People To Hate: The "Enjoy Your Lunch" Police Brigade

This post is brought to you by the Welcome Mat. Nothing says "thanks for your hospitality!" like rubbing your dirty feet all over someone's symbol of welcome.

We have these security guards in the building where I work. It all goes back to 9/11.....no, wait, that is not right, they aren't concerned about our SAFETY - we need guarding from the Big Bad Media. Seems we got in a little bit of trouble with the IRS. Anyway, we have security now and you have to show them your badge every time you make a move. Going to the bathroom! Here's my badge! Going to get some staples for my Swingline! Here's my badge! And what happens when you forget your badge? Well, you can't get in is what happens. UNLESS you call somebody in your department who can come down and vouch for you and escort you around as the Badgeless Dunce and then you have to go all the way back downstairs to show them your badge once you locate it on your desk (or in the bottom of your purse afterall). And only then can you elevate your status to BadgeFULL Dunce.

I think this is overkill. See we have ourselves an overzealous Police Academy dropout. This one particular guard knows me by name - last name even. She calls me Mrs.! And then the one day I forgot my badge she refused my entry. And I should also note that they don't even LOOK AT THE BADGE. My picture is covered with the clip-on thing that I snap over it in order to shield mine and other unsuspecting eyes from the HORROR THAT IS MY PICTURE. Let me just say: Escaped Convict With A Bird's Nest For Hair...And One Eye That Got Shot Out In My Escape. See? That is not me. I have two eyes. And the bird's nest hairstyle is so seven years ago. So you could just flash some white look-alike badge (like, say, the access card to my apartment building) and you are IN. Break on through to the other side, man!

But you want to know what really irks me about the Security Detail? It is really not the badge hounding. It is for the simple fact that they have turned "have a nice day!" and "enjoy your lunch!" into a platitude - overused and abused. Yeah, what prickly pear did I sit on? Because what would be the alternative, right? "Get food poisoning!" "Have a sucky day!" Well, it may just as well be that because I note an underlying sarcasm with each utterance of these niceties - mounting sarcasm. Especially when it is shouted at you when you are - literally - one foot out the door. Yes, this one particular guard goes to excessive lengths to extol the wishes on everybody - you, you, and you - to have a ggrrreat lunch. And don't just have a great lunch NOW, have one everytime I see you. Because the Police Academy XII: Checking Badges cast (she has trained her co-workers now who used to not partake in her "game") now says "enjoy your lunch" ANYTIME you leave the office in between the hours of 11 and 2:30. 11:30 I run to the post office: "Enjoy your lunch!" 12:15 on Tuesday I go to an elementary school to read to a kid: "Enjoy your lunch!" Heading to CVS at three for a snack break: "Have a nice day!" I definitely get "enjoy your lunch" atleast two times a day - on my way out and on my way in.

I wouldn't have a problem if these words were spoken at the APPROPRIATE TIME. Like when I come back into the building - flashing my badge, of course - with a little brown bag in my hand and it is around noontime. At this time, one can safely assume I just bought my lunch. And most likely I am going to be eating it as soon as I get back to my office. "Enjoy your lunch!" to which I happily reply, "Thanks!" And my stomach says, "Gurgle."

And the real reason I have a problem with the frivolous use of "Enjoy your lunch!" and "Have a nice day!"is: Do you just say "thank you" in response every day - which is then sometimes three times a day? And not worry whether they think, "Gee, she sure eats a lot of lunch." Because I have tried the honest route, mumbling, "Well, I'm not going to lunch right now ACTUALLY, but thanks anyway," and frankly THAT just sounds bitchy, right? I don't think there are bigger issues to worry about right now.

I guess I am just mourning the loss of "have a nice day" and "enjoy your lunch" spoken with sincerity. The world COULD be a better place.

"Have a nice day" RIP.

That is off my chest. Now I can get back to my regularly scheduled program of worrying about things that really matter like when I am going to get my haircut and that zit that mysteriously appeared on my chin.

The Contents Of My Little Black Book

(Thought I was going to say "backpack", Mav?)

I found this little gem in the bottom of one of my 63 purses. And boy did it bring back memories. It is actually a little black/pink notepad that I scribbled in on a few occasions. It starts around Memorial Day 2004 up through some beach moments this past summer when I started to jot down things we found funny but could never remember. I didn't realize I started a little "drunk stenographer business" this summer as I interviewed Mav or Goose for "items of interest." I got a chuckle out of it as I took a walk down memory lane. So why not publish it?

Drunk Girl Bar Tablet, Original Words and Illustrations by Boa and Friends

Page 1.

A drawing of a cross-type design with the word, independence, coarsely written in it. I think it was an idea for a tattoo. Good thing I didn't follow through with it because according to my drawing - if that is what I had in mind for the tattoo artist to use as reference - I could be walking around with the word "indepence" inked somewhere on my body.

Page 2.

(Dated 10/9/04)

Dear Diary, Today I went to [name of bar] and got drunk.

Page 3.

A self-portrait of my "new haircut" which was the little chin length bob. yuk.

Page 4.

A primitive drawing of a big round circle with a face drawn in it, titled, "Justin." (Hee! Those of you who know J will find the charicature right on.)

Page 5.

Another charicature of my other friend, represented as a big hulking man with muscles, titled, "Bruce Almighty."

Page 6.

The Super Secret Shortcut Directions down to the beach. I ended up amending what was written down for me with - what I felt were - more accurate directions. See, I am a visual person.

Right on 405 became... Right at The Shack
Left on 304... Left in The Middle Of Nowhere

[The rest of these pages I am copying in its true form.]

Page 7.

stepped on girl-mad
so I stepped on her again
Ask 280-lb guy to help me
Laying down
"Baby Doll Get up"
Drives the Wilmington White Trash Truck
He carried her
slimey legs - skirt around waist
Pizza - Mav passed out
Ate Goose's crust

Page 8.

Neo;
ice cream cones
and teddy grahams

Page 9.

Bizarro Mav World
Getting lost - cops - state fair - cow breaking loose
Dirk Digler - saw "it"
chicken ass whooping
chicken in a holster
thumbing it

Page 10.

hot dog vendor - drive-thru
changing in car (honk, honk)

----
And there you have it. The first 10 pages of a drunk girl's Diary. I think it is beautiful in all its randomness. Me thinks I will resume to note-taking when moments beg of it. And so if I could do page 11 after the fact, this is what it would say:

Page 11.

Driveby - on the floor
Old man likes Mav
People in Gaithersburg probably prefer carpet
Tear in my beer
Chopped liver - Massage!
Really, really fat girl dancing on bar
We too
Woo hoos
Can't drink on bar - have to be off bar - leave Mav
You are a city girl

The Explanation Of The Girl Who Cried Wolf

Apparently I have a history of doing this. I think it proves that I am rather melodramatic.

I remember one time when I was really little - probably 2nd grade or so - and I got so mad because I didn't get my way so I declared in a fit of bratitude (my word - tm that) to my parents, "I am running away. You can't stop me. Did you hear me? I am running away. I will leave this house. You won't see me again. I am running away. OK? Did you hear that? I am running away." They were like, "OK then. Do it already." So you see? I had no choice. I was running away.

So I stormed back to my bedroom and got out my little green butterfly suitcase (that was my grandma's - so thrift-shop-chic and one-of-a-kind). So I took it down from my closet, stalled a little in my room, then resumed to the dramatic display of Running Away As Planned By a 7-Year Old - which is storming rather noisily out of the house in a very visible huff and again reminding them, in case they missed it, "I am running away. Running. Away!" Yeah, and did you notice that I did not pack my suitcase either? That is right. Because, see, my parents were supposed to STOP me before I left the house. So there was no need for a change of clothes or the oreos. They were supposed to say, "Don't go, sweet child. We will let you have your way." But no - and I think I saw a little chuckle in my dad's face. But I dismissed it in my 7 year-old the-world-revolves-around-me fit.

So I set out with my empty suitcase and ran myself away all the way to....the back of the side of the house. See, there were no windows here, yet one could easily find me if one so desired. I thought about this. I thought my plan golden. Until I sat there. And I sat there. And I sat there. Thinking. "Daddy will come look for me. Not Mom. She can hold a grudge. But Daddy is a softie. He doesn't spank." (And, frankly, Daddy always let us have our way.) Alas nobody came for me. I began to think I should have packed the barbies or the matchbox cars. And definitely the oreos because I was getting hungry. But I waited a good long time anyway. Til right about dinnertime. And I couldn't take it anymore. I started to miss my room. Perhaps I learned I didn't need my way. Time made me think rationally (about whatever was so dire at the time). And so I walked back into the house with my head hung low. In defeat. Except my dad greeted me at the door and said, "You are back! We are glad! We have missed you!" Then I didn't feel like I lost my way anymore. I was hungry and I was glad to be IN the house and not around the corner. Years later I found out that my dad kept an eye on my whereabouts. He knew all along that I was camped out on the side of the house.

Actually I think my dad always got a chuckle out of my histrionics. Like the time I was waiting in the car for him for like 20 minutes and finally had enough of The Wait and was ready to scream and holler, "What about me?!" But he met me with laughter because he honestly forgot I was waiting for him and got to talking to his friend. He genuinely thought it funny that he forgot about me but moreso that I waited 20 minutes to remind him. Usually I don't have that kind of patience. His laughter always brought me down to the ground from high horse of melodrama. Then there was the time I was arguing with my mom in all my teenage rebellious rage and calmly told her that "...sometimes you have to take a walk on the wild side." My dad could not contain the laughter. I wasn't even going for laughter, perhaps Lou Reed was left over in my 8-track mind and the tune subconsciously became part of my argument. In any case, my point is, my dad had a way - in just his fun-loving and alway humorous outlook - of making me realize that the drama can - should - be left at the door. Find the humor. Except I keep doing the drama bit. Apparently. My mom always told me that my dad had a way of undersanding me.

All that to say that this isn't new - at the first sign of trouble or disagreement or unease, I tend to panic and assume the worst most of the time. And I bark, harp, or cry for about five minutes and then I get over it. And then I laugh like my dad used to do because, um, drama for all the wrong reasons. Pick your battle? I need to pick my Drama.

This is why I need my sister. We are pretty opposite. But we have always been close. Even when I was the tag-along. Except she never made me feel like a tag-along, come to think of it. Because she is the sweet one - finds the best in people. She is rational. She is positive. Pretty much the opposite of how I operate. When there is a debate to be had, I always cede to her because not only does she have the intellect but she has the tact and grace to appeal and get through to people. She knows how to communicate effectively, is what it is. While I think I have always tended to be more of a visual person. And that is how I express myself. Sister: even-keel. Me: Drama Queen. And it is no wonder that I always look for her opinion in any Drama. And she pretty much nailed it on the head:

"Just my 2 cents-at this point in the relationship don't be afraid to ask for what you want out of it. And if he can't deliver, then that should answer your doubts....The issue at hand is that you don't know what's going on in his head. You can ask for what you need in the relationship without appearing to be a nag."

Let me sum that up. Um, I need to talk TO him. And not to my 999 friends. (Who also offered valuable pearls of wisdom and advice which I appreciate and absorbed. Thank you all!) But see, I have to admit I have been brainwashed by relationship self-help books. Yes. There you have it. But let me explain. They were gifted to me. See, I have this friend who lived by these books religously. When we first met we were both in love with The Wrong Guy. We bonded instantly and then The Right Guy finally came along for her and now she is married to him and expecting their first child. She read these books and took the advice to heart and whether that worked or whether it was just the simple fact that this was in fact The Right Guy - he wasn't going anywhere no matter what. Although I am sure if she uttered anything remotely like the girl on the Bachelor last night - "I am ready to reproduce! My eggs are drying up! I am feeling very reproductive with you right now!" - No joke. She said exactly that. - Then I am sure he would have hit the road. However that is just common sense and if you have to read that to know that that is The Most Postively Undoubtedly Wrong Thing To Say, well then you have kind of made your own bed, so to speak. One that you won't be sharing with ANYBODY, rest assured. Punny!

Anyhow, so the books. She passed them down to me one day last year after my last break-up and right before she tied the knot in a very Passing-The-Torch-Share-The-Wisdom-Of-The-Male-Species kind of way. I was going to "love smart!" It sounds so healthy! And so I read them all and I took a chapter from one of the books this weekend. Which said pretty much this little nugget: Men are waffles. You are spaghetti. Everything is interconnected to you - boy-work-boy-eat-boy-eat-work-boy-boy. To Boy he compartmentalizes. Work has nothing to do with you. He can think about work. And not about you. And then you silly, harpy, Boy needs space. Always. Give it to him, you Clinging Vine. Or he will run, run away and never look back. See? He's a rubberband - you need to let him snap back on his own. Eventually his elastic will wear thin. Now go drink with your friends. And leave the Caveman alone.

I didn't turn to my sister who is successfully married. I stuck to the book advice and given my history of Overreacting what do we have but: Boa's First Histrionic Fit of 2006. Straight to video. My dad's not here to hold the cue card that says, "Laugh." So I will just tell you, "Laugh."

Now, after talking to him AFTER the fact, what I should have done - and I am not going to say what HE should have done because that IS one thing I learned in past relationships, that you can't TELL someone how to behave, you can only tell them how you FEEL about this or that or when he/she did/doesn't do that - what I SHOULD have done was called him and talked to him. Make him clarify what "I can't see you because I have to work all weekend" means. Iin a non-confrontational, un-harpy, charming way. To him, of course it meant, just that. But he doesn't realize that if he expands on that with "...because I will be NO FUN and in bad mood and I don't want to take it out on you, hurt your feelings, cause a fight, and frankly I just want to focus here and come back to you next week when I can give 100 per cent" - it would calm my pretty little head way the hell down.

With that, I would have been fine with it before, oh say, I jumped the gun and packed my green butterfly suitcase and took a walk right down to The Corner Of Insecurity And Drivebys. Because, like I said, things have been peachy between us, for the most part. There has been periphal talk of the future and I think that was for his benefit in order to get his own security with me in check before he could take some time out to do his thing. (This month is going to be rough for him.) And not have to worry about how I feel about him. That is why I freaked out because in my mind his actions didn't match up. Girl interrupted? Girl confused!

Bottom line: He didn't think about how his behavior would affect me. Well, I need to share that with him. So it won't happen next time. And if it does, well then those might be cues by way of Emily's Reasons Why Not. (I watched that show last night too. Jury is still out but it is NO Sex and The City.) I won't place demands of Here Is What You Need To Do You Rubberband-Caveman Waffle Person.

Now about the him being so busy and too busy for me and yet still went out. Well that was an out-of-town college roommate who was in town that he caught up with for a short time with on Saturday night. He no more wanted to go out than the man on the moon (who says that?) but knew that it would be the only opportunity to see this person. Wrong or right. I actually understand this for the most part. A few weeks ago I had a friend who was in town and I actually forgot that she was in town until she called me the afternoon of Sunday asking to meet for dinner. I was in one of my moods that night (I have them too!) and I wanted to be by myself but I knew that I had to meet this person because who knew when the next time would be. And I certainly did want to see her. So I sucked it up. Which I think is what he did.

And so I will close the self-help books for now and go with my gut (and my heart) and talk to him a little more. He loves to talk! It is natural to have some insecurity in the beginning of a relationship, isn't it? I think so. And it is working through these moments that build a stronger realtionship. So, we will just have to see how Peter Pan carries himself now that we have talked. And if he thinks THIS is histrionics and wants to take away my voice (which I know in my heart of hearts he wouldn't do), well then, I will just have to pack that little green butterfly suitcase and REALLY run away.

The (Mis)Adventures Of A Jilted And Heartbroken Girl

So it was the first weekend apart that he requested - or did he request a weekend apart? I actually think a more accurate take on it is Setting The Wheels In Motion To Breakup. (Did I say this is truly from left field?) He definitely said, "Stay away. Busy. Don't have time for you." And I obliged...but I thought I would get a check-in phone call atleast once over the weekend. It dictated my whole weekend. It might bring out a little bit of crazy.

Friday night was simple enough. I made a little dinner of salt & pepper krinkle cut french fries and a couple glasses of wine. And chatted on the phone all night with girlfriends analyzing every moment Boyfriend (herinafter known as Peter Pan) and I have spent together. At the end of the night, I saw no signs of pulling away or disinterest on his part (prior to the 1.5.2006 email). So I decided to let it go. Let him have his space.

Then I was awoken rather early on Saturday morning to the sounds of the couple next door getting it on and cooing in moments of pleasure. I wanted none of that. I thought about "reporting" them to the front desk. But it would only come out like this: "Hi Front Desk. Yes this is Girl Who Is On Verge Of Getting Dumped By What She Thought Was A Wonderful Boy And Who Was Doing Everything Right and I'd like to report Too Much Good Time going on next door." So I just moved my slumber to the living room where I don't share a wall with the Lovemakers.

Then Saturday night came and Mav showed up at around 8:00 pm. The night started off innocently enough and just like it always does. "Hi Mav!" "Hi Boa!" and then we laugh. Because that is what we do. I was really, really happy to see my friend. And then I came up with the fabulous idea. It was so fun when I did it high school I thought this could be so much fun again now that I am 30ish.

This is when Driveby #1 happened. (Unless you count the one I did earlier in the day on my way to Target.) (Also, let me just say that he lives right off a major road that really is on the way to Target so all you have to do is cock your head to the right and look up the road to see if car is out front. It was.) But let's go back to the real Planned Driveby #1. The bar we were going to just happened to be right around the corner from his house. We both live in a fairly urban area and less than a mile from each other. So the driveby consisted of going up the busy street. Car was there. Then Mav says, "Let's drive DOWN the street." Me: "Um...Oooo-kayyyy." I was reluctant. So I threw that seat belt off and crammed my 5'7 self down onto the floorboard of her car. I just folded myself right down the middle like a seam and tucked my arms and legs in. Mav thought I only need to lean over. But I disagree. He KNOWS my back. I thought he like it. Anyway, the driveby confirmed: Lights On, Clearly At Home.

At bar, we get pounced on - let me correct that, Mav gets pounced on by two or so guys. One 50 year old and one big Meathead. Mav got her first set of digits for the night. Something about flooring installation. So after some food and a couple drinks it is time to move the party and try out the new bar. But not before we do Driveby #2. It is about 9:15 and this time the driveby revealed: Not Home. Which ended up turning into Driveby #3 because I know where he parks when he goes out, either in Clarendon or when he takes the metro to go downtown. Driveby #3 revealed: A Car! He was out! And I just sink a little deeper into sadness.

We stick to our plan and go into Bar #2. Wherin Mav gets her second set of digits for the night. This guy was actually kind of cute and seemingly nice. Because he complimented me. Which guys when you are hitting on a girl, DO NOT dis the friend. You get on good terms with Friend and Friend will talk you up. He said that Peter Pan would be crazy to ever let me go (or somethng like that). I want Mav to go out with him.

But we finish our one drink there because it is time to go downtown now. But not before we do Driveby #4. Driveby #4 revealed: Car still there. He is still out. So we hit a few more bars downtown before we end up at Coyote Ugly. Yes, Coyote Ugly. I had never been there before but it didn't surprise. It was everything I expected it to be. About a hundred or so guys screaming and ogling, while all the girls in their big boob glory pumped and grinded on the bar for the Male Viewing pleasure.

"Uggghh. Mav, let's go upstairs. This is disgusting."

So we found a place a the bar to saddle up to and the guys were flocking to Mav like bees to honey. Maybe I had a sour puss but nobody was paying me attention. Mav was busy talking. I was busy drinking. Because there was nothing else to do. And my mind was spinning with all kinds of hurt and disappointment and anger. Finally, Mav decided she liked Blue Eyed Smoker and so we hung out with him and his friend for the remainder of the night/early morning. He knew about the Pay Attention to Friend too rule. He was nice. After some drinks, we decided to call it a night.

But not before Mav and I danced on the bar downstairs. ON the bar. My feminist principles said, "I am woman. SEE me roar." Guys hooting and hollering in a drunken state of Female Ogling NOW sounded like a GREAT IDEA. It is actually a funny story and I just don't have the heart to spin it that way right now.

And so I get a ride home from Friend of Blue Eyed Smoker. I kept insisting on taking a cab. This is a stranger who doesn't even live here but is here on a short-term contract up in Maryland. So now he has to take me over the bridge to Virginia. He insisted. All the while he drove me home he kept saying, "You are a city girl. You are a city girl." Whatever that means. But I was already planning Driveby #5. I thought about making him part of it. He doesn't know where he is, I could just take him to my house by way of his house. But I think better of that. He drops me off and I proceed down to my garage to do my own little Driveby #5. Driveby #5 revealed: Home again! It was 3 AM. So he didn't go out drinking because he would have just left his car there overnight and cabbed directly to his house.

So I carried my sorry ass home.

Mav calls me up and we go to breakfast in the morning but not before we recounted the happenings of the night before. The jist of which is Drivebys and Dancing on Bars. We concluded that we were back in beach mode. Or the Mav and Boa, 2006 edition.

I love my girlfriends and Mav is one of the best. I present to you Mav.

Edited to add: We have contact. All is well. He is not breaking up with me.

2005 Playback: Summer (Minus The Beach House)

I am beginning to wonder why I began this project. I don't believe in looking back - or atleast for 2006 that is what I believe. I am bunching all the summer months together because they go together like the Miller Lite and the coosi (seriously, how do you spell that word?). Then I am on to some other things. Because guess what I believe in 2006? Resolutions. This is new for me. Never made one in my life. So I need to tell you about my interview with Dick Clark. Also, I found a new breed of people to hate. My (maybe, almost) future in doll-making. My dilemna of whether or not to attend a wedding in Baton Rouge. I also have some announcements - a new blog! and a congratulations! And something about Peter Pan. Hopefully there will be no boo hooing going on.

But this was a great summer - memories I will have forever, until senility takes over and I'm rolling down my stockings and putting my lipstick on my eyelids. I am breaking the summer into two parts: the Me part and the beachhouse part so I can let the inside jokes fly and bound a copy for Destiny's Child. But first...

The Wedding Incident

Let's start with the "bad". (You know, it's all relative.) And it goes a little something like this..."Love me two times, babe. Once for tomorrow. Once just for today..." Or: "I just got dumped - via email - by a guy who - emphatically (as in no hesitation with the yes) - agreed to go with me [to a wedding]...And now I have to tell everyone that, well, he stood me up. And then you get those words of sympathy "Oh, sorry. He doesn't deserve you. Better you found out now what he is like. You will have fun anyway. Borrow my husband." Thanks. Yes. Yes. Yes. And, uh, no."

Ta da!

Nonetheless, I was in the wedding so obviously had plenty to keep me busy over the weekend. This was the wedding of Marrieds. Except a few girlfriends that I knew. So a gaggle of Single Girls to fight over a bouquet or run from it, which has become the modern day equivalent. ("Am passive. Am independent. See I don't care about a fucking flower. Hey, cute boy, will you send me flowers? Thus, Land of Mixed Signals.") So I cried for like 2 seconds, which is how I usually operate.

But the wedding was lovely and I ended up have a fabulous time. I danced naked on a hotel rooftop with an out of town guest - who was the ONLY single guy in attendance. And he was cute! And we had a lot of fun. And I knew I would never see him again. And, for once, I was fine with that. My, the racy life I sometimes lead. (If only.)

Family Playtime

Every year around the 4th of July which is about the anniversary of my dad's death my mom comes to visit. (My dad is buried in DC.) And it is the only time I can get her up here. She is still not used to traveling on her own. And, really, seeing her drive on the highway, the intense concentration (which, kids at home, I'm not saying you shouldn't concetrate) is like seeing Michael Jackson country line dance. Something is just not right. I mean, he can do it because he is a good dancer but something just doesn't look right about it. Maybe its the hat...but I digress as usual....So this year, she brought my lovely niece who is 7 (six at the time) but really going on 15. I kid you not. But she loves me so. I know because she writes me love notes. When I am there she passes me notes. And when I am not, she sends them in the mail. She says she loves her Ya Ya. And I love, love, love her. So I had a nice visit with them this summer. We went to a baseball game wherein Ticketgate 2005 happened. (By the way, he has still not cashed the check.) We went to the zoo and got to see the pandas - before Baby was born.

Then my family all got together for a week at the beach. It was my momma's 60th birthday. I didn't really write about the visit - so no links. But I can't believe I didn't write about the All White Picture. Well, let me push my story-telling bifocals up my nose and draw you a picture...

The White Picture

So my mom's life long dream was to - be an actress? - nope, to have one of those family portraits taken where everyone wears all white shirts and then you can choose denim bottoms or khaki bottoms. Oh my, the debate on The What To Wear On The Bottom that ensued from this. We finally settled on khaki bottoms. Then my mom got upset with me because in a "glaring Act of Rebellion" - I stubbornly whittled my way into a little flowy white skirt - all gauzy and pretty in its white puffery - BUT I methodically chose a khaki belt to tie it all together. So I felt I was complying with the Khaki Rule. Except, Momma didn't see it this way. In hindsight, I guess I was bratty - this was her picture, her dream.

So, yeah, the family is all dressed in their White Picture Taking Duds and we are to meet the photog at the studio. Except a mix-up - the first in many to come. He's not there. The 14-year old son says, "He's off on a shoot." While he is shoving a sanwich in his face.

"Yeah, but we have an appointment." Disappointment overpowering my mom's face.

Son shrugs, "I'll take you to him. Who's car should I get in?"

So we embarked on a road trip with some random 14 year old boy claiming to be a Son of a Photographer. (I think there is a song.) Anyway, we plot our way down the beach to the picture locations, locate the Double-Booked Photographer who shoos us down the beach to another location. Meanwhile the sun is setting. And all is not quiet on the Home Front.

He has us park at a park. Profound! (I like that as a Title actually.) And we cross 6 lanes of U.S. 1 boulevard traffic with a 2- 4- and 6-year old. All dressed the same in our white and khaki combos (and the errant all white dressed middle child). We walk through dunes of sand with prickly foot greeters everywhere and, oh yeah, coyote, or something. At the end of the day, by the time we get to the Picture Spot we had walked a mile. Practically in a cactus patch, is my point. And so, at the spot, lo and behold, what do we have here? Dopppelganger. Because there was a whole other family in their khaki + white combo. Original Family meet Original Family #2. Yeah, except they didn't have anyone in All White With A Khaki Belt.

But the real annoying part of this whole day was now that we have been through this whole ordeal over the last hour or so we now had to wait as the sun sagged ever more downhill - like my smile. So the grump. But this is my mom's life-long dream so "Smile and Say Cheese!" Which finally happened as it was our turn and the thing that brought me back to life was the fact that these photographers were going to have to make little Val, the 2-year old get his pacifier out of his mouth and make that little pie-face smile. Lord they brought out all the stops. Clown faces. Horns. Stuffed animals. The Grown-Up-Make-The-Kid-Laugh-I-Can't-Dance Dance. Which always make me laugh. The laughing at you not with you kind. Because impressions are not peachy right now.

And then my hate continued to grow when they placed us in our spots where we would forever be recorded in a glossy 20x16 Dream Picture of my momma's choosing.

Photographer: "Let's see. Mom you are the center of this family, you go in the....center? Now First Daughter you sit next to mom. Put your husband behind you. And little girl on your lap. Now, Daughter-In-Law, you sit on the other side of mom. Put your husband behind you and daughter on your lap. And grandma why don't you hold grandson."

Grandson: "Mean man. Where's Bear? And don't you dare take this pacifier out of my mouth. I will bite you."

Photographer: "Now, what to do with the other daughter. Yeah, just sit next to daughter-in-law."

So what we had was an assymetrical photo with empty space behind my mom, two pillars of family on either side of her, and then a big blob by the looks of Me to one side. Literally, I think some of my feet are chopped off in the final picture. I literally look like an afterthought, the fuck-up kid in the all-white with no family of my own, just keep pushing her off the side. "There once was this daughter...." So I can ramble and I kid but my point is the picture, I didn't feel to be aesthetically pleasing considering the price and, oh yeah, did I mention that the jackass photographer let the other family - the one before us - lollygag and frollick on the beach in the background to Our picture. Naturally he airbrushes them out, but all the proofs which are my mom's property have little white & khaki people in the background. "Hey, we are all just one big happy family!" We should have borrowed a khaki + white fella to be a stand-in to even out our photo. Inst-family = insta-photo symmetry. Then maybe my feet can make it in the picture.

Yeah, so that is the White Picture. The important part of which is, in the end and a couple thousand dollars later, my mom was pleased. She got her White Picture.

The Pants Incident

Marlene is one of my very bestest friends. I have known her since high school. Junior or senior year, I can't remember. We met in Art Class and she had me at "Cindy Crawford has aids."

Do I need to explain that? Because of course Cindy doesn't have aids. And I don't want to spread any rumours to the contrary. It's a figure of speech. Our own figure. The story goes something like this...This first time we hung out, we were out with a few other girls on a Friday night, looking for boys, probably drinking Mad Dog and Big Gulps, and subsequently getting drunk off three sips or something like that. Because from what I remember we were walking around this park (is that Where the Boys Are - I mean, we live like 5 miles from the beach, isn't that Where The Boys Are?). Anyway, we both had to go to the bathroom and we both confided that we both have weak bladders as in DO-NOT-make-me-laugh under NO circumstance whatsoever because bladder control will escape me on this here Friday night and oh, are there boys over there. So this is the worst thing - which is trying NOT to laugh, when all you can do is laugh. So we are on the ground now, crossing our legs, tears streaming down our faces (and thankfully, not from anywhere else). Then Mar juts up and very seriously and calmly says, "Wait! I have something very serious to say and this will stop the laughing." The giggling stops. Because she does sound serious. "I heard that Cindy Crawford has aids." That did it, a friendship was born. No, we didn't pee our pants that night. But we did in a Wal-Mart all because Marlene said, "Is that Johnnie Oakley." Which, we laugh about to this day, because what is SO funny about that. At the time, it probably had great significance on the Laugh Meter. Obviously. "Hi my name is Lara and I'd like to do a Depends commercial!" Seriously, it hasn't happened since (if you must know). So no Pee-ers Anonymous for us.

Anyway, that is Marlene, that crazy girl, and I went to Chicago to visit her this summer. Our task at hand was shopping and Lollapalooza. Where we got interviewed (by who, I'm not really sure but it was a big production, it looked official, they didn't ask us to take our shirts off).

"And so I am never one to let those inside jokes die. I'll find any opportunity to try it out. Even in the company of.....cameras!....And so after a hair, makeup, and sound check, we were seated in directors' chairs, legs crossed, lip-glossed, and microphone commanding. We were ready to answer some real hardcore questions. Of which we had the serious answers to....Now I am back in DC, settling back into routine. But somebody, please, for the love of Perry, please turn on the AC (100 degress?).....or I may have to take off these pants."

Yeah, so the "pants" - you can read the background of that and our interview - if you so desire - here. All because some kid asked if someone was gay because of his purple tight pants. We found this hilarious. Teach the kid that, no that is wrong? Break down the stereotype. Hell no, make a joke about it. All weekend long. And on camera too. And when we went shopping and came home, the boys asked, "did you by pants?" When the sales people asked if we needed help. "do you have anything in a pant?" Waste not want not. The joke was not lost.

The Year of the Vacuum

Just had to say that as an fyi like it's nobody's business, I bought 2 vacuums this year. Seriously, it is like they are disposable razors. This isn't working anymore, throw it out, and start anew.

"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."

And finally,

The Drunk Dialing Escapade Disguised as the Pants Hemming Project (either way you look at it)

Not much more to say about this that hasn't been said before. But it is never a dull moment with Mav. Needless to say, "Last night, Mav and I discovered that sleeping in your clothes is not just for the beach house anymore. Neither is drunk dialing."

We may have gotten into trouble with the drunk dialing one other time - but that was at the beach and will have to be filed under my next post...

2005 Playback: Train Wreck In May

Warning: May is a train wreck. Or is it June? Close your eyes. No look! Close your eyes. No look!

But first, I went to a concert. Well, come to think of it - this is part of the train wreck. Because I did get stood up at said concert. Which was weird to say the least. His excuse was weird. He got in too late from a business trip. You know, that proverbial place where they have No Phones. (So many guys go to No Phone Island for business trips. And some just work there all the time. And actually some just live there. Hmm.) So I had to do a little Q&A with myself to answer the question of "Is he into me?" "I like my pastries flakey, not my guys." Yet I was hopeful-delusional-I mean, hopeful? [Delusional. --The Masses] But the show was enjoyed by Me nonetheless. (So don't feel too sorry for me!) And I did know some people there so I was not alone. This was my rock star review of the evening despite being stood up: "A Paul Westerberg show is always unpredictable and always entertaining to say the least.....It was a show teetering on the edge of insanity and sheer brilliance. And that is a fine line. It was rock and roll. Pure and unassuming." [Woo hoo! --Some Rock Chick]

But in the end, STILL, this is what I told myself. I think I told myself that he was sending me mixed signals: "He is interested he just either has too much going on right now or is just always going to be too complicated. Sit back." [Silly girl. Um, he's just not that into you. --Pop Culture]

I kept toying with the idea of doing Match. I remember thinking that I didn't want him to see me online because then he would think I wasn't interested in HIM. Did you read that? I didn't want HIM to think I wasn't interested in HIM. "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?"

Oh boy. But it wasn't all about the boys in May. There was the Kentucky Derby of course which I always go ga ga over every year so there was a party..."The big hulking horsies. Little tiny wee jockeys. Mint juleps. Seersucker. Cash thrown all around. Giddy. Up. [But] every year, I watch the race with one eye open. Lest one of the horsies collides and falls while they are hoofing it down the track. And for what? More oats in his breakfast than Mr. Ed down the stall?"

And you know what Kentucky Derby parties turn into once you drank from the nectar of the Horse Gods, The Minty Julep? Well the games begin..."Things I lost this weekend....A Ms. Pacman tournament, right after I boasted about my fabulous Ms. Pacman gameability."

And in May, things weren't so hot in the office. Well, in the bathroom to be more specific because I felt the need to share with the Internet our own little Mr. Hanky. [Christmas in May! --Mr. Hanky, the Christmas Poo] "I have a walking Pooh-Ball carousing my office."

"For the most part, I try and keep my contact with bathroom fixtures and walls to a minimum. I am a pro at the Flush The Toilet With The Foot Move, While Drunk. Which turns into Balancing On One Foot, While Drunk. Which can turn into Leaning Against Stall Walls While Zipping Up Clothing, While Drunk."

And then The OC pissed me off - and The OC is supposed to be all good. "...So, so forced. Me, "forcing" myself into my skinny jeans - hopping and stuffing my ass into them (and laying down flat to zip them), has nothing on The OC and Kirsten's Drunken Plunge Into Shameful Intoxification. Bad Kiki, bad." [You didn't like our drunk story line? Wasn't it fresh enough? --Fox Network]

But the girl - as in, The Author - was STILL delusional folks. "I am holding my breath and just kind of wading in still waters. When I come up for air, I will let you know whether I ride the dolphin (no pun intended, really) or jump ship. Or I guess the ship could still leave port without me." [Wasn't the aquatic hyperbole sooo last month? --Cliche Police]

Chugga chugga chugga chugga CHOO CHOO.....

(I'm getting tired.)

2005 Playback: April Showers

Carrying on the 2005 Playback Project. Find the rules here.

Ah, April is my birthday month so there may have been some celebrating and - at the same time - some bemoaning of this fact. You can also count on some dating (i.e., some more letdown). But spring is in the air which means summer is around the bend. And I have a feeling there are good times to be had in summer...but I am getting ahead of myself. You know? It's tough to write about the past, when you already know the future - or is it the present?

So I found myself treading water, testing the waters, and swimming in liquid gratification during the Month of April. And just to carry on the Annoying aquatic hyperbole (because: theme!)...put on your life vest because there may some bumpy water ahead. (heh heh)

You say it's your birthday? Well, it's my birthday too!
"While we are not quite at the "39 and Holding," "40 is the New 30," or "I Don't Get ID'd Anymore" age yet, we are creeping up on it." [You turned 34 this year. That is old, geezer. --Reality Police.]

OK. So I am starting to feel like Age is catching up to me. The funny thing is everybody I meet thinks I am much younger than I am. (I think this is based on looks, but I wonder now...) Everybody tells me I look 27 - well, I have been saying that for a couple years now so maybe I look 29 now. My point is I finally know that I can't eat whatever the hell I want. Metabolism is sloooowing down. It has made the pass to the slow lane. So I want to preserve my "good looks" (Thank you, Me!) and this month I found a way: "Cosmetic trickery! The Lip Plumper(tm)! They say it will smooth the wrinkles and create a mild "swelling of the lip tissue" and it doesn't involve painful injections. It's genius really. Because every aging beauty needs big lips. Yes, we are starting small on the body beautification. Baby steps. Next year - maybe Crest Whitestrips?"

So it is funny how I start the month all happy and sane:
"I happily turned that clock forward last weekend. Who needs an extra hour of sleep anway? There are shrubs to be hedged!"

And so there were dates. Some good and some bad...well, they were all pretty bad.

Especially when you have a stalker. Who, by the way, I still bump into from time to time. "I shrugged it off as drunk - I know drunk - I have compassion for drunk....And, by the way, silly boy, it takes way more than three beers and a shot of whiskey to get me 'liquored up and in bed'."

"Golly, I was having a fine time so bartender pour me another Belvedere Soda and another and another and another and another. Oops...hiccup...giggle...giggle...time to stop, time to go home." [Always stop at the Giggly Hiccup Dance. --Old Wise One.]

"And so, what is the one thing you should probably never ask a guy on a date? If he would like to lay on the kitchen floor with you? Yes. That would be it. You know what I did? I asked him if he would lay on the kitchen floor with me." [And all your friends said that line would never work...who knew some Guy would actually find it "charming". Just wait for September. --The Future.]

You see where this is going? Only I don't in April so for the month of April - I am OBLIVIOUS. [He's gay! --Mav] I am confused as to why he won't find this cute and charming?!?

"In the morning, I woke up with a skinned knee, a bruise on my hip bone, and only one eye washed of make up. And I'm sure my hair was all over the place. I chuckled to myself thinking lucky for him he only got to see last night's act."

"But I did manage to spill beer all down my arm, in front of him. Something to do with not having enough hands to open a gift, open a card, and hold a beer. I guess the right thing would be to put the beer down on the bar. But, that would get in the way of actually drinking and opening and talking - which I so can do simultaneously. So the beer just poured out like a stream of water from a hose, all down my arm."

So, in the end - April? The message of which is, gosh, you are clutzy, or drunk, or nervous, or trying too hard, but you are not sitting home alone. Key! You are eating out alone. It's a good place to be right now. Even if you don't quite realize it yet...: "Eating alone is lonely. Eating out in public alone is humbling....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." [Rule 101 of Table For One.]

I know you didn't ask, but to be continued...

2005 Playback: A March Of Madness

I've seen this "meme" floating around in various forms. One says to take the first sentence from the first entry of each month and copy and paste. Another says to take the last sentence. The general idea is that this would be a summary of your year. I decided to read back through every one of my posts and select sentences I liked or that had some significance for that month. It is kind of hard for me to pick just the beginning sentence, or the last sentence, or just one sentence in particular because - let's face it - I hardly write in complete sentences. The grammar police are on to me. And instead of just re-gurgitating, I decided to make this an exercise. I will recycle the old content with new commentary to give it new life and try and make this a semi-cohesive post while I reflect on the past year. This might get all piebald on me. Strap in.

The story begins in March....

Because March was the birth of the blog! And the demise of a "relationship" that lasted six loooong years - too long. Relationship is what we call it. It was on and off - a friends-lovers-confidantes-punching bag kind of thing. Nobody really understood it. I think we did. But it ended rather bizarrely. The ingredients of which are: One Non-Committal guy, a desperate haggard mom, visions of money bags, years of Guilt, lots of miles between, kids!, unaccepting family, and a quick wedding (that hasn't happened yet). The Mud Pie is not complete. But what I think of his Hell is my Paradise. Because it didn't take long to figure out that Letting Go was a blessing in disguise. I probably cried for like 3 threeks. Then I put the wheels in motion to Trucking On.

And it went something like this:

"I have had this Old Worn Shoe for the past six years........This week I opened my closet to put on Old Worn Shoe, but it was gone." [Who really needs old worn shoes anyway - high time to upgrade! --Jimmy Choo] [Who is Jimmy Choo? We love you! --DSW Shoe Warehouse]

See? I was "dumped" for an ex-girlfriend. Ouch. But how do you get over getting dumped? Well, it might look something like this your first couple weeks: "Spending all day Saturday in a bar where people are dressed as Guinness bottles and cans.....At what point in the day did I lose all feeling in my ass?"

At about this time, you come up with some real insightful observations: "The Dive Bar is the heart of a real drinking culture."

And of course there is no substitute for retail therapy: "Because you can never have enough, I bought new blue jeans!"

Then you try and throw yourself into your hobbies, your interests, a blog(?): "I was an Art History major in college so occasionally it creeps back into my life.....If I were ever brave and cool enough to own a snake, I am sure I would name him Modigliani." [Artsy-fartsy, I try. Brave-hearted, I'll never be. Perhaps a goldfish named Sausage would be more my speed.]

So you are keeping yourself busy and avoiding Him but it is March. And in March The Cold will not go away. And frankly you are tired of it at this point. My feeling is if you get The Bitter Cold - you should have some snow with it. It's like beer in a can and a coosy (sp?) - it just makes it a tad more enjoyable. If anything for show. But alas, the snow never came...."I even went out this year and bought snow-appropriate trend-wagon Uggs in anticipation of burying my luxury-wrapped sausages deep within your fluffy, powdered purity. Instead all I got were puddles and my Uggs are like, "fashion victim." It's like driving an SUV in the city. Utilitarian? I think not. Aesthetics."

And look at this, sometimes I actually sound like I have had therapy: "I know change isn't going to happen unless you drag your pity-ass off the couch and do something about it. So I have put those wheels in motion.....I am "dating" again....And I won't look back because I know from experience that in order to move on permanently, you have to move on emotionally."

But then again, I become all school girl lovesick, instead of patient [Spoiler: Rampant theme this year.] And in March, I encountered my first (proverbial) frog of the year: "Like the skeptical fan from the sideline, declaring "it's over" when the other team has a substantial lead over your team. You throw the towel in. You call it for what it is. Impending defeat. So I am going to call this game right now.The sexy-but-not-obviously-or-conceitingly-sexy boy I met on Friday night - and who gave me one of the best kisses of my life by the way - will not call." [Girl, so not the best kiss. --Hindsight.]

And then I get all anlaytical about "What Is Wrong With Me"...boiled down to one very over-rated technology: "I hate the phone. The phone surely hates me. It is the bane of all my relationships. Since this is a blame-seeking culture, I am placing the blame on the demise of any potential relationship on my lack of Phone Presence. I don't have it. In fact, the next time some guy asks me for my phone number, I am giving him a friend's number, so that she can mediate the Call That Will Inevitably Bust All Hope."

"I needed another martini to stay in the game or my mind was taking a long walk off a short pier. I needed to blame it on alcohol." [The Calling Card of Drunks-R-U. --Anonymous]

But I think I found some peace at some point this month: "...so I put away the martini shaker, grabbed my quilt, and laid down on the bathroom floor. For that moment there were birds singing in my head. One was dancing, one was finishing the vacuuming, and one was in the corner drinking."

Oh yeah, and this was my Skinny Month....good times...
"So maybe I will just roam the Easter candy aisle instead and remember what that chocolate bunny tasted like. Because memory is still always sweeter than the candy will ever be."

So this is what March looked like. The message of which is, let go, drink, buy yourself another pair of $160 blue jeans, and bank on the men you meet this month to never call you back.

But you are back in the saddle....

Christmas Stockings Are Overrated Anyway

Truthfully, I am glad the weekend - the Christmas holiday - is over. As I mentioned, I stayed behind and spent the holiday with my boyfriend's family. I still feel like an outsider to the family which means I am very soft-spoken and shy around them. It is not that they aren't friendly, because they are. And they know how to have a good time. But we have only been dating three months - and there is nothing like Christmas - or a family holiday - to make you feel like the outsider you are. Sometimes I can sufficiently participate in the grown-up conversation but all the familial holiday hubbub just made me even more introverted than usual.

The weekend started off late afternoon Christmas eve at the sister's home. We all participated in a little family Cranium competition. And the family is pretty competitive. And - I don't know - it could be because there was no drinking involved - and this is a game that involves lots of drinking because you are going to be acting and whistling and humming and spelling backwards (which only a stiff drink can accomplish). So here is where my first bout of shyness surfaced. And it made me hesitant with all my responses for fear of sounding like an Educated Idiot. This backfired because I looked even more stupid for not getting The Obvious. Example: My boyfriend had to act out the famous person on the card only through verbal communication. I was the "guesser" because frankly he is good at impersonations. And he did nail this one. He started it off with the "politician-thumb-to-bent-forefinger-point" very accurately impersonating, "I. Did not. Have. Sexual relations. With...." I paused. I hemmed and hawed. Because Bill Clinton, right? But, I don't know, what if I was wrong and there was someone I was missing. Who else could it be?! (Kobe Bryant? Jude Law? But the voice!) So I doubted myself and thought carefully before I FINALLY answered. We ended up winning the game. Somehow. But this whole game-time wasn't relaxing for me.

Eventually they started pouring the champagne and wine. I managed to come out of my shell a little more. Then we dressed for dinner, which was a Black Tie affair. Look at me with the sparkles. Needless to say, I managed to be over-dressed. Who knew? Then we did a little Pollyanna gift exchange. And kept taking turns blowing into a breathalyzer. All in all Christmas Eve was fun. Who knew a breathalyzer could be such fun? [Only in these circumstances. Do not get in the car. --The Cops] I managed to muddle my way through conversation. Then the uncle's partner started in with how I looked like Tiffani Thiessen. Which, strangely, I have heard many times. I still never see it. So there was some analyzing of the merits of this resemblance. But drinks were poured and laughter was echoing through the house. And the stockings were hung by the chimney with care.

I kind of wish I could have ended the weekend right here. On what I felt was a good note.

Because what came first: the chicken or the egg? Or, what came first: my own Self-Imposed Bad Mood or a series of events to set off my Bad Mood?

It was agreed that we would stay over at the sister's house on Christmas Eve. The Breathalyzer was not letting us go anywhere anyway. Then - according to his plan - we would partake in the present opening the next morning, brunch, and then head out. Later that evening The Boyfriend (he'll get a name in the new year) would return to the parent's house for Christmas dinner. I was going to be given a "pass" on that. He was concerned that it would be a lot of family time for me. And I agree. However, dinner is easy. I knew the hard part was going to be the Present Opening that ALL the family was going to be doing. With nothing for me to do but sit there and watch. (I know, woe is The Lonely Soul.) In any case, this was the part I wanted out of. For my own reasons.

First, the family has a lot of money so very expensive presents were being opened all around me. They spend a couple thousand dollars a piece - easily. I could tell by the Louis Vuitton, Hermes, cashmere, and diamonds that was in abundance. Who needs - who gets! - two Louis? Therefore, I felt like his family's gifts trumped mine. Sure they were more expensive - mostly clothing from London and Paris. I know that Expensive doesn't make The Better. But they were things he specifically asked for. Things he wanted. Things I couldn't get for him because I didn't/couldn't jet to London to Christmas shop for him. Is there something wrong with wanting to buy him his favorite present?

The Ferragamo wallet I got for him - which is not shabby by any means - was something he desperately needed. On like our third date he mentioned that he needed a new wallet as he had just ran his through the wash. (I made a mental note of that at the time.) And it was falling apart. And it was a tri-fold. Nobody carries tri-folds anymore. Nobody even makes them anymore. So I thought I was gold with this gift. Because what guy goes out and buys and expensive wallet for himself? But then the sister got him a wallet too (as one of many gifts). Hers happened to be brown (and not as nice - or expensive - as she pointed out) so he was ever the diplomat and said that it was great that he had a black one and a brown one and he could interchange them. Who does that? So, my present seemed cliche and insignificant now.

Then I couldn't shake the feeling of Outsider - the outside-looking-in kind of thing. To nobody's fault. But I kept thinking this is not my family. Maybe this was too soon in the relationship to be a part of all this. Silly, maybe. Because they certainly made me a small part of it. After all, I am the girlfriend and who knows if it will amount to anything more. Why should they get attached to the Idea of Me? I don't want to be that girl they talk about next Christmas. "Remember that girl from last year - who was so quiet? We love your new girlfriend!" But they kept thanking me for being a part of their Christmas. And when the mother asked me about traditions and I told her about keilbasi on Christmas Eve, she replied that had she known she would have made sure we had some. How sweet is that? And the mother got me a beautiful sterling silver champagne icer with glasses that I love. Because she knows I like The Champagne. And the sister got me some beautiful earrings. From Neimans. So this was all very thoughtful. So you see, they tried to include me. Still did I mention there were lots and lots and lots of presents. And my boyfriend is Present Opening Upper Savorer. One by one - sloooooowly. One. By. One. The Grown-Up's Present Opening Extravanganza lasted a couple of hours easily.

And then they did the whole presentation of their stockings. Which, I don't know, I felt like they could have just thrown one in for me. I could have brought mine from home. A BYOS party! Because their stockings were a bottomless pit of toys and presents - not the Story Book Life Savers from my past. The mother gave me some Mardi Gras beads with pink duckies on them - again, to make me feel included. Again, sweet. But there is everybody - my boyfriend, his mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, and uncle and his "partner" - all carefully inspecting the huge array of gifts from their stocking. Even the dogs had stockings. Bottomless stockings. Since I was without, I tried to take an interest in my boyfriend's stocking - which he is sloooowly savoring. He practically read a whole book. I'm not kidding. It wasn't a novel - so, possible. He interpreted my interest - my need to Do Something besides sit there and ooh and aahh - as impatience.

"So do you just tear through your gifts?" (And I don't!) But I shut up and shut off. Because...family all around. He didn't mean anything by it, but at this point, it just rubbed me the wrong way.

Then he says to me - twisting the knife a little deeper - although not intending to, I'm sure, "Did your parents send you your presents?"

At that point, the insenstitivity of that "slip-up" almost sent me to tears. I curtly reply, "You mean my mom?" He knows my dad is dead. He shouldn't have to walk on eggshells but it kind of hit me...not in a good way. Not for the fact that my dad is no longer here but for the simple thoughtlessness with regard to Myself - who I am and where I come from. He caught the slip-up, he apologized, but I kept thinking, "Is he just making small talk with me?" Who am I?

Typically, he is a thoughtful and sweet guy, so am I being overly-sensitive? Perhaps. It has been known to happen on occassion. But that one little comment - or the culmination of the whole morning - or the fact that I missed being part of my own family - shut me up for the rest of the day. Literally. I didn't have the heart or strength to partake in conversation. I entered my shell. Which can only be broken open with alone time. But I still had to sit through a very long brunch and preparation of the brunch. I'm afraid I barely said a word. I drank my water with bottles of bottles of champagne surrounding me, taunting me, bubbling, "Drink me." So now I think that his family - who once liked me - probably now think that I am a Bore or a Bitch. I could also be putting way too much thought into this. Again, that has been known to happen on occassion.

But it is all over. I can't dwell on how charming I woulda, coulda, shoulda been. But, I'll tell you, I was finally thankful - and felt more like myself - once I got to my own home and called my family as I spent the rest of Christmas Day alone on the couch. Until I looked over at my own lonely little stocking hanging on my fireplace.

If you can't be with your own, someone else's family is not a bad place to be.

Fire, Baby, You're To Blame

I am pyrophobic. When I was younger I was always going behind my family and turning burners off. Now I have a gas stove and although I force myself to use it - it scares me every time. I watch my water boil. (Trust me, it eventually boils.) I won't turn my oven on over 375. I will never flambe or bombe anything. I always make sure my stove/oven is turned off every time I leave the house even if I hadn't used it in 2 days. (Although that may be a whole different set of quirk of the OCD kind.) I sit a good distance from fireplaces and each time it cackles and pops, I ask, "Is it supposed to do that?" Every time. I would NEVER work a grill. In fact, I do not "hang out" by a charcoal grill when it is being fired up. I do not light matches - that is why I could never be a smoker. I try it occassionally but it gets so frustating asking people to light it for me. From their own mouth. (Its been known to work as a pickup line.) If I light a candle I never leave it lit for more than an hour so I can cut the wick down. And I never have a candle burning in any room I am not in. Even for a minute. I hate the 4th of July. And I curl up in a ball during lightning storms.

I don't know where it comes from. But I will break out in sweats. Panic. Think horrible things if I feel "threatened" by a flame.

So when someone with this - admittedly - unnatural fear witnesses a car ablaze right outside her office window while at work - we are talking flames bursting in the air. She runs through the office yelling, "Fire! Fire! Fire!" Really. She did. Luckily, the fire brigade came in about 2 minutes and cute muscley firemen hosed it down - that was nice. The fire never jumped from the car and didn't have a chance to reach the back of the car, thus, the fuel tank which - and I'm no fire professional - but potentially explosive? Right? Oh, I thought about this. That is why I was huddled in a corner in the back of the building - away from the windows.

This may or may not be embarrassing.

But I think my office is grateful because for 5 minutes I acted as our office's Virtual Fire Alarm because our own fire alarms were out to lunch. It was 1 PM. Perhaps Sizzlin Express had a special going on.

Home For The Holidays

My Christmas present to myself this year is a Travel Free Holiday. I will not be stuffing US Air, Independence, or BP/Amoco's stocking this year with my annual Holiday Travel Dollars. Because I am kicking it back DC-style. With My Guy. Who specifically requested we spend Christmas together. Well, it turns out, with him and his family. At the House That Will Be Christmas This Year. A mini-Disney-style extravaganza with 4 professionally-decorated Christmas trees (or one that will have the "homemade" ornaments that will be hidden in an upstairs landing). A Bigger-Than-Life-Size snow globe in the yard and who knows what other "lawn ornaments". A house totally re-arranged for Christmas decorations. Furniture hauled out. Ivy and red velvet brought in. A decorated house to rival any Better Homes and Gardens centerfold. A Semi-formal sit-down dinner. And, well, lots of booze. Which you need at this point really, right?

But this "gift" I've bestowed upon myself (which last year, by the way, was a tiny sapphire band from Tiffany) does not come without some mixed emotion.

When he first asked me I thought that perhaps we would have our own Christmas on, say, Christmas Eve. A deux. I was going to spend the day cooking and baking. For My Guy. Which "Come One, Come All, The Freak Show is in the Big Top. Tickets are going fast. You have to see it to believe it!" But there is an interesting turn of events that my head is now privy to after I already concocted this Special Holiday for me and him in my own head. See, his family has "events" planned. Christmas is an Event. That consists of something like a Formal Dress Sit-Down Dinner on Christmas Eve at the parent's "rental home" on the Potomac, as in River. Gift Exchange at 9 AM Christmas morning, followed by Christmas Brunch. And another Dinner Extravangza. With happenings in between. Or something like this. I have yet to get the details and I am not sure all that I am going to be part of. Frankly, I don't want to partake in all these festivities. Give me a bucket of chicken and a six-pack and I'll curl up on my couch in my treeless home. Isn't it supposed to snow?

The Christmas I am used to is quite different. First of all, Christmas - for my family - has never been in the same spot and doesn't always include all of us. That is what happens when you grow up - move away - move around - and build your own families. Christmas is wherever we feel like it, whoever feels like having it, and whoever feels like going. Sometimes we are all together and sometimes we aren't. So with that, I hate the stress of picking whose house I stay at. Both my sister and brother have been married for years now so they have their own stress of where to spend the holidays. Home or in-laws? But I am the Spinster Sister. (Well, I know they don't think that but my dad's side of the family thinks that.. Questions have been asked like: "What is wrong with her?" What's her problem?" and "Why is she so selfish?" They don't send me Christmas cards because I do not have family. To which I reply, "Single People are People too.") So since my dad's passing I have the stress of staying with my mom, staying with my sister, or staying with my brother. In this situation I would pick my mother and everyone wants mom so this just means triple travel time for me - from my home to my mom's home to my sister's home to my brother's or any other direction. So I don't think my family blames me for having an option to spend the holidays travel-free, spinster that I am.

But this decision does not come without a degree of guilt. Quite simply, I'll miss my family and what I remember as Christmas. Which is different depending on whose house it is at but there are some things that warm my heart with Christmas cheer and what I remember from various Christmas Pasts: The dress code is Pajamas. All day long. The tree is never perfect but filled with sentimental ornaments - all handmade - in the second grade. Can you say green paper Christmas tree with a picture of my brother circa 2nd grade pasted on - off center? So, a tree with character, nonetheless. The garland is in pieces - a new beautiful 25 foot long strand is never bought. So there are sections of garland tucked into the tree. There is no train under the tree but there are a million old-looking Santa Clauses parked throughout the house. Just move the one off the toilet when nature calls. And the tree is always taken down the day after - if not the night of - Christmas. My mom wanted her house back in order. But there is always a big breakfast with nothing off the No-Fattening menu. Plenty to eat all day long. We drink lots of beer. We probably fight. And we never get to open anything on Christmas Eve. THIS is Christmas. THIS is what I know. THIS is what I am going to miss this year.

I won't get to eat keilbasi on Christmas Eve. I will miss seeing my nieces' and nephew's faces when they open their presents. I will miss tasting whatever new beer my brother-in-law has discovered. I will miss my momma. I will miss her talking about my daddy - she will want to share stories - to which my brother will leave the room because his eyes will well up. I will miss trying to make a joke about that. I won't get to see my mom's wrapping job this year which gets worse and worse every year. (She is the reason gift bags were invented.) I will miss this.

Instead I will be at the House That Will Be Christmas This Year which will be oozing a different kind of Christmas cheer. I will be a visitor to this Wonderland because it is not My Family. Decorating perfection is not comfortable to me. (Eclectic, imperfection, and kitsch is more my comfort zone and one could argue - lawn ornament - kitsch. I might not argue.) Yet I am excited to spend time - to spend the holiday - with my boyfriend - family and all. And they are fun in spite of their making Christmas an event where pajamas are prohibited. They pour plenty of booze which hopefully will stifle any insecurity or shyness I have. [Hmmm...Will she excuse herself to use the bathroom then reappear in her pajamas? --Inquiring Minds] Silly, drunk people make me feel s-m-r-t. Seriously, I am enjoying getting to know them better. I am flattered that after only three months of dating it was important to him for me to be there. He says that he enjoys family-time much better with me by his side. I think I know what he means.

So in preparation for the Christmas This Year I am practicing the following line, "I love the snow globe!" so it doesn't come out like, "What the #$%&*$# is that!? Your house has been hijacked by Blow-Up Lawn Ornaments R Us."

Peace on Earth
Goodwill to Men, Women, Some Children, Airplanes, and Holiday Lawn Ornaments
Happy Holidays to You and Yours and any In Between

A Princess Can Not Peel Oranges

He likes to cook for me. I like that he likes to cook for me. I think I am a terrible cook. (Except scones! I bake yummy scones!)

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"What are our options this morning?"

"There might be ingredients to make waffles. Eggs. Potatoes?"

"Potatoes! Yes, like hashbrowns or breakfast potatoes." My eyes were now glazing over with spuds dancing their little potato dance. Potatoes!

"Your favorite."

It's true. I love potatoes. Cooked any which way but loose and the french fry being my least favorite kind of potato and I love a french fry - so, you see, I have never met a potato I didn't like. Unless it has sour cream sitting on it. Then that just ruins it for me. The Love Affair will be OVER. Desert island food? Potatoes. Desert island drink? Champagne. Desert island dessert? Gummy bears. Desert island man? James Dean. He is alive during the time I am on the desert island. You didn't say when I was going to be on this desert island or that there is any time continuum so Alive James Dean will accompany me in this fantasy. So I am going to eat fried potatoes, drink champagne, pop gummy bears, and kiss James Dean until somebody gets me off this desert island. No rush.

So he shreds the potatoes. Shreds. With a little shredder tool that I know I have but never use. I think to myself, can we not afford the extra two bucks to buy the potatoes already shredded? (Perhaps that is 2 dollars towards a shiney Christmas present that I don't REALLY want (of course) so I should let it go.) But he likes to grate his own cheese too. Which, um, the store already does it for you too! Oh really, Grocery Store, you shouldn't have! His argument - and my sister's - and my father's - is that it is "fresher this way." How much fresher can it be? I certainly can't tell the difference. But Kitchen People, AKA People Who Can Cook, know better so I should just sit still and beam, "He is shredding a fucking potato for me! Be happy girl." So while he is frying those up he is preparing the eggs, cracking them one by one in the bowl. And whisking and whisking and whisking. And? (Whisking.) When I make eggs for myself I just crack them in the pan and run a wooden spoon through them? Is that OK?

So I am sitting there useless. I offer to help many times, but he saw me try to shred the cheese one time and he heard about my whisking and I chipped one of his very expensive plates (don't ask) and I made the most disgusting fajitas you would every encounter so, The Thinking Guy, he tells me to sit there and relax. He'll do "all the work."

I know what you are thinking. Or I don't. But Version Smart Me point 0 is thinking, "Great! I am princess. This is my castle. You are my servant. Shred my potatoes, pluck the egg from the chicken coop and prepare me a feast, young lad. I will repay you in butterfly kisses in my princess chambers. Then you will go back to your servant duties. I'll ring when I need you again." But Smart Me is nowhere to be found. In fact, I'm not sure she entirely exists. Instead there is just Little Ol' Me Who Will Always Find Trouble point 00002 and a half. I flip through the owner’s manual for the vintage car that he keeps laying around the kitchen. Feeling helpless. Until he asks me if I want a smoothie too.

Holy fruity concoction jackpot! Visions of oranges and bananas dance in my head. Or a carton of orange juice. But, this is My Guy, who shreds, peels, and cores for his meal. And so I grab the orange. To help.

Except. The no cooking thing? Kind of correlates to All Things Kitchen. (Except scones! I bake yummy scones!) Peeling oranges doesn't always come easy to a kid like me. And the Peeling Orange gene most definetely left the building this morning. I should have just said from my perch on high, very princess-like, "That is ok, I do not feel like doing anything for the breakfast preparation. I would like my servant to peel this orange."

So I proceed to peel. Because who can't peel an orange, right? I think princesses do not. And that may or may not be Me. But I forget. So how does the peeling go? Well, you know how sometimes the peel comes off in nice big pieces and there is very little white left on the orange? It is the Perfect Orange Peel Job. Medals should be handed out when this kind of perfection happens. Well this wasn’t happening this morning as is usually the case with me and the kitchen and me. It was coming off in these tiny little pieces and what I ended up with were ends that were deeply embedded in that pesky orange. So in my hand was this mostly white round semblance of an orange with Jammed Ends. Princess be damned! I was going to be helpful at this here breakfast. So as I was mumbling about the Jammed Ends in my orange all crybaby (not really!) I thought of a brilliant idea. [Not so brilliant. --My Guy] I proceeded to open up the orange from the center. You know, just pick a random spot right in the center of the orange slices and pry that baby open. Orange juice was squirting everywhere. But not my eye! I was a Determined Orange Peeler that was not going to let the Jammed Ends get me down.

And so my Knight in Shining Armour comes over to save the damsel in distress, She of No Kitchen Skills, from the Land of I'll Just Bring Home the Bacon, But I Won't Fry It Up In the Pan. (Except scones! I bake yummy scones!) And this knight, with the best of intentions - I'm sure because he is nice, nice, nice - whisks the orange from my juicy, sticky, once-princess hands and says, “Wait. Is that how you open an orange?”

OK. I was prepared to have him muscle his way at that thing. To save a princess. A little he-man tug of those Damned Jammed Ends. But this kind of insulted me at this point. I may not be Chef Originale Moi. But intelligence insulted just a little here.

So I snap back in a very Lara The Brat kind of way (that mostly only my family knows), "Um. Excuse me? There is no right or wrong way to OPEN AN ORANGE! I was doing the best I could. Normally the ends come right out for me. But you buy all this food that you have to kill the goat and skin a hide for. I live in the 21st century where grocery stores do that for me!"

Well, I didn't really say all that exactly. But I did snap at him because I DO believe that there is no right or wrong way to peel a damn orange! Am I wrong on this? But I guess the whole point IS: To retain the juices because that is what will make a good smoothie. Again, I would just add more orange juice. But orange juice is different from orange juice. Apparently. One is fresher.

So I will not try to find something to do in the kitchen anymore. I wll sit on my perch, princess that I am, ordering My Guy as he muscles his way through the kitchen for me. You know, if that makes him happy.

But I have one question. Given that I can't peel an orange, should I not attempt to make Beef Bourgignone for Christmas Eve supper*? I can just follow directions, right? They don't look hard.

*I NEVER say supper but when I re-read my post I saw that I did in fact say "supper" so I left it in anyway because what does that mean? I was raised dinner-style.

Battle Of The Sexes

I love games. Board games. Card games. Trivia games. Drinking games. A combination thereof. You name it. But it is not the competitiveness aspect of games that I like. I could care less about winning. If the game is not neck and neck, I will probably give hints to help you along and I expect you to do the same. Admittedly, I sometimes suffer from Alex Trebekitis - Gatekeeper of Answers, All-Knowing Answer Card Holder. Like Epstein in Welcome Back Kotter - "Ew! Ew! Ew! Me! Me! I know this! I know this! Mr. Kott-ah! Mr. Kott-ah!" And so when you have the answer card it is power - you feel like you just might know everything in the world. See? We gave Alex Trebek too much power and he grew right out of those britches. Therefore, I hate when the Answer Keeper says, "Oh come on, you know this." And you don't so you feel like The Idiot because you don't know who was buried in Grant's tomb. I'm not Alex Trebek - I can't know everything! Help a player along.

So no, it is not about winning. Instead, what I really like about games is the social aspect. I like the friendly flexing of the mind - or liver. It's for the advancement of my intellect or tolerance - for better or for worse. Apparently. And, well, whenever I get together with my sister and brother-in-law – then the games and the drinking always transpire. Most recently, Thanksgiving. My sister doesn’t remember making the dinner. I don’t remember eating it. But I'm sure there was dinner. It was probably turkey. Just a hunch.

And so this past Saturday when My Guy asked me what I wanted to do I knew I had to let him into my life more. There was some talk about this. He is slowly dismantling that wall I put up to keep out Ghosts of Past Mistakes. My Knight. So I declared that we were having "game night." Ooooh fun!

So, kids, here is my recipe for a rip, roaring Game Night:

1. Start with a dinner of Negro Modelos and tacos that you prepare together. Most definitely do not make fajitas with some kit you buy from the Giant. Just so you know, the "chipotle" sauce tastes like lighter fluid sauce. Stick with the tacos and all will be well.

2. One roaring fire that your guy has to kindle because you are AFRAID of the fire. [People, I can not express the fear of fire enough! --Phobia Compartment in my Mind]. For a special twist, ask your guy to take off his shirt while he does this. Guys, if your girl does not have the fear of the fire, then ask her to kindle! Don't be surprised if he thinks you are joking. But don't get distracted anyway because you have a Game Night to partake in. The excitement builds...

3. One bottle of Knob Creek - or, as we determined, 3/4 will probably be enough. Feel free to substitute a liquor of your choice. Bottles of wine and/or cases of beer have been known to work in the past. But for this special Game Night we decided to class it up with the bourbon.

4. The XM "eclectic Christmas music" channel where you get to hear jems like Little Drummer Kid, about the kid with the drum that he "rum-pa-pum-pums" on all the live long day, driving his parent's crazy, and joining up with another kid with a guitar to form a garage band, or, my favorite, The 12 Drinks of Christmas which by the time the "singer" gets to the "twelfth drink" he can't remember the others. Sing along the rest of the night and into the morning. "Four black-what are those people?" "Russians." "And five Roy Robs?" all the way down to the "tree with the....bird" finale.

5. And the main incredient is a board game of your choosing. We happened to pick out a lovely one at the Target that day by the name of.....Battle of the Sexes. And, hell, invite Alex Trebek.

Have you seen this game? Better - have you played it? Gloria Steinem is disappointed. Rush Limbaugh wants to play. And John Gray is selling more books. "Mars and Venus Go Shopping!" "Mars and Venus Pick Out Paint Colors!" "Mars and Venus in the Kitchen!" Essentially, as one could surmise, the males have to answer the female cards which consist of “girly” questions that presumably only girls can answer. These fall into the general categories of sewing, cooking, and weddings. Because all girls want to fix a man, hence sewing buttons on their shirt, all girls like to cook for their man, and all girls just want to get married. And the male cards have questions for the women in the general categories of sports, fishing, and motorcycles. Because only men howl at the moon, sweat, wrestle, and get tattoos.

We had a friendly battle of sugar and spice vs. frogs, snails and puppy dog tails. Get your boxing gloves and aprons on! Because we are going to rumble and bake. Hot.

Actually the questions weren't so bad because really are we that divisive? My guy can sew a button himself, is better in the kitchen than me, and seems to have more interest in marriage than me. And I know what ball goes to what sport, can throw a football, and drink a beer. But the component of the game that one could find offensive - or amusing if you don't take it seriously - are the wild cards that you can not avoid. The wild cards will have things like, "You wash the car in your bikini, move forward 2 spaces." or "You used the wooden chair he made you into firewood, lose a turn." or for him: "You ask her to get you a beer during The Game, go back to start." or "You buy her diamonds, you win!"

Keep drinking the bourbon.

And this is kind of how the game went. Battle of the sexes? We did some total probing of Mars and Venus alright.

Me: What is the main ingredient in tequila?
Him: It's not the worm?
Me: It's liquor, honey, you know this answer.
Alex Trebek: All Knowing Card Holder? That is my job! Let me see it!
Him: Just because I drink it, doesn't mean that I know all the ingredients. And I don't really like tequilla.
Me: What!? No tequila? That is crazy. I hate when people say they don't like the tequila because of one bad experience with cheap tequila in college. We are in our 30s - buy the good stuff. Start again! Besides, my specialty is margaritas. I make the best margaritas! Now you won't drink my margaritas?
Him: Well, I wouldn't know that because you have never made them for me....
Me: Right. I'll get on that. But the game! I'm going to help you out here. Why don't you go pull the bottle and check it out. I'll let you look over the ingredient list.
Him: (running to the liquor cabinet, reading the ingredients which by the way, did not indicate the answer)
For those playing at home, the answer is....Agave. Who besides Alex Trebek knew?

Him: Oh! You know this one!
Alex Trebek: So do I! I know all the answers!
Him: What is the [something] that does [something] on a motorcycle called?
John Gray: Venus' eyes will glaze over when the parts of a car or motorcycle are uttered by a Martian. She will not remember the words she heard the next day.
Me: Hmm...Can I go out to the garage to look?
Him: What? At the ingredient list?
Me: There might be some clue. I'm sure if I just look around the bike.
Him: Honey, it's not a picturebook.

Him: What does trinitrotoluene stand for?
Me: Not a science question!
Him: Give up?
Me: Can I phone a friend?
Him: Who would you phone?
Me: You. You are the science guy.
Him: Give up?
Me: Yes.
Him: TNT
Him: I still can't believe you are afraid of fires. If you only knew the things I did building my airplane engines.
Me: Right. Don't tell me. And don't EVER show me.
Him: So you never even played with, say, sparklers as a kid?
Me: NO! I hated those too. All that fire sparkling all over your hand. Ow. And besides they can start fires you know. They are not as innocent as people presume. When my grandfather was a little boy he threw the sparkler up on the roof of the house and the roof caught fire.
Him: Well, you don't throw them.
Me: He was a kid. He was a little boy. Boys experiment. He was probably told that sparkler "can't hurt you." Therefore, my kids will NOT be allowed to play with them.
Him: Well, if this is OUR children, then yes they will. I'll teach them proper safety.
Me: Well...thennn...why don't you just let them ride the Harley to the fireworks store then?

Him: Oh you probably won't know this.
Him: What sport has facemasking as a penalty?
Me: Are you kidding?
Me: I won't know this?
Me: Are you kidding?
Me: You know I know sports don't you?
Him: Well, no, you have never shown that side of you to me.
Me: Honey, this game is teaching you so much about me.
Him: Or you have just been closed off to me and are now starting to open up.
Me: You are crushing me.
Alex Trebek: American football!
Alex Trebek: What? I thought you were giving up. I know the answer. I know all the answers. (fading out)

With that, I picked the card that would crush me. I forgot to buy beer at the store and the guys were coming over to watch the Big Game. Apparently a huge faux pas in the Battle of the Sexes. Because, girls, just so you know, the boys like to drink the beer.

The Little Woman is in the kitchen mixing up a batch of margaritas he tells me he wants to taste. Sigh. A woman's work is never done.

People To Hate: Metro Riders

This installment of People I Hate is brought to you by the HOV lane - the only time three is never a crowd - and inspired by Michael Stipe who reminds us that "...the train conducter says take a break. Driver 8 take a break..."

Today I am pointing my Hate Stick at.....Metro Riders. For the love of God, you Crazy People!

It is true. Just by virtue of being on the same over-crowded rush hour train, I am not going to like you for that short ride on the rails. It's nothing personal (I might like you again when we get off). But we are in competition for prime real estate. I mean, you can be the difference if I have a seat, if I have a pole to hold on to, or if I will be swinging from the overhead bar like a monkey. And we all want to be the first one off, the first one up the escalater, the first one at the turnstile. I will think you are the devil if you run off before me and stand on the escalater. Everybody knows the escalaters are for People Moving. Fast people moving.

Some of you are probably nice people. In fact, we may enjoy a beer together. Or a walk in the park. We could even exchange friendship bracelets. But just by being there - breathing my same air, riding the metro at the same time as me - well, you kind of suck at the moment. Unless you follow the rules and do not become any of the following Hated Riders.

There are the obvious Hated Riders who do not step off the train to let people off or the ones on the platform who barge the train before people can get off. There are the tourists who mostly have no clue - which I usually cut them some slack. But they should be banned from riding the hours of Rush Hour.

Then there are these characters:

You have your Mad Hatters. They only come out of the Rude Coccoon during the Rush Hour and when the trains are running on an abbreviated schedule, hence less trains equal more people. And I hate All Those People in All One Place. And apparently everyone else does too because it brings out the Mean. The Mad Hatters are the people who must be late for a very important date. They cram onto an already jammed train. And then choose to order the people that are already crammed in on where to stand. When they do this, this is what I hear, "There is room under the seats, people. Kindly crouch yourself down into a fetal position and stuff yourselves. Look you can fit two people under that one seat. That is how it works, people!" They are not happy unless you are pressed together - "skin on skin! hut, hut!" Like they read "Metro Rules of Order" - they know how to organize The People. Hey, I understand the hurry. I'm probably in one too. Nobody likes waiting more than 5 minutes for a train. But sometimes you need to. Deep breathing techniques help me.

Now I realize that there are the people that these Mad Hatters are yelling at that probably do deserve it. No, they DO deserve it. They are the other annoyance in an already Too Crammed train. They are the Spacesavers. These are the people who do not utilize the space efficiently and do leave empty space. Can't they see that it is a packed platform? Let the people on. Move in. Move around. Share. These people either have no clue or the world revolves around them. It can go either way with the Spacesavers. Oh, but if you are saving space for your "imaginary friend" well, then, me and the fellow travelers will give you that space. In that case.

Both of these breeds annoy each other the most and frankly, they both annoy me. Spacesaver wants to be by the door and Mad Hatter just wants to be on the train. But one time I got accused of being a Spacesaver. Me! A Mad Hatter got on board. Wait, no, he didn't "get on board." He pushed, squeezed, and shimmied his way onto that train and then chose to lecture me on where to stand because what he saw was a bunch of empty air between me and the million other people surrounding me. You know, we did not have skin-on-skin contact. But what Mad Hatter didn't see....was the seeing eye dog laying on the floor below my feet. It's like I was playing a game of Twister, contorting my body to fit the available space which was not in direct relation to the foot space - my right arm was on the silver pole behind me, left foot at dog's behind in front of me, right foot three feet to the left, left arm - well, I wasn't sure where my left arm was at that moment. It may have been on the that blue circle in the very corner under Joe's knee. I don't know. Needless to say, everybody in the vicinity put Mad Hatter in his place. "Atleast the girl is Twister-proficient!" and "Dogs are people too!"

But my least favorite Metro Commuters are the Sack Of Potatoes. There's one on every car. The train stops at a station. People get off. People get on. Sack of Potatoes sit contently in their seats and watch all the poor commuter peasants cramming into the train fighting for valuable pole space or that one seat that is vacant. That is their right. First come, first serve. Except! They wait until the train takes off and just as it does, they get up. First, don't they know that once the train moves - the people standing have to maintain their plant? When the train is in motion - it is crucial. Oh, I have tested this. AND, if you knew you were getting off at the next stop and you NEED to get in your Ready Set position, then get up when the train is in a station turning over more Hated Riders. It's win-win for everybody that way, Sack of Potatoes. I will not move for these people. Not even to get the seat which is second - at this point - to winning The Annoying Award.

Then, it is no wonder that Sack of Potatoes are also sometimes part of another group of Hated Rider. The Pushpins. These are the people who make their way to the doors while the train is moving all the while saying "excuse me, excuse me" all the way. Gunning for the doors. People, where are we going to move? I am already hanging from this pole like a chimpanzee, if I jump down now then I will lose my balance and fall. Besides I may be getting off too. In which case, you will get off behind me. It is the logical flow of the train - the people in front get off first to make it easier for the people in the back to follow suit. When they come near with their "excuse mes" I just put my fingers in my ear and "la-la-la-I-can't-hear-you!"

Finally, there is a group of people I like to call the Pole Dancers. Sounds....entertaining? Hardly. Pole Dancers are the people who lean against the pole with all their body like it is their business. Five people could hold onto that pole and not each other unless a Pole Dancer hugs it. Why don't you rub up and down it? Because I didn't get The Show. Or Pole Dancers can be the people who share the pole but whose hand keeps slipping....onto yours. Is it not obvious? Grab the pole and keep your grip people. It doesn't take much concentration. But usually these people are holding a newspaper with their other hand and ambidexterity does not come easy. So either way they are doing the "pole dance."

So Metro Commuters annoy me. I am sure you have encountered one of these or even a new breed before? If so, alert me so I can properly hate them too.