It's In My Head, Filler

You might know these things about me.

One, I generally don't like people in bulk (and by bulk I mean large quantities). Gummy bears should be in bulk and Charmin triple-ply toilet paper, too. Because you can never have enough of either. I like "A Person" and maybe another "Person" and maybe another but you get too many at once and its a clown car experience that I am not laughing at. There are some exceptions to the One Person Too Many rule. A Chippendale dance-off might be one where I would enjoy the more the merrier.

The other thing is that I live in my head most of the time. I am always having conversations with myself. But "you" don't see that because I am quite good at keeping the voices IN MY HEAD. So what you see is a person walking down the street, minding their own business, but with a Being John Malkovich thing happening behind closed doors, so to speak. But minding their own business to a fault because I probably won't see you or, notice you and you will take it personally when really I just might be adapting songs a la Tori Amos or William Shatner or, even, David Cook, depending on my mood. It's not personal. It's my own personal rock concert, preferred with no audience.

I have to remind myself from time to time that I do share this world with other people.

Honing into a point, I tend to be oblivious to the people around me when I am walking to work in the morning. I can't be sure what my exterior self is showing when I am IN MY HEAD. Like I think I might be smiling but it might not translate. Oh, John Cusack!

For instance, I might look intent, vacuous, crazy, joyous, or annoyed in the morning. At any moment my expression might lead you to believe that someone died, I won the lottery, I just scarfed down a baked potato with butter, or Ted from How I Met Your Mother asked ME to be the Mother.

Thus, my expression = it's a toss-up. And again, people will take it personally.

Another thing about me is I don't mess around in the morning. I'm a biped on 6-cylinder hot wheels. Vroom. Vroom. The way I see it, if everyone moved along the same speed/way as me in the morning all would be right with the world. I'm convinced we could Save our Planet, Spay and Neuter All Animals, Achieve Peace and Live as One. Bed In or Foreign Adoption not required. Instead, all would walk the escalator not ride it, I would get a seat on the metro each morning, or, as I slip into my walking dream state...I'd gallop to work on a white stallion led by a knight in shiny armor (Hi Ted! Am I the Mother?).

So we have the stress (or fear in all honesty) of people, the daydreaming, and the speedwalking all leading me to my point.

One particular morning recently there was an obstacle, in which it was not acceptable to pull the horse back, whisper a "giddy up" sweetly in his ear, and jump the barrier to great applause and British cheer. Even I know when to leave the stories IN MY HEAD. So I proceeded to go right, but...the barrier moved. I go left...the barrier got wider. Egads. I had no choice but to bust right through and go up the middle. I had a clear shot. The right and left would never see me coming, is what I thought.

To be more clear, there were two gals exchanging in an early morning gabfest, best reserved for the water cooler. Hot Topic Mondays be damned! And they spread out their space about 4 people wide, you see, perpindicular to any incoming traffic. Because it wasn't enough to only occupy the space which your mass encompasses. More space was necessary in a space barely big enough to contain them as it was. "Look, mom, no hands" became "Look, mom, I can move to and fro WHILE talking." My space, was now their space, apparently.

But I found a moment to squeeze through them (walls on both sides when we all know that only in reality I can't walk through walls, but with Ted and the horse IN MY HEAD- fuh-get-about-it). And I eked by with not contact, nary a disruption. "No harm, no foul" is what the referree would call the play had he been there. But one of them did not see it like that. She was moved enough to disengage from her very engrossing early morning chat fest, to turn her attention to me. And she clucked her head, called me unsavory names when I was only minding my own business trying to get from Point A to Point B. Life, really. She is lucky I didn't demand a red carpet (is the way my head would call it).

Ignore it, I could, but my mind wouldn't have it like that today, I'm afraid. The mind (was it John Cusack?) opened the door to let them in. The response was, "I can't help it. My equilibrium is off today."

I have no idea where that came from but, frankly, I couldn't have said it better myself.

I'm not kidding...

I have a slew of coffee mugs in my office that I have received over the years from various vendors. There is 9 to be exact.

Each day as I get my green tea with rose petals, I select the mug that will match my outfit.

Doppelgangers...Real, Imaginary...Find Them On The Internet (or Whole Foods)

I’m obsessed with this idea of doppelgangers lately. My intro into what exactly is a doppelganger was care of a Lifetime movie starring Melissa Gilbert (Half Pint! times 2! And I’ve left the joke book on that one at home, folks. Fill in your own punchline). I guess in true definition – and what the movie projected – a doppelganger is a shadow-self that only the self can see…so it has mystical or spiritual, namely devil-backed, connotations – as evil incarnate, a portent to death, etc. But in keeping with the light and fluffy and spreadable (and off the horror screen and any kind of Witch’s Brew), my definition of a doppelganger is merely a resemblance of oneself (either in spirit, characteristic, or physical form). And since I believe that all living creatures are inherently good and redeemable, my mind, wander as She may, can not go THERE, devil boy.

So doppelgangers are gooooood.

For example, when I say someone is a doppelganger of someone I used to date, I am inferring that the named doppelganger is actually perhaps the Good Twin because he is not tainted by the Past and Whimsy of the particular Copy, who was merely posing as the Original. As it relates to guys I have dated (read: Past, Unwanted), the doppelganger is the essence of what this person SHOULD have been or what I imagined him to be. (Who said Imaginary Boyfriends weren’t acceptable? I don’t think Dr. Phil has touched this one.) So I might build this Unknown Twin up to what should have been. So you know what happens next? Cyber-stalking is in order, Webbers! Because I really have to give him more context than: the Asst Manager at Whole Foods, in Chucks, who looks like Pompadour with a better hair cut. I like to call it: Dating at a Distance. I would argue that this is actually healthier, Heartbreakers and Breakees.

But let me expound on one obsession at a time.

I vaguely remember years ago someone claiming to know my dad from somewhere. “He looks just like you, everything about you.” Well, there was no way in hell these people knew each other unless my daddy had a double life and appeared at dinner every single night of my life growing up as a hologram. (What's good for Elvis is good for my daddy. But he shouldn't have to suffer Celine. I'm just saying.)

I tuck that way as my daddy having a doppelganger. And if anybody should be cloneable, it shouldn’t be a cow named Dolly, but it should have been a Pollack named Ski. And this is not After Death or In Retrospect talk – or Polish propaganda. (For that I would just say: Go stuff a sausage. Pass the pigs. And fly the Polish flag.) So I find myself looking for my dad wherever I go. Sometimes I just imagine what it would be like to see him walking down the street - looking lost, of course, because he can’t find us - as me, my brother, my sister, and my mom all live at new addresses, new cities…new states, even. Perhaps it is unhealthy and too psychologically-revealing to tell you that a huge factor in why I stayed renting at my old place for so long – was so he could find us. To flash the sanity card and stave the straight jackets, I will tell you that I mean that in the spiritual sense. And it is also why I don’t understand why people wouldn’t want an open casket funeral (unless gruesome circumstances demand not) because I had to see his body otherwise I would never have believed that he just didn’t exist in this world anymore. And, y’all, it took me a long time to actually say it like that: exist in this world. Because, doubters, and I was one of them, there has got to be a silver lining to death – there has to be. So keep a girl hopeful and don’t tell me otherwise.

While I have never seen his doppelganger, per se, I do see my dad in people – not as in "i see dead people" see, mind you - it might be in an expression, emotion, a look. An indescribable. Recently, I’ve seen him in a baggage handler at Raleigh International. I’ve seen him in a guy on House Hunters. And in a saxaphonist in Wynton Marsalis' band. All these people looked nothing like him, yet, there was something familiar. Even he has seen a dopelganger. I remember one time sitting on a bar-chartered bus (bar to ballpark, ballpark to bar, because that is how he rolled) coming back from a Chicago Cubs game and him talking about this old lady sitting a few rows ahead of us. He thought she, eerily, reminded him of his mom: my dear grandma, who incidently died too young too. I wondered what it was about her that got his mind wandering There. But now I know, you never let it go. It's impossible to forget. You wonder (and you wander). But you can change your address because he will be everywhere, if nowhere.

So, seeking out doppelgangers….it keeps me believing, see?

An off-shoot of this theme (that try as I might to steer otherwise, brings this back to dating blog material), is lately I have been seeing double of Pompadour. That guy in the pool in Vegas. That guy walking over the Key Bridge last week. The manager at Whole Foods. Hell, in Blakissey even! And why? The shoes? The hair? An expression? An Indie Posturer? I have let IT go because I have had the "he's just not that into you" kick in the ass and puddles of tears that I just can not go through AGAIN. But yet...there he is. But this He is the Good Twin. In theory, at least. And in Whole Foods. Hey, they can't all be corporate cowboys.

And so, where does cyber-stalking fit into this? Yeah, well, I'll just say, I'm good at my job, which equates to: finding information. And, it sometimes seeps into my personal life. It's like the porn star who likes it dirty at home too. It's not just all there in your briefcase or your crotchless panties, it's in your blood. That is why you do what you do and you do it good.

So let me show you how this works.

I'm doing some grocery shopping, trying to mind my own damn business, and I see this guy with dark, shaggy hair lingering somewhere between Organic and Recycled - or Romanticized and Doppelganging, in the Land of Writerly Metaphors where Cheese most always abounds. Can't. Help. It. So this is all I know about him: He works in Whole Foods, wears an apron, and roams the aisles. One time near Dairy. And one time near Yoga Supplies. That's all we know, kids. Not even a name. Well, that was 2 hours ago. Because what I just did was this:

1. I went to the Whole Foods homepage.
2. I just took a wild guess that he could be the Assistant Manager, soley based on name, which is a cute boy name and my very first, 3d grade boyfriend's name who showered me with his sister's stuffed animals.
3. I googled him.
4. Common name so I googled my neighborhood with his name.
5. I found a myspace page to confirm.
6. I never said library science was rocket science.

From which I learned: He is from a southern town I think is pretty cool, he write/plays music, he blogs on his page and is a great, witty, insightful writer, and he loves his job. See? That right there tells you that he is the Good Twin of Pompadour (or, as I like to call him now, G-Top). This unknown blows the reality away. And I'd like to stop right there because this is a guy I could "stalk." You know, if that was part and parcel to being a Cool Chick. But then I also found this out: He drives an Xterra, goes on three week hiking trips, and has a girlfriend who doesn't shave her armpits. Alright, let's go back to the beginning -and add that to the mix now...he loves working at Whole Foods. See? There might be a crunch to G-Top's step which might not match up to the clicking of my heels. He might not be the closet rocker I desire.

So I will continue to scan the doppelganger lineup. Believing. I think I'm getting very comfortable being alone. Accepting it even.

And in topic and for the subscribers at home: If Brad Pitt's doppelganger were writing a blog, it might go like this.

SWF Deletes Phone Numbers

ARLINGTON, FEB. 2 -- In a defiant act of protest to Relationships, Lack Thereof, and Annoying Cellphone Rings, SWF deletes all past loves and lovers out of cell phone.

It is unprecedented in this household because SWF (name withheld due to an abstract restraining order) is a hoarder. She collects die-cast pencil sharpeners, scarves, and gummy bears, but she is not about the add phone numbers to the clutter.

SWF was not available for comment but we were able to reach her psychiatrist, Dr. Ima Ginary, who stated, "It is a good day in the world. My patient was hiding behind the argument that having these phone numbers meant that she could identify them when they called and thus have control of the situation. By screening her calls, she thought she could better address the situation. But see, some of these guys hadn't called her in over a year and I wondered what this was doing to her psyche. You know the saying, 'A watched pot never boils'? It's just basic Psych 101." He further went on to add, "If all girls would get on board with this we could have peace and democracy in the Middle East. "

We were also able to meet up with her Feng Shui consultant and astrologer to the stars, the legendary, Madame Karma Comelately, who made us fork over $5.95 per minute (the first minute of advertisements being free), before speaking with us. Luckily she accepted Paypal. She was able to share with us the cleansing affect this could have on SWF, "SWF was hanging on to these numbers and, let me tell you, she had numbers of guys who she couldn't even identify out of a lineup of turnips. By releasing the bad energy and tidying up her communication corner, she will relinquish all control these misfit men have over her."

Then in an interesting turn of events, the normally media-shy phone was spotted walking down Rodeo Drive sporting nothing but numbers of friends and families and a shiny piece of red floss tied around the antenna. Normal sights are red bows on pooches, but red bows on phones? We caught up with a color consultant on the meaning behind this. "Red symbolizes love and passion, by tieing a red ribbon around your phone, you are sending out those energies to the world. Similar ways to accomplish this might be to wrap it in red felt. You know the saying, 'If you build it, they will come?' "

Now the buzz on the street is that Tom Ford is incorporating the look into his spring runway fashion shows this year. Skinny phones wearing nothing but red ribbons or coats of red felt and not fed any bullshit phone numbers. Less controversial that overly-skinny models strutting the runway in red floss. Tyra Banks plans on chatting with Larry King on this very topic. In her bathing suit - but she will bring along her own cameras since bad camera angles can add poundage.

World peace and fashion trends, all with the press of "delete." That's the real skinny, girls.

Wanted: My Gums (Also Answers to "Chops")

Traits I inherited from my momma:

The Bennett nose
The Bennett sour stomach
The Bennett curse which skips a generation (hi me!)
The Bennett antiqueing gene (it's sick!)
The Bennett big feet
Bennett youthful good looks (and if you are going to put up a fight we can just go with youthful looks, party poopers)

And, P.S., I am going to go out on a limb here and point the blame on the family with this one: Bennett gums.

I am my momma's girl.

When we were younger, my brother liked to tease me in that way that little brothers do, and tell me that I was adopted. It's beside the point that he still does it, because why let an inside joke die? But back when I wore tube tops and powder blue sneakers and stood with my hands on my hips with the pouty snarl, (yes, party poopers, kind of like I still do, tube tops and all), I would believe him for a split second. But all I would have to do is look at a picture of my mom when she was younger and see myself staring back as if to say, "Yes, honey, you are Bennett and not a Barnum or Bailey."

Now my dentist does not know of my Bennett lineage. The Bennetts are a classy bunch. They get written up in the Washington Post when they want to redecorate their beach house or celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary (can't find link but - really!). They are all musical - and I guess it is possible that there is a relative who plays the washboard with spoons, but I don't know of this very cool person, while the family might think otherwise. All the ladies wear scarves and antique broaches and like their gin and tonics. These are my genes. What I'm trying to say here is: We brush our teeth, y'all. Yet, my dentist has mistaken me for a descendent of the Clampetts, and not the Bennetts.

Let's break now for an oral hygiene history!

April 1971: A few days-old baby has her first jelly bean somewhere in the valley. Baby can't figure out if big sister was trying to kill "the thing" or make nice to little sister. But since the big sister is the sweet one, historians have sided with the Making Nice theory.

Circa1970's: Mean mother of Jelly Bean-Loving Baby forces the now growing child to visit a dentist once a year. Now the Jelly Bean-Loving Baby becomes addicted to bubble gum-flavored flouride treatment. Now looks at the dentist office as possible candy shop.

1980's: Ground-breaking study reveals that you need to visit the dentist twice a year so mother ups the visits. But still lets child go outside with no sun screen. Oh, and then mother takes what has become Gap-Toothed Child to orthodondist for braces to correct a Lauren Hutton space in the front teeth.

1986: Shortly before braces were to come off, drunk-ass guy rear ends car that Brace Face was residing in. The impact propels Brace Face forward who smacks her mouth on the back of the front seat. Braces slice right through mouth and require 200+ stitches in and out of mouth. High school boys starts to call poor child Mouth. Year book from that years recorded the phenomena. On the plus side, braces saved the Mouth from losing all her teeth and being a denture patient at the young age of 15.

Circa 1987: Braces come off! Teeth are in tact and straight! Now have to wear a big black retainer every night at bed time. Looks like Darth Vader and makes you breath like Darth Vader. But I don't think Darth Vader drooled like this.

1990's: After graduating from college and getting first full-time job with benefits meant getting dropped from paren't medical coverage and being responsible for own dental care. Jelly-Bean-Loving, Bubble-Gum-Flouride-Lover, Gap-Toothed Child, Brace-Face, Mouth, Darth Vader-By-Moonlight now becomes Rebel, and skips the dentist for a few years and manage her own oral hygiene. Discovers Act flouride treatment in the meantime.

Still 1990's: After a few years of living free from dental drills and shrills and, generally, things that go "eeeee!" with no chalkboards present, Reformed patient returns with tail between legs and resumes twice-yearly exams and cleanings.

Circa 2000: Discover the glory that is SonicCare when boyfriend re-gifts you one. This replaces the water pik of childhood. Also discover a dentist in drag. This is the first time you hear that your gums are receding so cross-dressing dentist takes measurements of your gums. Also introduces you to the "night guard" which is really the Darth-Vader retainer in a "cuter costume."

November 2006: New dentist comes to Cross-Dressing Dentist's practice and wants to treat me as new patient that she will now refer to as Clampett.

So, my gums are receding y'all. By mere millimeters. In fact, after her careful measuring, it was discovered they aren't really that bad at all. So I won't need the gum graph that scrapes the roof of my mouth and implants new gums. Holy burn-the-top-of-my-mouth-from-too-hot-pizza! Except no pizza in my belly.

But she still insisted on reasons why my gums could be skipping town (one could argue they don't like her and her preachy, condescending exams).

Possible reasons by the dental book, or science, or the Clampetts:
1. Not using an electronic toothbrush.
2. Not rinsing with flouride.
3. Drinking soda.
4. Drinking red wine.
5. Hmmmm.....

I'll give her the hmm, but I brush, floss, and rinse regularly. I don't drink soda that much nor red wine. Champagne and beer, but she didn't mention them.

My retort to help the girl along in her quest to find my missing gums:

Might it be a case of the Bennett gums? See, my mom, also has this issue - and since the dentist is putting me on the defensive with my oral hygiene or what she sees as lack thereof, I offer: but she takes even better care of her teeth than me. She instilled in my good oral hygiene!

So now I started her down this path and then she offers that maybe heredity, braces, and the jilt of the car accident - and the general shifting of teeth - all could contribute to my fleeing gums.

So she decides to close the book on the case and bill me $185 for this here "flouride consultation" anyway - because I guess she can't bill me for "patient schooled me consultation" - and wrote up a prescription to an over-the-counter toothpaste that, I ask, what is in this toothpaste that can't be sold over the counter? And, will I become addicted to potent toothpaste?

I can see it now: I'm a brush away from popping squeezes of toothpaste and a stay in the Betty Ford clinic where I room with Lindsey Lohan and discover that we are long lost sisters of the Clampetts.

Must patch up with the Crest White Strip.

2007: Receding gums hold out until Cross-Dressing Dentist takes them back.

Has Anybody Seen A Dog Died Dark Green?

I have a pet. He is a dog and he is on his fourth name change. First, he was named Schroeder, after Charlie Brown's sensitive piano-playing chum. But he wasn't as calm as I imagined him to be - I'm a cat person - so I renamed him Mick Jagger - to give him a rock and roll edge. Then he started to became really interested in fashion - I figured - because he kept chewing up my shoes (which explains my latest shoe-shopping craze, it's the dog's fault). So, you know what is next - he became Tom Ford. But then, just today, I heard that Snoop Dogg was designing fashion for doggies. And how cool is that? While I may be New Wave at heart, I just adore Snoop. He is the black person's John Wayne - coolness, gangsta-style.

With this new development, I called Mav this morning and excitedly told her that we had to change the little doggie's name. And she replied, "You having a dog named Snoop, is like me in leggings."

Nonetheless, I am considering Mr. Gin N. Juice. Or Huggy Bear. Because I am sick of the fashion designer moniker. I can't tell you how many Chanel's and Coco's we meet at the dog park. I am a slave to my dog, not fashion. And Tom Ford is getting sick of the little shirts, but he will always wear shoes. Hey, Britney is wearing them now. So I am going to go with Gin N. Juice for the moment.

Holy identity issues. But since Gin N. Juice is imaginary - very much like my niece's "friend", Binky, who one time got "stuck" in the sun roof, in which instance my dad apologized, opened the roof back up, and pulled Binky to safety and then we told Binky to wear his seat belt in the car for now on.

He was Elvis for Halloween. Look at this picture:






Isn't he the cutest thing?

Right about now, if I still have your attention, you might wonder what kind of dog he is. Well, first he was a Frenchie, and he was Martini's dog, Milo's, boyfriend. Milo is a girl and the kind of dog that you have to take for walks and skip happy hour for. I know! That kind of dog.

Mr. Juice is a special kind of dog. He can hold it in for weeks. In fact, sometimes I just plum forget about him. First, he was a chihuahua, then he was a poodle or something with long hair so I could braid it and ponytail it. But now he is an Italian greyhound. And the funny thing is I just did an Internet search for Italian Greyhounds and found a local group. (I know how this sounds and I know what you must be thinking: Seriously, she is taking this imaginary dog thing a bit far! Sure, crazy people, I am taking Gin on a playdate!) Seriously, I was researching the breed because some day Mr. Juice can be a reality and, weirdly, I found a guy I used to date who happens to be a member of the local IG group. He has two. And, yes, the kind of dog you have to take for walks and skip happy hour for.

And so in the words of Fred Scheider and the B-52's*:

Has anybody seen
A dog died dark green?
About two inches tall
With a strawberry blond ball.
Sunglasses and a bonnet
Designer jeans with appliques on it.

Sadly, the dog that brought Fred Schneider so much joy, Quiche Lorraine ran away.

Are you still there, reader? Great! We will be at Earth shortly.

According to Fred, even imaginary dogs can run away - because clearly he made this little doggie up (the sunglasses clued me in). Why would you do this to your fantasy? Not me. In my fantasy, this loyal Gin N. Juice AKA Huggy Bear I speak of, dog or no dog, never leaves....

*B-52's, "Quiche Lorraine" off of the Wild Planet album. (You: That is some Wild Planet alright.)

Liquids On A Plane

(Or the one that puts me on some government watch list or, rather, shameless product endorsement.)

Last month, I flew for the first time since the new air restrictions on liquids were enforced. If they ever knew my extreme - X-treme! - fear of pyro-anything related, well, they would not even waste their time sifting through my liquids. I mean, just so you understand....I am afraid of the stove. I always wonder if this will be the time it blows up. And then a dog will attack me and then I get skin cancer. It's my triumvirate of phobias.

But then, the Ex-True Love of My Life, not to be confused with Summer Fling Love-of-my-Life (that's for those keeping score), blew up things for a living. Seriously. He was very important to the government and Maryland football too when he got to blow off the cannon at halftime. I think he found that more fulfilling. I stayed in the stands with the flask that we had to sneak in. Far away from the pyro-technics. So, the detail with which they were analyzing my liquids in Chicago, someone must have tipped them off to my knowing Blow-Up Guy. Because apparantly I was a suspicious Blow-Up Girl on the way home.

Or, rather, just some girl with way too many beauty products.

I can say that the trip there was easy breezy. Mav and I had plenty of time to spare...or drink... so we checked in our luggage and then hit the airport bar for bloody marys - since it was only 10:30 AM. My cosmetics apparantly breezed through the Suspcious Liquid Sniffing Dogs (or men in suits?)because we got our luggage, seamlessly, on the other end. (Courtesy Traveling Tip: Dog biscuits in your suitcase are a good distraction. Or liquor. But, really, don't try this at home.)

So we got to party it up in Chicago with all our liquids in tact.

The way home was a different story, my friends. It wasn't smooth-sailing, drunk-before-departure this time, because we just made it to the aiport and had very little time left to spare. To drink a bloody mary. So we had no choice but to bust through all the security with our liquids. I really started to worry about what would happen to some of my more, shall we say...hefty bottles at 4 ounces. Just over regulation play.

Before we could test security, we had to pass muster with Liquid (or Wicked, you choose) Queen of the Land of Ziplocs. And let me tell you, she ruled with an iron fist and a plastic bag. She didn't have her scales - no, she judged Liquids with her bare eye. And then she started tossing out liquids left and right. I let her go in her joyous lay-ups as I shrugged off losing my L'oreal makeup remover and Crest, but when she got to my brand new bottle of Kiehls - that cost $30 - well the dukes came out. Because really, if I'm going to blow up something, I'm not buying a $30 Kiehls product to do this. I think I would go with hemorhoid cream.

My dukes were up but with sugary cupcakes in peaceful offering. "You can't take that. I just bought it! It was $30 and it is only 4 ounces - can't you let an ounce go?" And I may have batted my lashes.

"NO!" A shout heard round the world.

Then she got distracted with another goody bag of toiletries and she forgot about me for one second. Meanwhile Mav is triumphantly placing all her cosmetics in her ziploc bag. She passed inspection. And I was wondering how she even fit all her products into one bag. I probably needed three. So I shove the Kiehls in my bag, zip up my ziploc, and tell Mav to scoot. I'm busting through this Ziploc aisle.

But not before Cosmetic Hater yells at me, yeah, yells at me, "Where is that bottle I told you you couldn't take?" There was a head cluck too.

Me, the Snail of Quick Thinking, hemmed and hawed, and mumbled under my breath, "I'm, um, ah, thinking about it. I'm going to go, ah, over there (I pointed to the atria ahead) and, um, um, use an ounce of it or something."

And I went back and forth with this lady behind a card table with a box of ziploc bags in her hand. She wasn't an aiport screener. No, she was just the lady with the ziplocs. For all i know, she was also pedaliing Girl Scout cookies for her 12-year old daughter, who was sitting at home watching Laguna Beach.

Finally, she got distracted by some other confused passenger, like myself. "What? I can't bring my Rogaine on?"

She has no compassion.

So I broke free from her shackles. Because, really, who was she?

And then I got the real aiport screener, she of nice-hood, who could have been my mom. And if I didn't already have a great mom, I would have totally adopted her. Or a celebrity. Because this fine lady took out my Kiehls and told me she had to go around the corner and check on whether this is passable. "Hey, lunch bag lady said it wasn't," is what I didn't tell her. So while she was gone and I put my clothes back on (because we are one step away from naked screening where they will just pour the liquids on you and, hey, airports become the new porn), I resigned myself to the possibility that it wasn't meant to be with this $30 soap. Let the airport screeners have the clean face. I will be dirty face. (Sulk.)

Well, nice lady came back and asked me if this was doctor prescribed and I think she may have winked.

And again the Snail of Quick Thinking that I am said, "No. But I have these bumps on my forehead and the lady at the Kiehls counter in Barney's said this would be good for it."

Again, with a wink, "So you would say that your doctor prescribed this right? right?"

Ding ding ding. We have contact with the Brain! "Yes, my dermatologist did."

And she let me and my Kiehls go.....to blow up the plane --- JUST KIDDING. Remember, it would be the hemorhoid cream and I left that at home. (Just so you know, I hated making that joke but for purposes of this story as it is Hollywood big budget and the producers control the purse strings and this writer's pen - well, gratuitous violence is necessary - it sells tickets. I don't bite the hand that feeds or they might put snakes on my plane. And I would ask, is John Travolta available? Vinny Babarino-John Travolta.)

And that is the story of how a 4.4 bottle of Kiehls facial soap defied liquid restrictions and safely traveled back to DC and, in the end, wreaked no havoc whatsoever on the plane.

So, chick-flick.

Smooth Operator

I hope I've got a tune going through your head because this is the background music to this post which has everything to do with my smooth ways with the boys. Heh. Because that background music is a record playing and each time the song starts there is that point, kind of near the beginning, where someone dramatically yanks the needle and so, you are singing along all "smooooth opera[sccraaatcch]." And you never get to the ending. That's my theme.

The next paragraph is just band chatter before the song starts, setting up the song so Johnny Six String can go find his guitar pick because he keeps giving them to the ladies. So don't sing that song yet!

This tangent all started because Mav has this t-shirt that says “smooth operator” and she wore it this weekend so that song has been mulling around in my head needing immediate release. And this is how it is done. But Sade and I go way back. It all started with a dream. Because I once dreamed that Sade was my mom and she didn’t like me playing in the backyard because the alligators could eat me. That Sade was a good ma. My own ma could care less if I played with the alligators. But luckily for her and the child protection services evasion, ducks were more my speed. I kid you not, my sister and I adopted the neighborhood ducks and Tuna actually gave birth in our front yard. I would have walked them on a leash if I could. Y'all it's Florida, we lived on a swamp so there really was an alligator out back but he didn't bother anybody. Not even the dog. Because once Lady the Dog got out - she was a wee little shnauzer poodle (a poozer?) - who sometime sported a pink tube top or a pink ribbon around her neck - depending on the weather. Well, one time we saw Lady on the other side of the pond (sans tube top!) - remember it's Florida and it's flat and there are no trees (i.e., an ugly place except for the sandy beaches). And I'm telling you that alligator didn't want her. Because she should have been dinner what with putting her little meaty self out there. So we had good alligators, Sade just didn't know any better.

Cue music:
"Smooth operator.....Smooth operator....."

First, like I said there was a ringing of the phone bells from this guy however I got WAY ahead of myself. WAY. As in call the wedding announcement off, bride-nowhere-to-be.

See the music is playing along nicely as this text conversation transpires. [Note: In the interest of brevity and anonymity and my own damn privacy you will not got the verbatim transcript of the convo, just the gist of it.]

Him: Hey you! A question. Btw, this is Pompadour…we met at….
Me: Hey there! The answer. Now my question.
Him: The answer.
Me: Acknowledge the answer. Mention the evil drink. Then mention an inside joke.
Him: Acknowledge inside joke. Asks what is evil drink?
Me: Tasty beverage with shots floating on top…it’s trouble…better you didn’t find that.

And then the needle is yanked from the record because THAT WAS IT. He didn’t follow that up with, uh, anything. But why would he have even called to begin with? Oh, I'll tell you why. It took some sleuthing but now I have to tell you this other thing which I really didn't want to tell anyone about because, why boa why? See, long story, but the punchline is: I opened my profile on that online dating service thingie for a 72-hour trial period/research - I needed to feel loved. Well, I just finished my research and shut down my profile this morning but went in and looked at the "who's viewed you and then spit you out because you are not worthy of their wink" and - big AND here - Pompadour opened up my profile! BEFORE he sent the text.

I'll tell you why he called:

He is one of those online trolls (my apologies to you online guys to whom this not apply-no one). So he only called (i.e., texted) when he realized he opened my profile so knew that I would see that and then be like, "Jerk, why he no call, Jerry?" So he looks like a good guy by calling like he said he would and then he can just drop the ball and continue trolling the hotties online hoping for the bigger fish. He's an Shopper: I'll put you in the cart but I might put you back if I find something better.

Turned off by THAT GUY now.

Then Wednesday night Dear Prudence and I headed out on the town. Why we left the comfort of air conditioning, is anyone’s guess. We went to open mic night, then hit another bar and saw Couching Tiger – on a date – so had to exit. This is where you get a story within a story because inquiring minds are like who is Couching Tiger and what relevance does he have to Smooth Operator. Because you are still singing along, right?

Well, I can’t claim him. But DP can as she went out with him a few times – few as in maybe two times and he was already “I want to be your boyfriend. Don't take that job in Philly. I want to be your boyfriend!” And DP was like “Can I just have my earrings back?” So she had to go out with him a third time just to get the earrings. Easy tiger.

And then there is the couch part of the story. Remember I was moving a few months back (ugh-a-bug) and I was getting rid of any furniture that was not pretty (i.e., a muted color or floral) because I was going to create Girl Pad 2006: Dark Colors Are For Boys And Puppy Dog Tails. As it turned out, Couching Tiger needed some furniture as he just moved in the neighborhood from Seattle. (Remember Seattle, it's relevant.) So DP hooked us up and well, I was going to sell the shit on craig’s list and take a few bucks for it or not deal with that and have salvation army pick it up and get the tax write-off. Because I'm an Itemizer now, woo-hoo. (Take the standard deduction and shove it up your ass Uncle Sam!) So he took the couch which was in great condition by the way. Fabulous condition it just happned to be moss green and didn't go with Girl Pad's color scheme. I also gave him a mission-style coffee table and another end table of some sort.

And then we had this conversation:

CT: Do you want any money for this stuff?
Me: Well, I was going to ask for a couple hundred on Craigs list but then I was just going to give to the Salvation Army. So I don’t know what price to put on it.
CT: Great! Hey, do you like coffee?
Me: [Thinking we are into small talk now.] No. I’m a tea drinker. Oh you are from Seattle. I bet you like good coffee.
CT: Yep. Bye!

And he didn’t give me anything. After talking to DP he had asked her if he should get me a gift certificate to Starbucks. I guess by me saying I don't like coffee he didn't feel the need to offer me anything. Dude, I drink the Chai and eat the pound cake. Couching Tiger, Hidden Wallet (with a nice couch and coffee table).

Back to the pick-up of last night.

I had been making eye contact with this guy all night – he was with two buddies and they had that we-just-got-off-the-golf-course look. Polos, khaki shorts, and flip flops. I actually have a thing for Mr. Preppy (oh, and guys with pompadours, depends what mood I'm in I guess).

So this other group of young guys (we'll call them The Kids) start chatting us up and they were nice and I always say kudos to boldness. But the Golfsters start to pay their tab so here's my chance. I went up to the one I had been eyeballing and said this:

[Smooth operator....smooth operator.....]

"Do I know you from somewhere? Er, I mean, you look familiar to me. Do I look familiar to you? Oh hell, what's your sign?"

I wooed the friends at least. I think I was wooing him because I then said after a few rounds of small talk, "So you guys were getting ready to leave." And he answers, "No, things are looking more promising now. We are staying." So more rounds were ordered.

[Smooth operator....smooth operator....]

Anyways things are going pretty well. And they are going well for DP as she is really connecting with Potato Chip. I have a good feeling about those two. [So special to DP: When you are married to Potato Chip, remember I called it here.] But then the music snob in me was disturbed by this conversation.

Someone: Who sings this song?
DP: Depeche Mode!
The Third Guy: I thought it was Flock of Seagulls.
Me: Wh-wh-what? How do you make that disconnect?
My guy: Who is the Flock of Seagulls?

How many shades of wrong is that to a girl who likes her 80's college radio. People, it's what Duwop was to our parents. You were schooled on it, if you are in your 30's and, well, we were the exact same age. Hence, his nickname now is Don't Feed The Seagulls.

But then he got my attention when I learned he was The Jock (and I'm equal opportunity in that I like the rock star and the preppy jock) and he is a really good golfer (I like when my guy kicks the other guy's asses in Guyville) and so alright I’ll date the quarterback. If I must.

But we may be too different. He is not geographically desireable in that he doesn't fall within my 5-mile dating radius (hey, I'm not single for nothing, I bet you're thinking); he didn't believe that my tan is only from 3 weekends at the beach (really I am not that tan, he should have seen me this time last year but are we already dealing with trust issues?); and he thought my shoe straps on my wedges were band-aids (but he was concerned for my feet, so that is sweet, right?)

Anyway he did ask for my digits and I gave him my business card and said, “But don’t fax me. The fax number is wrong.” And he even took out a pen and crossed out my fax number. I like!

What is going to happen with Don't Feed The Seagulls and The Pompadour?

Sade?

Casey Kasum?

Hey, who turned the music off?

It Takes Two To Make A Thing Go Right

It is getting hard to look this good on my own. Ha. I am one fashion casualty (and relationship) away from pullover knit tops and polyester pants pulled up to my armpits. With no zippers. Elastic-waistbands all the way man.

See this morning I was having zipper issues. A brand new skirt I bought down in North Carolina months ago and hadn't tried on yet. I didn't even try it on at the store and there is a reason you try things on. Because had I tried it on, I would have discovered that the zipper was broken.

Instead I found out this morning all alone in my house.

I struggled all morning to save the skirt's life but in the end, I had to cut the skirt right down the center just to get out of it.

A fashion casualty. And it was one of those oh-so-trendy bubble skirts that is going to soon be banished to the Land Of Fashion That Will Never Make A Comeback. Acid-wash denim has a high-rise there.

All that I needed this morning was another (with opposable thumbs so it is not an argument for the dog that I also want) to yank on that thing. If there was that one guy with strong hands in my house (in my life) at the time, the skirt's (very short as it is) life could have been saved.

Guys, I'm not asking for much...just someone to ease my zipper.

I Could Be Working In A Rodeo Taunted By A Red Cape

Confession: I'm an astrology-geek. It just goes with my whole metaphysical, karmic, feng-shui fascination and my grounding in Yippie 101. The teachings are based in turquoise, Volvos, and Easy Spirits. I only received mildly passing grades on account of the Easy Spirits because they don't have anything in a stiletto so I am kind of a rebellious student like that. Or a failure. Perspective.

So I occasionally read my horoscope and when it says this: "Your people are there for you just when you need them most, and it will feel great just to know they're on your side. Make sure they know you'll support them when the time comes," I look at the ways this is true and it's right on, skeptics! My people are there for me. Because I have a friend who is my real estate agent. A friend who is my lender ("Mother Goose is giving me money.") And Mav who is my counsel. So I trust with this HUGE home purchase that these people are not screwing me. And believe me, when there are talks of money and interest rates, etc., I am dumbed down quite a few notches. I already know that I want to do something for each and everyone of them. So see? Horoscopes have some merit!

Alright. One can argue on the prognosticating element of astrology. I'll give you that platform but I may not agree with you. But one can not argue on the traits of the signs. Because I am a Taurus and it is a pretty spot on description of my personality. Stubborn? Check. Likes emotional and material excess? Check. Change freaks her out? Big check. But, of course, it is never to a tee and that is because of moons and suns and eclipses and birth times and pink hearts, yellow moons, green clovers, and blue diamonds.

For instance, I recently found this description of "me" in terms of a career:

Taurus is well suited to any career in which patience, consistency, and values are important... [Hmm...sounds pretty generic, if true.] ...Of all the signs of the Zodiac, Taurus is probably the most dependable and easygoing employee... [True.] ...They aren’t temperamentally suited to life in the fast lane, but you can count on them to get the job done. They tend to choose careers that pay well and have good job security... [Hell to the yeah!] One of the most determined signs, they are not overly ambitious... [Like I would never want to be the Librarian of Congress. Holy responsibility Batman.]

I chose a safe career. Librarian. I chose to work in corporate/law libraries. Financial security. And I run the whole show, like I have a national title. Does that make me ambitious? Not really because it is still pretty comfortable. I could probably push the glass ceiling a little more but I like the flexibility I have now. So from a general personality perspective, this is for the most part right on.

Then the article went on to suggest and describe jobs that "I" would be good at based on my resemblance to a bull, a la earth sign. This is what "the stars" came up with:

(And the stars are a little silly.)

Gardener/Groundskeeper:This is the sign with a classic green thumb and dirty hands. They would like nothing more than spending their days cultivating roses and pruning scrubs. Taurus can be found running greenhouses, working in garden centers and flower shops, and working for companies who supply plants for businesses. The lucky ones can work at an ostentatious estate, taking care of larger, more complex gardens and dreaming of being the owner.

Well this would be true if I liked to dig in the dirt. And I don't. If I had a yard, I would hire that out. Besides, I am so down on "the flower" right now for my own pity party reasons that have to do with the words none and ever. And furthermore and perhaps more importantly, I kill plants. Not on purpose. Except bamboo. My bamboo is alive and kicking. But most importantly why this career is not suitable for me? I don't really care to tend to somebody else's yard and have them reap the benefits. And this is a classic Taurus trait.

She's charging.

Landscape Designer:The Landscape Designer deals with plant material and other elements on a larger or more complex scale. This profession requires several years of education, a talent for design and architecture, and vision. Taurus has an innate sense of aesthetics, and a love of living things, which make them perfect for this career. Instead of creating a building like an architect, they are able to build a small part of the world instead.

Now we're talking! This might make better sense to me. I get to design AND have other people do the dirty work. And I must say I do have an "innate" sense of aesthetics. I think of everything in aesthetics. For example, I sit on a yearly tax advisory panel for a big legal publisher and just today at our meeting I informed them that they might want to change out these blue binders for a series of texts they publish. It's aesthetics and one might look at the flimsy 3-ring binder notebook as inferior to their competitor's leather-bound compression binder with embossed writing (instead of peel and stick letters). But there is a chevron design and I told them that was cool. (Give them a postive before the negative.) This is why they have me on the panel with the "old timers." My "fresh" perspective?

I'm all about aesthetics. I'll design your garden.

Perfume/Cosmetics Developer:Taurus loves the finer things in life. They have finely-tuned senses and are acutely aware of beauty and elegance. If they have training in chemistry, they can then work in the world of perfume and cosmetics. Finding just the right blend of light and airy floral, with an exotic musk, would engage them on a fascinating quest. Following the latest consumer research they will find the combination of scent that will make crowds flock to their product. They flagrantly disregard scent-free policies.

Holy heck yeah! I have a very acute sense of smell. Too much so sometimes. This mostly gets in the way on the metro when you can smell all peoples. And mostly that is not pleasant when you have the sweat, alcohol, and fried food smells co-mingling. I believe everyone should smell good, scent-free policies can kiss my ass. I could be a catalyst for a beautifully-scented world where we all smell pretty and all the men smell like Chanel Allure. But there is one problem. I SUCKED at chemistry or any science class for that matter. This might hurt me. But they could use me for my nose and I could have someone else do the dirty work (again). We could insure my nose for millions of dollars.

Call me the girl with the million dollar nose.

Model:Taureans are often very beautiful individuals and some might want to venture into modeling. Most Taurus natives love to eat, which may concern those who wish to model. However, they should not let their weight stop them because the Plus-Size Model market could be literally tailor-made for them. Since the population is growing in more ways than one, this field is probably opening up. The money is probably plus-size too.

Oh keep talking..."beautiful"....aahh shucks, thanks.....wait...I'm chubby? Well, I certainly do feel chubby these days. I don't even know how I still fit into my size 4 pants today. And then I read that I am made for plus-size modeling. In that case, see you at Five Guys. And double fry my order.

Hubba chubba to you.

Winery Owner:This venture would appeal to many sides of Taurus. First of all they would have to grow the grapes and harvest them. Then, they would have to make the wine over a number of years, taking the time to get things just right. They are very patient people and will insist on quality and a full-bodied taste. The best part of this business would be the continual quality control and tasting. Finally, they may want to open the winery to the public and entertain, enjoy a glass of the finest with guests.

Ding dong! We have a winner. Who was it that said "winos" were the classiest of alcoholics?

Security Guard:Security is very important to Taurus and this job would probably appeal to them. It would be even more of a bonus if they were on the night shift at a quiet location. They would probably opt for the postings that had the least likelihood of ever being robbed or disturbed. It would be an excellent chance to relax, watch TV, wear a uniform, and be of service. They need to be careful not to let the power go to their heads.

Wh-security guard?! Are you joking? I'm beginning to think "the stars" don't know me at all, after all. I still sleep with a night light. I hear sounds and see shadows in the dark. And why on earth would I ever wear a uniform? Dress like everybody else? And defend OTHER people? That I probably hate anyways. I'd just have to get power-hungry. "No badge, no access." That could be fun.

Yeah, I'm the security guard cowering in the corner securing nothing. Slide the paycheck very carefully to me. Don't make any sudden movements. Don't scare the security guard!

Surveyor:This career is interesting to Taurus because they get to work for the government, but outside in the fresh air. The location could be anywhere from a city lot to a country road. Some of their time is spent driving to and from locations and marking points on the terrain. This job is technical but will allow them to work close to nature. Unless the work is done near the freeway or downtown, most of the time they will be away from major distractions. And, if they take a thermos and a lunchbox, they won’t miss their scheduled breaks.

Let's get this straight. I do not eat out of a lunchbox. If so, I'd have a holster for that thermos.

Pastry Chef:Taurus is very comfortable in the kitchen and this career would appeal to their penchant for quality, fine foods, and, of course, their sweet tooth. Only the best ingredients and the richest creams and butters will suffice. The best part of this job, for a Taurus, is sampling the wares. They will take great pride in turning out a delicious and artfully arranged product. They love working with their hands by rolling out dough and decorating the wares.

You better believe I'd be good at this job. Would I ever. First order of business is stealing Publix's buttercream frosting recipe and then I'd eat the "work." I can only thank god I can have a career as a plus-size model.

I'm liking this career arc.

Park Ranger:In many ways this career is well suited to Taurus. The work is largely outdoors in a park setting. They are in charge of taking care of nature and are concerned with the welfare of the people and animals in its realm. The beauty of this role is that it is a government job with good pay and benefits and is steady work. Taurus, of course, looks very fine in a uniform and they will strut their stuff for all to see. Smokey the Bear has only good things to say about Taurus.

Apparently I have this big thing for the outdoors. I'll have to look into that as my usual contact with the outdoors only consists of the sun and a drink with an umbrella, a pinot grigio, or cerveza in hand. Never sticks, kindling, soup in a can, tents, bug spray, or hiking boots.

Smokey the Bear is my friend.

Loan Officer:The next best thing to working outside is having a desk job and handling financial transactions. A career in the banking industry would make a Taurus rather pleased. There is longevity, room to grow, and the chance to process lots of beautiful money. They get to work with people, solve their financial concerns and then find ways that they can buy more and more stuff. Meanwhile, they benefit from a good job with long-term prospects.

Not bad except I'm not really good with money. Like at all. I spend all that I have. I would not be a good candidate for "handling" money and solving anybody's financial concerns.

Where's librarian on this list? I think it suits me well. I have an almost obsessive relationship with order (there is a logical place for everything), a curious desire to find the arcane (and for that my stubbornness or steadfastness comes in handy), and a love of repetitive tasks (in a mentally therapeutic sense).

So ole!

Kids, Stay Out Of The Sun Or You Just Might Get An X-Rated Post

I grew up in Florida never using sunscreen and living very near a beach. So I have spent a lot of time in the sun. Sure, my mom slathered sunscreen on me when I was younger but as I got older it was probably my responsility to attend to my own sun blockage and, well, that went by the way-side. In fact, I would use the tan accelerator. Caribe made a good one or a bottle of canola oil would work just as well.

I'm not proud to admit that I still use very little (translation: none) sunscreen. Last summer at the beachhouse? Never used sunscreen. And I do know better. I read Natural Health and Self and they are telling me, "Sun badddd!" I know it. The wrinkles and the cancer risk. I know it. Yet it just goes with my live-for-the-moment thinking that disallows me to look anywhere in my future for an impact of what today may have on it. Therefore, sun tanning only equals olive complexion. That is as far as I can see it. For the most part. Because it does weigh on me slightly. So I do my part and get my moles checked every couple years and that hard lump 0n my arm too. I am told all my moles and freckles are no concern right now so that is good news but I always have the most interesting visits to the dermatologist.

My first visit a couple years ago - I ended up being a medical case study. A class project. Folks, I was a lab rat.

It started with the usual walk back to a little room with the nurse informing me of protocol. "Put the robe on, opening in the back. Strip down to your underwear."

Then a young female doctor in a white coat entered the room followed by two very young-looking gentlemen sans coats with clipboards. Female Doctor let me in on the jig, "Would you mind if these Georgetown medical students observe?" And what do you say to that? At that point another doctor - the older, wiser, gray-haired one who was actually doing the mole check entered the room.

And he got down to business.

"Drop your gown."

So there I am in just my girly britches (thong, of course) with four people looking on. Yes, those interns had clipboards and were intently following the doctor along on his probe of my body. Because there is the Gray-Haired Doctor on all fours (literally!) starting at the bottom, circling me on all fours working up my legs with a blue pen circling suspect and/or of-student-interest marks. He continues to work his way up my body, pausing to inform the students of the varying sun marks. He's teaching a class, y'all and I'm the blackboard apparently. And for that dark black one right smack in between my boobs? The Old Doctor asked the interns to take a "closer look."

There I am in all my nakedness girly britches, pocked with blue circles, and eight eyeballs scanning my body. And all I can think about are my own self-image issues. Are they seeing what I am seeing?

It was horrifying. For that reason, I will never agree to interns sitting in on any kind of doctor appointment in the future.

Today's visit was not as horrifying but had its own brand of awkwardness.

First of all, the doctor looked like he had a bad sunburn and some red splotches on his face. I thought, "This is my dermatologist?" And then I thought that was good because I knew he was not going to chastise me about all my freckled sun damage. And he didn't.

Oddly, he wore this miner helmet with a headlight to scan my body. ["Are you looking for the mother lode?" --Pixies] And he had me lay down. He started at the top, ruffling through my hair and as he worked his way down my body he tore away my gown, shining th eheadlight as he went. Ripping a little here and there. So there is that and then there is the conversation to go with that. He chooses to talk about "what I do." He is very curious about librarians and librarians in law firms and are they using books anymore, etc. So while I am justifying my career I also feel I need to justify suspicious moles (i.e., my reason for being here).

So while I am trying to be cordial and talk "shop" I am really pointing out all the moles I wonder about and subsequently bringing his attention back to me and my naked body with a light scanning it. On second thought, let's talk about libraries, Doc! In the end, he thought everything on me was peachy. There were no blue circles this time.

So, if nothing is suspect, I began to question why I go to the dermatologist. Why I continually put myself through these horrifying experiences. Why I choose not to use sunscreen. Is it really worth it? Because I am practically getting felt up by my dermatologist.

The 'It's All About Me' Edition

It's something like my bloggiversary. So happy birthday to virtual me. I decided to mark this special occassion with a little self-absorbed navel-gazing like a 100+ list of random things about me! Yeah! The birthday is all about the birthed anyway.

1. I have a facial scar running parallel with my bottom lip.
2. The funny thing is, I am usually pretty self-conscious as a whole but it doesn't even bother me and it never really did even when it was in its bright red stages - that coincided with my teenager years.
3. Not even when I point it out to someone and they say, "Oh yeah, I can see it now."
4. It's jagged.
5. I hate perfect looks.
6. I find the unusual sexy.
7. That is why I have a major thing for Willem Defoe.
8. I was born with a crooked foot because it was wrapped around the umbilical chord.
9. I had to wear a corrective shoe for this as a baby - while other babies were sporting "stylish" booties.
10. I'm sure I thought this.
11. Perhaps that is why I have a huge fetish for shoes to this day.
12. I also had a huge ear infection when I was a baby that scarred my inner ear.
13. I had to wear a big bandage for this.
14. What I'm saying is: I was one sad looking baby.
15. People probably thought I was retarded.
16. Especially because I never smiled as a baby.
17. And I would only follow my mom around and carry a blanket wherever I went.
18. What I am saying is: I was a dork.
19. My sister fed me jelly beans when I was 2 days old.
20. I sucked the sweetness out of them and never swallowed.
21. What I'm saying is: I didn't die.
22. I only blame her for my sweet tooth.
23. I would "save" my gum and stick it on my bedpost.
24. Apparently it was good to go the next morning.
25. What I'm saying is: I was gross.
26. I have very small boobs.
27. And I like them.
28. Because I don't like wearing bras in the summer.
29. Mostly because I like wearing barely-there tank tops.
30. What I'm saying is: I'm a bit of an exhibitionist.
31. When seriously I love "style."
32. Not to be confused with "I love clothes."
33. I often rue that I didn't try to go to NY and the Fashion Institute and make a go at a career in "style."
34. I own something like 100 pair of shoes.
35. I own stock in DSW Shoe Warehouse.
36. Not really.
37. I do own over 50 scarves.
38. And I have a lot of my grandma's costume jewelry that I still wear.
39. What I'm saying is: I'm an accessory hound.
40. Hence, my nickname, Boa.
41. I am a magazine junkie - subscribing to about 10.
42. Yes, Us Weekly is one of them.
43. I only read it for the pictures.
44. I think I am an old soul.
45. I love old people.
46. I used to write my grandma everyday when I was little.
47. To this day, I have a soft spot for old people.
48. I never talk to people on an airplane.
49. Except for old people.
50. They have the best stories to tell.
51. I whole-heartedly believe that with age comes wisdom.
52. I enjoy hanging out with my 92-old aunt.
53. That woman has style and grace.
54. We antique together.
55. I knit, cross-stitch replica samplers, and quilt.
56. What I'm saying is: I'm a Golden Girl at heart.
57. My maternal grandma's name was Gigi.
58. I love that name to this day.
59. Of course it is a nickname.
60. I never got to know her because she died when I was an infant.
61. My mom's family says I have her "spirit."
62. I struggle with "life after death", the concept of heaven, and souls.
63. What I'm saying is: I'm skeptical but not necessarily a non-believer.
64. That is a sad topic for me.
65. My first boyfriend's name was Kyle Lewis.
66. He had pretty white blond hair.
67. He used to steal his older sister's stuffed animals and give them to me.
68. I never gave them back.
69. What I'm saying is: I like when boys buy me stuff.
70. Not really.
71. I feel guilty.
72. I feel guilt on a daily basis.
73. I ponder on how I did this, who said this, how it was perceived, etc.
74. What I'm saying is: I'm a ruer.
75. I have some moles I should probably get checked out.
76. So I am going to in two weeks.
77. I think George Bush Sr. - as a father - should take his son out back and give him a spanking.
78. But I don't believe in physical brands of punishment.
79. So maybe just send him to his room with no dinner.
80. I hate all politicians - democrats and republicans.
81. Perhaps I am an anarchist.
82. Not really.
83. But I do know all the words to Anarchy in the U.K.
84. I think Nader is on to something with starting a new party - as a concept.
85. Democrats are losing their self-identity.
86. That makes me sad.
87. I am a bit of an OCD.
88. I partake in some repetitive habits.
89. I'll leave it at that.
90. It hasn't gotten in the way of my everyday life.
91. OK. I'll give you one thing.
92. Sometimes I have to walk on certain tiles in my kitchen.
93. I don't know what I will do when I get a new place and possibly don't have tiles.
94. Seriously.
95. But maybe I will be cured.
96. I do alphabetize my music collection.
97. My closet is color coordinated.
98. My underwear drawer is a mess.
99. My cat is really old right now.
100. I even call her "granny" now.
101. She has worn bandages, lost most of her teeth, and doesn't walk in a straight line.
102. She has her own brand of OCD.
103. She doesn't have a boyfriend.
104. She loves to sleep in shoes.
105: What I'm saying is: Sound vaguely familiar?!?
106. Except I have all my teeth.
107. Well, except the one that has a crown in the back.
108. I go to the dentist twice a year.
109. I floss regularly.
110. And I have opposable thumbs.
111. But I do like to purrr.

Not The Hip-Shaking King...The Plastic Variety

The stalker is back. I ran into him outside my building so there was no avoiding it. And in the three minute conversation we had, he managed to bring up a body part that, really, should not come up in casual conversation. Especially not in the context he was using it. [Example: Did you party your {fill-in-the-blank-with-male-body-part} off?] I mean, really. How does a girl respond? So he creeps me out.

But you know what creeps me out even more than some lustful, ogling pervert?

The King with the big, plastic, smiley bobble-head. The King of Burger King commercial fame with the advertising slogan, "Wake up with The King!" or, "Up late with The King!" Have you seen these commercials? It's this big human puppet. In bed with you when you wake up. Or he's outside your window a-knockin' when you open your currents. That painted on smile. I am sure he just wants you to forego the McGriddle, the McMuffin, and the Breakfast Burrito, for BK's own, I'm sure, equally delectable breakfast. Maybe he doesn't intend to kill you. Or does he?

Is it an indelible image of kind and sympathetic marketing? Oh, I think not.

If you have never seen these commercials then you -you lucky bastard - will forever have peaceful slumber. With birds and sweet song. Meadows. You may skip. And eat straight from a sugar jar. And never get a cavity.

But if you have seen these commercials, then you will be haunted in your dreams if you turn your tv off right at the point when the plastic-headed King comes on your screen and that is the last image you are left with before turning in for the night. Or is that just me? A conspiracy afoot? Because, if last night was any indication, the King does not like to be silenced. He will come back for more.

As all creepy creeping creepsters do.

I don't want to go to BK if there is a chance I will run into this creepo. I'll run for the Border before I run to any castle. King and my Prince be damned!

But if he taunts me in my sleep again, I may have to. Damn marketing genius. How do you do it?

So, you see, I have this aversion to puppets, dolls with the blinking eyes, and clowns. Never liked them. My mom has a few of these antique dolls, some with the blinking eyes, and they all have a spot on her bed, which is just....creepy. The oompah loompahs? Creepy. Those halloween costumes with the plastic masks? Creepy. Ronald McDonald, for that matter....creepy. And a plastic life-sized King will still scare the shit out of me!

But when anything fearsome or creepy enters my dreams - then that just crosses the line into Horror-Film-Where-I-Am-The-Victim territory. And you are the audience, screaming at the tv to GET OUT OF THERE! YOU IDIOT, HE IS RIGHT BEHIND YOU! Or is he in the parlor with the Professor and the candlestick?

Uh-oh....where is the King now?

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Scared yet?

Let me give you an example of how my dreams are capable of haunting me silly. And I am not alone, my sister can attest, as she is victim too.

We were young - grade school age - and we were in a Publix (the best grocery store with the best bakery in the world, y'all!). We were horsing around as young kids forced to go grocery shopping on a Saturday afternoon will do. And we carried it too far because we dumped over a standing ashtray that - back in those days - they had standing on every aisle so you could, you know, smoke and shop at the same time. Shortly after the "Clang! Clatter! Clatter! Shwwwwiiiiiinnnnkkkl!" came a booming voice - out of nowhere - very Wizard of Oz - summoning a "Clean up on Aisle 6!" So my sister and I started giggling at this because, slap your knee, look at what we did and our parents didn't even see it! Not only are we bad-ass, we are scot-free. But! Then came the Evilist Man Of The Evilist Empire In All The Land shooting us the most evil dirty looks as he was forced to sweep up the ash and butts. In all its sooty-gag-me splendor. Then he muttered something in his "native tongue" at us - A Spell! And so for years that voice and that look HAUNTED us. In our dreams. And we always shared them with each other to let each other know that we were in this nightmare together. Which haunted us in the real world too. See, this guy happened to be of a certain ethnicity and so we just stereotyped the whole country - or the whole continent, which we didn't realize at the time - as one man. The evil Chinese Man.

We feared the Chinese Man.

Dad: We are going to Chinese Restaurant tonight.
Me and Sister: No! No! We are sick! We are sick!
Dad: ???
Me and Sister: Chinese Man will be there. Chinese Man wants us dead.

We got over that eventually and have since come to love the Chinese Man. In fact, we love all Man. We always vote a Liberal ticket. Our hearts bleed. We are cool like that. And I have dated a Japanese guy - by our little girl scared-shitless standards he would have been Chinese Man.

So, you see? Our own mind creates and conjures icons of fear. Or is that just freakishly me? The mind she is wild - and mine just happens to run, run, run. I would make a plea to BK to kill the plastic-headed King but we know that the monsters never die. They always come back.

And so I go to Burger King.

Shopping Scents

I like shopping by myself. I am not an impulsive shopper, usually. If I am heading out to a store, I usually have an intended purchase in mind. Sometimes other things will wind up in my cart, draped over my arms, or in my driveway (??), but generally I think through my purchases. I will mentally tally up my bank account minus the purchase. I will pair it up with things in my closet (or where it will go in my house). I will dream about other accessories I need to buy to complete the purchase. But this all takes place in my own head. If I need to rationalize something, I will call for help. I'll call my friends, my mom, my sister, my brother. With all due respect, I almost never seek the opinion of the salesperson. They're biased.

But sometimes you get the overzealous salesperson who thinks they know you better than you know yourself. They think they know how you decorate your home. Yes, these chili pepper Christmas lights will add that something-something your home is missing. They think they can dress you better. They think they are Coco Chanel and you are a KMart Special. Personally, if you want to wear the purple with the green with the orange with the pink - then color away! If we all wore that outfit off of the mannequin in the front window we'd be rather ordinary.

Unless I am shopping in territory I am unfamiliar. In that case, help will be needed by the salespeople. I'll find you. Let me ask the questions. When I am in Home Depot and looking at the power tools or getting keys made or in a nursery deciphering the green and flowering and what I will or will not eventually kill, I will ask for some help. I know when the Shopping becomes too big for me to handle. By the way, shopping for a car? Been there, done that, on my very own, thank you very much. And most certainly when I am in any clothing, general retail, department, fabric, or liquor store, I can almost always hold my own.

So over the weekend, I went to this lovely store to pick up three things that I use all the time: my very favorite hand soap, my very favorite Dishwashing Soap and a waterless hand sanitizer ("The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap"). All three different brands (and three different scents apparently, you'll see). Here, I encountered one of those overzealous salespeople.

Going into this conversation imagine the Clerk as Jack from Will and Grace. Flitting about with a sing-song voice. The exclamations are necessary. Imagine me deadpan, not cracking. It's Super Shopping Deameanor, A Force To Be Reckoned With. Learn, kiddies.

Clerk: You know you have three different scents going on here! *smile*
Me: Yes. I do.
Clerk: So these aren't all for you then! Oh, I love giving gifts! I'll just wrap them up for you! *smile* {Clerk rummaging under counter}
Me: No-not necessary. They are all for me.
Clerk: But you have three different scents! *frown*
Me: Yes? *blink*
Clerk: Hmmm...well what are you using them for? *quizzical look*
Me: *blink*
Me: Well, they all have three different purposes. I am not using them simultaneously, if that is what you are asking. It's kind of like buying a deodorant, a perfume, and a hair gel - they don't need to match, now do they? {Inner Me: Good one!}
Clerk: Oh honey - mine do! *smile*
Me: *blink*
Clerk: Let's go take a look at some of the other scents - maybe we can get you in the same scent family! *smile* {Turns and assumes a running start to the dish soaps.}
Me: No-really-this is what I want today. Thanks for your concern though.
Clerk: OK. *frown* {Yes, disappointed he is but he finally begins ringing up the purchases of The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap.}
Clerk: {But not satisfied to stop there with this stubborn customer.} Oh. *frown* You were at our Clearance Table. You know this Dishwashing Soap is their Holiday Scent? {Takes his glasses off now to give me a good looking down upon.}
Me: Well, I kind of gathered that since it is Pumpkin Spice.
Clerk: Oh! So you are going to save it for next Thanksgiving! *smile*
Me: No. I will use it today when I get home. I like the smell. And it is on sale.
Clerk: Yes, we put it on sale because it is ssoooo last season. *tsk, tsk* We have some other more spring-like scents. Shall we go look? {Starts the sprint to the Clearance Table.}
Me: I like pumpkin in the spring. In fact, I am going to go home and bake a pumpkin pie. {Inner Me: Good one!}
Clerk: *frown* {Proceeds with the ring up of The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap.}
Clerk: *aha!* OK. Now this Hand Soap you bought - you haven't used it before now have you? *pursed lips*
Me: Actually, it is all I use. I have been using it for five years now. {Inner Me: No lie!}
Clerk: Then you should buy the economy jug! *smile* Let's go look! {Starts the sprint back to the soap.}
Me: I don't want the economy jug. {Now smarting to his next move.} Sure, I understand in the long run, I would probably save money that way. But I have nowhere to store it and I am fickle and may decide I don't like the scent in 6 months and I prefer to buy the new pretty bottle everytime.
Clerk: They make this one in a different scent too. What is it called- *perplexed*
Me: Don't want that.
Clerk: Umm...what is it called...umm..... *perplexed*
Me: *blink* {Inner Me: Doonn'tt wwaaanntt iittt.... }
Clerk: I'll be back-
Me: That won't be nec-
Clerk: {Darts off faster than a speeding bullet, jumps display tables in a single bound.}
Clerk: {Running back.} Fruits and passion! Fruits and passion! *smile, smile, smile*
Me: Yeah, thanks. Still don't want it.
Clerk: *frown* {But proceeds with the ringing up.}
Clerk: OK. Now this hand sanitizer... {Takes off glasses again.}
Me: *sigh* What about the hand sanitizer?
Clerk: You know they make it in a bigger size?
Me: Yes, I want this size.
Clerk: You'll go through it pretty fast.
Me: I need it for my purse so I need that size.
Clerk: *frown* {Finishes ringing me up.}
Clerk: {Hands me the bag.} Enjoy your soaps! *smile*

In the end, I got out of there with my intended purchase: The Soap, The Soap, And The Other Soap. And when I got home I squirted them all over the sink together to break the scents in and boy did it smell like lemon, roses, pumpkin, cinnamon, verbena, lavender, sugar and spice and everything nice. *sniff, sniff* Smell that? An olio of scents. My nose was loving it.

So does my stubborn proclivity to my own shopping scents make me a good consumer or a bad consumer?

Cash Register: Ka-ching!
Apartment: I can't breathe. If I eat another thing I will explode.
Closets: Can you move out some of the derelicts in here?
Cat: Bags! Yeah, let me put my head in here and breathe. Let's play! Uh-oh. Yak. Yak.
Carpet: Dirty! Clean me!
Vacuum: Sick. Cough. Cough. Dying. Dying. Dy.....sssssssssssss...
Nose: Eww. What happened to the "olio of scents"?! Smells like someone is burning plastic.
The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap: Squirt us! Squirt us!
Carpet: Still dirty! Don't invite anyone over. I'm ashamed to have anyone see me like this.
Vacuum Store: Oh, you need my help, huh? We have special vacuums for people like you. That will be one million and sixty-two dollars. And it will die in a year. See you next year!
Wallet and Bank Account: Feed me.
Credit Card Company: Will you marry me?
Clerk who sold me The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap: Bitch! *smile*

In the end, the splurge on The Soap, The Soap, and The Other Soap ended up costing me a vacuum and not the unifying scented soaps, or the economy jug, or the "in season" scents the clerk was pusing. Nope. A vacuum. Or, that is how I rationalized it in my head. That clerk had some all-mighty powers that transcended my "shopping scents." Damn. He's good.

Mistaken Identity: Case #147 and #148

You know how you can be walking along and usually you mind your own business as in wouldn't notice if Willem Dafoe walked right on by and blew you a kiss because you are la-la-laing to music in your head or thinking about your next meal or how you want to spend money or where is happy hour people? But today you are actually noticing. The surroundings. You're making eye contact. With all the people. And then out of the corner of your eye, you think you see someone you know so you do a double take because you are, you know, paying attention and since you are looking at everybody you don't want to ignore somebody you actually know. And it is all fast when you do the double take and simultaneously smile and mouth a "hi" with no vocals attached because - frog in your throat. So fast that you didn't leave time for your poor, slow brain to catch up with your befuddled excitement before realizing that no, you don't know who this person is. In fact, they look nothing like the person you thought it was. Idiot! (Me.) And so the person looks at you kind of strangely like, do I know you or are you just weird.

I totally just did that. Weirdly.

And last weekend when I was in a bar with six other girlfriends. Some guy came up to me and used the line (actually!)...."Do I know you from somewhere?" First of all, I am not going to critique that line because I figure; a) you got the balls to walk up to a girl standing amongst 6 other hot girls - kudos to you - so say what you want as long as it isn't something that will be blocked from my dirty spam filter at work, you dirty boy; and b) I am too paranoid - as in, I started obsessing on the possibility that he has seen my profile online. Not as in posing, or leaked home videos, mind you. But rather innocent hi-I'm-single-looking-for-love-in-cyberspace-tap-tap-is-this-thing-on presence? But really, he swore he knew me from somewhere. So he proceeds to count down scenarios in which he could have met me.
Do you play kickball on the Mall? -No.
Do you go to blah-di-blah church? -Me? No.
Did you go to Georgetown Law? -Nope.
Do you know Joe Schmo? -Ahh...no.

I didn't recognize him. So instead of letting the poor guy ramble on about my presumed doppelganger and instead of letting my paranoia lie low, I blurt out, "Maybe you've seen me on [online dating service]?" Because I'm out there. For everyone to see. Me - paranoid. He grins and says, "Yeah, no, that wouldn't be it." Because? The shame! Psshaw.

So, later, when he asked for my phone number, I said, "I can be reached online. You can contact me there."

Case closed.

Crafting is, like, sooo crafty! And dangerous!

Craft Corner Deathmatch. Has anyone seen this show on the Style network?

I think people are celebrating it as Martha Stewart Living meets Mad Max Beyond Thunder Dome, American Gladiator, and the Iron Chef. In fact, this, from their website: "...home ec as extreme sport...and someone's about to get the craft kicked out of them." Well, with a slogan like that you know you are in for a solid half hour of entertaining TV time.

And it is just that.

I am not going to sit here and review all the dynamics of the show. It's rather game-shjow formulaic in that you have two contestants (in this case, two fist-pumping DIYers), a panel of judges (craft "experts"!), a gothic and solemn "Vanna White", a charismatic host (yum, more on him later!), and a rowdy audience that gets a lot of airtime (they are jeering and cheering and enclosed behind a fence to, you know, shield them from a flying glue gun, mobile, or paper airplane). Really. You either get the picture or you are living under a rock. Seriously, get thee to the show immediately! You won't regret a single moment.

I like the show for two reasons. I like crafting and I like boys. Let me explain.

First, I am a crafter myself. I have been cross-stitching, quilting, purse-making, doodling, knitting, decoupaging, glue-gunning, duct-taping, etc. for years. Here is a walk down "crafting" memory lane.

The first time I got creative with scissors was with Barbie. First, it started with cutting hair. I had the Donnie and Marie dolls and, well, they weren't Barbie. So I cut Marie's hair. In a bob. Then my sister and I each got a Ballerina Barbie, so we agreed we could make one "ugly." We cut her hair too. Then Donnie we just made gay. Because he had the purple nut-hugging outfit. Then we had a Darcy doll. And, well, she wasn't Barbie either - and she was bigger, more voluptous. So she was the sexy Mom. Who stole all her daughters' Kens.

Then I started cutting up old clothes and vintage (gasp!) aprons to make Barbie clothes. I was a Barbie fashion designer. I made wraps. I'd put on snaps. I would overlay fabrics. Playing With Barbie became Designing For Barbie. This carried on into high school when I met my bestest friend, Martini. But not with Barbie. No, we were dressing and designing ourselves. We canvassed the thrift stores weekly. Great days were "Bag Days", when you got a hodgepodge of goods. You never knew what gem would be in your bag. Then we would reconstruct the clothes. One time I made a green blue and red paisly long-sleeve shirt into a skirt. Sigh. This was back in the late-80's before thrifting became so trendy and marked-up.

I remember a time in high school, going to a party and meeting Schmitty. Schmitty was an odd duck (seriously, think Duckie from Pretty In Pink). He was just sitting at this party where lots of beer-drinking and acid-dropping occurred. What drew me to Schmitty was the fact that he was just sitting there.....knitting. So I got him to get his lesbian mom to teach me how to knit.

I remember taking a quilting class in high school. Then I became competitive with some other girl in my class to see who could crank out the most "Quilt-In-A-Day" quilts in the year. I made six but I think she won. But that's ok, because I got the boy. We were an early day Craft Corner Deathmatch.

In college, I had Saran Man. Saran Man was inspired by my friend, Katie. Katie took some wire hangers and fashioned a "little man." Then wrapped him up in your favorite color of saran wrap. We all had one sitting in the back seat of our cars because one time Katie's Saran Man got her out of a speeding ticket. Seriously, the cop was not the least bit creeped out or weirded out by a "little man" just hanging in the back seat. So he left her off for her "creativity." Who knew? So, Saran Man then served as our guardian angels.

I watch HGTV. I like craft shows. I could spend a lazy Sunday watching nothing but. Which is ironic if you think about it. If I like crafting so much, shouldn't I be spending that lazy Sunday doing so? Sometimes I do. But I like watching other people's ideas too. The traditional craft shows are so sweater-tied-around-the-neck, this-is-how-my-grandma-did-it, whiskers-on-kittens, blah-di-blah. So rote. But Craft Corner Deathmatch is a craft show that doesn't take itself too seriously. I like to see how two different people approach something as outlandish as making shoes out of wallpaper, boxes out of cards, or pins out of candy.

But let's get to the real meat of this. Should I be embarrased to admit that I have a crush on the host? Yes, people, Jason Jones is kind of hot. He's a blisteringly-animated, overly-anxious, smack-talking, trouble-raising, shrieking maniac! He's as menacing as my purring two-toothed cat who runs from the vacuum. And when he did that V formation with his arms right at unit level, with the slightest thrust, when he was talking about "kahunas." Well, I might be a little in love with him.

So, in the end, I got no point. But I got a message: Competitive Crafting is the new crack. And I'm admitting it here: "I'm addicted."

Table For One

Eating alone is lonely. Eating out in public alone is humbling.

I don't mind dining out alone. But for the experience to be dignified, you have to plan for it and you have to have contingency plans. Even the most seasoned Table For One sometimes messes up and vows never to return.

The first rule of dining alone is to bring a distraction (i.e., reading material). So you look busy - at least too busy to be bothered with company. You are in control and content in your own skin. But my decision to dine out on Saturday afternoon was an afterthought really so I didn't have any reading material with me. Aha! But the restaurant has a City Paper. That would be perfect. Except...there were no more papers to be had. I had no reading material! I decided I would persevere anyway. It was early enough and the restaurant was empty enough. I thought I could be in and out rather quickly.

So I amble to the hostess' counter and meekly say, "Just one, please." She looks at me then proceeds to talk to the other hostess. Huh? I stood there for a good whole minute before another girl - a third hostess - comes over and asks if she can help me. I say again, more confidently this time, "Yes. Table for one, please." She seats me. And she gives me a choice. It was a difficult one. I could sit right in view of the front door. Or by the window - away from the eyesight of the door or passerbys on the main street. This choice is crucial. I was going to need scenery (what with no reading material). I could stare at the front door and people watch. Or I could select the window area - which is more secluded. I select the window. Again - I was going to be in and out quickly....right?

No.

Nobody is taking my order....I have been sitting here for - what - five whole minutes! (When you are a Table For One With Nothing To Read, that can seem like an eternity.) I didn't even need to look at the menu. I said I was ready to order right away. So I wait. Minute after minute. For someone. Anyone. To take my order. My drink order? Hello? Water. Thhhirsssty. De-hy-dra-ted. No one. There are three waitresses (or are those the hostesses?) huddled at their post. I try to wave their attention. Nothing. Bitches. Ten minutes later, I make eye contact and ask if I can order. They nod. Two minutes later, a completely new girl goes to the table behind me to take their order. Their whole party wasn't even seated! So she mosies my way. And yet, I politely order my food. I don't want any funky kitchen scrap or bodily excretion ending up in my food on account of some sassy attitude. It's key. Restaurant staff can treat me like shit, I am always going to treat them like gold.

In hindsight, I should have ordered it to go. Because - horror of horrors - what does a Table For One With Nothing To Reading NOT want more than anything in the world? A Table Of Three sitting ON TOP OF THEM.

And so the bitches (who clearly hate me) sit a Table Of Three at the table right next to me. When there are about 30 other tables - the whole restaurant really - where they could have sat. This table is ON TOP OF ME. Really. They are so close I could reach out and butter their bread. Or stick a finger in their eye. Now, why? And why didn't they just say, "Could we have this table over here?" Why did they have to sit right ON TOP OF ME? If I enter a very empty restaurant and they want to seat me right ON TOP OF another person. I politely ask to sit somewhere else. It's called personal space.

So, as I am waiting for my food, I am just staring into space because again, I am Table For One With Nothing To Read. I would like to look around. But Table Of Three is, like, blocking my view of the whole restaurant so I would just be staring at them. I thought that might seem impolite. Or stalkerish. So I decide to just sit there and mind my own business - get my chopsticks ready. Look in my purse. Fiddle with my napkin. Take sips of my Coke. You know - general time killers. And then you know what Table Of Three does? They look my way - out the window - right over my head and through my head. And started talking about the weather. And looking outside. La la la. Looking outside. Through my head. While I just stare at the phantom person across the table. (And we are telepathically telling Table Of Three - LOOK AWAY!)

So forget it Table Of Three. You sat ON TOP OF ME. You stared my way for eternity. I'm listening in!

Conversational themes I heard from the table ON TOP OF ME:

Food is my friend!
Guy #1: I just eat when I get hungry. And then I stop when I'm full.
Girl: Me too! I never eat that much so that I get that full feeling. I know when to stop.

I want spicy but not spicy!
Girl to waitress: What should I get? I want noodles. I want spicy. But I can't do Rendang. This indecision is killing me.

We are vegetarians!
Guy #2: I'm vegetarian.
Guy #1: I am too!
Girl: We are all vegetarians! Waitress we are vegetarians - no meat products can touch our plate or in the vicinity of our meal.
{Waitress brings me my meal.}
Table for One: Singapore PORK Fried Rice. Yum! Hi Table Of Three! Maybe you should have taken one of the other 30 TABLES in the restaurant! Bon appetit!

You see, I wasn't alone after all.