Pardon me, your pants are smoking

Ever want to take people and shake 'em? Grab them by the shoulders and shake them until they start to make sense again? Until they snap out of whatever bad path they're on and take a turn back to reality and friendship and honesty and decency? Until they stop putting up that ridiculous front they've somehow convinced themselves no one can see through? As I told the man and my roommates this weekend - I'm at the shaking point. There are a few people in my life right now who are being less than honest (that is a gross understatement) and I'm fed up.

That friend in NYC who I'm having issues with is really getting to me. There was a lie involved, some inappropriate behavior, some sketchy new habits, and a whole lot of taking advantage of me and people I love. I need to address these things with him, but it's difficult to do from the bottom tip of the country. I'll be back in town tomorrow night, but I won't have the time or energy to have a big discussion when I get in because it will be quite late and I have to be out of the house at the crack of dawn the next day for my interview - a solid night's sleep is imperative (especially with that creative thinking test I have to take). I need and want to talk to him, but it will have to wait. Shake, shake, shake.

The soon to be former-prospective-buyer of our house is a certified fuckwit. Found out that not only has he been M.I.A. since last Monday, but all he needed to do was get the mortgage broker his bank account paperwork and the loan would be his. That's it. Pretty simple, yeah? Should have been. But he doesn't have a bank account. Huh? Anyone else think that's ridiculous? Sure, he's self employed. Sure, he lives mainly on cash and doesn't ever write checks. Sure, he has an unconventional lifestyle. But he should have a bank account like a normal, responsible, middle-aged man. My roommmate in Brooklyn is self-employed, she lives primarily in the cash & carry world, but she has a bank account and a financial planner because she's got her shit together like a good self-employed person should. All it would take is an hour at a bank. It's been a 8 days since anyone's heard from him. He is single-handedly messing up our entire moving timeline. Shake, shake, shake.

My mom is keeping some sort of health issue secret from me. She's not doing well and she refuses to disclose anything. This angers and saddens and frustrates me. Shake, shake, shake.

Someone in DC is pissing me off for a number of reasons, both moral and ethical, and while I don't consider her important enough to address I'm still letting myself get pissed off about it. This woman should stop being a faker and start injecting a little authenticity into her life. I need to let this one go. Shake, shake, shake.

I know it's harder to be honest at first. If you have a habit of polishing your facade but leaving the interior to crumble into a mess it's tough to start that innner cleaning. But once the ball gets rolling it's so much easier to be upfront than it is to be dishonest and lie and be deceitful. When you're honest there aren't any lies to keep track of. There is no "who did I tell what" going on. I try to be honest. It's sometimes easier to put up a front, but in the end it's infinitely better to be honest. So, when I am lied to I get angry. I get angry because I make a conscious decision to be honest with people and when that's not reciprocated I take it personally. Shake, shake, shake.

There's that thing about balance again...

Good and bad. Yin and yang. Ebb and flow. Laverne and Shirley.

• I've got a second interview Thursday morning: good.
  
• I already bought my ticket: good.
  
• I'm nervous about the "creative thinking/problem-solving test" I have to take because it's nothing I can prepare for since it's just all in my head: bad.
  
• I know I'll do well, I've been doing this for years: good.
  
• I have no clue what to wear, got an email confirming meeting time that said that business casual was totally fine: bad (too many choices).
  
• This weekend was wonderful: good.
  
• I got to see Kristie: good.
  
• She clownified my house (pictures of scary clowns under my pillow, stuffed in my bedding, stuck in my boot, etc.): bad (but funny).
  
• Closing on our house is scheduled for tomorrow, but no one has heard from the buyer since last Monday: bad.
  
• Buyer has until next Monday to have his financing completely ready or he forfeits his $5k deposit to the man: good.
  
• That deposit it will go directly to the roof since we haven't had it replaced because the buyer offered a lower price with the condition that he'd fix the roof: bad.
  
• Roofing crews are still booked months in advance because of hurricane season: bad.
  
• I'm having problems with a friend in NYC who needs some sense knocked into him: bad.
  
• I love my roommates: good.
  
• South Dakota is dangerously close to banning most abortions: bad.
  
• It felt great to wake up next to the man this morning: good.

Sometimes it really is actually this good...

Interview this morning went very well. Very well, indeed. So well that they called me 2 hours after I left and asked me to come back next week to meet with a few more people for a final interview and a little creative problem solving test. 8 candidates were brought in, 3 are coming back, I'm one. And let's face it - I'm clearly the best one, so my chances are good. Seriously though, this interview was great. The women I met with were wonderful, the corporate culture in the office is nurturing and friendly, the company has a rare solid history of growth, and I can see myself working with this team. Next Thursday morning at 8:30 I'll be back there, wowing them again with my wit, charm and skill. Those things plus my great tits and uncanny fashion sense, of course.

Bonus: all 3 people I met with today were wearing jeans & sweaters and I got a confirmation email about next week's interview that said business casual attire is totally fine. Awesome. I looked great in my purple velvet blazer & new dressy, black pants this morning, but next week I can wear a jacket & casual slacks and still be entirely appropriate. I love that.

Not only have I had a wonderful day in terms of business/career stuff, but I've seen friends I haven't seen in months and I'm loving this cold weather. Now I'm off to have a cup of tea with my girls - and then pass out with Kristie. We're some tired girls tonight.

I'm Here, I'm Here!

Ah, Brooklyn. I'm off to the mob-run store down the street to get a couple of things I forgot to pack. (kind of hard to walk to my interview tomorrow with no shoes) Hope you're all having a bang-up Thursday!

One Year. A Bazillion Steps.

This Made me think. It also made me laugh and snort and spit things at my computer screen. As my blogiversary is today, I thought I'd do a similar timeline to commemorate my life as it's been so far and well, give me something to write for my one year of blogging anniversary post that wouldn't make my brain hurt. There are many ideas I've been tossing around, but a full retrospective on the year would take loads of time and I'm sure result in a headache for me and boredom for you. I assure you, I'll do a "look back" soon and it will be concise and well-crafted, but now is not the time. For the moment, please enjoy the following:

1977: I enter the world (read: Pennsylvania) covered in goo and immediately start wailing. Apparently I am quite fond of the sound of my own voice, as it is now 28 years later and I'm still yakking incessantly whenever I can get away with it. In the birthing process I earned the loving nickname "Fathead" from my mother. That is not a joke.

1978: The apartment I live in with my parents floods and we move. During this time my mother wears lots of polyester double knit, a fabric she now detests. In fact, now when I make clothes using polyester fabric she pokes fun. Hypocritical? I think yes.

1979: My father's love of music seeps into my brain and I become a fan of "classic rock" and "oldies" by osmosis at the tender age of 2. I am often found rocking out in my crib when I should have been rocking to sleep.

1980: The USA Hockey Team beats Canada at the Winter Olympics. My dad played in college and, as a result, my entire family is pro-hockey in all respects. Also this year I meet Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer at the US Open. I was thrilled. My fascination with celebrity begins.

1981: I have a babysitter named Roz. Her daughter is Barbie. Barbie is in beauty school. My mom thinks it would be great if Barbie could practice her newly learned skills on me in their backyard while I sit strapped into a high chair, as if they are afraid I'll try to flee. Foreshadowing. Snip, snip, snip, a 3 year old squirms and ends up with horribly crooked bangs that are unnaturally short and stick straight out from my forehead. My obsession with hair and mistrust of anyone named Barbie begin.

1982: Kindergarten. I'm 4. I've been reading for awile now. I'm tiny. All the kids in my class are tiny, but I'm really small. I feel like a midget, and I don't even know what a midget is. Mrs. Orr teaches us a new word in English and Spanish every day and lets us finger paint a lot. She has short, black hair and I think she's beautiful. I don't feel like my brain is tiny.

1983: I get a heart necklace from a boy named Eugene for Valentine's Day. He is my first boyfriend. I don't know what that means. I wear dresses and patent leather Mary Janes to school. I refuse to wear anything else. I am a fashionista in training.

1984: The nation embraces the scary-faced Cabbage Patch Kids as their own. I get one for some holiday present. I quickly learn that one of anything is rarely enough. My mom makes me another. She's the best, way better than the store-bought ones. I take her to show & tell. It's winter, we live on a very sloped street. I slip on the way to the bus stop. Doll flies into the air, doll lands, I land on top, doll's head pops off and rolls down street to rest in dirty slush-filled puddle. I stand at the bus stop crying, freezing and soaking wet from falling into the slushy gutter, clutching my doll, feeling very bad that I decapitated her while the other kids look at me like I'm a murderer. The lady who lives in the house where the bus stop is calls my mom to come get me. She isn't even mad and lets me stay home with her and eat chicken noodle soup. It is one of the best days ever.

1985: I decide pants are alright. It's a belief I still hold to this day.

1986: I get a dog for my birthday, his name is Fudge. I love him. 2 months later my brother is born. I'm glad he's not a girl because his name would have been Brittany Paige and I thought that was a prettier name than my own. Fudge develops epilepsy, you can't have an infant around a seizure prone dog. My parents give Fudge to a lady my dad works with who has a farm in West Virginia. It is years later before it hits me they probably had Fudge put down. I ask them, I am relieved to know he really did go to that farm.

1987: I love pop music. I also love Keds canvas shoes. Keds are expensive, so I try to make the $3 K-Mart ones my mom buys me look like Keds. It doesn't work. Well into my teenage years I realize that it's OK not to have the Keds.

1988: I am full-swing into the New Kids On The Block. Joey is my boyfriend. He doesn't know it, but I do and that's what counts. I see the boys and Tiffany in concert at an amusement park. My dad puts up with it. I think he's the best dad in the world.

1989: I wear 2 pairs of socks every day - one pulled up and one slouched down. I play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with my brother every day after we watch An American Tail on the VHS tape my dad copied from the video store. I'm a great big sister. A boy named Alan kisses me at a party. With tongue. He's very spitty and I don't think kissing is all it's cracked up to be.

1990: Somehow the ozone layer figures out that my mass of mall bangs is a bad idea. I decide I am single-handedly responsible for the deterioration of the atmosphere and go on a campaign from friend to friend about the merits of pump hairspray. When Revlon comes out with the spray where you pump the top down over and over to build up pressure in the bottle resulting in a fine mist to mimic aerosol I am thrilled.

1991: We move. Not only do we move, we move the summer before I start high school. I hate my parents. I hate our new house. I meet K Lance. Maybe this new place isn't so bad.

1992: Flannel is king. You never see me without pegged jeans, penny loafers and a flannel (if not worn outright, then tied around my waist). I start to think maybe being like all of my friends isn't so cool. I start making jewelry out of scraps of things I'd find in old drawers & recycling bins and begin to shop at Goodwill, transforming cast-off men's blazers into works of art with buttons and lace.

1993: I never admit it to anyone, but I don't see what the big deal about Nirvana is. I pretend to like them anyway. I'm a teenager. I'm a raving bitch and my mom and I don't get along.

1994: I'm scared about college. I think it won't be too much fun and high school was pretty good. I apply all over the place simply to get as far away from my mom as possible.

1995: I graduate from high school. The week before I leave for college (far, far away - by choice) I dissolve into a heap and beg my dad not to make me go so far away. I don't want to leave, I leave anyway. I hate college. The first 2 weeks are a blur, as I drink excessively and smoke so much pot I don't remember them. I don't go to class. When I realize I need to save my semester it's much too late.

1996: I get a phone call as I'm walking out the door to register for 2nd semester classes (with a new resolve and clarity - I'm going to take classes I'm interested in and study and get good grades). My parents got my grades in the mail. My mom doesn't speak to me, she's too angry, my dad tells me not to register, they're not paying anymore. He says come home. I say no (they had moved to Virginia after I left for school). I move out of the dorm and in with a guy who was bad news from the start, but I was 18, bad news was the only news.

1997: I come home early from work and find him in bed banging a "friend" of mine. I call my mom, who hasn't spoken to me in almost a year, I tell her I need her to come get me in 2 weeks. She never once asks why. She never scolds. She just comes. We drive from Indiana to Virginia. I realize I never hated her.

1998: I move out of my parents' house. I take some classes at community college. I feel pretty good about my 19 year old self. I think I know what hip-hop is. I'm wrong, but that's OK.

1999: Community college has done its job and I transfer to a university. I *gasp* join a sorority and meet Kristie. I think she's cool (she has this eyelet skirt her mom made her and she wears it for sorority rituals - it's the tipoff that she is much better than the other girls), but I don't know at the time how important she will be in my life.

2000: I work for a catering company. I work a lot. I don't yet know that killing yourself for other peoples' businesses isn't smart.

2001: I think the guy I've been dating since I was 19 is someone I want to be with for a long time, but I don't think he feels the same. September 11th happens and I decide I need to lead a full life. I break up with him. He now says it was a big mistake to let me walk away. I disagree. He didn't let me do anything.

2002: I meet a guy. I like him. I move into a great apartment in DC. New guy becomes a major player in my life, despite the fact that he's exactly my height and wears bow ties. My ability to ignore red flags continues to develop.

2003: Guy moves in with me. Kristie gets me an interview at her company. I get the job. It's a crazy place, but I love it. I gain 40 lbs. There are those red flags again. Ooh, red is pretty. Guy & I get engaged.

2004: I realize I can't marry guy. I call it off. I stay with Kristie for a month in a room she rents. She never once makes me feel like I'm imposing, even though I was. We move into my place in DC. Mina loves to shit on the carpet. My feelings for The Man grow. I admit I've always wanted to live in New York. I lose 40 lbs. I get a job and move to Brooklyn.

2005: I spend a lot of time figuring the city out. I spend even more time figuring myself out. I start blogging. I hate being in a long-distance relationship with the man. I love/hate being in New York (if you get that you get it, if you don't there's no way I can really explain it). I love the people I meet there. I'm there almost a year. The man moves to Miami and asks me to come. I go. I don't think twice.

2006: The house in Miami is on the market. It sells. The plan to move back to Brooklyn is set. I now know I don't really know what hip-hop is, but I like it. I'm still OK with pants. I'm the most fully me I've ever been.

Anyone need some glass cut?

It's cold enough in this office to chill white wine. I'm surprised there aren't huge sides of beef hanging from hooks in the cubicle next to me. I have no idea why people in this state need to crank their air conditioning down to arctic levels. Just because it's 80 outside doesn't mean it should be 63 inside. It's downright frigid in here. Heaven forbid you should be able to dress for the weather. I feel like my poor little nips could cut through my brand new bra at any moment. I know, TMI. Sorry 'bout that. But speaking of boobs, I have no clue why I suddenly need a larger size. Really. The girls don't look markedly larger than they did before, but now I wear an entire cup size larger. And it's not just this particular maker. No, I'm not pregnant. No, I haven't gained weight. The twins are just mysteriously puffed-up versions of their former selves. I'm baffled.

Side note: Pat Robertson cancelled a planned speech at a religious convention. I'm disappointed. I was hoping for some more ridiculous comments about assasinating world leaders and how god is punishing us all for our earthly transgressions. Darn it.

Hodge-podge or Potpourri?

Same sort of concept, except one invokes something lovely and one a bit of a disorderly mess. Both apply to my thoughts today. Let's get the hodge-podge out of the way and then we can slide on over to the potpourri.

Hodge-podge

• According to articles in several newspapers and online sources this morning, 16 states have drug up the debate on gay adoption. There are amendments to state constitutions all over the country coming up for vote that would ban gays from adopting. I live in a state that bars gays from adopting children across the board. Not only do I find this a disgusting policy, but I find the hypocrisy within it appalling and embarrassing - gay people in Florida are not allowed to adopt a child, but they can be foster parents to as children as they can handle. Does this make sense to anyone? Gay people are suited to foster children but not to adopt them and give them a permanent home? What? Am I missing something here? I work for a woman who adopted an 8 year old from the Florida foster system and I can attest to the unbelievable volume of kids who need loving homes here. It angers me beyond belief that should 2 particular friends of ours want to start a family they could not take the adoption route and give one of the many kids in this ass-backward state a home. What makes straight people better parents? It seems to me that there are an awful lot of breeders doing a really shitty job, so why not let people who willingly want to bring children into their homes do so? I'm so mad I can't even write articulately about this.
  
  
• Doping scandals at the Olympics make me sad. This is competition on the world stage. It seems to have been corrupted and tainted by stupid actions taken by a few. I think that's most unfortunate.
  
  
• I colored my hair yesterday and it's too dark. I've used this color before, and this time it looks nothing like the box. It's a good 3 shades darker. Boo.

Potpourri

• Kristie's in Idaho. Yes, she's gone to the land of the great potato with her mom to visit her maternal grandmother. She's 89 and yesterday they took her to get a mani/pedi, followed by some shopping, topped off with a nice dinner at a restaurant that she never would have gone to herself because it's just too expensive. (She meant Outback. Old people are so cute.) I think that's the cutest thing.
  
  
• When I get back to Brooklyn I get to meet L. Britt face to face. We actually get to hang out like real people in the real world. That will be excellent and I'm looking forward to it. The internet is a wonderful and strange place, n'est-ce pas?
  
  
• Grey's Anatomy was great this weekend, but left me wondering why the producers and the network decided to spoil the suspense worked up in the last moments of this week's episode by showing scenes from next week's that directly dispel the well crafted anticipation. Weird. What stinks is that I'll be on a plane when next week's episode airs, so I'll have to piece it together from friends' reviews... L. Britt, this means you.
  
  
• The man and I had a great weekend. We went out to breakfasts (yes, plural), went to the beach, walked up and down the boardwalk, did some shopping (which resulted in me spending a very small amount of money at Urban Outfitters and walking away with a full bag of goodies. Really - $5 pants that are not only funky, but suitable for the office might be my new reason for living.), watched my boyfriend-on-the-side LeBron "Hotstuff" James at the NBA All-Star game, and generally had a good time relaxing and enjoying each others' company.
  
  
• I leave on Thursday morning for New York and I'm so excited about it I could pop. I hope I don't, though - it would be a spectacular mess. Not only do I get to interview for a job that I think could be very cool (we'll see...), but I get to see my girls and my guys in NYC, and Kristie's coming up to meet me! Woofreakinghoo!

Gross

Creepy guy from the reception (the ancient, close-talking neck kisser) where Johnny Winton made a fool of himself just called me again. Seriously, is he brain damaged?

Ohm

Today is a better day in many respects. I feel more confident and stable today. Yesterday I was able to stand up for myself in ways that I've not been able to before. I stood my ground, safe in the knowledge that I was entitled to my position and was only being true to myself by expressing the negative emotions resulting from some junk that went down in the morning. Instead of shoving most of my disappointment down inside to be squashed and never heard from again (which is my usual pattern, I have a hard time expressing dissatisfaction with my relationship - as if I carry a fear with me that I'll ruin everything, even when I'm the one who has been wronged. Stupid, I know) I gave voice to my feelings and didn't let any of them be silenced. I'm pretty proud of myself for that. It's the only honest and true thing to have done, which means it wasn't easy.

Things on the relationship front are better, or at least on the way to repair. My spirits are higher than yesterday, for sure. I have New York next weekend to look forward to. It's important for me to have something to anticipate. I've always been this way. Like the present is never enough to satisfy, I look to the future with such high hope that I usually take quite a tumble on the way back to Earth. New York is going to be like medicine for my slightly ill soul at the moment. I'm looking forward to my interview. I'm looking forward to seeing my friends. The best part of all - Kristie's coming to see me! Yes, mah gurrrl is coming to NYC to hang out for a night. She's going to need a little break from everything, too, so I'm glad we get to break it down together. Poor girl is having a hard day today. Send her lots of good vibes if you can.

Sink, Sank, Sunk

I should know better than to think things are fine when parts of my life seem to fall into place. I really should. The placid, sunny days of contentment are simply a pre-cursor to the storm that has only just appeared on the radar. It's proven time and time again. Why don't I learn? Ever the hopeful optimist.

I'm feeling pretty bad today. Pretty awful, indeed. Not really any details I want to broadcast at the moment, but I feel bad. I'm very sad, I'm feeling unthethered, as if I have no anchor and I'm questioning myself in almost every way possible. It's one of those snowball things, or a supreme instance of 20/20 hind-sight. One event occurs and it sets into motion a string of happenings that reveal nasty little cracks in the seemingly smooth facade of my life. Since this morning I feel a little lost and more than a bit upset.

I hope I'll have something funny to say soon, or at least something to bitch about in my usual sarcastic, entertaining way.



POSTSCRIPT (about half an hour after the initial post): I am often humbled by the words of people who love me, as if somehow during a dark time I forget how much they care for me and the mere sight of a typed message from them can bring me back from the nasty land of self-doubt. Kristie is often the one who reminds me of my own self and my own worth and my own me-ness - and the validity of all those things. She sent me this today and it's so touching I wanted to post it.
"I wanted to share one of my favorite pictures of you. You DO look as beautiful as you are in this photo - the way your face gets all calm and pretty when you're concentrating, and the cute messiness of your hair. (again, if I were a guy I would be telling you that I love you and slipping a ring on your finger, but you don't fuck your sister). I just wanted you to know that you are a beautiful woman, and no amount of dumbass acts from anyone in this world will ever change who you are and how you look (especially to me)."

Now that is something special.

Developments

The AP wire story below came out last night about Nicole's killer. My dear friend, MT, said that he'd give anything to wish her a happy Valentine's Day. He's not alone in that wish. Reading that broke my heart. She meant more than most to him. She had a profound affect on him (as she did to almost everyone) and I'm glad every time I see him go after something he wouldn't normally have pursued, to see him come out of his shell a little and be a bit bolder than he would have before. When I see him do this I know that it's Nicole's influence. She made him see himself as he really is and that's the mark of a true friend. It makes me smile every time.

Gladly, it seems that Rudy Fleming has proven once and for all that he's lying about his mental illness. Let's hope that the judge has been convinced of this and his trial will be scheduled soon. Nicole deserves for Rudy Fleming to go to trial, to be put before a jury and have his punishment for murdering her be handed down. Nothing will be sufficient, but a conviction is what we all need.

Psychiatrist says Nicole duFresne slay suspect is fit for trial

February 14, 2006, 6:15 PM EST

NEW YORK (AP) _ The man accused of fatally shooting actress Nicole duFresne during a street robbery is faking mental illness by claiming to see a "giant marshmallow man" and other visions but is fit for trial, a psychiatrist testified Tuesday.

Dr. Steven Ciric, a forensic psychiatrist at Bellevue Hospital Center, said at a hearing in Manhattan's state Supreme Court that he concluded Rudy Fleming, 20, was faking after interviewing him in December and reviewing his hospital records.

Justice Daniel FitzGerald will issue a decision on Fleming's fitness to stand trial in duFresne's killing after the hearings finish this week.

Fleming is one of six people, including two juveniles, charged in a 31-count indictment with murder, robbery and other crimes related to the slaying of duFresne in January 2005 on the Lower East Side. The 28-year-old actress, her fiance and another couple were accosted moments after they left a bar.

Witnesses told police Fleming's group demanded money but duFresne and her friends refused to give them any (this isn't true, but hey, it's an AP story *UPDATE: the NY Times didn't get the details right, either, nor did the NY Post, although that's way less surprising*). They said duFresne challenged Fleming, asking, "What are you going to do, shoot us?"

Ciric said Fleming reported visual hallucinations that included seeing the marshmallow man, a big red man and a black and white cat skulking about in his room.

Fleming also claimed he heard a voice from someone named Bobby telling him to hang himself and another from someone calling him stupid, the psychiatrist said.

"He reported visual and auditory hallucinations, seeing a giant marshmallow man, a big red man," Ciric said.

However, Ciric said, he found that the symptoms Fleming described were inconsistent, were vague and lacked details, which is characteristic of stories told by "malingerers" _ fakers. He said he believed Fleming was malingering.

"My opinion was that he was fit to stand trial at that time," Ciric said, adding that Fleming had no mental problems that would prevent his understanding the charges against him or helping his own defense.

Fleming has pleaded not guilty.

DuFresne, a native of Wayzata, Minn., who lived in Brooklyn, also was a playwright and producer. She co-wrote a play called "Burning Cage," about two women in an asylum who are targeted for brainwashing experiments with LSD. It toured in 2002 at fringe theater festivals in Canada and the United States.

HVD

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I trust we're all in a festive and loving spirit today, because if we're not I fear Hallmark may come hunting. The goons of the over-sentimentalized greeting card world will string us up by our toenails in the town square and pelt us with candy hearts.

Texas Lady here at work is sure feeling celebratory. She just had a lovely little chat with her dear husband on speaker phone (full volume, natch) about his latest kind gesture.

Texas Lady: You did what?
Hubby: I picked you up a salad.
Texas Lady: I don't get it. Why did you do that?
Hubby: You said you didn't want to cook tonight, so I thought it would be nice to get you something you'd like.
Texas Lady: Well, what kind of salad?
Hubby: The California Cobb one that you like so much!
Texas Lady: Does it have romaine? You know I only like romaine. If you got me that damn salad and it's not all, 100%, fully romaine I'm going to be pissed.
Hubby: Oh no, honey, it's all romaine. I asked specifically.
Texas Lady: Yeah, but did you check it? You know those people are imbeciles. They can't put together a salad if their lives depended on it.
Hubby: Oh honey, it's their job, you know, to put together the salads. It's really what they do. I'm sure it's all romaine.
Texas Lady: It better be. That's all I'll say, it just better damn well be all romaine.

Needless to say, I hate her.

But I don't hate you, dear bloggy friends. I heart you. I heart you like a fat kid hearts cake.

For Sanity's Sake, I Need a Break

This is ridiculous, but I have to take some time off from NYC blog reading (I will never really do that, but I feel I should). And DC for that matter, but I will never not read Kristie's blog. You see, I read Kristie's this morning and I saw the pictures of the snow and the Capitol and I thought how happy she is that there's a good coating of the white stuff on the ground. She likes the snow. Almost as much as I do. Almost. I read her post and was happy for her. Winter just isn't winter w/no snow and I know she was looking forward to this weekend's dumping. Then I hopped on over to several of the NYC-based blogs I read daily and the happiness faded quickly into a bitter, biting jealousy.

The pictures of Central Park and the Upper East Side, Brooklyn brownstones and familiar intersections pained me to look at them. It was as if every picture sunk a tiny fish hook into my heart and the barbs stung even more as I tried to look away. My winter has been downright balmy. There are palm trees everywhere. The breezes are generally warm. I went to the beach Saturday afternoon and got some sun while I started a new book. To some, I'm sure that sounds like a paradise, but to me it's just another day away from a climate that soothes me. It's amazing how much the lack of seasons here bothers me. I knew I was a "winter girl". Always have been. But, to have this kind of cold-weather withdrawl is not normal. It's beyond being a winter girl, more than being a displaced Yankee. It speaks to a fundamental something within my being that tells me I need to be in New York. It's as if I have Seasonal Affectedness Disorder, but in reverse. If I don't get a grey, snowy day soon I might have to start wearing sunglasses all the time and packing my undies with ice.

Pretty soon, I'll be back in Brooklyn. I'll be back just in time for the cold, rainy late winter/early spring. Just in time for the puddles that swallow your feet when you least expect it and the rainstorms that drench you on the one day you leave your umbrella at home. I'll curse it at the time, but later when I get home after a long day, I'll be glad that my area code is 718 and my upstairs neighbors are stomping around and my girls are in the kitchen putting water on for tea and my hissing radiator is warming my room with that old-fashioned warmth. I just wish the man & I were going back at the same time. As is stands now he'll be here for a few months longer after I move back up North. Which is good for him. He loves warm weather. But I'll be back there, in my element, wishing I had him to share a cold March walk with. Wishing that by the time he gets there the market at Union Square wouldn't have stopped selling hot cider on the weekends months earlier, back when the Spring came and the flowers started their reach for the new sun.

Olympic Dreams & Accidental Shootings

I'm sad this morning. Grandma Luge, a.k.a. Anne Abernathy - a 52 yr. old woman who was to compete in her 6th Olympics, yep, 6th - and my favorite slider, has had to withdraw from the games with a broken wrist. She crashed badly in a training run yesterday. She's the oldest female athlete at the Olympics, she's a cancer survivor, she wears a red helmet to signify her membership in the "red hat society" and she's a hero to a lot of sports fans. She's never really been a medal contender, but her participation in the games is truly admirable.

She competes for the Virgin Islands, but a good portion of the year she lives in northern Virginia. She rollerblades the rails-to-trails in the NoVa area for cardio training. Years ago I managed a sports complex located right off the trail. She'd blade miles and miles, then come to the park to hit golf balls and use the batting cages... to relax. The woman is a beast. She is tough as nails and a truly nice person. I watch her race whenever I can. I hope she recovers well from this broken wrist.

Onto skating for a minute: Michelle Kwan, what were you thinking? I understand you thought you could do it, but I also understand you had to jump through hoops to get on the team this year (petition, board review, etc.) because you didn't qualify through competition. If you didn't have total confidence in your ability to compete you should have bowed out to preserve your health and to give someone else a shot. I know you have an old groin injury that you aggravated in training. I know this was your last shot at Olympic gold. I also know you had to have known the state of your injury and whether or not you could hack it this go 'round. Emily Hughes is no medal contender, but I hope she has a good time and can live the dream like her sister, Sara. 2 sisters on the Olympic skating team. That's pretty freaking cool.

Men's downhill - Bode, Bode, Bode. I was pulling for you, you rebel. That Frenchie just had the run of his life.

Alright, let's talk about Cheney for a sec. The Vice freaking President shot a dude. He shot a dude. By accident. As in not-on-purpose. As in how-the-hell-do-you-accidentally-shoot-someone? And tell me, who the hell goes quail hunting anyway? Quail hunting? I guess the answer is the veep and a 78 yr old lawyer. My question is this: do we really need another reason to make the world laugh at our country? Our goddamn Vice Prez shoots people when he's supposed to be shooting quail. Or is it quails. I think it's quail. Like deer, not deers.

Johnny Winton is STILL an Assclown

A reporter from the Miami New Times emailed Renee and me today. Renee had cc'd him on her letter to Mayor Diaz. He wanted to find out what Commissioner Winton did that was so bad. We spoke, he cracked up the whole time. If this goes to press it will be an interesting little blurb, that's for sure. I Googled Winton last night and found more than a few articles about what an idiot he is, what a jerk he is, how he's gone back on his promises after being elected, how he's underhanded and conniving... The reporter was interested to find out that I live just over the line from Winton's district and that I'm moving back to Brooklyn after a less than enjoyable time here in Miami. I hope this makes the papers. Not because I want to be quoted, but because this guy is an idiot and he should never get re-elected in the future.

P.S. I have no clue why, but when I Google Image Searched for "assclown" a picture of a Steelers helmet came up. Hmm. I'm lost.

Ring, Ring... Oh Crap!

Spitty-lipped old man who wouldn't leave me alone Tuesday night called me yesterday. Ick. Unfortunatly, I had given him my card as we were standing in a group at the beginning of the evening and there was some card exchanging going on. It was early. He wasn't drunk yet. He hadn't kissed my neck with his disgusting, old, spit-laiden, wrinkly lips yet. He seemed harmless and I thought nothing of it. Big mistake.

I was waiting for the bus after work and my cell rang. I had been doing a little Valentines Day prep work for the man earlier in the day and was expecting a call regarding those festivities. When I saw the Miami area code, I thought it was the guy I was expecting to call, so I cheerfully answered. "Hello? this is Melissa!" "Mayleessa, hello darrrleeng. How are yew?" Accent was the same as the expected guy. Voice tone was the same. I still thought it was the expected guy. "Yew know who dees ees?" "Yes, of course I do. Thanks for calling!" it certainly sounded like the expected guy, so of course, I knew who it was. "Oh good, yew reeemembar me. Ay had satch a good tayim weeth yew lass nigh." All the blood drained from my face. I couldn't believe my ears. It was like he was right next to me, with his bad breath and his old man pants.

He actually had the crusty old man balls to ask me to a party tonight. Is he insane? Probably. I said, no, thanks for the invitation, but I wouldn't be accompanying him anywhere. His response? Get this, I wish I were making this up, "Oh, yew reelly do haff boyfren den, huh?" No, jackhole, I was totally kidding about it. I love playing hard to get with men older than my father and no taller than me. It gives me such a rush. Better than sex. Better than chocolate and peanut butter. "Yes, I do. He's a very handsome, big, strong guy. I'm going to hang up now, please don't call again."

Johnny Winton is still an assclown

This was my letter to the Mayor, Manny Diaz, regarding Commissioner Johnny Winton's ridiculous behavior at the reception Tuesday night. Renee wrote one, too - and she cc'd the entire planet. It was great. She copied the city council, the other commissioners, some reporters for the New Times, the Herald, the Sun-Sentinal... brilliant! That was yesterday morning. So far, no response.

Mr. Diaz -

Firstly, thank you for being eloquent and trying to smooth over the Commissioner's speech last evening at the reception. It was great to have your office represented by someone with tact and class. The Commissioner's speech was insulting and offensive. The way he spoke to the crowd as if we were a classroom of rowdy children was inappropriate and rude.

When he said that he was the city Commissioner and yes, he's a jerk, it made me cringe. When he said, "Hey, ladies in the back, be quiet!" I could only hope that I had misheard him. Unfortunately when he ordered the bars be closed in order to "shut up" the crowd I realized I had heard him loud and clear. He said that we were there "eating free food and drinking free booze" so we should be quiet and listen to him. Perhaps the Commissioner should learn that a person commands respect and attention through actions and presence, not by shouting and acting like a spoiled child.

I hope that the out-of-towners attending the reception don't think our city is full of people like him. He represented the city poorly and it was embarrassing.

Thank you for being there and for being a presence in the community. I truly appreciate it.

Sincerely,
Melissa PissedOffMiamiResident (OK, I didn't sign it like that, really)

Last Fashionista Standing

WARNING: if you do not wish to know who was given the "out" last night on Project Runway you should stop reading now (Kristie, this means you, babycakes).

Last night's challenge was a head-to-toe makeover of a fellow designer. Each designer was to design for a randomly chosen castmate. Seems like a fabulous concept, right? You get to see a bit of what the other designers see in each other - what someone wants to change, what someone wants to play up, what someone wants to get rid of entirely (Santino, thank goodness Kara made that Big Ben beard go bye-bye). I looked forward to it since last week's previews.

That said, I was so disappointed by last night's results I can hardly stand it. Well, half the results. The winner was chosen well. The loser was a huge mistake. Chloe won - and she deserved it fully. Her challenge was to make Nick over. It was beautiful. She really "got" him and his style and took it to a new level - the goal of every designer... or at least it should be - Santino, you reading this? Her ensemble looked like something Nick might choose for himself. Besides the props she deserves for solid design and perfect fabric & color choice, this was the first time she'd ever done menswear - which is entirely different in scope and strategy than womenswear. She mastered it on her very first try. Quite impressive. Nick looked great (as he always does) and Chloe won because she nailed it.

Kara did a wonderful job making over Santino (conversely, Santino made Kara look like an idiot on the runway and it was terrible, I felt bad for her up there in his design). We all know that man needed a little something in the personal apparel department. She prepped him up, put him in a polo and madras pants and he looked fantastic. She was a clear contender for the win with Chloe and I liked her design for Santino almost as much as Chloe's for Nick.

Daniel made Chloe over and he left a little something to be desired. From the judges' comments he left loads to be desired, but I wasn't offended by his design like they were. He had immunity last night, so he's in the final 4 no matter what. I'm sure that's why his hemline wasn't straight and the fit wasn't perfect for Chloe's figure.

Now - the sad part. Nick's design for Daniel was too feminine and he had some construction issues. Normally, Nick's sewing and construction is better than most. He has amazing skill when it comes to pattern making and execution. So, when his design for Daniel was lacking last night it was a let down. His seams puckered, the sheen of the fabric was unforgiving at best, and all the flaws shown through. His concept was great - 80s rocker, tight suit, slick - but his execution was not so great... and Nick was sent home. I almost cried. Really. I had picked him to win it from the first episode. His personality and his style coupled with his skill and immense talent should not go unrewarded, and I'm afraid this was a bad choice by the judges. I felt that Santino earned his ticket out of there. He's talented and can make beautiful, masterful clothes, but (and this is a huge but) he never considers the woman who will actually wear his designs. Not once has he taken into account what a woman feels like in a garment, if the design "fits" her style and her personality. He made Kara look like a streetwalker last night. His execution was so lacking it was hardly even there. No seams were finished, he glued her into the abomination of a jumpsuit and even went to so far as to blame her exuberance backstage for a popped shoulder seam - when he knew damn well that stupid seam was coming loose the moment she stepped out onto the runway! She looked a mess and it was his fault. He desereved to be out last night. Instead, my boy Nick is gone.

I can't wait for next week - Daniel tells Santino that he should have been out, not Nick, and I look forward to someone standing up to Santino's arrogance right to his face. His abrasive personality overshadows his goal-driven nature and he comes off as aggressive instead of assertive. It's a fine line, but it's an important boundary to mind.

Keep an eye out for the name - Nick Varreos - you'll see him soon, I'm sure.

Johnny Winton, City Commissioner, is an assclown

He's the City Commissioner and he's a ridiculous buffoon. Last night I went out to an event with my friend, Renee. It was held at a luxury condo building downtown. Basically it was a reception for realtors and people interested in buying a condo. Not us, but hey, she had tickets and we went. It was a lot of fun. Open bars with top shelf liquor, complimentary valet, live music, dancers, interesting crowd. This guy, the Commissioner, takes the mic to give a little speech about the developer and the involvement of the mayor's office and a bunch of political rhetoric to puff up his own ego and the image of the city's development plans.

People were talking amongst themselves, it was a cocktail reception after all, and folks were mingling and drinking and eating the passed hors d'ouevres. The general crowd noise got quieter when he started speaking, but everyone wasn't paying full attention. Apparently this was unnacceptable. He began to shush the crowd. Seriously. He said "Shhhhhhhh!!" into the mic as if speaking to a class of first grade children. If you've ever heard anyone blow into a microphone you know that it's a less than pleasant sound. Renee and I looked at each other in disbelief, and noticed that there was a similar reaction coming from a good portion of the crowd. Mr. Commissioner kept going. "Hey, come on now people, settle down. I'm trying to talk here. Shhhhhh! Hey, hey! You're standing in the lobby of a very expensive building, eating free food and drinking booze you didn't pay for so be quiet for a minute and let me talk. I mean it, stop talking! Ladies in the back, you there - shut your mouths. That's is - CLOSE THE BARS! If you don't serve them they'll shut up."

Wow. Pretty impolite and innappropriate, right? This was all before I knew who the hell this idiot was. It got worse. "Yeah, you might think I'm a jerk, but hey, I'm the City Commissioner and you know what? I am a jerk. Now shut up!" Great. I hope that all the out-of-towners at the reception think all of Miami government is like that. I hope they think Miami is filled with self-important blowhards who condescend their peers at every chance. I'm writing a letter to the city to let them know just how rude and embarrassing the Commissioner was last night. It's gonna be a doozy.

Almost as much of a doozy as the creepy 60 year old realtor who wouldn't leave me alone last night. At first it was innocuous conversation. Party banter, you know the type. He got drunker and drunker. Renee and I made our way to the other side of the lobby to get away from him. He found us. "It's really too bad you're not single." Why do stupid men say idiotic things like that? It's too bad? Too bad for who? If I was unnattached I still wouldn't touch him with a 10 foot pole. He started to grab people walking by and ask, "Have you met my new girlfriend?" while pointing at me. When he slung his slimy South American old man arm around me and kissed my neck with his spitty lips I had to tell him to stop touching me. Immediately. He acted like he was just leaving on his own, but he heard me. Disgusting old man. I bet he's friends with Johnny Winton.

Highlight of the evening - the freestyle tap dancer. He was amazing. Think Savion Glover, but Latino.

The Office - it should be filmed here

I work in a strange place. You've read my tales of Sales Guy, Cuban Lady, Texas Lady, all those whackjobs. I just need to get a couple more things out of my system regarding these idiots, bear with me.

1) Cuban Lady has been sneezing all day. All damn day - without covering her mouth. There's only a 5'6" cubicle "wall" (read: crappy, drab, corporately boring fabric stretched on a frame) separating us, so I'm pretty sure those germs are making their way right over here to me. Not only is she spewing her cooties all over me, she sneezes in the most annoying way possible. "Achoo" - that's your standard sneeze sound, right? Sure, some people have a variation on that theme (my own sound more like a loud rush of air than a word-ish thing you can actually spell). Not Cuban Lady. Hers sound like "AAAACHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!". Achee? What the hell is achee? That's the most ridiculous sneeze sound ever. It's not a Cuban thing. It's a stupid thing. The only thing I've said to her all day was, "[Cuban Lady], if you don't start covering your mouth when you sneeze I'm going to spray your face with Lysol every time you do it." Her response? Laughter. My response, "I'm not even remotely kidding. (shakes can)" Silence. Freak.

2) Cuban Lady continues her assault on normal social behaviors. Last week I was in the elevator with her & Boss Lady. Cuban Lady starts talking - apparently to me, but she never mentioned my name. I don't acknowledge the noise coming from her general area. Neither does Boss Lady. Seriously, I ignore her the whole way down to the 1st floor. I don't lean in to hear her better, I don't make eye contact, I give her no indication that I'm even able to pick up on whatever it is she's blabbering about. For some reason she keeps talking. Elevator doors open - Boss Lady & I step out. Boss Lady starts cracking up, Cuban Lady keeps talking... as we walk away and out the front door of the building. She's the most socially idiotic person I've ever known - and I've known some losers, my friends.

3) Cuban Lady has taken to calling me Penelope. Penelope is a nickname the department has bestowed upon me. It's a kind of inside joke that she was never a part of. For the record - she's not part of the department, either. So she calls out "Penelope?" through the cubicle wall and I ignore her. Every day. Every goddamn day I ignore her and she keeps doing it. One of these days...

4) There's a guy visiting from some ship (this is the cruise business, by the way) with his girlfriend. Apparently they both work on board as some sort of cruise directors. You'd never think they were boyfriend/girlfriend if you saw them. You'd think they were father/daughter. Which would be an easy mistake to make since she's 18 and he's 36. GROSS.

Photo Op

I forgot to post this earlier. It's my friend, Renee, & me when we went out last month. Yes, folks, I actually went out. Not to a thrift shop, a coffee shop, Target, or a cafe, but a real lounge with real people who actually go out and real music and real booze and even a real photographer from the Miami New Times. They published us. I got a big kick out of that because I'm a bit of a celeb whore. I am. I love the concept of fame. I don't really want to be famous, I don't (too much watching what you eat all the time and having what you wear be what defines you and what you say being misquoted all the time and never being able to wear the same outfit twice), but I like to be noticed every once in awhile. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. The best part of the picture is that I'm wearing a top I made. It was my New Year's top I designed because I didn't have anything to wear. Necessity is the mother of invention. And, apparently, clothing.

2nd Tag - taggity tag tag tag

So, S tagged me for the 5 weird things about you list thingy. Apparently I "ooze weirdness", thanks, S! Ha! Seriously, she's right. But here's the funny part: although I am perfectly aware of the fact that I exist in a constant state of weirdness, I had to consult Kristie to help me come up with 5 things about me that are truly strange and worth writing down. I have so many that some are only mildly weird - and who wants to read about that? So here goes (be warned, there is some sexual reference below)...

1) I have a tendency to cut or dye my hair after a few drinks at home. Something about getting tipsy and wanting to change my look. Sadly, most of the time I follow through on that whim. Last time I did it I had a couple Red Stripes (I'm telling you, those Jamaicans know beer) and decided I needed a trim. My hair was unruly and losing its shape and style. I did a fine job, I always do. But then something happened... I figured while I was at it perhaps I should do a little pruning downstairs as well. Hey, the curtains were trimmed up, why not do the carpet, too? Bad idea. Snip, snip, snip was followed by a sharp burning sensation and I knew instantly what I had done. I snipped a little too carelessly and nicked something I should have avoided at all costs. Everything was fine, only a little blood, the next day it was like nothing had happened. But, oh, something had. I learned a lesson that night.

2) I almost married a guy who thought he had perfected his cunnilingus technique... with the addition of his nose as a tool. What? You heard me. He thought that was brilliant. No matter how many times I told him that receiving in the oral department wasn't really my thing (I just don't dig it as much as other things, it's not my favorite, no I'm not crazy, some women just prefer the main course to the appetizers) he was adamant that he could "show me how great it can be". Good gawd, man, I'm an adult woman, I think I know what I like and what I don't - and you going down on me definitely falls into the "don't" column. I'm all for experimentation and things that push my own personal envelope, but when you've eaten a particular dish 25 times and you don't like it any of those 25 times, chances are damn good that you're not going to like it the 26th. Needless to say, there is no ring on my finger today, I left that Hobbitt (yes, that's his nickname). Lucky for me, the fabulous man I live with is quite talented in the bedroom (he's probably going to be annoyed and embarrassed that I said that), and he never pushes anything on me.

3) I am terrified of clowns. Terrified. No one is allowed to make fun of me for it except for Kristie. I've been scared of them since childhood. When I was 5 and the neighbor girl was 3, her mom dressed her as a clown for Halloween. She came over before they went out trick-or-treating and I screamed bloody murder and hid under my bed for an hour. My mom had to physically pull me out. When I moved from DC to Brooklyn I had a fun time unpacking... I opened up my laptop and found a picture of a scary clown. I opened up a box, there was another. This went on for weeks, until I had everything unpacked. After I had packed everything up in DC before the move Kristie went through and stuck pictures all through my stuff so I'd get these little clowny presents as I unpacked. Me loves her. Even when she's horrid.

4) There was a 6 month time period when I couldn't get my cat to stop scooting her butt along the carpet after she'd gone to the litter box. It was gross. She'd poop and then slide her little feline butthole across the floor - and it was disgusting! She was too fat to properly clean her own butt so she figured she was being smart about it. I wasn't amused. I took to wiping her butt with baby wipes when I heard her come out of her box. Humiliating? Yes - for me. Effective? You betcha.

5) I have an irrational fear of developing Alzheimers. I really do. I'm very frightened of it - the clowns freak me out and scare me, but the Alzheimers is a possible real threat and that's way worse. My granny thought I was my mom at various points in the last couple years before she died and I don't want that to happen to me. I saw what it was like for her to go through moments of lucidity when she realized something was wrong and she was conscious of it. It was the saddest thing I've ever seen. I'm scared on some level every day that when I forget something it's early stages of the disease claiming me very early in life. Can't find my keys? For a split second the possibility of Alzheimers goes through my mind. Then I start with the usual "where did I leave them?" routine. Most people skip that first part and go directly to the rational process. Not me. I jump right to the Alzheimers and then move to the normal thoughts. On a daily basis I forget something I meant to tell the man - it's usually something inconsequential, like there's a sofa in a shop window I think he'd like, or there's a new episode of CSI on tonight. But when I forget what those little things are it scares me.

So, that's me. The above is just a little oozing of my weirdness. I'm a freak. If you're a freak, too you should do this and let me know about it. I'm not tagging anyone because most people I know have already done it. If you haven't - please do it. L. Britt, have you done it? Kristen? Jenn?

This sums it up nicely...

She Had a Case of the Sundaes
Guy #1: Yo, I can't believe that girl played you like that!
Guy #2: I know, I did everything for her.
Woman: Oh, no! Does somebody have a case of the Mondays?
Guy #2: Shut up, Miss Piggy.

--Penn Station

Overheard In New York is so fabulous. I love laughing at other peoples' stupidity. I mean, my own stupidity is amusing and all, but there's a special quality about that of other people that makes me giggle so much harder.

Something about me that's embarrassing, yet I'm going to share it anyway: when I was younger people called me "Missy" (I hate it, don't start) and I'd get "Missy Piggy" a lot. It all started when I was 7 and I had a purple Miss Piggy watch. It stuck. It was horrible. Anytime I hear a Miss Piggy reference I cringe. But for some reason this little snippet cracked me up.

Looks Like Somebody's Got a Case of the Mondays

I just went and got lunch at the deli downstairs. Pot roast & veggies. Yumtastic. It's cool here today (a rarity in Miami) and a hearty, wintry meal is just the thing to make today a little less Monday-esque. I then proceeded to slip on the freshly-waxed marble floors in the elevator bank and splatter myself and my lunch all over the place. I think they may have used pure glycerine to polish the floors. It was as slick as an ice rink. My heel hit the shiny, black surface just a touch off-center and I could feel the fall begin - the way you know something bad is just about to happen and everything goes into slow-motion. I sort of floated above myself watching my foot turn under, my leg slide out in front of me, my hands fly upward, tossing my lunch in an effort to swing my arms beneath me to break my impending, painful landing. The styrofoam container hit the ground and big chunks of tender roast sloshed across the floor along with gravy and mashed potatoes. Carrot slices rolled under the security desk and green beans squished between the closing doors of the elevator on the left. My Sunkist soda seeped across the floor, filling the joint of the regular tiling and the marble slabs making a lovely orange groutline. Miraculously, I stood up without so much as a speck of pepper on my clothing. Remarkable, considering what the floor around me looked like. It was a grisly scene. I hope I don't end up with big bruises on my tush. I went down hard. It was too funny to hurt at the time, but I have a sinking suspicion that tonight I'll be feeling it.

To top it off, I can't upload photos right now for some reason. Bugger.

**Update: now I have a hole in my sock. Yippeeeeee!

One For The Thumb!

It's official, last night my Steelers won their 5th Superbowl ring. One for the thumb, baby! WOOHOO! I have more to say, but I'm a little swamped at work at the mo'.

Oh! AND - I have another job interview in New York scheduled. I haven't heard back from last week's interview yet. Now I have one scheduled with a company I was sure I'd never hear from, though I really hoped I would. Now I don't have to put all my eggs of obsession in one basket.

Quit Your Whining, Melissa

Again, I have found reason to shut my pie hole and stop worrying about things that are quite inconsequential in the grand scheme of my life. Complaints about traffic and annoying neighbors seem so trivial. Bitching and moaning about politics and social policy is a luxury. Getting a not-so-great meal in a restaurant? I can afford a meal in a restaurant now and then - I should be thankful.

An article in the Washington Post today opened my eyes, once again, to the problems in this country that are real. Yes, politics affects us all and generations to come will deal with the policy decisions that are made today (oh boy, don't get me started on the daughters of this nation and what they will have to endure). Sure, environmental issues need to be addressed to ensure the health of our planet not just for us, but for everyone. Interest rates and financial protocols will have an impact on industry across the board. But what about daily life? What about just living well enough to shower when you want to and go to your kitchen and have a snack when you're hungry? How about wearing clean clothing and having a place to call home... which means a permanent address... which means you can fill out a job application and maybe get hired... and earn a paycheck.

This article explores the growing problem of homelessness - and not just homelessness, homelessness in the affluent suburbs of our nation's capitol. The county discussed in particular is one I lived in for a number of years while in the DC area. Fairfax is pretty wealthy by most standards. Middle class, lots of single-family homes, good school districts. And yet, the men featured in this article are homeless. They don't have an apartment to go to, they have no bed of their own to get a restful night's sleep. One man usually sleeps behind shopping centers. Shopping centers I've probably patronized. Chances are good that I've bought a picture frame to lovingly house the most recent picture of my family or friends in a store that this man sleeps behind... alone.

What strikes me most about these men is not that they look rather like my father - pretty clean-cut, middle aged, kind-faced - but that they seem fairly stable except for their homelessness. What I mean by that is when I'm in the city, I've grown accustomed to ignoring the homeless. Not because I want to. Not because I don't see them. Not because they're not human just like me. But because I've had a handful of frightening experiences with homeless people in DC who are obviously mentally ill, as are so many of the urban homeless population. I ignore these people in a strange attempt at self-preservation. I donate money each year to a homeless shelter in DC that provides food and clothing to anyone who asks and also to an organization in New York that feeds people who are hungry every morning and evening at a community center in Brooklyn. Those donations are how I justify not looking these people I see everyday in the eye. That money (it's never as much as I want it to be) allows me to not feel crippling guilt every time I pass someone on the street and don't empty my pocket change into their cup, when I know they need it much more than I.

I don't even really know what I'm trying to get across with this post. I suppose I just want people to know that there are members of their community who are invisible. They are invisible because we let them be, we make them that way, I refuse to acknowledge them. You don't have to go to the inner city, the big metropolis to find homeless people. Chances are, after you go to your warm home from the grocery store and put your food away in your well-stocked pantry there will be a man or woman sleeping in the shelter of the dumpster behind that store.

I am a lucky person. We all are. I can write about this on a computer in the office where I work and earn a paycheck that keeps a roof over my head, food in my belly, and nice clothes on my back. I am so fortunate. I am not invisible.

Calm Down, Melissa

I hate when I do this. When I over-analyze and work myself into a froth worrying about things that I should just let happen. I do this often. I want to stop, I do. But I'm a worrier. It's a character flaw. I don't think it was caused by my mother (when you reach adulthood there comes a time when you have to assume ownership of your life and take responsibility for the way you are, if you don't like who that is you should work on it - but don't blame your parents for everything until you die), but she had a hand in it. You see, my mom sometimes doesn't tell me things because she "doesn't want to worry me." Why do people do this? It really pisses me off. If you don't want to worry me, then perhaps it's a better game plan to tell me what's going on so I can cope with it in my own way instead of withholding until the situation is truly awful and then dumping it on my head. Like when she was diagnosed with cancer. She was going for biopsies and all sorts of exams for weeks and didn't say a word to me until she needed me to drive her to her out-patient surgery to remove her lymph nodes. Excuse me? She's fine now. Cancer-free for almost 5 years. I wish she would have told me sooner, that's all. Didn't want to worry me. Bah.

This kind of stupid worrying carries over to small things in my life that really shouldn't be a big deal. Like my recent job interview. It's the subject of my current fit of worrying. Will I get the job? Do they like me as much as I thought they liked me? Did I leave them with the impression I thought I left them with or am I just convincing myself I did? The interview was Monday. Last night I wrote both people I met with (not including guy #2 who was a complete asshat) thanking them and all that jazz. I was hoping I'd have a little reply in my inbox this morning, but nothing so far. I know it's unrealistic to expect them to have some kind of confirmation for me 4 days after the interview (or even to respond to my thank you email for that matter), but that doesn't stop me from wishing the anticipation period was over. It also doesn't stop me from worrying that I'm completely distorting the day's events in my mind and I actually screwed the whole thing up rather than put my best foot forward like I thought. I just want to know if I got the job or not so I can either get jazzed up about moving or I can be disappointed for a little bit and deal with it.

It's ridiculous. I need a hobby or something. Sheesh.

Gingerbread Groundhogs

Tomorrow is Ground Hog Day. As a Penn-sylvanian, I can tell you with pride that Ground Hog Day has a special place in my heart. It was always the buzz on the playground before class started. Did he see it? Did Phil see his shadow this morning? I couldn't tell you how many years the actual weather corresponded to the predictions of that groundhog, but the pomp and circumstance surrounding his wise and valued "meteorology" still make me smile.

My mom would always make goundhog cookies. I'm not kidding. She has a cookie cutter in the shape of a ground hog's profile. She'd make a batch of gingerbread and cut each Phil out of the brown dough and put half a raisin on his head for an eye. It was fun to eat his head off first. Same goes for a chocolate Easter bunny. I always start at the ears.

Nowadays my mom works too much and my little brother is away at college. Busy days filled with conference calls and no kids to make cookies for. Makes me kind of sad. She has a home office and she's not more than 30 seconds away from the kitchen, but I know there won't be any gingerbread Phils this year. Wonder if he'll see his shadow tomorrow. Are we in for 6 more weeks of winter? Will Spring come early? Here in Miami it has no bearing on our weather. The palms and warm ocean breezes care not for snow. But I think of my days in PA and wish I was back there, anxiously awaiting that poor, scared animal's prediction, with a couple of Phil cookies in my lunchbox.