Sunday, December 7, 2008
A Devil of a Time
How does a tree figure into Christmas?
Seriously. I don’t recall any Douglas firs next to the Christ child’s manger. The Wise Men didn’t come bearing frankincense, myrrh and tinsel. So how did a tree become associated with a religious holiday?
I’ll tell you how: Satan.
That’s right. It had to be Beelzebub who realized this Christian holiday was getting a bit out of hand. Too much love. Joy. Happiness. Gag. So he introduced the notion that a decorated tree might be a nice spot under which to place our presents. In honor of the beloved Christ child, of course.
What a swell idea.
This explains why I have a devil of a time manipulating a 6-foot noble fir into a Toyota trunk. And why it takes 30 attempts, littered with a few unChristmas-like words, to get it out again with branches and dignity intact.
I drag it to my condo, leaving behind a trail of needles that enables me to find my way back to the car to retrieve the branches that remain in my trunk. They’re wedged between the spare tire and the stack of newspapers for recycling. The branches will go back on the tree.
Two words: glue gun.
After tangoing with the tree, knocking pictures off the walls and trinkets off shelves, after leaving a path of destruction from my front door to the living room, after responding to my neighbor’s 911 call that no, I am not being attacked by a home intruder, I finally finagle the son-of-a-birch on a stand that is missing one leg. I prop it in a corner and use a folded “Is Martha Stewart Living?” magazine as a makeshift fourth leg. I wrestle with a tangled with of lights that, glory be, actually work!
Until they’re on the tree, that is.
I use my grandmother’s wedding dress as a tree skirt because I can’t find the tree skirt I bought at Macy’s for $75. I locate the ornament hooks only after I step on them in my bare feet. My hair is standing on end from tree sap. The tree is leaning precariously toward the west and my condo looks like it imploded broccoli.
I am not in a Christmas kind of mood.
But the holiday spirit blossoms when I remember ‘tis the season of giving. I wrap gifts for my loved ones, wasting three feet of imported designer paper on a box that contains a tie tack. I curl ribbon until it disintegrates into dust. I cut my carpet along with the wrapping paper. I curse the Rubik’s Cube courtesy boxes from Nordstrom. I swear as I manipulate my body into yoga-type positions in order to lovingly wrap, tie and finish these receptacles of torture.
Hours later, boxes that look like bad origami sit nestled beneath the tree, which has shifted considerably towards the setting sun. I sit back, tired but satisfied. I admire my decorated tree and the handiwork beneath. The specialty gift-wrap. The silk ribbons. The gold-plated gift tags.
Which I forgot to label.
Then the tree falls.
Ah yes, it’s Christmas once again. I know full well that I’m in for my traditional yuletide of suffering, torture and abuse. Yet still I continue to put myself through the agony of Christmas trees and the wrath of wrapping.
I don’t know the devil why.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Run for Your Life, it's the Holiday Season
So I bought this gorgeous black leather jacket and was dying to wear it; instead, it hung in my closet for months. That’s because - darn this California weather- it wasn’t cold enough to warrant even a sweater. But last year, on Thanksgiving Day, I noted a modest chill in the air and thought, alleluia! I get to finally wear my sleek new jacket.
And I was feeling pretty stylish until my sister admired it. “That’s a beautiful chocolate color,” she exclaimed.
Uh, no sis, are you color blind? My jacket is black. But upon closer inspection, after going outside and scrutinizing the jacket under the blinding glare of the midday sun, and after closely comparing it with my black shoes and black purse, and squinting my eyes and praying that perhaps this was just a light shade of black, I had to concede my sister was right: however subtle, the jacket was indeed dark brown.
Darn! This meant if I wanted the black jacket, I’d have to return to the store to exchange this one. And I realized with a sickened knot in my stomach that since today was Thanksgiving, that could only mean one thing: tomorrow was Black Friday. Stores would be swamped with stampeding hordes of manic bug-eyed bargain-seekers, items would be flying off the racks, and any chance I had of finding my coveted black jacket meant I’d have to face the throngs and go to the store.
Early. On Black Friday.
Now once upon a time I enjoyed shopping on this day, long before it was so dubiously dubbed Black Friday. Stores opened early, featured tempting sales, and people flocked to the shops to admire the decorations, get in the spirit of Christmas, and pick up some bargains in the process. It was a nice way to launch the holidays while burning off pumpkin pie calories.
Not anymore. Today, the day after Thanksgiving has come to signify a putrid partnership of retail greed coupled with consumer gluttony. It’s morphed from representing the start of the holiday season into the lead story on the 6:00 news featuring a mosh pit of rabid, robotic, drooling crowds charging a jam-packed Walmart at 4:00 am, groping for anything that might be on sale. Need a Garfield Chia Kit or an old CD by Kevin Federline? Who the hell cares? Grab it dude, because it’s 50 percent off! I’ve come to dread the onset of Christmas because these inevitable scenes of wanton vulgarity sadden and repulse me. And every year, I vow to never, ever set foot in a store on Black Friday. Or any day even close to it.
So I had to ask myself: how badly did I want this black jacket? I considered stabbing myself in the eyeballs because then I’d have more pressing concerns than the color of my clothes. Instead, I strategized: on Black Friday, which venue nearest my home might draw the lesser crowd? The enclosed shopping mall 15 minutes south or the outdoor shopping plaza 15 minutes north? I rubbed my lucky Rabbit’s Foot, threw salt over my shoulder, crossed my fingers, opted for the latter and hoped for the best.
And that is how, at 9:00 am on Black Friday, I found myself in Dante’s Inferno, aka the dreaded department store. But there were no carnivorous crowds jamming elbows into rib cages. No eager sales clerks hovering over me in anticipation of a coveted commission. Not only did I find the last black leather jacket on the rack, it was an additional $50 off, which made my venture just a bit sweeter. Since the crowds were lighter than expected, I decided to walk around and do some shopping myself, maybe grab a hot chocolate and engage in a little people-watching. Hey, there was even that long-awaited nip in the air: I could don my new jacket!
Strolling through the plaza, I admired festive window decorations while enjoying carols piped through outdoor speakers. Sales clerks weren’t pushy, but pleasant. Shoppers were cheery, courteous and kind, opening doors, saying “thank you,” smiling. Frequent exclamations of “Merry Christmas” rang through the air and not once did I see anyone rushing, ramming or shoving. This was the day after Thanksgiving as I remembered it. Before shopping malls mutated into bottomless chasms and big-box stores encouraged mindless masses to run amuck in search of a penny saved.
I snuggled my scarf a bit tighter around my neck and sat near an outdoor fountain, sipping my steaming peppermint mocha while absorbing the view before me: parents leading their excited toddler to see Santa; the Golden retriever wearing an elf cap; and the 16-foot Christmas tree newly adorned with ornaments the size of cantaloupes. I relished the bite in the air and the joy of the season. Such an unexpected surprise this day turned out to be. I reveled in the moment, my cynicism melting and the holiday spirit dawning as subtle as…
…well, as subtle as a brown leather jacket.
And I was feeling pretty stylish until my sister admired it. “That’s a beautiful chocolate color,” she exclaimed.
Uh, no sis, are you color blind? My jacket is black. But upon closer inspection, after going outside and scrutinizing the jacket under the blinding glare of the midday sun, and after closely comparing it with my black shoes and black purse, and squinting my eyes and praying that perhaps this was just a light shade of black, I had to concede my sister was right: however subtle, the jacket was indeed dark brown.
Darn! This meant if I wanted the black jacket, I’d have to return to the store to exchange this one. And I realized with a sickened knot in my stomach that since today was Thanksgiving, that could only mean one thing: tomorrow was Black Friday. Stores would be swamped with stampeding hordes of manic bug-eyed bargain-seekers, items would be flying off the racks, and any chance I had of finding my coveted black jacket meant I’d have to face the throngs and go to the store.
Early. On Black Friday.
Now once upon a time I enjoyed shopping on this day, long before it was so dubiously dubbed Black Friday. Stores opened early, featured tempting sales, and people flocked to the shops to admire the decorations, get in the spirit of Christmas, and pick up some bargains in the process. It was a nice way to launch the holidays while burning off pumpkin pie calories.
Not anymore. Today, the day after Thanksgiving has come to signify a putrid partnership of retail greed coupled with consumer gluttony. It’s morphed from representing the start of the holiday season into the lead story on the 6:00 news featuring a mosh pit of rabid, robotic, drooling crowds charging a jam-packed Walmart at 4:00 am, groping for anything that might be on sale. Need a Garfield Chia Kit or an old CD by Kevin Federline? Who the hell cares? Grab it dude, because it’s 50 percent off! I’ve come to dread the onset of Christmas because these inevitable scenes of wanton vulgarity sadden and repulse me. And every year, I vow to never, ever set foot in a store on Black Friday. Or any day even close to it.
So I had to ask myself: how badly did I want this black jacket? I considered stabbing myself in the eyeballs because then I’d have more pressing concerns than the color of my clothes. Instead, I strategized: on Black Friday, which venue nearest my home might draw the lesser crowd? The enclosed shopping mall 15 minutes south or the outdoor shopping plaza 15 minutes north? I rubbed my lucky Rabbit’s Foot, threw salt over my shoulder, crossed my fingers, opted for the latter and hoped for the best.
And that is how, at 9:00 am on Black Friday, I found myself in Dante’s Inferno, aka the dreaded department store. But there were no carnivorous crowds jamming elbows into rib cages. No eager sales clerks hovering over me in anticipation of a coveted commission. Not only did I find the last black leather jacket on the rack, it was an additional $50 off, which made my venture just a bit sweeter. Since the crowds were lighter than expected, I decided to walk around and do some shopping myself, maybe grab a hot chocolate and engage in a little people-watching. Hey, there was even that long-awaited nip in the air: I could don my new jacket!
Strolling through the plaza, I admired festive window decorations while enjoying carols piped through outdoor speakers. Sales clerks weren’t pushy, but pleasant. Shoppers were cheery, courteous and kind, opening doors, saying “thank you,” smiling. Frequent exclamations of “Merry Christmas” rang through the air and not once did I see anyone rushing, ramming or shoving. This was the day after Thanksgiving as I remembered it. Before shopping malls mutated into bottomless chasms and big-box stores encouraged mindless masses to run amuck in search of a penny saved.
I snuggled my scarf a bit tighter around my neck and sat near an outdoor fountain, sipping my steaming peppermint mocha while absorbing the view before me: parents leading their excited toddler to see Santa; the Golden retriever wearing an elf cap; and the 16-foot Christmas tree newly adorned with ornaments the size of cantaloupes. I relished the bite in the air and the joy of the season. Such an unexpected surprise this day turned out to be. I reveled in the moment, my cynicism melting and the holiday spirit dawning as subtle as…
…well, as subtle as a brown leather jacket.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Same Sects Marriage? Oh Yeah.
Back in the day, when I was a "sweet young thang" and worked for Transamerica Airlines, I use to insist that my dream husband was a pilot. That’s because he’d be home half the week and away the other half -- the perfect arrangement to complement my desire for marriage coupled with my fierce streak of independence. “I love you, babe, now GET OUT.”
No wonder I never married.
Ah, but I’ve discovered that the ideal marriage is still within my grasp. Because aside from being totally hooked on the HBO series, Big Love, about a modern-day polygamist family, I’ve also learned about the concept of Sister Wives: multiple women married to the same man.
In Big Love, each of the three Sister Wives maintains her own home that opens up into a common backyard. The women, who share a genuine affection for one another, also share the highs and lows of marriage: cooking, errands, child-rearing, sorrows, celebrations – oh yes, and handsome hubby Bill, who juggles conjugal visits between the three women.
How COOL is that? Just imagine...all the joys of marriage coupled with the camaraderie of your best gal pals.
I want to be a Sister Wife!
I’d make a great one, really. I’m good at sharing and am pretty flexible, so swapping nights won’t be a problem, just so long as booty-calls don’t conflict with What Not To Wear on Friday nights. Although as a Sister Wife, I may be asked to don those Little House on the Prairie dresses favored by the Mormon Fundamentalist sects, in which case What Not To Wear will pretty much become a moot point since I’ll be doing all my shopping at The Vermont Country Store.
Ah, but fashion is a small price to pay for the perfect marriage. Look what I’d be getting in return: the companionship, intimacy and joys of a beloved husband. Not to mention someone who can handle all those household chores that single women so dread, like when the toilet backs up or the car starts making that funny noise under the hood. Yes, it’s nice to have a man around the house.
And on those days when I want nothing more than to be alone so I can hunker down with my latest issue of More magazine? Or when I have just one nerve left and he won't stop yapping about his golf game? No problem! I simply scoot him off to a Sister Wife who perhaps feels like having her own "hood" looked under, while I get to enjoy a peaceful, relaxing bubble bath. Pass the Champaign, please.
But wait, it gets even better. Say that I'm a lousy cook (mind you, just a hypothetical example that in no way supports the rumor that I once almost set fire to my kitchen trying to heat a frozen pizza, and if Pam or Deb or Richard or Deanna or Alisa or Frank or Jim or my mother or sister or Fire Engine #9 say otherwise, they're all just big fat liars).
No wonder I never married.
Ah, but I’ve discovered that the ideal marriage is still within my grasp. Because aside from being totally hooked on the HBO series, Big Love, about a modern-day polygamist family, I’ve also learned about the concept of Sister Wives: multiple women married to the same man.
In Big Love, each of the three Sister Wives maintains her own home that opens up into a common backyard. The women, who share a genuine affection for one another, also share the highs and lows of marriage: cooking, errands, child-rearing, sorrows, celebrations – oh yes, and handsome hubby Bill, who juggles conjugal visits between the three women.
How COOL is that? Just imagine...all the joys of marriage coupled with the camaraderie of your best gal pals.
I want to be a Sister Wife!
I’d make a great one, really. I’m good at sharing and am pretty flexible, so swapping nights won’t be a problem, just so long as booty-calls don’t conflict with What Not To Wear on Friday nights. Although as a Sister Wife, I may be asked to don those Little House on the Prairie dresses favored by the Mormon Fundamentalist sects, in which case What Not To Wear will pretty much become a moot point since I’ll be doing all my shopping at The Vermont Country Store.
Ah, but fashion is a small price to pay for the perfect marriage. Look what I’d be getting in return: the companionship, intimacy and joys of a beloved husband. Not to mention someone who can handle all those household chores that single women so dread, like when the toilet backs up or the car starts making that funny noise under the hood. Yes, it’s nice to have a man around the house.
And on those days when I want nothing more than to be alone so I can hunker down with my latest issue of More magazine? Or when I have just one nerve left and he won't stop yapping about his golf game? No problem! I simply scoot him off to a Sister Wife who perhaps feels like having her own "hood" looked under, while I get to enjoy a peaceful, relaxing bubble bath. Pass the Champaign, please.
But wait, it gets even better. Say that I'm a lousy cook (mind you, just a hypothetical example that in no way supports the rumor that I once almost set fire to my kitchen trying to heat a frozen pizza, and if Pam or Deb or Richard or Deanna or Alisa or Frank or Jim or my mother or sister or Fire Engine #9 say otherwise, they're all just big fat liars).
What was I saying?
Oh yeah, pretend I'm a lousy cook. Hey, no big deal! Maybe I have a Sister Wife who makes a mean pot roast and besides, I have other talents to bring to our marriage, like my emi#@ nsectetuer and ad#!ipi#scing elit. And then there's xenean c#ur%sus orci suscipit urna! e%ne^an* lacinia.
Oh dear. My computer appears to be experiencing technical difficulties.
But really, are Sister Wives not the best arrangement ever?
So I'll continue hoping to one day meet my dream husband. It's not like I'm picky. All I want is a man who is kind, witty, tall, funny, loves dogs, bears a passing resemblance to George Clooney, and has a couple Sister Wives.
Sigh. Just call me a romanticist at heart.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Blog is Back
Don’t you just hate it when someone starts a blog and then doesn’t keep it up?
Okay, guilty as charged, but the thing is, mom’s fractured kneecap put a crack in my own schedule. Between crazy-busy work, my usual two-hour commute, and tending to a laid-up mother, I haven’t had time to do much of anything; well, other than relive my carefree, decadent twenties through my favorite guilty pleasure—viewing music videos from the 1980s on YouTube. Aw, c’mon, admit it; videos from the likes of Thompson Twins and Sisters of Mercy rock!
Yeah, with laughter maybe, but hey, they’re a nice trip down memory lane. They remind me of a time when I naively believed that if I worked hard and was responsible about saving money, I might actually one day retire. Before I started looking like the Crypt Keeper, that is.
But now, I’m guessing retirement isn’t going to happen anytime in the next quarter century; not if all those minus marks on my statements mean anything. Still, I’m trying to look at the bright side; maybe losing so much money isn’t a bad thing since there won’t be anything to steal when those nasty identity thieves try to pilfer my funds.
Oh yes, about that.
Last week I was alerted by a security firm hired by the headquarters of my employer. Seems a health vendor once used by my company experienced a teeny weeny itty bitty little “security breach.” And “minor details,” like my social security number, birth date and home address, may have been “compromised.” The letter was crafted so carefully and with so many euphemisms, for a minute I was almost expecting to read that I was the grand prize winner of a set of Ginzu Steak Knives or Encyclopedia Britannica. And then it sunk in.
Ah, but life still offers little pleasures. Like the chuckle I enjoyed today after reading John McCain’s proud announcement that he had received the endorsement of Dick Cheney. John, my good man, is this really something the public should know? It’s kind of like Martha Stewart being endorsed by Hannibal Lector.
But I digress.
For now, I'm going to forget about crashing stocks and identity thieves, and go indulge in another YouTube video. And I know just the one to watch. Don’t Worry, Be Happy.
Hey, it’s worth a shot.
Okay, guilty as charged, but the thing is, mom’s fractured kneecap put a crack in my own schedule. Between crazy-busy work, my usual two-hour commute, and tending to a laid-up mother, I haven’t had time to do much of anything; well, other than relive my carefree, decadent twenties through my favorite guilty pleasure—viewing music videos from the 1980s on YouTube. Aw, c’mon, admit it; videos from the likes of Thompson Twins and Sisters of Mercy rock!
Yeah, with laughter maybe, but hey, they’re a nice trip down memory lane. They remind me of a time when I naively believed that if I worked hard and was responsible about saving money, I might actually one day retire. Before I started looking like the Crypt Keeper, that is.
But now, I’m guessing retirement isn’t going to happen anytime in the next quarter century; not if all those minus marks on my statements mean anything. Still, I’m trying to look at the bright side; maybe losing so much money isn’t a bad thing since there won’t be anything to steal when those nasty identity thieves try to pilfer my funds.
Oh yes, about that.
Last week I was alerted by a security firm hired by the headquarters of my employer. Seems a health vendor once used by my company experienced a teeny weeny itty bitty little “security breach.” And “minor details,” like my social security number, birth date and home address, may have been “compromised.” The letter was crafted so carefully and with so many euphemisms, for a minute I was almost expecting to read that I was the grand prize winner of a set of Ginzu Steak Knives or Encyclopedia Britannica. And then it sunk in.
Ah, but life still offers little pleasures. Like the chuckle I enjoyed today after reading John McCain’s proud announcement that he had received the endorsement of Dick Cheney. John, my good man, is this really something the public should know? It’s kind of like Martha Stewart being endorsed by Hannibal Lector.
But I digress.
For now, I'm going to forget about crashing stocks and identity thieves, and go indulge in another YouTube video. And I know just the one to watch. Don’t Worry, Be Happy.
Hey, it’s worth a shot.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Chaos Abounds: Part Two
For the very first time, Elvis, my greyhound has jumped on my bed. And I’m delighted, because unlike those owners who are always trying to push their hairy, stinky dogs off their beds and sofas, I wish my dog would lie alongside me. I’d love to stroke his velvety ears or lumpy head while dozing off or watching TV.
But no sooner is he on the bed than he lifts his leg and – what the hey - pees on my brand new duvet! He’s never peed inside the house before! I yank him off the bed, drag him down the stairs, and as I push him outside, I notice that my backyard looks different. Patio furniture has been rearranged, potted plants have been moved, and a dormant water fountain is not just running, but overflowing and flooding the patio; even my wind chimes are hanging from different locations. Huh?
Then I'm distracted by an odd sound in front of the house. So I return inside and open the front door, where I startle a shifty-looking man with a cable in his hand. Nearby, three other men are waiting for him. When I ask what they’re up to, he confesses they’re running a cable underneath my home so they can hack into my DSL and hijack my DirecTV. Then his friends push their way into my home.
In a panic, I grab my cell to dial the police. But apparently, my stupid cell is on the fritz because it keeps flashing hieroglyphics and lightening bolt-symbols on the display screen. So I use my landline to dial the operator and tell her it’s an emergency and to connect me with the police immediately. And she does so.
In San Diego.
I don’t friggin’ live in San Diego, I scream into the phone! I need the local police! And I keep trying to redial, but it’s useless because now my landline has locked up too. Meanwhile, strangers are multiplying as they invade my yard and crawl throughout every room in my home; some even sit at my kitchen table, helping themselves to a cup of coffee.
My heart is pounding so loudly and wildly, it feels like a jackhammer is about to rip right through my chest: I need the police! I need Jack Bauer! I need help and I’m gasping and panicking and can’t breathe and…
I wake up.
Elvis is snoring on the floor alongside my bed. In the golden haze of early morning sunshine, all is peaceful and quiet. Except for an odd sound: the pulsating, reverberating beat of Ricky Ricardo pounding out Babalu on his conga drums.
Oh. Wait. That’s my heart.
I try to go back to sleep, but that's pretty much a lost cause, what with Ricky in my chest and all. So I go downstairs to enjoy a soy latte and appreciate the serenity of my beautifully empty home.
And all is right and good with the world. For now.
But no sooner is he on the bed than he lifts his leg and – what the hey - pees on my brand new duvet! He’s never peed inside the house before! I yank him off the bed, drag him down the stairs, and as I push him outside, I notice that my backyard looks different. Patio furniture has been rearranged, potted plants have been moved, and a dormant water fountain is not just running, but overflowing and flooding the patio; even my wind chimes are hanging from different locations. Huh?
Then I'm distracted by an odd sound in front of the house. So I return inside and open the front door, where I startle a shifty-looking man with a cable in his hand. Nearby, three other men are waiting for him. When I ask what they’re up to, he confesses they’re running a cable underneath my home so they can hack into my DSL and hijack my DirecTV. Then his friends push their way into my home.
In a panic, I grab my cell to dial the police. But apparently, my stupid cell is on the fritz because it keeps flashing hieroglyphics and lightening bolt-symbols on the display screen. So I use my landline to dial the operator and tell her it’s an emergency and to connect me with the police immediately. And she does so.
In San Diego.
I don’t friggin’ live in San Diego, I scream into the phone! I need the local police! And I keep trying to redial, but it’s useless because now my landline has locked up too. Meanwhile, strangers are multiplying as they invade my yard and crawl throughout every room in my home; some even sit at my kitchen table, helping themselves to a cup of coffee.
My heart is pounding so loudly and wildly, it feels like a jackhammer is about to rip right through my chest: I need the police! I need Jack Bauer! I need help and I’m gasping and panicking and can’t breathe and…
I wake up.
Elvis is snoring on the floor alongside my bed. In the golden haze of early morning sunshine, all is peaceful and quiet. Except for an odd sound: the pulsating, reverberating beat of Ricky Ricardo pounding out Babalu on his conga drums.
Oh. Wait. That’s my heart.
I try to go back to sleep, but that's pretty much a lost cause, what with Ricky in my chest and all. So I go downstairs to enjoy a soy latte and appreciate the serenity of my beautifully empty home.
And all is right and good with the world. For now.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
A Day in the Life of Chaos
It's been crazy busy these past few months...sigh…and with no end in sight.
Work is always chaotic, but lately, things have kicked up a notch and I’m trying to keep my head above water, really I am. But with every breath I take, it seems I gulp a bit of water and sink a bit deeper and I’m starting to make sloppy mistakes. Little ones sure, but I swear, it’s the little ones, like dropped commas, that haunt me the most. As a marketing writer, of course they would. That’s like a surgeon leaving a sponge inside a patient, or an accountant who subtracts six from ten and gets three. But my brain is on overload and hey, it’s not a very big brain to begin with. Hear that sizzle? That's my brain. Fried.
And then I come home and pick up my mail. Every day there are reminders, so many reminders. From Kaiser: time for your annual mammogram! Time for your annual GYN! Hey, now that you’ve hit the half-a-century mark, you get to enjoy your very first colonocsopy—it’s time for that, too!
And letters from my Home Owners Association aka the Gestapo: Guess what you lucky homeowner: you are being assessed almost $1,000 because our building construction plan ran over budget and total blowhards that we are, we just took it upon ourselves to spend money we didn’t have rather than budget for it accordingly. So now each of you, the schmucks who voted us into office, owes us $1,000. Payable immediately, thank you very much.
And from Charles Schwab: remember that $140,000 you socked away for your retirement? Well, it’s now worth $62.58 and you get to retire, well, never. Sorry ‘bout that. Thank you for your business.
Work is always chaotic, but lately, things have kicked up a notch and I’m trying to keep my head above water, really I am. But with every breath I take, it seems I gulp a bit of water and sink a bit deeper and I’m starting to make sloppy mistakes. Little ones sure, but I swear, it’s the little ones, like dropped commas, that haunt me the most. As a marketing writer, of course they would. That’s like a surgeon leaving a sponge inside a patient, or an accountant who subtracts six from ten and gets three. But my brain is on overload and hey, it’s not a very big brain to begin with. Hear that sizzle? That's my brain. Fried.
And then I come home and pick up my mail. Every day there are reminders, so many reminders. From Kaiser: time for your annual mammogram! Time for your annual GYN! Hey, now that you’ve hit the half-a-century mark, you get to enjoy your very first colonocsopy—it’s time for that, too!
And letters from my Home Owners Association aka the Gestapo: Guess what you lucky homeowner: you are being assessed almost $1,000 because our building construction plan ran over budget and total blowhards that we are, we just took it upon ourselves to spend money we didn’t have rather than budget for it accordingly. So now each of you, the schmucks who voted us into office, owes us $1,000. Payable immediately, thank you very much.
And from Charles Schwab: remember that $140,000 you socked away for your retirement? Well, it’s now worth $62.58 and you get to retire, well, never. Sorry ‘bout that. Thank you for your business.
And my iPod died.
And did I mention my mom took a spill? Her naughty greyhound, Lucy, caught sight of a kitty and tried taking after it. But Lucy forgot that Mom was on the other end of the leash and said leash twisted around Mom’s ankles and knocked her to the ground. Pavement, of course. Nothing broke, thank God, but when you’re 72 years old, getting slapped in the face with concrete is no minor ordeal. Knees and elbows are stiff and swollen. Ribs are sore. Every step hurts. Crutches are needed. So now I’m running double-duty, driving the 20 miles round trip to walk Mom’s dogs, do her grocery shopping, run errands, prepare meals. Of which I’m more than pleased to do- I adore my mom. I just wish there were more hours in the day.
And in the meantime, the lower half of my face is still completely numb from the maxillofacial surgery I had seven months ago. My surgeon, Dr. Hottie, warned that nerve regeneration could take up to TWO years and so, I’m trying to keep the faith, and – ha – keep a stiff upper lip. But I’m not sure that anyone can truly understand how challenging it is to have a face that is completely, totally dead from the nose down. Friends swear they don’t notice any change in my speech and facial expressions and this comforts me because my face FEELS paralyzed. If you’ve ever had novacaine for a dental procedure and remember how discombobulated and weird and frozen your face felt, well, that’s mine, only ten times worse. For seven friggin’ months. Dead.
So having said all this, is it any wonder that last night I succumbed and hit the sauce? Yes, that’s right. I know it’s unhealthy and addictive and fattening, but I needed to drown my sorrows, so yes, I turned to the sauce.
Hot fudge, that is. And not the organic Chocolate Moo from Trader Joe that I enjoy sparingly once a week, but walloping servings of the ooey-gooey-million-calorie-per-teaspoon-clog-those-arteries-died-and-gone-to-heaven hot fudge. Poured in tsunami waves over two wading pool servings of mouth watering mint-chocolate chip ice cream. Oh, it was good. Evil. Delicious. Medicinal.
Because hey: a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And did I mention that its been crazy busy these past few months...sigh…and with no end in sight?
Monday, September 1, 2008
The Not-So-Fast and the Furious
There I was at the end of a long workday; sitting in my Toyota Rav4, crawling five miles per hour in that bottleneck stretch of freeway voted the sixth worst commute in the Bay Area, the infamous Highway 92 eastbound. But bad as it is, accidents are rare because traffic moves so slowly, there is usually plenty of time to react and prevent a fender bender.
Unless, that is, you happen to be the woman who was too busy yapping on her cell phone to notice that traffic had come to a dead halt; subsequently, she tapped the back fender of the car in front of her. Not hard, mind you. But enough to trigger her air bag,which exploded in her surprised face and imbedded her cell phone as a permanent earpiece.
So I gave a few frantic taps on my horn. Not a loud, rude, “YouAreSuchAnIdiot” foghorn kind of blast, but a “Hey hey hey, you’re about to cause us both a pain in the neck” type of warning. Said driver heeded the horn and moved back into his lane.
Crisis averted. Or so I thought.
Because just seconds later I pulled up alongside the driver, prepared to give a little "no hard feelings" wave, and was greeted with an unexpected sight: a sweet-looking, professionally-dressed young woman, sticking her head out the window and shooting bullets with her eyes while flipping me the bird with both hands. My passenger window was rolled up so I was spared her screaming words. However, if my lip-reading skills are as good as I think they are, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wishing me “luck.”
What the hey? She performed a careless maneuver, she almost hit me and I’m the bad guy here? And I was reminded of an article I read that mourned the death of driver’s training as part of the high school curriculum. Most schools discontinued the program in the mid-eighties due to budget cutbacks. As a result, drivers are now getting their version of driver’s ed through games like Grand Theft Auto and movies like The Fast and the Furious. Sure, they're learning the logistics of operating a car, but is anyone teaching the importance of simple courtesies, like turn signals, hand waves, and the zipper method for merging? 900-pound vehicals are being propelled by hot-headed Road Warriors and it’s every man for himself.
And, so it seems, every woman. Even sweet-looking, professional ones.
Unless, that is, you happen to be the woman who was too busy yapping on her cell phone to notice that traffic had come to a dead halt; subsequently, she tapped the back fender of the car in front of her. Not hard, mind you. But enough to trigger her air bag,which exploded in her surprised face and imbedded her cell phone as a permanent earpiece.
I confess, it made me snort. Oh c’mon, who doesn’t like to see an inattentive driver get their comeuppance?
And that was me, trying to be attentive when I noticed a black Ford SUV to my right, slightly ahead, sloooowly drifting into my lane. Maybe I was in the driver’s blind spot. Maybe the driver hadn’t looked over his shoulder, maybe he hadn’t notice there wasn’t space to squeeze his behemoth vehicle into or hey, maybe he had just been discharged from a nearby clinic and was still under heavy sedation from his ice pick lobotomy.
So I gave a few frantic taps on my horn. Not a loud, rude, “YouAreSuchAnIdiot” foghorn kind of blast, but a “Hey hey hey, you’re about to cause us both a pain in the neck” type of warning. Said driver heeded the horn and moved back into his lane.
Crisis averted. Or so I thought.
Because just seconds later I pulled up alongside the driver, prepared to give a little "no hard feelings" wave, and was greeted with an unexpected sight: a sweet-looking, professionally-dressed young woman, sticking her head out the window and shooting bullets with her eyes while flipping me the bird with both hands. My passenger window was rolled up so I was spared her screaming words. However, if my lip-reading skills are as good as I think they are, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wishing me “luck.”
What the hey? She performed a careless maneuver, she almost hit me and I’m the bad guy here? And I was reminded of an article I read that mourned the death of driver’s training as part of the high school curriculum. Most schools discontinued the program in the mid-eighties due to budget cutbacks. As a result, drivers are now getting their version of driver’s ed through games like Grand Theft Auto and movies like The Fast and the Furious. Sure, they're learning the logistics of operating a car, but is anyone teaching the importance of simple courtesies, like turn signals, hand waves, and the zipper method for merging? 900-pound vehicals are being propelled by hot-headed Road Warriors and it’s every man for himself.
And, so it seems, every woman. Even sweet-looking, professional ones.
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