A Good Man

I called him. He sounded interested. Said we could meet the next day, over lunch.

He didn’t show. I was frustrated – I’d left a crazy day at work to meet with him. I was disappointed – I was counting on him. He’d come highly recommended, after all.

I’ve recently resumed my search for the perfect handyman. The city cited me for a few little things (yes, the city has building inspectors who are charged with reviewing one-third of their territory annually, and no, I’m not in the hood nor do I live in a shanty).

Another contractor sent me an elaborate cd-rom after I called for a bid. Not only did they not use correct postage (I had to pay an additional twelve cents to the mailman) but it was a generic audio message outlining their menu of services. I already knew about their services – I had called them. I wanted a bid, not a marketing piece! Needless to say, I didn’t call them again either.

It’s funny how differently tradesmen operate. Some can’t even show up to bid, while others have a (poorly executed) marketing strategy. Also amazing to obtain three bids from three companies, with a $1500 cost variance for (allegedly) the same project!

I am always wary when it comes to home repairs – I waver somewhere between the ‘you get what you pay for’ and ‘are you ripping me off because I’m a single girl’? Always a dilemma.

So, while I’ve logged on to Angie’s List and surveyed a few friends for recommendations, I’m still searching for a few good men to help with house projects, present and future. I welcome any recommendations, btw.

Post Its

Post-its are a marvelous invention. Romy & Michelle claimed they invented them to impress their high school reunion mates, Carrie Bradshaw's boyfriend used one to break up with her. In general, they're just plain practical.

My mom left a post it note, that was her farewell message. It was simple: "Hi. I love you. Mom."

She left it in an ornament box, so I didn't find it till nearly nine months after she died. By then my dad was dating my eventual step-mom. They were watching tv as I decorated the Christmas tree. When I found the note, I snuck off to my bedroom and cried, face down, muting my sobs. I didn't want that moment to be shared by an outsider. After she left, I shared the note with my dad. He cried, that same strong sound echoed again, just like the day mom died. He shared my sense of loss all over again. As an only child, this connection was critical to me.

The note itself was also essential. It meant that she knew she was going to die, or at least that"it" was a possibility.

I know, tragic, odd, dysfunctional. She didn't commit suicide, and yet she left a note - on a post-it. But I'll take it. Many who die from disease are diagnosed and able to say proper goodbyes. For complicated, odd reasons I missed out on the opportunity to say those words, exchange those weighty sentiments before she passed.

I've kept this note in my memory box, moving it most recently to my fridge. I know we parted on good terms, that those things left unsaid were not unknown. Yet it doesn't mean I don't think about her, about it, about so much more.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Last night I heard Robert Ballard speak. It was fascinating. I rarely think about how much of the world is underwater, much less what's down there besides the average fish (and Jaws). Not to mention that the largest mountain range on Earth (also underwater).

A very engaging speaker, he shared his passion and discoveries. For those unfamiliar, Ballard discovered the Titanic in 1985, along with many other shipwrecks, amazing creatures, and so much more.

In the 1970s to search underwater Ballard would explore via submarine. It took 2.5 hours to dive from top to bottom, he'd spend 12-14 hours at a time underwater in a small capsule. In fact, I think he's spent 1/3 of his life underwater. Amazing. He showed pictures of the vehicles he's used, creatures he's discovered, maps, etc.

One thing that resonated with me is how we can have one purpose, one certain goal, but in our pursuit we might discover something completely unexpected, unplanned. For someone (me) who can get frustrated when life throws me a curve ball, I really liked this reminder to embrace and accept surprises - they can be better than our original plan.

Over the 40 years that he's been in his field, technology has certainly advanced. He spoke at length about telepresence. Rather than physically diving down, he lets others (human and manmade) submerge themselves. He can explore from the comfort of a control room - his eyes and mind underwater, his body on land.

He thinks that within ten years travel will change, based on his experiences with telepresence. That non-essential travel, that undesired travel, will taper off. That some will travel virtually - taking a trip to the Serengeti in a specially outfitted room in their home, never having to pack or board a plane. Interesting, but I'm not sure I see it - at least not entirely replacing travel. While virtual travel sounds neat, I can't imagine choosing it over the ability to explore on my own, to touch, feel, smell & discover a destination (that's above water, at least). Interesting to think about though ...

Last but not least I want to read more about i2 - the newest version of the internet that's in universities. He compared the current internet to a dirt road compared to what's on the horizon.

No Likey ...

Lowest on the list of favorites, IF I had to rank everything in the world:

-Car decals featuring "Get R Done" or that cartoon kid pissing on Ford or some other company logo
-Philip Seymour Hoffman's voice in "Capote" (though it was very effective)
-Double negatives
-"Wheel of Fortune" (aka Wheel of Torture, to me)
-Loud, souped up cars with hydraulics, fluorescent lights and those hubcaps that perpetually swirl (do they ever stop?!)
-Man jewelry (at least on the average joe, but for Italians, rappers & assorted others, it fits)
-Buffets (sneeze guard, my arse)
-Black walnut husks, the size of your fist, that carpet my lawn every other autumn (they're capable of braining a small animal and dying your hands black for weeks on end)

Once is enough

I dated a guy in college who frequently proclaimed that he would try anything, once. While I like the philosophy, I can't say that I can wholeheartedly adopt this approach. There are exceptions, after all, at least for me.

What immediately pops in my mind, red flag waving, are: bungee jumping, eating haggis, and lasik eye surgery.

I took my friend J to her lasik eye surgery. It was her second surgery - they needed to make adjustments. Curious fool that I am, I took advantage of the special waiting room where you can watch the procedure on television. I thought I could do it, push my queasiness boundary & see something cool. I expected the 20 inch tv to show J's entire face, but instead the camera was mounted on the surgeon's head - so I had a bird's eye view of an 18-19 inch eyeball. Too much eyeball. It was disgusting. For the girl (me) who took three hours to put her contacts in for the first time in 9th grade, it was traumatic. (After all, as kids we're told not to touch our eyes, then suddenly they want us to put foreign objects in them. Inconceivable.)

I tried to play it cool, tried to read a magazine and shift my body so I wasn't facing the giant eye that was clamped open, a scalpel pulling back part of the eye. In the end I had to hold my magazine up to completely block the giant eye. I know it was wimpy - but even thinking about it now spooks me out. Adding to my repulsion was the fact that an office employee sat down beside me, drinking a Coke and watching the procedure - like it was Mister Rogers Neighborhood or something. Yuck!!

Granted, not having to pop contacts in or put the glasses on to see would be nice, but till it's non-invasive - I'll stick with the specs.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings ...

... a few of my favorite things:
-winning at backgammon
-wednesday lunches w/sab
-emails from my gram
-my dog, sleeping at my feet
-70 degree temps
-dark chocolate
-gardenias
-laughing so hard that tears flow & your stomach hurts

Deployment

I always look forward to the state of the company meetings and various management communications at work, at Dilbertville. I can count on learning a few new corporate-speak buzzwords. I often take notes, capturing the hottest new terms. It amuses me. Each year, perhaps each quarter, there are new ones popping up. I think executives and consultants spend more time renaming things than OPI. Which, by the way, has fantastic polish names.

The latest buzzword I learned while catching up with a friend last week. Her company, which is going through significant restructuring, seems to have employed the word 'deployment.' As in you'll still have a job, we just don't where you'll be deployed. This evokes visions of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines - not corporate America, where business suits and heels are de rigueur. Images of Iraq, rather than Chicago or Manhattan.

Such a fascinating thing ... of course, leadership at all levels - including our federal government - tends to like to create big words to describe simple things. Who will soon forget 'axis of evil' and 'WMD'?

Confession - over Moules et Frites

Ever wonder why, at the most unexpected times, a new acquaintance (more on the 'stranger' side than 'friend' side of the spectrum) downloads their life story, with a focus on their dirty laundry, to you at your first (or second) meeting?

Every once in awhile I'm shocked by such blatant confessions. No privacy screen, no filter, just me facing them, listening. Isn't there a better ear than mine? What am I supposed to do with this information? Granted in some ways a blog is just that, but at least there are only a finite number of people who know my identity - and I'm not dumping all my crap out ... at least not all at once.

For a handful of years I traveled to Europe for work on a regular basis. The most bizarre episode of TMI (too much information) occured in Belgium. Within hours of arriving, having just dropped my luggage off at the hotel and conducting business for a few hours, my vendor unloaded her baggage, over lunch. Mussels, fries, a Belgian beer - and her secrets - were served up. Mind you I'd never met her before, hadn't even communicated with her beforehand - just her boss. I can't so much remember the details of the lunch confession so much as my feeling of jet lag mixed with mental indigestion. Why do you feel compelled to impart this knowledge? Do I seem fairly anonymous, safe, discreet? Is it simply the right place/time to unload, maybe in some parallel universe? Am I wearing an invisible habit, a priest's collar?

These revelations, along with the city's most photographed statue, Mannekin Pis kept my head spinning for a few days. There were other strange experiences while in Belgium - from dining with a man who whistles when he talks (because of the spaces between his teeth), to the tour guide who drove an Alfa Romeo (who knew?), to my first lunch which kicked off the quirkiness.

There have been others - like the dental hygienist who spilled the ugly parts of her life while cleaning my teeth - but that's another post.

Friday the 13th

I've never been terribly superstitious. Black cats, the number 13, and all of the other old wives tales haven't fazed me much. Movies like "Halloween" and "NIghtmare on Elm Street" bother me because of the ridiculous carnage, but really aren't all that creepy - mostly because they're not terribly realistic. Actually, though, the series of "Scream" movies were rather scary, and clever, which surprised me.

What I do tend to dislike are Fridays which fall on the 13th. In 1987 there were two, back to back, in February and March. I was a sophomore in high school, 19 years younger (gasp) than I am today. Amazing how when you don't sit down and think about it, calculate the number of years separating you from a memory, it seems much more recent. But then pivotal points in life are like tattoos in your memory, fresh as the day they occurred.

On Valentine's Day, a Saturday that year, I was 15 years young. I was taking driver's ed, even though I wouldn't be 16 until the summer. My mom had talked to the teacher and he made an allowance for me to take it during the school year rather than in summer school - which was totally cool. I had a leg up on all the other summer birthdays.

Meanwhile, my mom was declining in health. She hid it best as she could, with every ounce of maternal strength. I don't know if it was her beliefs, her German ancestry, the baby boomer generation, or a little of everything - but "it" wasn't talked about. So appearances were kept up as best as possible. Her blue eyes still twinkled and her dimples still framed her smile. As a young child I desperately wanted a set of dimples. I would stare into the bathroom mirror, index fingernails planted in my skin - expecting that dimples could be made with enough effort. Unfortunately the dimples never came, but I always coveted my mom's. And now, as an adult, I'm starting to have laugh lines, which are the next best thing, I think.

Since "it" was not a topic of conversation, I never expected her to die. She was all about business as usual, until her final days. On Friday, March 13th she died - in the middle of the night, a bird away from her nest.

I used to think that it was the best way - I didn't see her suffer - she died fairly quickly when "it' became more prominent. I remember that morning. It was still dark, probably 6am. When my dad told me he cried, we cried. I'd never heard a man cry like that before. Haven't since - it's beyond description.

When the sun came up, we went to a nearby park. I'm not sure why, but I think we both needed to get out, be out, somewhere. We sat at a park bench for awhile. At our appointment with the funeral home I remember the director completing the obituary ... "beloved wife, mother, daughter, sister. . . where do you want donations to be sent?" All very matter of fact. My two grandmothers were there, both widowed by then, and friends since childhood.

It's almost like I was underwater the entire morning - the tears shed with dad clogged my ears for hours, with an occasional sound bite penetrating the silence. Before we went back home to make more calls, we stopped at McDonald's. It was lunch hour and crowded. This is the last memory I have of that day. Over a burger & fries, I realized that life went on, that to everyone else it was just another day. And on some level I found that oddly comforting. My life was off track, my world spinning horribly out of control, but with time and effort it could (and would) resume.

The Muppet Show

Recently I received one of those emails with a list of questions geared to get to know your friends better. The questions range from 'what are you listening to right now' to 'what jobs have you had in your life', etc. I exchanged answers with my two best buds from college. It was a trip down memory lane. After 3.5 years of living with 1-2 miles of each other, 2 years in which were on the same dorm floor, I was reminded of things I'd forgotten (like how S has a repulsion to food on sticks) and yet learned new things about them as well. Which is only logical, since we first met in 1989.

One question which took be down memory lane asked the popular question - what did you want to be as a kid. I wanted to be a puppeteer. A puppeteer in a cool way - not like John Cusack in Being John Malkovich. I had a collection of puppets, from a real Miss Piggy & Rowlf from The Muppets to a knock-off Kermit, and a bunch of other anonymous/non-commercial characters. I had one of those oh-so-70s plastic shelving set-ups (I think it was branded as etagere, very swanky, very puke yellow) in which I displayed my collection of puppets. I even had a few marionettes. The homemade bird - made with fishing line, styrofoam balls, orange feathers, and those hobby store eyes that rattle - was a good intro marionette. Very simple construction so that even if you managed to tangle it up, it could be undone without parental intervention.

My heroes in the world of puppetry were local. They still have a studio and perform throughout the area. As a child they were my rock stars. They lived upstairs above their puppet studio, went to my church, even came over for dinner once in awhile. I actually got Christmas cards from them, and had been backstage to see them work and create from scratch their characters. I loved it. It was a magical time.

As all kids do, I had many career aspirations throughout childhood, adolescence and now even - in my 30s. I still don't know what I want to do (write?), but it's still amazing to dream and explore options . . .

Fare thee well, Bluth Family

I loved the Bluths - they used to visit regularly, bringing intelligent wackiness with them. Then their schedule became irregular (damn tv programming) and last week, opposite the opening ceremonies in Torino, was a two hour finale.

They won Emmys, made it to three (ok, 2.5) seasons, featured cameos/recurring roles by a vertigo-afflicted Liza Minnelli, hapless attorney Henry Winkler, Jason Bateman's sister as a prostitute, Julia Louis-Dreyfuss, Charlize Theron, William Hung, Amy Poehler, Zach Braff, Christine Taylor, Scott Baio (as Bob Loblaw), Carl Weathers, and so many more. Really clever writing - if you blinked during the show you were sure to miss a subtle, well placed comment or sight gag. Hilarious. One of my all time favorite shows.

Their deadpan delivery, clever narration, documentary-esque camera work, and layers of humor were amazing.

My friend J's favorite episode is when Lucille Bluth realizes their membership at the country club is no longer valid. With her husband in prison (for questionable accounting practices) their assets are frozen. Unable to dine at the country club, she eats out poolside. When her cocktail comes, the waiter's fingers are touching the lip of the glass. She fires out something like "if I wanted to eat something that your finger had touched, I'd bite your ear." Anyway, it's delivered much more brilliantly than I can capture here, without spending hours crafting it.

I too got hooked in season one. From Motherboy to Tobias being outed as a 'never nude.' GOB's moonwalking on stage (with the 80s tune "The Final Countdown" playing), while doing magic tricks. The spoof on "Girls Gone Wild' - renamed "Girls with Low Self Esteem." The modes of transport for the family - the stair car, segway, bicycles. How each and every family member is in some stage of arrested development.

I'll miss it - but luckily I have it on dvd. I highly suggest you check it out too.

SGL in STL

Went shoe shopping recently. My crappy athletic shoes (that I paid a lot for) give me blisters and all sorts of other problems. In an effort to prevent gnarly feet when I'm in (allegedly) comfortable shoes, I went to a shoe store where they fit you, and match your feet to a shoe (as opposed to me selecting sneakers solely by aesthetics).

I'm not positive, but think that the shoe salesman was hitting on me. And it was not a good thing. I'm not sure where to begin or how to best depict it, so I'll just throw out some of the questions/details shared with moi - the one who came for shoes & shoes only, thank you:

"What are you reading?"
Now, this seems harmless enough, but he was helping someone else at the time. And I was sitting, quietly, minding my own business, waiting my turn and READING. I've been on my share of planes with the overly talkative/new best friend passenger sitting next to me. This is how the TMI (too much information) conversation starts.

His work history.
Yes, folks, I know his 15+ years of work history. He tried to impress me with his travels and seemed to like quoting $ amounts. Don't try to impress me, just be yourself dude.

Where he's living and where he's lived.
I know now - with no effort/solicitation on my part - how much he's paid for the apartments he's lived in (over $1500 in STL), which areas of STL he's lived and where he lives now. I even saw (again, no prompting on my part - I was all about the shoes) a brochure of the current complex in which he lives, complete with layouts of each type of unit. He pointed out that he's currently in a smaller one but will be upgrading soon. This part got creepy - he pushed the brochure in my face. Not sure why he had the brochure with him and why he felt compelled to share, but ok.

What are you doing on Valentine's Day?
Again, to some this may seem fairly conversational. Based on other comments, it wasn't. And I wasn't - interested, that is.

I am filtering a bit because he was an NGB. Nice guy but suffering from TMI. Granted I was a novelty at the store (the average customer that afternoon had more than five gray hairs on their head and/or was male), so fresh meat, few wrinkles, and V-Day approaching, but OY VEY.

I did leave with new shoes though, and think they'll be a better fit. . .

Mind Your Ps and Qs . . .

Has Emily Post revised her tome to include cell phone do's and don'ts?

I did a quick search on cell phone etiquette and found rules about using them in restaurants, churches, theatres, cars. Nothing, however, about using them in bathrooms.

My friend M is a skilled multitasker. She's on the phone while running, shopping, even peeing (when at home) - but only with good friends. Today she confessed to peeing and talking public restrooms, but only with her sisters. At present she draws the line in blood for public urination by phone.

As a fellow urinator in public bathrooms, it weirds me out. I've never thought of peeing & talking in public, but hey, that's just me. And, I have no sisters - so I must poll my friends.

There have been a few times, when I'm in public, that I've heard one sided conversations while in the loo. Today took it to a new level. Rather than being anonymous (in a restaurant, shopping mall, airport), it was at work. A coworker walked in, conducting a one sided conversation on her cell, entered a stall and continued talking. It was odd, I had anticipated that she would warn the listener that she was going into the bathroom, and maybe she did. I just didn't hear it. Also hope to hell she was on with her sister, and not her client.

Also of note is the fact that our toilets are automated, so the sensors respond to subtle movements. A toilet will automatically flush if you simply blink. It's like never ending surf sounds, right here in the landlocked 'burbs - any subtle move and it flushes. Not including those unfortunate sounds that are sometimes emitted and overheard by other stall-mates ... Simply said, it's a bad place to converse for a multitude of reasons.

So today, this woman continued her conversation in the midst of the spontaneous flushing. I just don't get it. If I was on the receiving end of that conversation I'd have to interrupt: Is the toilet broken? Can you call me back when you're out of the john? Are you trying to drown out my voice? Course I don't always say what I'm thinking (a point which M reminded me of this afternoon), which is true. She's charged with picking up on my non-verbals and calling me on it.

We have a 'No Firearms Allowed' at the entrance to my office. Do we need a 'No Cell Phone Usage' sign on the bathroom door?

Last but not least, why tempt fate? Why bring items into the stall that are not needed? I remember a colleague's nightmare story. She stayed late at work. Made a pit stop on the way to her car. As she was flinging her coat around her again and flushing, her keys flew in and flushed away. Kid you not. Guess that could be called a swirly of an accidental kind?

Men Without Pants

Earlier this week I saw the Black Watch & Band of the Welsh Guards perform.

It was a parade of leopard skins, knee socks, kilts and tall, fuzzy black hats. Yes, I did just say men in kilts. Bagpipes, drums, marching, etc. Very much a curiosity to American women - with not an ounce of emasculation, rather a new level of sex appeal.

Funny how knee sock clad, kilt-wearing Brits are so intriguing. And I'm sure this question was not uttered backstage: "Does this tartan make my butt look big?"

I think most women found their 'skirts' (if I dare call them that, and I do) 'hot'.

Of course during the performance my mind occasionally wandered ... their tall, black hats (made of bear and/or ostrich feathers) brought me back to Gene Simmons in KISS (without the makeup and skin tight clothing). I know it's wrong - they shouldn't be compared - but you might think the same thing.

Click here, and pretend you're 20+ rows back by squinting.

And then I thought of the one hit wonders, Men Without Hats, which I think will close this post - which also crossed my mind during the performance:
We can dance if we want to / We can leave your friends behind / 'Cause your friends don't dance / And if they don't dance / Well they're no friends of mine

Love in An Elevator

I recently read an article that's stuck with me. It compared retirement villages to high school. The dating, the gossip, the 'scandals' - all very similar. I've always known that the elderly become child-like, but had never entertained the commonality between senior citizens and seniors in high school.

I have a distant relative in a retirement village. Let's call her Martha, though that's not her real name. She's still in good health, 80s, exercises daily, drives, etc. Very mobile, very active. She's been widowed for more than a decade but still very much in mourning. She's made room for male companions, next to her dead husband, to bring a little life into her day.

The first guy she dated in the 'ville - let's call him Ebenezer - shared her interest/level of mourning for a dead spouse, and was a frequent companion. Seemed like a nice guy, he came to a family reunion, though she recently ditched him for another. Apparently he had boundaries - he wouldn't eat with her in the cafeteria, and when they went somewhere together he met her in the garage. Very stealth, very discreet. I guess he was trying to stay out of the public eye. Hello, Eb, you live in a retirement community. Everyone has nothing but time on their hands and makes your business, their business. Wake up!

Back to Martha. New guy - let's call him Earl - has been checking her out for a few years. Widowed for awhile, Earl recently caught her alone in the lobby or on the elevator and struck up a conversation. This one was more engaging, willing to be in the spotlight with her (relatively speaking), and thus she dumped boyfriend #1. Earl, God bless him, is a retired cop in declining health, also in his 80s. He has poor eyes, bad knees, can't stand long but is hell bent on getting a job. Each week Martha helps him look at the classifieds and drives him around to fill out applications. She knows it's unrealistic, but she goes through the motions with him. And in exchange, he isn't ashamed to be seen with her in the cafeteria, the craft room, the auditorium. I think it's a pretty fair shake.

The article that I read went more into the rules, the amount of gossip, the cliques, etc. of the geriatic high school. Flushed out, I think it could make a great short story. Maybe start it out so that it seems like a teenage romance, revealing clues along the way that it's similar, but not. I dunno - we'll see. . .

Ahhhh, Friday

Well, this week seemed to drag on indefinitely. I don't know if it's the winter lulls, lack of a day off since Christmas/New Years (perhaps I'm mourning the 3-4 day work weeks which were commonplace in late Dec/early jan), or if I'm just restless.

Each afternoon around 2pm this week I started watching the clock. I had plenty that I could do, but my brain just couldn't. The last 3 hours of each day were nearly unbearable.

So today I took a spontaneous half day off. No meetings, no urgent deadlines, let it be. So I met my Dad for lunch, ran errands, etc. It's amazing how productive I was this afternoon - outside of the office, that is. Hopefully this little break will force me into a more deadline driven Monday in which I'm juggling more and thus stimulated/slightly stressed and boom - the day's over before I know it. We can only hope. I need a jump start - and I'd rather it be voluntary than by my overlooking something and having a project blow up in my face. A little fear is good, failure (albeit a lesson) is not my cup of tea, muchless my elixir of choice.

Several weeks ago I faced a possible flop. I made the colossal, sloppy error of replying to a client when I thought I was emailing my colleague at work. Just to set the record straight that I'm not a total dumbass - let me set the scene: I was out of town, in a hotel business center paying through the nose for email access by the minute (fortunately paid for by my company) with a herd of cattle outside the business center door. Add to that that I'd sat still for 8+ hrs in a conference room being talked to - I was depleted. Simply a recipe for an f-up.

Panicking and mentally depleted, I did have the sense to not try to recall the email (it never works and only makes you look more stupid & the recipient more curious), emailed the client immediately explaining the situation in more client friendly terms, and then called her voice mail (as she was already gone for the day) to apologize/clarify.

Then, I imagined what would be the worse thing that could happen. Of course it escalated to public humiliation for losing a new account that I'd brought in and hadn't even delivered on before screwing it up. I'm sure (in my mind's eye) it was broadcast to the entire company, posted on the intranet site as breaking news, and an company wide email went out about email etiquette, and I was cited as an example of an "email don't." Not unlike the Fashion Don'ts in the back of Glamour magazine, except that my face wouldn't be hidden. Then I'd be fired and, unlike the nutters who have been terminated before me, I couldn't bounce back and get a decent job. I was now flipping burgers at Eat Rite with a bunch of hooligans. My life was over.

After I played out that nightmare, I left it in the client's hands and watched some tv, tried my hand at sudoku, and putzed around in my hotel room. I knew, all in all, that it shouldn't be an offensive email, but so many times such one dimensional communications can be misconstrued. Luckily, the next morning my client called - she wasn't offended in the least.

Well, didn't realize I was going to flashback to one of my stupid human tricks in this post, but looks like I did. Hmm, this one even had a moral.

London Town

Just booked my ticket ... in one month's time I'll be in London. London, London, London. Even better yet, I'm visiting my college roommate & her husband who are currently living in a two-bedroom flat near Hyde Park. Great city, great friends, great times ahead. They've been there almost a year, and will probably stay for at least another year. I'm intrigued to see where they land next. . . but all in due time.

I'm torn because part of me wants to be the big tourist and hit the museums I've not been to (like the Tate Modern which is housed in a former power plant, the Victoria & Albert, etc), go on the Jack the Ripper tour, take in a musical/play in a small, intimate West End theatre, shop, eat, gawk, and most importantly - get lost so I get a better sense of my bearings, and (as an added bonus) find some pretty wonderful 'off the beaten path' places along the way. I've gotten lost (not always by design) a handful of times in Paris and it's one of my favorite things to do.

But I've also made the mistake of programming the days on vacation in a city and ended up exhausted - it's the tour guide/travel planner in me. And thus the other half comes into play ... to relax in the moment. To simply spend quality time with two of my favorite people in the world, who happen to live the farthest away from me (compared to my other FPITW). After all, I've been to London before, I'll go again. (In fact, R&J if you're reading this, how does Fall 2006 look on your calendars?!)

The planner/tour guide just needs to sit back and let the passenger enjoy the ride. If not, the passenger might suffocate the planner. . . and where would the balance be?

Two minutes worth?

Earlier this week I shook up my routine by driving a different way to work. Instead of taking mostly residential streets and rolling through the numerous stop signs posted on every city block, I headed straight north to the highway. I was feeling lucky, deep in my gut I felt that today the stop lights were timed in my favor and would prove more expeditious than the usual path. (Especially since I tend to procrastinate in the morning and then careen my way to work.) Overall it was a good decision - I hit only one red - right at the underpass and the highway entrance.

As we do when we're in different surroundings, I looked around a little more than I usually do. And it paid off. Facing me, going south, was a driver who was BRUSHING HIS TEETH at the stop light. Going to town on the teeth - up, down, left, right - he was brushing. Completely unaware that most perform this activity prior to leaving home. He wasn't totally prepared though - he didn't have any water to rinse. So instead he did a quick spit out the window and accelerated when the light turned green. I wonder if the tube of toothpaste was in the passenger seat, or if he loaded up the brush before leaving home?

Who knew? Who would ever think of driving and brushing - their teeth? I've seen women put on mascara while driving which is equally alarming, perhaps more so ... if you were to get in an accident - yuck. Brushing your hair - ok, talking on cell - ok, teeth/mascara - inconceivable.

My year of pork and broccoli

My dad and I were housemates for a year or so, making our way with all things domestic as the odd pair. After my mom died we both learned to pick up the slack in running the household that my mom once managed with ease. I did the laundry, he did the cooking. The barbecue grill and pressure cooker were used nightly - in rain, snow and sleet. Pork was the meat of choice and broccoli, only broccoli, the sole vegetable.

As a child I detested broccoli. The texture, the smell, the mere look of it. I remember my Grandmother coaxing me to eat them by calling them 'trees.' I wouldn't eat a tree, so why in God's name would I eat broccoli?

As a young teenager, my low opinion of 'trees' remained intact. As Dad's pressure cooker began to shriek, the foul smell permeated our house, lingering for hours like an unwanted visitor. The smell of broccoli repulsed me. I'm sure I had nightmares about receiving a gift of 'eau de broccoli' perfume, of being suffocated ever so slowly by a hankerchief laced with broccoli odor, etc.

What's for dinner? Pork and broccoli? What's on for tomorrow night? Broccoli and pork. And this weekend? Guess. My dad, ever the creature of habit, served this nightly.

I couldn't eat pork again until my 20s and only recently reversed my ruling on broccoli (though I'm still not sure I've reached a firm decision).

A Portrait of My Father

My father is your average 60-something year old man. He plays golf & basketball, gardens, watches a healthy amount of reality tv, and once a year goes on a trip with my stepmom. They just returned from their most exotic trip - a Tahitian cruise.

The photos from their trip showed a lush landscape, dormant volcanoes, and the most perfect hues of blue ever to be found. The colors of the water are simply breathtaking. There are perfect places in the world, aren't there?

While many photos were nature shots, there were a few with my Dad in them. Shipboard, leaning on the rail, in shorts and a golf shirt, he looked cute. Off the ship however there were some rather frightful shots. After 18 years of marriage my stepmom's influence on Dad's attire has apparently waned; he has regressed to his old habits and a model for the fashion faux pas. A creature of habit, he wears the same things over and over until they're beyond repair. He has Teva sandals that he's superglued too many times - but prefers them over the new ones in the closet. He wears the same t-shirts and faded navy shorts. This doesn't bother me, rather it amuses me. He hasn't changed and I find it endearing.

What was alarming to me was his choice of t-shirts to take on the trip. In a handful of shots he's wearing a variation of the 'wife beater' - a t-shirt with no sleeves (he ripped off the sleeves). One had such big gaps where the arms once were that it was like one of those gowns seen on the red carpet - where it covers the necessary part (breast, chest, whatever) but that's about it. I could almost see his nipples through the arm holes. (If he wasn't so tan I would say he blushed at this comment). Best of all, these t-shirts were from our annual 'Race for the Cure' walk. So he's a wife beatin' geezerjock with a cause.

Hopefully he'll cut back on wearing these tees when not gardening, washing the car, etc. as such fashion don'ts are now captured for eternity in the vacation photo album.

We'll have to wait till next January's vacation to confirm, but I think the term 'wife beater' clinched it. As I was leaving the 'rents house he mumbled something about getting rid of one or two of the more stretched out beaters.

Mrs. Tuppington, Shorty, Melvin & Hildy

My writing group has a blog now too - it's stlwriters.blogspot (I think). One of these days I'll add it as a link to my blog. We all met while taking an intro writing class and out of 15 students, we've created a lovely quartet. We've only met as a group twice so far, and will meet on a biweekly basis, but I have a good feeling about us. Everyone contributes and has so much to offer. Last weekend we reviewed a second draft of 'Tom's Place' by Norma Jean. The feedback, depth of discussion, thoughts - everything - was great. Next week my draft of 'Oddly Comforting' is up for review. I'm ready to breathe new life into the story. It feels recycled right now, so either I'll be energized to work on a next draft or shelve it while taking away some good insights on my writing. Watch this space.

Also ready to re-read the next draft of the other stories - 'The Importance of Credit' and 'Mrs. Tuppington Takes a Trip'. Can't recall if this is the correct title of the last one (sorry, Temporary Digs) but the main character - Mrs. Tuppington with her mug - isn't easily forgotten.

Wheel Aversion

Is it just me, or is anyone else repulsed by Wheel of Fortune?

I have nothing against Pat, Vanna, or the contestants. However, when the intro music comes on after the local news, I must change channels. I can be several rooms away, absorbed in a project, and the 'alarm' goes off. Locate remote, change channels, anything else is acceptable. I could watch hours of Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw with greater ease than five minutes of the wheel.

I can't put my finger on it, but this aversion exists.