thing they have in common: They love empty stores. You know, like when a store goes out of business? And there’s nothing in there but some old crappy shelves and racks and some dust bunnies on the floor and old tape on the windows? That gives them a woody. They press their nerdy little noses against the glass of such places and say Wow. Remember when the creamed corn used to be right over there?
Right now you’re probably wondering, as I often do, what kind of a person gives a damn about old empty stores. I can report that Brian F says he thinks it has something to do with nostalgia for a bygone era. Well, now, I can see how it would be cool to wander through a closed-up amusement park or perhaps a school one had once attended. An old hospital might be interesting, or maybe a prison no longer being used, like Alcatraz. But a store you were just inside a couple weeks ago? I don’t get it.

They are not alone in their freakiness, however. In fact there is a whole website, oft-mentioned by the two Brians, called Dead Malls [dot] Com. It is the cyber-gathering place for those rare souls who get excited by the phenomena of closed retail establishments. I looked at it just now, as research for this post. And I learned that the guy it belongs to is named… BRIAN.

I can’t tell you how disturbing this is to me. What do you want to bet he likes game shows?

My Marriage is Financially Weird

I hear about how one of the big issues that married couples fight over is money, and I think, well, they're just stupid. Money disagreements are ever-so-easily avoided, if only you are willing to be the complete weirdos that Brian and I are.

Before we got married, I was the type of person who would anxiously move money from savings to checking to avoid an overdraft, because I couldn't be bothered to balance my checkbook. Brian struck me as such an organized person that it seemed like a good idea to open a joint account, you know--like regular married folks do--and let him handle all the finances.

This turned out to suck. For all of his organized ways, we learned that Brian is much freer with a dollar than I am. He looked at a suddenly-double checking account balance and thought "Wow! I can buy things!" while I suddenly felt as though I needed permission to access my own earnings. Yet once this became apparent, did we fight? Did we whine about the unfairness of it all? Did we get a divorce? No, we did not. We got separate checking accounts, and that was only the beginning.

To this very day, we each write a check for half the mortgage. He pays the electric bill, I pay the gas. He pays the satellite and cable, I pay the water and garbage. We take turns paying for Brandon's after-school care. We each pay our own life insurance and cell phone bills, and of course we maintain our own vehicles. When we need a new appliance or hire somebody to do the yard work, we split that.

You wanna laugh? We go dutch in restaurants. We go up to the grocery checkout with one cart, and Brian takes out everything he selected and pays for it, then I take out what I selected and pay for that. "All in the same cart?" the store employees ask us. "Yep," we say.

Now in a way, I'm getting screwed on this deal. Brian makes about $15K more than I do a year and he still seems to have plenty of fun money to throw around while I, for all my miserliness, can't pay off my Mastercard to save my soul. But there are benefits, too. For one thing, it keeps me strong. If anything ever happened to him or to our relationship, I wouldn't be overwhelmed at the idea of having to manage my budget. Another benefit is that we both have the opportunity to say Yes, I think we can afford a new TV (in which case we split the cost) or No, I can't spare the money for a weekend trip (in which case the one who wants to spend can either pay for it all him/herself or wait until such time as the other one can afford it). There's really a lot of freedom in this arrangement and I don't know why more people don't do it. It's hard to whine about what you have and don't have when you are free to manage your own earnings however you want to.

Another good thing is that when Brian gives me a gift, it's really from him. When I give him a gift, it's really from me. I always thought it was odd for my dad to open his Christmas gifts from my stepmother and have to thank her for them when he'd paid for them all. And it must be weird for the dependent spouse too... thanks for my birthday gift, oh, um, and the roof over my head and clothes on my back and this tube of toothpaste you also purchased for me. I actually think that is a weird way to run your family finances.