Okay, I’ll bite. Anita borrowed this list from someone named Josh, so I’ll fill it in for myself. It really caused me to take a second look at where time has gone, and it is hard for me to accept that even ten years ago we had already been through nearly two years of college. WOW.
10 Years Ago...
1.) How old were you? 20
2.) Where did you go to school? Auburn University
3.) Where did you work? Harper Residence Hall (as a Desk Assistant) and Camp War Eagle (summer orientation counselor)
4.) Where did you live? Auburn, AL
5.) Where did you hang out? All over the place. Road trips were in, and camping at Mount Cheaha over Memorial Day weekend was the best!
6.) Did you wear glasses? Contacts
7.) Who was your best friend? Anita, Rhea, Addie, Peyton, Jennifer and Chris Milan among others. I had lots of friends ten years ago. Anita and I have always had a very close bond since high school, but were actually a bit estranged at the time because she had gotten married and I didn’t make it home as often.
8.) How many tattoos did you have? None – and never!
9.) How many piercings did you have? None, but I did have piercing envy for a bit.
10.) What car did you drive? 1987 powder blue 2-door Chevy Cavalier, nicknamed The Heart of the Ocean. She set sail for the last time in 2000.
11.) Had you been to a real party? Depends on what “real” means. At the time, I thought so. The future taught me I was mistaken.
12.) Had your heart broken? Many times over… I was not out yet and had plenty of unrequited crushes.
13.) Single/Taken/Married/Divorced/Bitter: Desperately single.
5 years ago...
1.) How old were you? 25
2.) Where did you go to school? University of South Carolina
3.) Where did you work? Orientation and Testing Services, USC
4.) Where did you live? Columbia, SC
5.) Where did you hang out? My favorite places: The Salty Nut, Delaney’s Irish Pub, the Speak Easy, Revolution, Art Bar… Can you tell I was in grad school? lol
6.) Did you wear glasses? Contacts and glasses
7.) Who was your best friend? Anita, Rhea, Lisa, Becca
8.) Who was your crush? I had a crush on one of my classmates and a new recruit to my program
9.) How many tattoos did you have? still none
10.) How many piercings did you have? still none
11) What car did you drive? 2000 Ford Focus, deep blue, nicknamed Pierre
12.) Had you had your heart broken? Many more times over… I still wasn’t out, but would be the following year.
13.) Single/Taken/Married/Divorced/Bitter: Single and bitter.
**March 2007**
1.) How old are you? 30
2.) Where do you work? Auburn University
3.) Where do you live? Near Montgomery, AL
4.) Do you wear glasses? Glasses that are out-of-date (the prescription, not the frames! Horn-rimmed is still cool, right?)
5.) Who's your best friend? Rhea, Anita, and Rob
6.) Do you talk to your old friends? I’m so bad about it… No on lives near me, so I hardly see any of my friends anymore. I do miss them!
7.) How many piercings? I think it’s safe to say that this will always be NO.
8.) How many tattoos do you have? Still none.
9.) What kind of car do you have? 2004 Ford Focus, “light tundra” lol, nicknamed Jean-Pierre.
10.) Has your heart been broken? Yes, many more times over, this time from actual relationships, one gone especially bad at the end.
11.) Single/Taken/Married/Divorced/Bitter? Taken and happy! He’s a sweetie and cares very much for me!
Monday, March 12, 2007
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Feeling Jung Again
On Anita's recommendation, I took a derivation of Jung's personality type instrument, and - no surprise - turned out to be ISFJ. Here's the description:
The primary desire of the Protector Guardian is to be of service to others, but here "service" means not so much furnishing others with the necessities of life (the Provider's concern), as guarding others against life's pitfalls and perils, that is, seeing to their safety and security. There is a large proportion of Protectors in the population, perhaps as much as ten percent. And a good thing, because they are steadfast in their protecting, and seem fulfilled in the degree they can insure the safekeeping of those in their family, their circle of friends, or their place of business.
Protectors find great satisfaction in assisting the downtrodden and can deal with disability and neediness in others better than any other type. They go about their task of caretaking modestly, unassumingly, and because of this their efforts are not sometimes fully appreciated. They are not as outgoing and talkative as the Providers, except with close friends and relatives. With these they can chat tirelessly about the ups and downs in their lives, moving (like all the Guardians) from topic to topic as they talk over their everyday concerns. However, their shyness with strangers is often misjudged as stiffness, even coldness, when in truth these Protectors are warm-hearted and sympathetic, giving happily of themselves to those in need.
Their quietness ought really to be seen as an expression, not of coldness, but of their sincerity and seriousness of purpose. Like all the Guardians, Protectors have a highly developed puritan work ethic, which tells them that work is good, and that play must be earned-if indulged in at all. The least hedonic of all types, Protectors are willing to work long, long hours doing all the thankless jobs the other types seem content to ignore. Thoroughness and frugality are also virtues for Protectors. When they undertake a task, they will complete it if at all humanly possible; and they know the value of material resources and abhor the squandering or misuse of these resources. Protectors are quite content to work alone; indeed, they may experience some discomfort when placed in positions of authority, and may try to do everything themselves rather than insist that others do their jobs.
With their extraordinary commitment to security, and with their unusual talent for executing routines, Protectors do well in many careers that have to do with conservation: curators, private secretaries, librarians, middle-managers, police officers, and especially general medical practitioners. To be sure, the hospital is a natural haven for them; it is home to the family doctor, preserver of life and limb, and to the registered nurse, or licensed practical nurse, truly the angels of mercy. The insurance industry is also a good fit for Protectors. To save, to put something aside against an unpredictable future, to prepare for emergencies-these are important actions to Protectors, who as insurance agents want to see their clients in good hands, sheltered and protected.
Here's another interpretation:
ISFJs are characterized above all by their desire to serve others, their "need to be needed." In extreme cases, this need is so strong that standard give-and-take relationships are deeply unsatisfying to them; however, most ISFJs find more than enough with which to occupy themselves within the framework of a normal life. (Since ISFJs, like all SJs, are very much bound by the prevailing social conventions, their form of "service" is likely to exclude any elements of moral or political controversy; they specialize in the local, the personal, and the practical.)
ISFJs are often unappreciated, at work, home, and play. Ironically, because they prove over and over that they can be relied on for their loyalty and unstinting, high-quality work, those around them often take them for granted--even take advantage of them. Admittedly, the problem is sometimes aggravated by the ISFJs themselves; for instance, they are notoriously bad at delegating ("If you want it done right, do it yourself"). And although they're hurt by being treated like doormats, they are often unwilling to toot their own horns about their accomplishments because they feel that although they deserve more credit than they're getting, it's somehow wrong to want any sort of reward for doing work (which is supposed to be a virtue in itself). (And as low-profile Is, their actions don't call attention to themselves as with charismatic Es.) Because of all of this, ISFJs are often overworked, and as a result may suffer from psychosomatic illnesses.
In the workplace, ISFJs are methodical and accurate workers, often with very good memories and unexpected analytic abilities; they are also good with people in small-group or one-on-one situations because of their patient and genuinely sympathetic approach to dealing with others. ISFJs make pleasant and reliable co-workers and exemplary employees, but tend to be harried and uncomfortable in supervisory roles. They are capable of forming strong loyalties, but these are personal rather than institutional loyalties; if someone they've bonded with in this way leaves the company, the ISFJ will leave with them, if given the option. Traditional careers for an ISFJ include: teaching, social work, most religious work, nursing, medicine (general practice only), clerical and and secretarial work of any kind, and some kinds of administrative careers.
While their work ethic is high on the ISFJ priority list, their families are the centers of their lives. ISFJs are extremely warm and demonstrative within the family circle--and often possessive of their loved ones, as well. When these include Es who want to socialize with the rest of the world, or self-contained ITs, the ISFJ must learn to adjust to these behaviors and not interpret them as rejection. Being SJs, they place a strong emphasis on conventional behavior (although, unlike STJs, they are usually as concerned with being "nice" as with strict propriety); if any of their nearest and dearest depart from the straight-and-narrow, it causes the ISFJ major embarrassment: the closer the relationship and the more public the act, the more intense the embarrassment (a fact which many of their teenage children take gleeful advantage of). Over time, however, ISFJs usually mellow, and learn to regard the culprits as harmless eccentrics :-). Needless to say, ISFJs take infinite trouble over meals, gifts, celebrations, etc., for their loved ones--although strong Js may tend to focus more on what the recipient should want rather than what they do want.
Like most Is, ISFJs have a few, close friends. They are extremely loyal to these, and are ready to provide emotional and practical support at a moment's notice. (However, like most Fs they hate confrontation; if you get into a fight, don't expect them to jump in after you. You can count on them, however, run and get the nearest authority figure.) Unlike with EPs, the older the friendship is, the more an ISFJ will value it. One ISFJ trait that is easily misunderstood by those who haven't known them long is that they are often unable to either hide or articulate any distress they may be feeling. For instance, an ISFJ child may be reproved for "sulking," the actual cause of which is a combination of physical illness plus misguided "good manners." An adult ISFJ may drive a (later ashamed) friend or SO into a fit of temper over the ISFJ's unexplained moodiness, only afterwards to explain about a death in the family they "didn't want to burden anyone with." Those close to ISFJs should learn to watch for the warning signs in these situations and take the initiative themselves to uncover the problem.
These two articles describe me and my inner workings only too accurately. If you want to take the test, check out this link.
The primary desire of the Protector Guardian is to be of service to others, but here "service" means not so much furnishing others with the necessities of life (the Provider's concern), as guarding others against life's pitfalls and perils, that is, seeing to their safety and security. There is a large proportion of Protectors in the population, perhaps as much as ten percent. And a good thing, because they are steadfast in their protecting, and seem fulfilled in the degree they can insure the safekeeping of those in their family, their circle of friends, or their place of business.
Protectors find great satisfaction in assisting the downtrodden and can deal with disability and neediness in others better than any other type. They go about their task of caretaking modestly, unassumingly, and because of this their efforts are not sometimes fully appreciated. They are not as outgoing and talkative as the Providers, except with close friends and relatives. With these they can chat tirelessly about the ups and downs in their lives, moving (like all the Guardians) from topic to topic as they talk over their everyday concerns. However, their shyness with strangers is often misjudged as stiffness, even coldness, when in truth these Protectors are warm-hearted and sympathetic, giving happily of themselves to those in need.
Their quietness ought really to be seen as an expression, not of coldness, but of their sincerity and seriousness of purpose. Like all the Guardians, Protectors have a highly developed puritan work ethic, which tells them that work is good, and that play must be earned-if indulged in at all. The least hedonic of all types, Protectors are willing to work long, long hours doing all the thankless jobs the other types seem content to ignore. Thoroughness and frugality are also virtues for Protectors. When they undertake a task, they will complete it if at all humanly possible; and they know the value of material resources and abhor the squandering or misuse of these resources. Protectors are quite content to work alone; indeed, they may experience some discomfort when placed in positions of authority, and may try to do everything themselves rather than insist that others do their jobs.
With their extraordinary commitment to security, and with their unusual talent for executing routines, Protectors do well in many careers that have to do with conservation: curators, private secretaries, librarians, middle-managers, police officers, and especially general medical practitioners. To be sure, the hospital is a natural haven for them; it is home to the family doctor, preserver of life and limb, and to the registered nurse, or licensed practical nurse, truly the angels of mercy. The insurance industry is also a good fit for Protectors. To save, to put something aside against an unpredictable future, to prepare for emergencies-these are important actions to Protectors, who as insurance agents want to see their clients in good hands, sheltered and protected.
Here's another interpretation:
ISFJs are characterized above all by their desire to serve others, their "need to be needed." In extreme cases, this need is so strong that standard give-and-take relationships are deeply unsatisfying to them; however, most ISFJs find more than enough with which to occupy themselves within the framework of a normal life. (Since ISFJs, like all SJs, are very much bound by the prevailing social conventions, their form of "service" is likely to exclude any elements of moral or political controversy; they specialize in the local, the personal, and the practical.)
ISFJs are often unappreciated, at work, home, and play. Ironically, because they prove over and over that they can be relied on for their loyalty and unstinting, high-quality work, those around them often take them for granted--even take advantage of them. Admittedly, the problem is sometimes aggravated by the ISFJs themselves; for instance, they are notoriously bad at delegating ("If you want it done right, do it yourself"). And although they're hurt by being treated like doormats, they are often unwilling to toot their own horns about their accomplishments because they feel that although they deserve more credit than they're getting, it's somehow wrong to want any sort of reward for doing work (which is supposed to be a virtue in itself). (And as low-profile Is, their actions don't call attention to themselves as with charismatic Es.) Because of all of this, ISFJs are often overworked, and as a result may suffer from psychosomatic illnesses.
In the workplace, ISFJs are methodical and accurate workers, often with very good memories and unexpected analytic abilities; they are also good with people in small-group or one-on-one situations because of their patient and genuinely sympathetic approach to dealing with others. ISFJs make pleasant and reliable co-workers and exemplary employees, but tend to be harried and uncomfortable in supervisory roles. They are capable of forming strong loyalties, but these are personal rather than institutional loyalties; if someone they've bonded with in this way leaves the company, the ISFJ will leave with them, if given the option. Traditional careers for an ISFJ include: teaching, social work, most religious work, nursing, medicine (general practice only), clerical and and secretarial work of any kind, and some kinds of administrative careers.
While their work ethic is high on the ISFJ priority list, their families are the centers of their lives. ISFJs are extremely warm and demonstrative within the family circle--and often possessive of their loved ones, as well. When these include Es who want to socialize with the rest of the world, or self-contained ITs, the ISFJ must learn to adjust to these behaviors and not interpret them as rejection. Being SJs, they place a strong emphasis on conventional behavior (although, unlike STJs, they are usually as concerned with being "nice" as with strict propriety); if any of their nearest and dearest depart from the straight-and-narrow, it causes the ISFJ major embarrassment: the closer the relationship and the more public the act, the more intense the embarrassment (a fact which many of their teenage children take gleeful advantage of). Over time, however, ISFJs usually mellow, and learn to regard the culprits as harmless eccentrics :-). Needless to say, ISFJs take infinite trouble over meals, gifts, celebrations, etc., for their loved ones--although strong Js may tend to focus more on what the recipient should want rather than what they do want.
Like most Is, ISFJs have a few, close friends. They are extremely loyal to these, and are ready to provide emotional and practical support at a moment's notice. (However, like most Fs they hate confrontation; if you get into a fight, don't expect them to jump in after you. You can count on them, however, run and get the nearest authority figure.) Unlike with EPs, the older the friendship is, the more an ISFJ will value it. One ISFJ trait that is easily misunderstood by those who haven't known them long is that they are often unable to either hide or articulate any distress they may be feeling. For instance, an ISFJ child may be reproved for "sulking," the actual cause of which is a combination of physical illness plus misguided "good manners." An adult ISFJ may drive a (later ashamed) friend or SO into a fit of temper over the ISFJ's unexplained moodiness, only afterwards to explain about a death in the family they "didn't want to burden anyone with." Those close to ISFJs should learn to watch for the warning signs in these situations and take the initiative themselves to uncover the problem.
These two articles describe me and my inner workings only too accurately. If you want to take the test, check out this link.
Monday, January 29, 2007
A Week Without Worry
My friend Anita got me to thinking what I would do if I had an entire week to myself - without the thought of having to go back to work on the eighth day, without the stress of the "shouldas," without the phone ringing off the hook. It reminded me of what she used to tell me when I was going through rough times (many times over), which basically boiled down to the advice that if I took care of my personal yearnings, explored some hobbies, read a few books and played a few dusty video games, that I would feel better for having taken care of myself. Given that week, and assuming that I cannot involve anyone else in what I do (though I would most certainly want my beau and my Anita alongside), here's what I'd do:
- Write a short story. I used to write all the time in high school and at the beginning of college, and used to be fairly good at spinning a cheesy yarn. The advent of college and graduate papers - and now constantly having to grade them - has kept me from this passion.
- Go camping. I've been yearning to spend some time outdoors lately, in communion with nature and her sounds and smells. I am always most at peace when I am most connected with the environment or have access to natural wonders, which is why I feel that Arizona was, in so many ways, a great fit for me that I chanced upon at the wrong time.
- Go hiking. Related to number two, hiking is great exercise and a way to be in contact with nature at once. I took myself hiking in Birmingham a few months ago, and really was able to relax at a level I rarely experience.
- Play some old school video games. I've had a hankering to pull out the old Amiga 2000 the last few months, and I just haven't made the time (or room) to do it. I miss getting lost trying to save the Lemmings.
- Read a few novels. Among the new ones I have yet to read (Harry Potter 6), I've wanted to reread a few of the classics (A Tale of Two Cities, Les Miserables, The Count of Monte Cristo, Confessions of Felix Krull). They always spark my imagination.
- Make a sinful dessert. And eat it all. I've had a craving for chocolate and cherries lately, and though I don't necessarily need them together, both would be nice additions to my post-meal enjoyment. I attempted to satisfy the cherry craving the other night by brining along a Wal-Mart cherry pie to a friend's house for dinner, but since all people who shop at Wal-Mart are apparently suffering from insulin issues, none of the pies available contained any sugar. Point of advice: Pies need sugar. Don't buy a sugar-free pie and think that the taste will remotely match the sight.
- Sleep without worrying I might miss something. I'm always starting awake thinking that something is going on that would be more fun than laying in bed, no matter how cozy I am in the sheets.
The wonderful thing is that I don't need to have a full week off to do any of these things, and have managed to chip away at a few of them every now and again. I feel better each time I indulge myself, and must work harder to treat myself mentally. These things are activities I have always enjoyed, and ought not be forgotten.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Supper Club Haikus
Charming guests
Witty as ten hens
Good gay boys
I love a good drink
Margaritas, if you please
Please don't lick the rim
Save your Wednesday nights
Meet us for Mexican food
Share your funny tales
(Okay, so I'm not so good at Haiku)
Salty chip
Dipped in picante
Burns my lips
(Hee hee... I'm done now!)
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Two Bobs Vila
We've really done a number on the house! After virtually buying something from each department of Lowe's, with plans to return yet a few more times for finishing touches, there is nary a room left in our house that has gone untouched by our Vila-esque hands. After installing a new fluorescent fixture in the currently-under-renovation laundry room and seeing the marked improvement over the old fixture that had been retrofitted with compact fluorescents (they had to be left dangling when the old globe wouldn't fit over them), we decided to do the same replacement in the other two rooms where bare bulbs hung: the kitchen and the office. The difference is amazing!
The new exterior door, screen door, and interior laundry room / den doors were supposed to be hung this weekend, but the rain outside prevented us from doing it. Instead, we came up with a plan for hanging the new vinyl shutters (to replace the rotting wooden ones) and actually did tear down the old 80s style vertical blinds in the living room. We replaced them with very classy plantation blinds and will go in search of a valence at Wal-Mart the next time we go. You didn't think that we could do all of this butch housework without thinking about the queer details, did you? ;-)
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Keeping It in the Family
At our "Supper Club" last night, we got into a conversation about adoption, and it got me to thinking about the reality of it all. My partner and I are currently on an adoption wait list - well, he is, since the state doesn't recognize me as anything other than a roommate - and are edging closer and closer to the top. Things will happen when they are supposed to; I'm in no rush to start a family.
Given the news lately about men in most states not being able to easily change their names at the time of marriage (all the woman does is indicate she wants to change it at the time of license application), I've reawakened to the concept that between my brother and myself, my last name will die out if we do not have biological children or adopt and pass the name down. If only American society could awaken for the first time to the idea that breaking convention is not, by default, a bad thing!
Given the news lately about men in most states not being able to easily change their names at the time of marriage (all the woman does is indicate she wants to change it at the time of license application), I've reawakened to the concept that between my brother and myself, my last name will die out if we do not have biological children or adopt and pass the name down. If only American society could awaken for the first time to the idea that breaking convention is not, by default, a bad thing!
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Froshty Fresh
I just love the academic cycle of life. My calendar, like it has been for so many years, is still divided into sixteen-week semesters. Some might find this stifling, annoying, or outrightly childish, but I argue that it is refreshing and helps me keep my youth(ful beauty). As a teacher, I'm lucky to have the opportunity to work with so many young people - as the number of students' lives I have touched grows well into the thousands, I take solace in the fact that each fall, spring, and summer, I temporarily gain access to help shape the minds of yet another few hundred wondering, wandering minds.
I'm very excited about this semester's EarthSmart class I'm teaching. It's the third time I've taught the course, so I've managed to work out a lot of the kinks and the "dead days" where there just wasn't enough activity. After having read the first round of the students' electronic journals, I am ecstatic to learn that I have finally made enough of a name for the course (I co-developed it in 2004 with two other colleagues) - that it has grown into itself and is no longer recommended by advisors and taken by students as a mistaken "easy 'A'". I've never been known to be an especially difficult teacher of freshman seminar courses, but I am quite a demanding one. These students will work, read, and write their hearts out for two hours of credit, but their comments at the trailing end of the semester will justify any frustration, mismanaged time, and dangling modifiers on the part of the pupil. At least I don't grade for grammar and style on student journal entries - I used to assist with the editing of a professional journal, and can be quite a demon (with angelic intentions) with a correcting pen.
So... Wanna enroll?
I'm very excited about this semester's EarthSmart class I'm teaching. It's the third time I've taught the course, so I've managed to work out a lot of the kinks and the "dead days" where there just wasn't enough activity. After having read the first round of the students' electronic journals, I am ecstatic to learn that I have finally made enough of a name for the course (I co-developed it in 2004 with two other colleagues) - that it has grown into itself and is no longer recommended by advisors and taken by students as a mistaken "easy 'A'". I've never been known to be an especially difficult teacher of freshman seminar courses, but I am quite a demanding one. These students will work, read, and write their hearts out for two hours of credit, but their comments at the trailing end of the semester will justify any frustration, mismanaged time, and dangling modifiers on the part of the pupil. At least I don't grade for grammar and style on student journal entries - I used to assist with the editing of a professional journal, and can be quite a demon (with angelic intentions) with a correcting pen.
So... Wanna enroll?
Monday, January 15, 2007
Two-fer
I just read my own blog... I'd avoid the mundaneness in the future, but wanted to give the new style a test! Maybe it'll be quelque chose de profonde next time! Or maybe just une petite histoire.
How can I go a new direction when I didn't have one originally?
In an effort to do a bit of writing every day or so per my conversation with Anita last night, I'm going to try it out. I can already hear the gasps - no need to comment that it's been a blue moon. I commented to her last night that I didn't often have enough thoughts to put up on web or down on paper in a day - at least not ones that are organized and sensible, and not to mention interesting to someone not me. Doubting that could be the case, Anita encouraged me to try out the daily writing thing. So... Here's my feeble-turning-valiant effort:
I spent the MLK holiday sleeping in a little later than intended, awoke to a sweet phone call from my beau, and sipped away gingerly at a near-boiling cup of freshly ground coffee - my morning mainstay. Per one of my New Year's resolutions, I am working on doing better at making time for my simple hobbies: reading, writing, gaming, and hiking. Biking should be in there, too, but I'm on a holiday from it while Jack Frost is in town. Okay, Jack Frost doesn't cross the Mason-Dixon line, but I don't feel like exercise at the moment.
I took some time and played Space Quest IV, which, after not having played it since before my college days, is nearly a new game. For whatever reason, I've been pining for the days where computer game storylines were linear and adventurous rather than the shoot-em-up'n'kill-em-all style of today. Since I can't control the world, I bought several compendia of old DOS-based Sierra games and have been playing my favorite space hero's character, Roger Wilco, over the span of the last month.
Later in the day, I drove to my beau's workplace and took him out to lunch - another of the simple pleasures I can enjoy when he's working and I'm not. Shopping followed lunch, and it was not a very productive experience. Today, I was in the selfish mindset of being able to shop for myself but not for my sister, father or stepmother, who still lack Christmas gifts. Why don't they have gifts? It's a long story - my credit card was shut off during a good bit of the pre-Christmas holiday due to my being out of the country. Ugh.
Tonight for dinner: pork chops, black-eyed peas, and possibly cornbread. Yumm....
I spent the MLK holiday sleeping in a little later than intended, awoke to a sweet phone call from my beau, and sipped away gingerly at a near-boiling cup of freshly ground coffee - my morning mainstay. Per one of my New Year's resolutions, I am working on doing better at making time for my simple hobbies: reading, writing, gaming, and hiking. Biking should be in there, too, but I'm on a holiday from it while Jack Frost is in town. Okay, Jack Frost doesn't cross the Mason-Dixon line, but I don't feel like exercise at the moment.
I took some time and played Space Quest IV, which, after not having played it since before my college days, is nearly a new game. For whatever reason, I've been pining for the days where computer game storylines were linear and adventurous rather than the shoot-em-up'n'kill-em-all style of today. Since I can't control the world, I bought several compendia of old DOS-based Sierra games and have been playing my favorite space hero's character, Roger Wilco, over the span of the last month.
Later in the day, I drove to my beau's workplace and took him out to lunch - another of the simple pleasures I can enjoy when he's working and I'm not. Shopping followed lunch, and it was not a very productive experience. Today, I was in the selfish mindset of being able to shop for myself but not for my sister, father or stepmother, who still lack Christmas gifts. Why don't they have gifts? It's a long story - my credit card was shut off during a good bit of the pre-Christmas holiday due to my being out of the country. Ugh.
Tonight for dinner: pork chops, black-eyed peas, and possibly cornbread. Yumm....
Monday, October 23, 2006
Je déteste Delta
I ended up squeezing a $50 voucher out of Delta for my disastrous experience with them, so I plan on applying that toward a visit up to Chicago sometime. You've already heard all about my trip up, what with the fog delay, missed connection and lost luggage. I would have preferred being shipped home via that same itinerary and under those same circumstances, had I known what would end up transpiring on Saturday. The short story is that I got home a day late due to nothing other than a series of airline employees' ineptitude. It's a good thing I'm just Joe American (with a twist of Nancy), otherwise I might have succeeded in ruining everyone else's day as well.
My flight was not scheduled to depart Indianapolis until 4:25pm on Saturday - and indeed it would have, had I not gotten in its way - but I had to check out of the hotel by 11:00am. I suppose I had figured in booking my tickets that a late afternoon flight would give me time to see Deb and Phil, whom I had already met for dinner earlier in the week; or at the very least grant me a few hours more to explore the city, which I found I was able to do in a fifteen-minute car ride with Deb and Phil. I'm not being sarcastic when I say that they are quite the couple to guide one through a place; I actually learned some interesting things about the town. We even had ambient classical music wafting from the car stereo - a perfect compliment to the cold rain that fell over the seemingly endless variety of monuments we passed at 10mph. Just for excitement, we even drove the wrong way down a few streets. Their reaction was priceless, although amazingly calm.
After I watched the rest of the Auburn delegation board the 2:20pm flight to Atlanta, I settled in with my book, Stories by Ray Bradbury, and nibbled on fruit-flavored Gummy Bears. I boarded the plane shortly before 4:15pm and began to settle in for the short flight. A woman approached me a few minutes before takeoff and insisted that I was in her seat. After a flight attendant overheard and had us produce our seat assignments - both of which were indeed for the same seat - we were told to wait a minute while he investigated the situation. Two minutes later, the flight attendant reappeared and told me that I had to get off the plane. Delta had change my itinerary between when I checked in earlier that afternoon and that moment due to having canceled my connecting flight out of Atlanta, but never made an announcement at the airport and didn't stop me when I tried to board the plane. They did, however, make sure to get a few extra hundred dollars by giving away my seat.
Livid, I grabbed my bag and walked off the plane. The gate agent met me at the jetway and proceeded to tell me that I would need to stay another night in Indianapolis because all later flights to Montgomery out of Atlanta were overbooked due to the earlier flight having been canceled. I lit into him for letting me board the plane to Atlanta knowing that my seat was double-booked, for not informing me during the four hours I was sitting at the departure gate that my itinerary had changed, and for causing me to lose a day of my life. He in turn became irate and told me to get out of the jetway so he could send the plane off to Atlanta, and I refused to budge until I had a solid plan in place for my return home. Ten minutes later, they angrily shoved me back on the plane to Atlanta (which had a few free seats!!!) and told me to work it out once I got there.
After having to explain my story to everyone at Delta customer support beginning at tier one and ending at tier 5,000, they tried to tell me that it was my fault for not checking my voice mail to see that they had called me shortly before 1:00pm.
"Oh, really?" I said, "What number did you call?"
They proceded to give me my cell phone number, from which I was calling at the time.
"Don't lie to me," I accused the tier 5,000 woman, "I'm calling you from that phone right now, and it hasn't even recorded a missed call. I was in the airport when you 'called,' and had made and received several calls already. You did not call this number to inform me of anything."
When I pushed her to ask why, knowing I was somewhere in the airport, no one made the attempt to contact me in person, she had no answer. They tried to give me frequent flyer miles for my plight, but I wouldn't accept them, worthless as they are. Delta had just sent me a letter a few months ago telling me that since I flew so infrequently, they were going to cause all of my accrued mileage to expire. I had donated all of my miles to AIDS Atlanta to at least force Delta to pay for something. 3,000 miles on my new balance of 1,300 would get me nowhere. A $50 voucher was all the agent was willing to do.
I squeezed onto the 11:00pm flight to Montgomery, and was home and in bed at 2:00am on Sunday. I took today off to help reset my sleep, and will deal with the wrath of my boss when I show up tomorrow morning. I needed a break!!
My flight was not scheduled to depart Indianapolis until 4:25pm on Saturday - and indeed it would have, had I not gotten in its way - but I had to check out of the hotel by 11:00am. I suppose I had figured in booking my tickets that a late afternoon flight would give me time to see Deb and Phil, whom I had already met for dinner earlier in the week; or at the very least grant me a few hours more to explore the city, which I found I was able to do in a fifteen-minute car ride with Deb and Phil. I'm not being sarcastic when I say that they are quite the couple to guide one through a place; I actually learned some interesting things about the town. We even had ambient classical music wafting from the car stereo - a perfect compliment to the cold rain that fell over the seemingly endless variety of monuments we passed at 10mph. Just for excitement, we even drove the wrong way down a few streets. Their reaction was priceless, although amazingly calm.
After I watched the rest of the Auburn delegation board the 2:20pm flight to Atlanta, I settled in with my book, Stories by Ray Bradbury, and nibbled on fruit-flavored Gummy Bears. I boarded the plane shortly before 4:15pm and began to settle in for the short flight. A woman approached me a few minutes before takeoff and insisted that I was in her seat. After a flight attendant overheard and had us produce our seat assignments - both of which were indeed for the same seat - we were told to wait a minute while he investigated the situation. Two minutes later, the flight attendant reappeared and told me that I had to get off the plane. Delta had change my itinerary between when I checked in earlier that afternoon and that moment due to having canceled my connecting flight out of Atlanta, but never made an announcement at the airport and didn't stop me when I tried to board the plane. They did, however, make sure to get a few extra hundred dollars by giving away my seat.
Livid, I grabbed my bag and walked off the plane. The gate agent met me at the jetway and proceeded to tell me that I would need to stay another night in Indianapolis because all later flights to Montgomery out of Atlanta were overbooked due to the earlier flight having been canceled. I lit into him for letting me board the plane to Atlanta knowing that my seat was double-booked, for not informing me during the four hours I was sitting at the departure gate that my itinerary had changed, and for causing me to lose a day of my life. He in turn became irate and told me to get out of the jetway so he could send the plane off to Atlanta, and I refused to budge until I had a solid plan in place for my return home. Ten minutes later, they angrily shoved me back on the plane to Atlanta (which had a few free seats!!!) and told me to work it out once I got there.
After having to explain my story to everyone at Delta customer support beginning at tier one and ending at tier 5,000, they tried to tell me that it was my fault for not checking my voice mail to see that they had called me shortly before 1:00pm.
"Oh, really?" I said, "What number did you call?"
They proceded to give me my cell phone number, from which I was calling at the time.
"Don't lie to me," I accused the tier 5,000 woman, "I'm calling you from that phone right now, and it hasn't even recorded a missed call. I was in the airport when you 'called,' and had made and received several calls already. You did not call this number to inform me of anything."
When I pushed her to ask why, knowing I was somewhere in the airport, no one made the attempt to contact me in person, she had no answer. They tried to give me frequent flyer miles for my plight, but I wouldn't accept them, worthless as they are. Delta had just sent me a letter a few months ago telling me that since I flew so infrequently, they were going to cause all of my accrued mileage to expire. I had donated all of my miles to AIDS Atlanta to at least force Delta to pay for something. 3,000 miles on my new balance of 1,300 would get me nowhere. A $50 voucher was all the agent was willing to do.
I squeezed onto the 11:00pm flight to Montgomery, and was home and in bed at 2:00am on Sunday. I took today off to help reset my sleep, and will deal with the wrath of my boss when I show up tomorrow morning. I needed a break!!
Monday, August 07, 2006
Questionnaire
Careful, folks... Some of this might be TMI! You have been forewarned.
in the last 24 hours:
Had sex: Yep.
Bought something: Yep; plane tickets to Europe!
Gotten sick: Nope.
Sang: Yep. Just this morning…
Been kissed: Passionately.
Ate something: Yep – a gyro, fries, and baklava.
Felt stupid: Yes indeedy.
Talked to an ex: Nope.
Missed someone: My Anita!
Last person who...
slept or laid in bed with you: My boyfriend.
saw you cry: My ex-boyfriend.
made you cry: My ex-boyfriend.
went to the movies with you: A friend.
went to the mall with you: My boyfriend.
Have you ever...
said I love you and meant it: Yes!
got into a fight with your pet: Sadie (Butter Hound) was a bitch!
been to New York: Just the state, not the city…
been to Mexico: Yeah – Juarez.
been to Canada: Yep! All over the east-central end (Ontario, Québec).
been to Europe: Yes – twice. About to go for a third in December.
been to Japan: Not yet.
been to Italy: Yes – I got hit by a Vespa while walking on the sidewalk in Florence!
Assorted questions:
do you have a crush on someone: My boyfriend…
what books are you reading: A lot of research on GLBT college students, 100 stories by Ray Bradbury
worst feeling in the world: being betrayed – I agree with Anita. Nothing compares.
future kids names: Haven’t thought about it too much. I’ve always liked Ethan and Cody.
do you sleep with a stuffed animal: Nope!
what's under your bed: Shoes and a scale so that I can see how fat or skinny I am.
favorite sport to watch: Depends on the season. I love soccer, tennis, and the Olympics.
location: Alabama
piercings: Never!
do you drink: I love a good wine with dinner – or a beer or two.
what are you most worried about right now: My presentation this afternoon on diversity.
where do you want to get married: in Canada.
who do you really hate: people who hate (lol, but it's true) – I agree with Anita!
do you like being around people: Sometimes. I’m a strong Myers-Briggs “I”, so people drain me.
have you ever cried: I am human, not Borg. YES.
are you lonely right now: No, for one of the few times I can remember.
song that is stuck in your head: It just left my head… It was Five for Fighting’s last hit.
played strip poker: Yeah… I’m not that good at it. hehehe
has anyone said you look like a celebrity: yes, both Fred Savage and Chris O’Donnell.
been drunk for more than 2 days straight: No way!!
have you ever done an all-nighter: when I was in school I did a few of those. Same as Anita.
Been on radio or TV: On TV, but not radio (in the background of a newscast).
been in in a mosh-pit: Nope.
do you have any gay/lesbian friends: LOL. Um, yeah…
can you dance: Yes, but it’s unsightly.
What is your favorite smell: chocolate chip cookies in the oven and Michigan pines.
What is the first things you notice about the opposite sex: that I’m not sexually attracted to them.
Name someone with the same birthday as you: My friend Michelle (at work).
in the last 24 hours:
Had sex: Yep.
Bought something: Yep; plane tickets to Europe!
Gotten sick: Nope.
Sang: Yep. Just this morning…
Been kissed: Passionately.
Ate something: Yep – a gyro, fries, and baklava.
Felt stupid: Yes indeedy.
Talked to an ex: Nope.
Missed someone: My Anita!
Last person who...
slept or laid in bed with you: My boyfriend.
saw you cry: My ex-boyfriend.
made you cry: My ex-boyfriend.
went to the movies with you: A friend.
went to the mall with you: My boyfriend.
Have you ever...
said I love you and meant it: Yes!
got into a fight with your pet: Sadie (Butter Hound) was a bitch!
been to New York: Just the state, not the city…
been to Mexico: Yeah – Juarez.
been to Canada: Yep! All over the east-central end (Ontario, Québec).
been to Europe: Yes – twice. About to go for a third in December.
been to Japan: Not yet.
been to Italy: Yes – I got hit by a Vespa while walking on the sidewalk in Florence!
Assorted questions:
do you have a crush on someone: My boyfriend…
what books are you reading: A lot of research on GLBT college students, 100 stories by Ray Bradbury
worst feeling in the world: being betrayed – I agree with Anita. Nothing compares.
future kids names: Haven’t thought about it too much. I’ve always liked Ethan and Cody.
do you sleep with a stuffed animal: Nope!
what's under your bed: Shoes and a scale so that I can see how fat or skinny I am.
favorite sport to watch: Depends on the season. I love soccer, tennis, and the Olympics.
location: Alabama
piercings: Never!
do you drink: I love a good wine with dinner – or a beer or two.
what are you most worried about right now: My presentation this afternoon on diversity.
where do you want to get married: in Canada.
who do you really hate: people who hate (lol, but it's true) – I agree with Anita!
do you like being around people: Sometimes. I’m a strong Myers-Briggs “I”, so people drain me.
have you ever cried: I am human, not Borg. YES.
are you lonely right now: No, for one of the few times I can remember.
song that is stuck in your head: It just left my head… It was Five for Fighting’s last hit.
played strip poker: Yeah… I’m not that good at it. hehehe
has anyone said you look like a celebrity: yes, both Fred Savage and Chris O’Donnell.
been drunk for more than 2 days straight: No way!!
have you ever done an all-nighter: when I was in school I did a few of those. Same as Anita.
Been on radio or TV: On TV, but not radio (in the background of a newscast).
been in in a mosh-pit: Nope.
do you have any gay/lesbian friends: LOL. Um, yeah…
can you dance: Yes, but it’s unsightly.
What is your favorite smell: chocolate chip cookies in the oven and Michigan pines.
What is the first things you notice about the opposite sex: that I’m not sexually attracted to them.
Name someone with the same birthday as you: My friend Michelle (at work).
Saturday, July 15, 2006
The Empress’ New Clothes / Les nouveaux vêtements de l’Impéatrice
Before we had even arrived at the Gulf Coast condo, we had already fought. My brother, Josh, drove from Chicago to pick me up in my university town two weeks ago, and after spending some time with my mom the next day, we set out for the big ocean blue. Only two hours into the drive, I received a phone call from my sister, Katie, who asked when we thought we would arrive.
“What?” she said, not quite able to hear me over the combination of cell phone crackles, road noise, and Moby.
I repeated to her that just over 100 miles remained of our trip southward.
“Oh. Well, I’m going to head over to pick up David (step-brother) at the airport, and probably won’t be back by the time you arrive. I’m going to let my friends stay, though.”
Josh and I were unimpressed by her decision to leave people in the condo while not there herself. Suffice it to say that, although I’m sure the three friends in question were trustworthy that day, they were once known as a pretty lawless bunch back in their recent high school days. I informed Katie that I felt it would be better for her to wish her friends adieu before going planeside. Equally unimpressed by my suggestion, Katie began to tell me exactly what she would and would not do for me, and may have been in the process of making a disparaging remark about my perceived uptightness when Josh grabbed the phone from my ear.
“Tell your friends to get the fuck out of the condo, bitch!” I imagined I heard him say to her. What I actually heard was, “Bad idea, Kate. I think they should go, too.” Or something close to that.
After a considerable and formidable exchange of undercuts, insults, and bad language, the only resolution seemed to be to call my father to inquire as to how to change the lockbox code for the front door. Equipped with the combination to the device, Katie’s relatively local friends not only would have access to the condo at any time while we were there for the week, but would also be able to key their way in after we left and throw a post-Katie beach fiesta. The tense, combative atmosphere we had created before our arrival persisted throughout the week, but was temporarily uplifted one drunken evening.
In all actuality, Katie and her boyfriend were the only ones drunk. Neither was wasted, but both were just past the point where the guard that keeps reasonable people from doing unreasonable (and defaming) things had dropped. The five of us (Josh, Katie, Katie’s boyfriend, David, and me) were all on the beach, enjoying what I believe was our first group-wide conversation without bickering and blubbering, when Katie’s boyfriend announced that he would go swimming. Five minutes later, Katie stood up, calmly but quickly removing her bikini top – and bottom.
“I’m going skinny dipping!” she announced, sashaying toward the surf.
“Evidently,” the rest of us thought.
She returned to us after her ten minute frolic under the waxing moon, soaking and nude – and quite confident, I am forced to admit. Still amused, Josh offered up a proposition (not that kind):
“Hey, Kate – I’ll give you five bucks if you walk up to those people and talk to them,” he said, gesturing toward a group of three teenagers walking down the beach in our direction. The group consisted of two girls and one guy, the latter of whom was carrying a flashlight whose beam meandered up and down the shoreline as they strolled.
Without a verbal response, Katie sidled up to the posse. The flashlight beam passed casually over her naked body, then sailed sharply downward. She asked in a sexy, vapid voice: “Hey… Umm… Anyone know where I can find a clothing store around here?”
It was hard to hear anything over our titters and snorts and the sound of the ocean waves, but we were able to make out the girl’s puzzled response: “Do you mean, like, a souvenir shop?”
She might as well have suggested an ice cream cone. Instead, she had recommended a snow globe. After finding out that the three teens hailed from Texas, I vowed never to raise a child there. That is, unless, Texans shop for clothing at the local merchant of airbrushed tees.
“What?” she said, not quite able to hear me over the combination of cell phone crackles, road noise, and Moby.
I repeated to her that just over 100 miles remained of our trip southward.
“Oh. Well, I’m going to head over to pick up David (step-brother) at the airport, and probably won’t be back by the time you arrive. I’m going to let my friends stay, though.”
Josh and I were unimpressed by her decision to leave people in the condo while not there herself. Suffice it to say that, although I’m sure the three friends in question were trustworthy that day, they were once known as a pretty lawless bunch back in their recent high school days. I informed Katie that I felt it would be better for her to wish her friends adieu before going planeside. Equally unimpressed by my suggestion, Katie began to tell me exactly what she would and would not do for me, and may have been in the process of making a disparaging remark about my perceived uptightness when Josh grabbed the phone from my ear.
“Tell your friends to get the fuck out of the condo, bitch!” I imagined I heard him say to her. What I actually heard was, “Bad idea, Kate. I think they should go, too.” Or something close to that.
After a considerable and formidable exchange of undercuts, insults, and bad language, the only resolution seemed to be to call my father to inquire as to how to change the lockbox code for the front door. Equipped with the combination to the device, Katie’s relatively local friends not only would have access to the condo at any time while we were there for the week, but would also be able to key their way in after we left and throw a post-Katie beach fiesta. The tense, combative atmosphere we had created before our arrival persisted throughout the week, but was temporarily uplifted one drunken evening.
In all actuality, Katie and her boyfriend were the only ones drunk. Neither was wasted, but both were just past the point where the guard that keeps reasonable people from doing unreasonable (and defaming) things had dropped. The five of us (Josh, Katie, Katie’s boyfriend, David, and me) were all on the beach, enjoying what I believe was our first group-wide conversation without bickering and blubbering, when Katie’s boyfriend announced that he would go swimming. Five minutes later, Katie stood up, calmly but quickly removing her bikini top – and bottom.
“I’m going skinny dipping!” she announced, sashaying toward the surf.
“Evidently,” the rest of us thought.
She returned to us after her ten minute frolic under the waxing moon, soaking and nude – and quite confident, I am forced to admit. Still amused, Josh offered up a proposition (not that kind):
“Hey, Kate – I’ll give you five bucks if you walk up to those people and talk to them,” he said, gesturing toward a group of three teenagers walking down the beach in our direction. The group consisted of two girls and one guy, the latter of whom was carrying a flashlight whose beam meandered up and down the shoreline as they strolled.
Without a verbal response, Katie sidled up to the posse. The flashlight beam passed casually over her naked body, then sailed sharply downward. She asked in a sexy, vapid voice: “Hey… Umm… Anyone know where I can find a clothing store around here?”
It was hard to hear anything over our titters and snorts and the sound of the ocean waves, but we were able to make out the girl’s puzzled response: “Do you mean, like, a souvenir shop?”
She might as well have suggested an ice cream cone. Instead, she had recommended a snow globe. After finding out that the three teens hailed from Texas, I vowed never to raise a child there. That is, unless, Texans shop for clothing at the local merchant of airbrushed tees.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Le paparazi m'en veut
I turned the key in the lock and opened my kitchen door. I had agreed to meet my mom during our lunch hour and had arrived just a few minutes before her – just enough time to prepare a ham and cheese sandwich on the fresh, spongy wheat bread I had bought the night before. Even though I had long since progressed to the healthier, heavier multigrain breads, I felt possessed during my last trip to the grocery section of Wal-Mart to take a taste trip back to my childhood, when I would sit at my grandmother’s dining room table, trying to tell her about the latest playground drama as I tried with my tongue to swish away the congealed Wonder Bread glued to the roof of my mouth. As I spread a dollop of mustard onto the slice before me, I heard a knock at the front porch door.
“Hi! I brought along a couple of changes of clothes so that you can take a few glamour shots of me before lunch,” my mother said exuberantly. “Go get your digital camera. I want to put these on my matchmaking website by this Friday.”
We were both aware, of course - but as you may not be - that my father (her ex-husband) is a photographer and, were he there, would be able to quickly dismiss the request with an insistence upon doing the shoot under proper lights in the studio. This tactic would have sucked the air out of her idea balloon under those particular circumstances, but both my mother and I (and you, too, now) know that I had no such excuse for a delay/dissuasion.
“Uh, Mom, that’s just odd – making your son take pict…” I began to reply.
I promptly shut my mouth after realizing in a flash (pun intended) that I wasn’t going to win this battle. Defeated, I scrambled back to the computer desk in my bedroom and snatched the camera from its docking station. I returned to the living room, heavy with the fear of what treasurable moments might be in store for me.
“Okay,” I sighed, “we can do creepy pictures of you sitting on the couch like Grandma – only without a cigarette in hand, or we can move outside and take them in front of the… traffic on the street… er… or the non-flowering bush next to the neighbor’s house. Your choice!”
She chose the bush, and maneuvered into her first pose.
“You look like a slut, Mom! I’m not taking your picture like that.” I couldn’t believe the lewd pose she had struck, and I didn’t care that my voice had probably floated across the street and into the open neighbor’s window. At that moment, I was struck with the notion that I had never wanted, nor do I want to see again, my mother’s bedroom eyes. Flashing them once for my father was enough to bring me to this particular day and time. I temporarily – and silently - cursed that moment.
“Good.” I could see the horns sprout from her scalp. “Maybe that way I can get a date!”
I took several saucy snapshots of her in various poses in front of the withering shrubbery, then begged to return to the kitchen and finish making the sandwiches. Having already had my mind taken back to my childhood by the scent of the Wonder Bread, I found myself wanting to retreat further into the relative innocence of my childhood. I had no such luck.
“Don’t be silly! I brought a few more outfits to change into and want to do some fun shots!” She disappeared into my closet after walking briskly by my side. If the shots we had just taken weren’t considered “fun,” I didn’t want to see what “fun” would bring for me or her future online suitors.
“Where are you going?” I asked. Okay, I whined.
“Oh, I just wanted to borrow a pair of your jeans…”
“You’re not going to wear my clothes, Mom. I’ve had enough of Glamour Shots time.”
“Fine,” she sulked, then brightened again. “Then let me put on one of your blazers and a tie.”
“No.”
She shut herself in the bathroom, which adjoins my walk-in closet. I halfway expected her to emerge wearing a full but mismatched ensemble of my articles of clothing, or – worse – a trench coat ripe for the flashing. She tossed open the door, revealing a much more subtle costume change: She had taken off her sweater and turned it inside out before pulling it back over her head. Grateful for the dissolution of my nightmare scenarios, I did not question her choice in reversible fashion.
“See? It’s a whole new outfit!” Her hair had been drawn back into a “fun” pony tail.
We took several shots of her on the porch: looking longingly into the distance, laughing while seated in my deck chair, et cetera. I finally won the fight to finish the sandwiches after explaining that I could not deal with the further formation of stress-induced ulcers by adding malnutrition to my list of worries. We supped uneventfully; I was preparing to see Mom to the door and get back to my campus office when she exclaimed:
“Go get your camera again!”
“Jesus,” I thought. “I can only imagine.” Mom had disappeared into my bedroom.
“What are you doing?” I implored her with my tone to return to her move toward departure.
She had moved in front of my tall bookcase to rummage through my novels and old college textbooks, and fetched out a short French novel. She opened the book and gazed into it with the look of an academician.
“Take my picture. I want to look well-read,” she asked kindly.
It would have been classic if she had been wearing a t-shirt that read “I don’t know French,” or had she been holding the book upside-down. Thankfully for her pride and my own, she was not. I could not believe what I had been reduced to do in the name of satiating my parent. I believe you understand the degree to which I love my mother now. It is worth doing nearly anything to see her happy.
It would be tasteless of me to post any of the photos taken during this session, so I won’t… for now. Let’s just say that I’m a good photographer’s son and made my mother look like a million bucks – despite the unusual props and backgrounds. Ironically, my mom felt that they added ten years and twenty pounds. Perhaps I’ll try my hand at the old Photoshop airbrush tool.
Oh, the stories I’ll have to tell future generations… I love you anyway, Mom!
“Hi! I brought along a couple of changes of clothes so that you can take a few glamour shots of me before lunch,” my mother said exuberantly. “Go get your digital camera. I want to put these on my matchmaking website by this Friday.”
We were both aware, of course - but as you may not be - that my father (her ex-husband) is a photographer and, were he there, would be able to quickly dismiss the request with an insistence upon doing the shoot under proper lights in the studio. This tactic would have sucked the air out of her idea balloon under those particular circumstances, but both my mother and I (and you, too, now) know that I had no such excuse for a delay/dissuasion.
“Uh, Mom, that’s just odd – making your son take pict…” I began to reply.
I promptly shut my mouth after realizing in a flash (pun intended) that I wasn’t going to win this battle. Defeated, I scrambled back to the computer desk in my bedroom and snatched the camera from its docking station. I returned to the living room, heavy with the fear of what treasurable moments might be in store for me.
“Okay,” I sighed, “we can do creepy pictures of you sitting on the couch like Grandma – only without a cigarette in hand, or we can move outside and take them in front of the… traffic on the street… er… or the non-flowering bush next to the neighbor’s house. Your choice!”
She chose the bush, and maneuvered into her first pose.
“You look like a slut, Mom! I’m not taking your picture like that.” I couldn’t believe the lewd pose she had struck, and I didn’t care that my voice had probably floated across the street and into the open neighbor’s window. At that moment, I was struck with the notion that I had never wanted, nor do I want to see again, my mother’s bedroom eyes. Flashing them once for my father was enough to bring me to this particular day and time. I temporarily – and silently - cursed that moment.
“Good.” I could see the horns sprout from her scalp. “Maybe that way I can get a date!”
I took several saucy snapshots of her in various poses in front of the withering shrubbery, then begged to return to the kitchen and finish making the sandwiches. Having already had my mind taken back to my childhood by the scent of the Wonder Bread, I found myself wanting to retreat further into the relative innocence of my childhood. I had no such luck.
“Don’t be silly! I brought a few more outfits to change into and want to do some fun shots!” She disappeared into my closet after walking briskly by my side. If the shots we had just taken weren’t considered “fun,” I didn’t want to see what “fun” would bring for me or her future online suitors.
“Where are you going?” I asked. Okay, I whined.
“Oh, I just wanted to borrow a pair of your jeans…”
“You’re not going to wear my clothes, Mom. I’ve had enough of Glamour Shots time.”
“Fine,” she sulked, then brightened again. “Then let me put on one of your blazers and a tie.”
“No.”
She shut herself in the bathroom, which adjoins my walk-in closet. I halfway expected her to emerge wearing a full but mismatched ensemble of my articles of clothing, or – worse – a trench coat ripe for the flashing. She tossed open the door, revealing a much more subtle costume change: She had taken off her sweater and turned it inside out before pulling it back over her head. Grateful for the dissolution of my nightmare scenarios, I did not question her choice in reversible fashion.
“See? It’s a whole new outfit!” Her hair had been drawn back into a “fun” pony tail.
We took several shots of her on the porch: looking longingly into the distance, laughing while seated in my deck chair, et cetera. I finally won the fight to finish the sandwiches after explaining that I could not deal with the further formation of stress-induced ulcers by adding malnutrition to my list of worries. We supped uneventfully; I was preparing to see Mom to the door and get back to my campus office when she exclaimed:
“Go get your camera again!”
“Jesus,” I thought. “I can only imagine.” Mom had disappeared into my bedroom.
“What are you doing?” I implored her with my tone to return to her move toward departure.
She had moved in front of my tall bookcase to rummage through my novels and old college textbooks, and fetched out a short French novel. She opened the book and gazed into it with the look of an academician.
“Take my picture. I want to look well-read,” she asked kindly.
It would have been classic if she had been wearing a t-shirt that read “I don’t know French,” or had she been holding the book upside-down. Thankfully for her pride and my own, she was not. I could not believe what I had been reduced to do in the name of satiating my parent. I believe you understand the degree to which I love my mother now. It is worth doing nearly anything to see her happy.
It would be tasteless of me to post any of the photos taken during this session, so I won’t… for now. Let’s just say that I’m a good photographer’s son and made my mother look like a million bucks – despite the unusual props and backgrounds. Ironically, my mom felt that they added ten years and twenty pounds. Perhaps I’ll try my hand at the old Photoshop airbrush tool.
Oh, the stories I’ll have to tell future generations… I love you anyway, Mom!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Ma nouvelle voisine: Katie Couric (Katie Couric Is My Neighbor)
When I got out of my car this morning after arriving at my house, I could hear muffled talking coming from next door. As I got a little closer to the house, I distinctly heard Al Roker tell me that today was going to be beautiful; then Katie Couric took over to explain to me why I paid so much at the pump a few days ago. I pictured Al and Katie sitting with my neighbor Ben in his living room, lounging on his couch, sipping at piping hot coffee from their Today Show mugs (they brought one for Ben, too). How nice would it be to sit down with those media moguls and talk shop for an hour or so!
I rounded the corner and leapt up the two steps leading to my kitchen door. Much to my chagrin, Katie's voice had grown quite loud - almost irate - and Matt Lauer had to calm her by stepping in to tell her and me about something happier in the news. He quickly whipped himself into a frenzied pitch as well, however. I opened the door to Katie, Matt, Al and Ann shrieking like banshees, and final woke up out of my daydream to realize that the quartet had not come to visit Ben, but to see ME! Apparently, the power had gone out overnight, and when it flickered back on, it triggered the living room tv to come on with a vengeful volume. There is no telling what Ben had to watch through the walls last night - at least I hadn't last taken in a sultry Skinamax show or left some steamy DVD spinning in the player. Embarrassed, I forced the Today Show crew out of my living room and back to New York. I'll apologize to Ben later.
Monday, April 17, 2006
The Litmus Test
“What’s your problem?” said my sister to my boyfriend when we arrived at my mother’s house for dinner on Saturday night.
While this stinging release of her inner monologue could have been (relatively) easily dismissed with a wink and half-cocked smile or an elbow to the ribs and a “just kiddin’,” my little sister had not an inkling of an intention to recant her questioning of my boyfriend’s dislike for dogs. In fact, those were her words of introduction upon meeting him for the first time. The idea that she might want to make a positive, welcoming impression on him had somehow escaped her, despite my better efforts to make her understand how much I was in love with him. I knew from that moment that the American Sisquisition had begun and would be conducted without mercy.
A good sport, he took such comments as, “You should just get over your fear of dogs because you’re weird,” “What do you mean you have never had Chinese food? You’re weird, and we’re going to have some delivered,” and “You’re making my brother weird[er than he already is],” in stride. I was continually trying to predict my sister’s next attempt at verbally accosting my boyfriend, hoping that he wasn’t wondering when my own impossible questions would begin. I made the appropriate defensive remarks, but not to the point of emasculating him; he had smartly realized that stoicism was the best response. And the floodgates opened – but quickly shut again when she realized her Sisquisition would only yield a very perturbed brother and unscathed brother’s boyfriend.
I believe he won her respect, but the challenge to her ego will be everlasting. I don’t know about you, but I always visit my relatives with the intention of breaking every other visitor who crosses the threshold. Like most brothers and sisters do when the fight becomes moot, we let what little conversation there was dissipate and resorted to throwing my mother’s armrest covers at each other’s heads.
While this stinging release of her inner monologue could have been (relatively) easily dismissed with a wink and half-cocked smile or an elbow to the ribs and a “just kiddin’,” my little sister had not an inkling of an intention to recant her questioning of my boyfriend’s dislike for dogs. In fact, those were her words of introduction upon meeting him for the first time. The idea that she might want to make a positive, welcoming impression on him had somehow escaped her, despite my better efforts to make her understand how much I was in love with him. I knew from that moment that the American Sisquisition had begun and would be conducted without mercy.
A good sport, he took such comments as, “You should just get over your fear of dogs because you’re weird,” “What do you mean you have never had Chinese food? You’re weird, and we’re going to have some delivered,” and “You’re making my brother weird[er than he already is],” in stride. I was continually trying to predict my sister’s next attempt at verbally accosting my boyfriend, hoping that he wasn’t wondering when my own impossible questions would begin. I made the appropriate defensive remarks, but not to the point of emasculating him; he had smartly realized that stoicism was the best response. And the floodgates opened – but quickly shut again when she realized her Sisquisition would only yield a very perturbed brother and unscathed brother’s boyfriend.
I believe he won her respect, but the challenge to her ego will be everlasting. I don’t know about you, but I always visit my relatives with the intention of breaking every other visitor who crosses the threshold. Like most brothers and sisters do when the fight becomes moot, we let what little conversation there was dissipate and resorted to throwing my mother’s armrest covers at each other’s heads.
Monday, April 03, 2006
From Myth to Reality
Margaret Cho said it best: When she met a man who possessed so many of the qualities she was looking for – a kind, gentle, caring, intelligent, truthful, and cute guy – the only question that came to her mind was, “Are you a unicorn??” I honestly think I’ve found one, and am excited to no end. It was another wonderful, relaxing weekend replete with rest and fun – so much fun, in fact that I couldn’t get to sleep last night because I didn’t want to miss a minute with him. It made this morning a bit rough, but it was worth it.
A true sweetheart, he baked blueberry muffins on Sunday night so that we would both have something to eat for breakfast. When my alarm sounded at 5:45 this morning, I rose out of bed, said my goodbyes, pulled on my “driving clothes” (read: clothes from the day before), and headed out the door, grabbing a muffin and a Diet Coke on the way. Not used to starting the trip in the darkness of daylight savings time, I glided out of the driveway and pulled away into what was left of the midnight mist. I cracked open the Diet Coke and took a few sips before turning onto the two-lane country road that would lead me along the fifty-mile trek home.
Only eight miles into the trip, I found myself thirsty again. I was, in my muddled mind, reliving highlights from the weekend simultaneously with keeping the car between the dashed yellow and solid white lines and reaching for the soda. As I lifted the drink to my lips, I could hear metallic pops and fizzing coming from within the can. Suddenly, it disappeared; it had slipped right through my morning butterfingers. The pops and fizzing sounds were replaced by hissing and gurgling, and my hand shot down to recover the upset drink. I grabbed it on the first attempt, only to hear more sounds of effervescence as I inadvertently emptied the remainder of the can’s contents onto the driver’s floor mat.
Anytime I have a 50% chance for success, it seems like lady luck always gives me the cold, sticky, bubbling shoulder. My personal Murphy’s law must state somewhere that I will pick up an overturned can in the upside-down position every time; I hope never to test this supposition again. At least I was able to spend two and half days with a mythical creature. I smiled at the thought, grabbed some old Wendy’s napkins from the glove compartment, and laid them over the spill. What a nice few days…
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Cauchemar bizarre et effrayant
Okay, so here is the weird dream I had:
I was running some sort of race (you know how I love to run) that took place on some rural stretch of Interstate. As I was jogging past a farm, I noticed a pair of gentlemen in some sort of junkyard adjacent to their house, tinkering around with something I couldn't make out. For some reason, I felt like I had the time to leave the race for a bit and went over to check out the situation. The two men - one older, one younger - were trying to move a large, ten-foot long piece of heavy metal tubing, and had somehow rigged up a system of chains in order to make the task easier.
The men were fairly aggressive toward me, but at the same time were appreciative of my efforts. I found out in the limited conversation we had that the younger one was, coincidentally, the boyfriend of my acquaintance Bonnie, one of the young women who works in our IT department as a troubleshooter. After successfully relocating the metal tube from one seemingly useless location to another, I rejoined the race along the highway.
Apparently, I was quite ahead of the pack at the time I stopped to help Bonnie's boyfriend and the other man. When I reached the Interstate again, I jogged up the entrance ramp and joined the throng of runners who had since caught up with me. Among them was Bonnie, with whom I began a cheery, albeit breathless, conversation about the chance meeting that had taken place off-road only minutes ago.
The highway entered a more urban area and became elevated - much like the downtown portion of I-10 in New Orleans. As Bonnie, me, and the rest of the pack rounded a bend, I saw Bonnie's boyfriend standing at the top of the next rise - a bridge, perhaps - holding a shotgun. When he spotted me, he shouted something about my having stolen Bonnie from him (as if!), raised the shotgun to his shoulders, and fired.
I thought that you weren't supposed to die in dreams, but I felt the bullet hit my face, just below my right eye. I had enough time to slurrily wish everyone well, and then my world went black.
It's a good thing that the urban legend about dreaming of death actually causing death isn't true. I woke up next to my boyfriend, took a deep breath, and went back to sleep - peacefully.
I was running some sort of race (you know how I love to run) that took place on some rural stretch of Interstate. As I was jogging past a farm, I noticed a pair of gentlemen in some sort of junkyard adjacent to their house, tinkering around with something I couldn't make out. For some reason, I felt like I had the time to leave the race for a bit and went over to check out the situation. The two men - one older, one younger - were trying to move a large, ten-foot long piece of heavy metal tubing, and had somehow rigged up a system of chains in order to make the task easier.
The men were fairly aggressive toward me, but at the same time were appreciative of my efforts. I found out in the limited conversation we had that the younger one was, coincidentally, the boyfriend of my acquaintance Bonnie, one of the young women who works in our IT department as a troubleshooter. After successfully relocating the metal tube from one seemingly useless location to another, I rejoined the race along the highway.
Apparently, I was quite ahead of the pack at the time I stopped to help Bonnie's boyfriend and the other man. When I reached the Interstate again, I jogged up the entrance ramp and joined the throng of runners who had since caught up with me. Among them was Bonnie, with whom I began a cheery, albeit breathless, conversation about the chance meeting that had taken place off-road only minutes ago.
The highway entered a more urban area and became elevated - much like the downtown portion of I-10 in New Orleans. As Bonnie, me, and the rest of the pack rounded a bend, I saw Bonnie's boyfriend standing at the top of the next rise - a bridge, perhaps - holding a shotgun. When he spotted me, he shouted something about my having stolen Bonnie from him (as if!), raised the shotgun to his shoulders, and fired.
I thought that you weren't supposed to die in dreams, but I felt the bullet hit my face, just below my right eye. I had enough time to slurrily wish everyone well, and then my world went black.
It's a good thing that the urban legend about dreaming of death actually causing death isn't true. I woke up next to my boyfriend, took a deep breath, and went back to sleep - peacefully.
Friday, March 24, 2006
La bonne chance / Heureux enfin / Ma belle vie
What an eventful few weeks... I just received word a few days ago that I have been offered a job at my university that will be a significant promotion over my current position, complete with a considerable raise in salary. Maybe there will be other options for lunchtime besides homemade turkey sandwiches and reduced fat Ruffles. Maybe I can even begin a 403(b) account (like a 401(k), but for us educators). I can hear the RV's engine purring as I type...
My mother recently moved to town after years of waffling (read: physically relocating, multiple times) between a small southern village and a major midwestern city. She gained employment with the University and seems to be quite happy, having started work two days ago. Maybe this third city, which carries no previous emotional baggage, will be the winning ticket for her life's lottery. I am adjusting to living near family again (it has been 11 years since I lived any fewer than 3.5 hours away from the closest relative), and helping her adjust to my - now our - fair city.
I have met quite a wonderful man, and he has been in my life for a month and a half now. Though not too much time has passed since we first met, I have never felt so special and adored, and I look forward to every moment we spend together. This is no short-term fling; I hope, as we continue getting to know one another, that the strong feelings we have will persist. We are both long-term, relationship-minded people with goals and ambition, and he has the gentlest, sweetest, most sincere personality to boot. I humbly decline to comment on my own.
I am headed down to his house for the weekend, and cannot wait for whatever is in store. He is the kind of person with whom I can do or say nothing and still be comfortable - a BIG step and important facet of a successful, healthy relationship. Although I am enjoying living in the moment, my mind has wandered down the path of the future between us. I like the scenery that lies ahead.
My mother recently moved to town after years of waffling (read: physically relocating, multiple times) between a small southern village and a major midwestern city. She gained employment with the University and seems to be quite happy, having started work two days ago. Maybe this third city, which carries no previous emotional baggage, will be the winning ticket for her life's lottery. I am adjusting to living near family again (it has been 11 years since I lived any fewer than 3.5 hours away from the closest relative), and helping her adjust to my - now our - fair city.
I have met quite a wonderful man, and he has been in my life for a month and a half now. Though not too much time has passed since we first met, I have never felt so special and adored, and I look forward to every moment we spend together. This is no short-term fling; I hope, as we continue getting to know one another, that the strong feelings we have will persist. We are both long-term, relationship-minded people with goals and ambition, and he has the gentlest, sweetest, most sincere personality to boot. I humbly decline to comment on my own.
I am headed down to his house for the weekend, and cannot wait for whatever is in store. He is the kind of person with whom I can do or say nothing and still be comfortable - a BIG step and important facet of a successful, healthy relationship. Although I am enjoying living in the moment, my mind has wandered down the path of the future between us. I like the scenery that lies ahead.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
My Dreamy Advisor
I’m not so sure I would describe myself as “dreamy”. I don’t mean to say that I’m not a good person deserving of spectacular friends and a fulfilling relationship – just that I believe I fall a bit closer to the midpoint between the two extremes of dreamy and boorish. Two people apparently find me to be much more on the positive side of that continuum, and one in particular has made me very happy as of late.
My new boyfriend and I have been seeing each other for a about a month now, and in the days since we first met face-to-face, I have never felt so appreciated and loved. A brief assessment of some of my past relationships would yield the discovery that I have sometimes felt the need to give over 50% to keep things going – something that is emotionally taxing and leaves me feeling undeserving of the other’s love and commitment. What a difference a few weeks make! He calls me back when I call him, and I am eager to do the same each time he calls me. We can spend time doing absolutely nothing – together or separately – and still enjoy each other’s company. The look in his eyes when he gazes at me sends a warm rush of energy through my body. It is abundantly clear that he cares about me, and I believe he knows it is mutual.
Now on the other side of the first few “getting-to-know-you” weeks, I cannot believe what I would have missed had I continued along my path of being shut down. I had such a hard time getting over my last boyfriend that I nearly didn’t give him a chance to get to know me or see my softer side. I didn’t want to hurt like that again - and still don’t. Even when I explained (on Valentine’s Day evening, ironically) that I was emotionally unavailable and that it had nothing to do with him, he was not dissuaded from staying around and learning more about me, even if he was relegated to being my friend – without the possibility of anything more. It was that moment in my kitchen, while I was hurriedly washing the dishes and he was keeping me company, that he dismissed my comment about being unavailable as “okay and normal”. He began to win me over, and with each day of realizing he would be patient and respectful of my wishes not to get involved in another relationship, I began to understand that I might be missing something wonderful by not giving him a chance. I began to gradually let down my guard.
The following weekend, I took him walking on campus, showing him my office and running a quick errand. As we walked through one of the bucolic quadrangles, we passed a pair of young ladies who were sitting on a picnic blanket, pretending to study. I was so engrossed in my company that I didn’t hear one of them say hello to me. My boyfriend turned to acknowledge her, and once I realized what had transpired, I was too far along to turn around and say anything.
“Did you hear what she said after I said hi back?” he said, giggling.
She had apparently added as an aside to her friend, in a wistful, whispering tone: “That’s my advisor!”
“Isn’t he dreamy?” he added, with the same degree of longing. We collapsed into laughter.
I hope he understands that I find him dreamy, too.
My new boyfriend and I have been seeing each other for a about a month now, and in the days since we first met face-to-face, I have never felt so appreciated and loved. A brief assessment of some of my past relationships would yield the discovery that I have sometimes felt the need to give over 50% to keep things going – something that is emotionally taxing and leaves me feeling undeserving of the other’s love and commitment. What a difference a few weeks make! He calls me back when I call him, and I am eager to do the same each time he calls me. We can spend time doing absolutely nothing – together or separately – and still enjoy each other’s company. The look in his eyes when he gazes at me sends a warm rush of energy through my body. It is abundantly clear that he cares about me, and I believe he knows it is mutual.
Now on the other side of the first few “getting-to-know-you” weeks, I cannot believe what I would have missed had I continued along my path of being shut down. I had such a hard time getting over my last boyfriend that I nearly didn’t give him a chance to get to know me or see my softer side. I didn’t want to hurt like that again - and still don’t. Even when I explained (on Valentine’s Day evening, ironically) that I was emotionally unavailable and that it had nothing to do with him, he was not dissuaded from staying around and learning more about me, even if he was relegated to being my friend – without the possibility of anything more. It was that moment in my kitchen, while I was hurriedly washing the dishes and he was keeping me company, that he dismissed my comment about being unavailable as “okay and normal”. He began to win me over, and with each day of realizing he would be patient and respectful of my wishes not to get involved in another relationship, I began to understand that I might be missing something wonderful by not giving him a chance. I began to gradually let down my guard.
The following weekend, I took him walking on campus, showing him my office and running a quick errand. As we walked through one of the bucolic quadrangles, we passed a pair of young ladies who were sitting on a picnic blanket, pretending to study. I was so engrossed in my company that I didn’t hear one of them say hello to me. My boyfriend turned to acknowledge her, and once I realized what had transpired, I was too far along to turn around and say anything.
“Did you hear what she said after I said hi back?” he said, giggling.
She had apparently added as an aside to her friend, in a wistful, whispering tone: “That’s my advisor!”
“Isn’t he dreamy?” he added, with the same degree of longing. We collapsed into laughter.
I hope he understands that I find him dreamy, too.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Frustré
My mom has been staying at my house for the past several days, and I HAVE to rant a bit. Here are the top ten things I've noticed since Friday:
1. So that she has transportation and shelter during the day, my mom has to drive me to work in my car and unlock my back door for me when I get home. The loss of control I'm experiencing is affecting me greatly.
2. I field complaints about my house being too cold as I eye the front porch door she left flapping open in the winter wind. "It's only a heat pump..." I remind her.
3. There is an inexplicable amount of long hair left in the toilet each day. I'm not going to touch that one.
4. Cigarette butts are stabbed out in the kitchen sink and left to steep in the dishwater and/or sit in the drain catch. She's not smoking inside, so....???
5. Plans for the evening are cancelled because she has had too much to drink and cannot walk without assistance. This really bothers me, and might need to be the topic of another post.
6. Knocking on my bedroom door before entering is a mere courtesy and not really necessary since we’re all family. My naked time is kept at an EXTREME minimum, just in case. EW. And don't get the idea that I clean house in the nude, do jumping jacks in front of my open bedroom window, etc. I'm no exhibitionist!
7. Since neither of us is motivated to cook, we are eating a bunch of junk. By the way, did you know that when you order a bacon cheesburger, fries, and a Whopper combo with Diet Coke(which totals $6.48) at the local Burger King and pay the cashier $6.50, you get $0.08 in change, a chicken sandwich, a Whopper, onion rings and a Coke? I still struggle with lowering expectations sometimes...
8. I keep a running list of items I never expected to touch my couch (e.g. a BK burger patty, a chunk of chocolate cake).
9. I make long personal phone calls to avoid further conversation about life’s transitions and tribulations. Alone time is at a premium...
10. I feel guilty for writing this, and am debating whether or not to post it.
I suppose I’m an impatient, bad son for writing this, but I had to get it off my chest somehow! Despite all of her eccentricities, I love her anyway – but I still hope that she finds a new home soon.
1. So that she has transportation and shelter during the day, my mom has to drive me to work in my car and unlock my back door for me when I get home. The loss of control I'm experiencing is affecting me greatly.
2. I field complaints about my house being too cold as I eye the front porch door she left flapping open in the winter wind. "It's only a heat pump..." I remind her.
3. There is an inexplicable amount of long hair left in the toilet each day. I'm not going to touch that one.
4. Cigarette butts are stabbed out in the kitchen sink and left to steep in the dishwater and/or sit in the drain catch. She's not smoking inside, so....???
5. Plans for the evening are cancelled because she has had too much to drink and cannot walk without assistance. This really bothers me, and might need to be the topic of another post.
6. Knocking on my bedroom door before entering is a mere courtesy and not really necessary since we’re all family. My naked time is kept at an EXTREME minimum, just in case. EW. And don't get the idea that I clean house in the nude, do jumping jacks in front of my open bedroom window, etc. I'm no exhibitionist!
7. Since neither of us is motivated to cook, we are eating a bunch of junk. By the way, did you know that when you order a bacon cheesburger, fries, and a Whopper combo with Diet Coke(which totals $6.48) at the local Burger King and pay the cashier $6.50, you get $0.08 in change, a chicken sandwich, a Whopper, onion rings and a Coke? I still struggle with lowering expectations sometimes...
8. I keep a running list of items I never expected to touch my couch (e.g. a BK burger patty, a chunk of chocolate cake).
9. I make long personal phone calls to avoid further conversation about life’s transitions and tribulations. Alone time is at a premium...
10. I feel guilty for writing this, and am debating whether or not to post it.
I suppose I’m an impatient, bad son for writing this, but I had to get it off my chest somehow! Despite all of her eccentricities, I love her anyway – but I still hope that she finds a new home soon.
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