What No One Tells You

1335-1253277234Kfma I always thought that being able to work from home would be my perfect job. I think that's true for most Americans. After all, you can be in the comfort of your own home, work in jammies and avoid all of the office politics. There's no pretending to care about Peggy's photos from her trip to Phoenix, pressure to buy $10 gift wrap because Paul's kid has a school fund raiser or having to remember to swing by Winn Dixie at 7:30 a.m. because you're the one in charge of pimento cheese for the company pot luck.

Work from home, live the dream, right?

I once even accepted a piddly salary (that I later found out put me about $8,000 behind all of my male counterparts) because I was told there would be the possibility of working from home on some days. (Said possibility never materialized.) And every time I've been part of a large office and overheard someone talking about spreadsheets or how to shake the toner cartridge in the copier to get more life out of it, I've stared off into space and dreamed of doing my daily tasks from home. 

Let's just say that after a year of working from home, yet another of my dreams is dead. Here's the stuff they don't tell you about that domestic office:

1. Weight Gain. I thought I had it bad when I spent eight hours in my ergonomically-designed chair a mere 15 feet from the nearest vending machine. (I don't even want to think about what the consultant made who convinced companies that all chairs should have curved backs for happier workers. Note to said consultant: raises, better benefits and even some modicum of respect from management would have made me far happier than that chair.) These days, I sit on my couch instead, and the Cheeto's-laden BP station is less than a mile away. I refuse to admit my number of visits.

2. House Cleaning. When I first started working from home, I thought I should have a spotless house. After all, I was home all day, so why not use some of my break time or those periods when I was waiting for an e-mail response to throw in a load of laundry or Swiffer the floor? In the first month I worked from home, all of my slip covers had been washed, and I'd scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. Whereas I used to think, "Look how much I can do both professionally and domestically in a day," I now think, "The dirt and dust only come back. Maybe it's time to let them win."

3. Personal Hygiene. When you don't see anyone all day, it's pretty easy to forget about your appearance. If you avoid all of your mirrors, it gets even easier. For awhile, I changed clothes at night just so the SO wouldn't think I'd sat around in the same sweats for 24 hours straight. Lately, not even that seems to be a priority. I realize I could dress up just to do it, but rather than helping, I think I'd just feel even sillier -- like I'd turned into the delusional girl who talked about her high-powered job to anyone who would listen while pushing an empty shopping cart down the street or waiting for the guy to read the water meter.

4. Vices. Now, I'm not one looking to live in a 1984-esque world run by Big Brother, but there is something to be said for social norms. Others' eyes can do a little to keep us in check (and keep us from walking around in our underwear 18 hours a day.) When you work at home, there's no one watching. (I do realize that Judge Judy cannot see me through the TV screen even though I can see her. What a piercing glare that one has!) You can start drinking at 10 a.m. (Not that I do -- yet.) You can pop pills. You can spends hours looking at Internet pornography. For all you know, I could be drinking a dirty martini, smoking a pack of Capris and torturing one of the cats from my neighborhood at this very second. I'm not, but those boundaries can get looser and looser for us work-from-home folks.

5. Paranoia. The combination of A&E network, needing breaks from staring at the computer screen and being home all day on a cul-de-sac seems to have turned me into some sort of one-woman neighborhood watch. As someone who never wanted to be a nosy neighbor, I now know my mailman's route like the back of my hand and call tell you who recycles and who doesn't. I also have a loose theory that the people across the street take in homeless men in poor health, take out life insurance policies on them, and wait for "nature" to take it's course. I could very well be wrong, but if a news crew ever shows up in my life, I don't intend to be the interviewee saying, "They were the quietest people. I new saw this coming. I want to be the one to say, "I knew it all along. They were always weird, and I'm not a bit surprised."

(My goals used to involve publishing; now I want to be the smart-ass on the local news. Something is amiss.)

6. General Sanity. In case all of the previous points didn't lead you to this conclusion naturally, I do think mental health can suffer from working at home. Social interaction does more than keep our vices and hygiene in check. I really think it is good for the soul. No man is an island after all. There are days that the longest conversations I have are with my dog. And after the pets and talking aloud to myself, I end up in the worst of all possible places for interact with humanity ... message boards. LM6947* has a lot to say, and I'm not sure I like it one bit.

Of course, anyone working in an office right now probably has very little sympathy for this list, and I'm sure that if I went back to an office environment, I'd be nostalgic for my sofa and Cold Case Files within about two hours. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side -- whether that alluring other grass is a felted cubicle or desk shoved against the guest room wall. 

* Not my real message board name. Although, sadly, I do have one.

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Southern Hospitality

1-1245762830zHo3 This past weekend, I attended a series of readings for pms (a literary journal produced by U.A.B. that is an acronym for poem memoir story). Dr. Alison Chapman was one of the readers, and she read from a piece about her work teaching in Donaldson Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in Alabama. While the entire essay was of great interest, the point of interest that lead to a discussion between another colleague and myself was this: Are Southern women ,in particular, torn between honest expression and the need to placate, please or be polite to others?

In short, are we more likely to keep our mouths shut? Do you tell your friend she looks huge in a particular dress when she asks, or do you say, "No, of course not, you're always beautiful"? While no friend, colleague or stranger likes these kinds of confrontations, it seems that Southerner women, especially, have trouble with the concept of expressing what they're really thinking.

This is also a conversation I've had many times before, especially with Northern transplants to the South. "Is everyone always this polite?" "Will someone stare if I want to talk about something other than tea sandwiches at the luncheon?" "Does anyone ever say anything negative about anyone?" "And what is this 'bless her heart'' stuff?"

And here's how I explain it: While Southern women may have been raised with a lot of decorum and a lot manners, we're also raised with a fair amount of sass, and we're not idiots.

If you invite me to your house and you might have accidentally shit on the floor just before my arrival (not that this has ever happened, mind you, but I like an extreme example every once in awhile), I will do everything in my power to pretend that I do not notice or smell the crap in the corner.

My most likely response? "Maybe I'll get the tour later. Want to grab your bag and head out for lunch?"

Surely, this was not something you meant to do, and there is no need for me to draw attention to something that is clearly embarrassing and upsetting to you. Anyone and everyone in entitled to their own human dignity, and when, pardon the terrible pun, shit happens, there's no need to make anyone feel worse than they already do.

If, however, you invite me over to your house, shit on the floor, and then expect me to walk over to that corner with you and tell you it smells like roses, we have a problem. Manners is one thing. Delusion is another.

I can overlook to a certain degree, but I will not lie. And I'll agree not to discuss certain hot-button topics -- God, sex, politics -- in public, out of respect for others' opinion and general cordiality, but if you keep picking, be prepared.

Most of the time, this isn't a problem. After all, I do live in the South, so everyone else pretty much goes by the same rules. Unfortunately though, you might also see how my take on my role as a Southern female has gotten me into more than a few tight spots at work.

Certain generations of Southern men and women don't see things the same way I do. If we're in a meeting, and ideas are expressed that I don't agree with, I will respectfully present my point and vocalize my own opinion. I am always open to a discussion. And when the majority wins, the majority wins.

But, I do think a good discussion is warranted -- especially when my reputation is attached to the project. And I am not open to being told what I will and will not put my name on without my input.

I consider it a kind of continuation of the same idea of being a Southern woman. I may not love a project 100%, but if I've had my say, and I'm on a team, I'll grin and bear it. I will not, however, being told what my contribution is and what my own words will be, impale myself on the leg of the present presentation easel, claim it was all my idea, and then say "thank you sir" afterwards.

I don't represent us all, but this is just the kind of Southern girl I am.

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Yep, I'm Taken

1-1256217176zbgk I've heard girlfriends and talk show experts discuss relationship weight gain for almost as long as I can remember. I believe one woman even made the bestseller list because she coined the term "the newlywed 19" in her book. (Get it? She plays off "the freshman 15," but it's all about gaining weight in your first year of marriage. I don't know who wouldn't be astounded. Then again, that woman does have a bestseller, and I do not, so I should probably move on now.)

I've also heard all the reasons for the new pounds and even offered a few of own. When you're newly in love, who wants to do anything but spend time with his or her significant other? There goes the gym or fitness center. Even something as simple as staying home on a Saturday night to cuddle and watch a movie means there are no long walk from the best parking spot you could find to the bar -- in stilettos -- or dancing until the wee hours.

I tend to fall into the "I don't want this guy to think I'm one of those obnoxious women who counts every calorie and only eats salad," so I'll end up ordering a Rib Eye or pasta coated in cream on those first few dates just to prove how awesome and self-assured I am.

And when it comes to cooking for a date, there's no way I'm going to load his first (or fifteenth) home cooked-by-Laurel meals with my standard made from 2% milk cheese, non-fat sour cream or low-sodium, 98% fat free cream of anything soup. It's only full fat on those first creations. (And it's also why my dad pantomimes reeling in a fish whenever I tell him what I plan to make the SO for dinner that night.)

Plus, there's always the "if he loves me just as I am, why do I have to kill myself with lite, daily yogurt and hours on the Stair Master?" train of thought.

Luckily, I've only had one problem with relationship weight. This is partly because I'm not as skinny as a lot of girls before they start dating and also partly because, until recently, I've never been capable of maintaining a stable relationship beyond the six-month mark or so.

The only time it was a real issue was the summer after my freshman year of college. My first-year of college, rather than gaining the 15 lbs that comes with late night pizza and beer, I lost weight like I never have before. (And please keep in mind, I was a size four at the time who got into a size two BCBG dress for my high school graduation.) Here's what happened:

1. The dining hall food made me sick. The only option I had was to eat at the dining hall, since it was required of freshman, and because I preferred to spend my $200 monthly allowance on long-distance phone calls to the BF. Since the food made me sick, and we had communal bathrooms on the hallway, I decided that the best choice between my gastrointestinal embarrassment and eating campus meals was to stop eating. (I had been accepted to a great school, but was clearly lacking some fundamental reasoning ability.)

2. Since I didn't like frat parties, I didn't drink, so no new calories were introduced to my body every week. (Again, I'm sure the idea of me not drinking is foreign to most. Remember that this was many, many years ago.)

3. Because I didn't like frat parties, and there was so much empty time in my day, I'd often go to the 24-hour gym just to stave off the loneliness.

By the end of that year, I wavered between a size two and a zero. I also had the appearance of high cheek bones for the first time in my life because the rest of my face became so sunken.

Anyways, you're probably wondering how this is a story of relationship weight gain, so here goes. When I got back to Birmingham for the summer, I weighed nothing and wasn't used to eating much of anything. I was also thrilled to be reunited by my not-long-distance-for-the-summer boyfriend.

Now, I don't know how many of you have dated athletes before, but there are a lot of carbs involved (and if you're lucky, only carbs). After all, they're going to burn them all of with hours of daily physical activity. However, if you go from eating next to nothing to having every meal with your carb-fueled boyfriend (pizza, cheeseburgers and the occasional Chinese were his standards), not only do you gain your lost weight back, but you get about 15 or 20 bonus pounds, too. (It's not like I had or was inclined to hours of running around after all of our lunches and dinners.)

By July, I can remember putting on jeans that wouldn't have stayed on my waist before and barely being able to zip them up. I looked in the mirror and then looked over to my sister.

"That's borderline indecent," she said. "You cannot wear that to visit our cousins."

So, I set about to taking off that weight, and have tried not to let relationships mess with my weight since. According to recent events, however, I've been worrying about the wrong problem.

A few weeks ago, some friends and I were having girl's night at a local bar. A table of men was nearby, and one of my (bolder) friends decided to strike up a conversation, "What are y'all doing by yourselves over there?" she said, "There's clearly a group of attractive single girls right here."

"Oh really?" one of the guys said. "You're all single?"

"Four of us are," my friend said. "Two are taken, but those are still some pretty good odds for you."

The men then came over and sat down. Introductions were made. One guy looked at my friend Lesley and said, "You're one of the taken ones." (Her wedding ring is pretty easy to spot.) She nodded.

Then, he turned to me, "You're taken, too, right?"

"I am," I said, "What gave it away?"

"Just had a feeling," he said.

I smiled. "It's because I'm the one who didn't bother to take a shower before going out on a Friday night, isn't it? I've got to have someone at home if I'm willing to leave the house looking like this, huh?"

We both laughed, but I did realize that rather than having my relationship weight, I've just got some relationship laziness. I still dress up for our dinners out, but by now, it's quite possible the SO thinks of my black yoga pants as formal attire. And the more he tells me how beautiful I look without makeup, the less of it I wear. (Eyeliner? Who has the time?)

He is a sweet, forgiving, brave man.

But, I've also decided to do my best to draw the line at visible-from-50-yards zit cream or anything that resembles a dental headgear.

P.S. My waist has never and will never look like the one in the above photo.

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A Memorable Exit

Recycle3 I have not always been a friend to the earth. (Hey, I'm a Southern girl. I love some hair spray, and as much as it pains me to say it, there's no hold like the hold that comes from an aerosol can. The rest just can't compete.)

But, a few years ago, I decided to make a concentrated effort to be a better citizen of the planet. I'm by no means perfect, but I found that once I started recycling, it became easier and easier to do little things to reduce my carbon footprint.

I try my best to get all of my mixed paper, plastic, aluminum and glass down to the recycling center, and I never set my heat above 68 degrees in the winter. I also may have gone a little insane on the "reuse" part -- I knit from plastic bags, make cork wreaths and turn bottle caps and lids into chains and magnets. (I can just imagine fewer and fewer people looking forward to gifts from me as they read that.)

I'm also a big fan of making it easier for people to recycle. The more I recycle, the more it pains me to throw away anything that could be recycled. But, the neat freak/germ phobic part of me also disdains the idea of carrying around a dirty soda can or sticky bottle in my purse when there's no recycling bin to dispose of it in. 

This next story follows directly from that inner conflict of mine:

The last company I worked for did not have recycling bins for anything other than mixed paper. Their reasoning? It attracted too many bugs and was messy. My response? Messier than plain, old trash? Really?

Anyway, at the time (and until I decided to wean myself a few days ago), I had a nasty diet soda habit. Two per day was my minimum, and on those days when I was particularly tired or dragging, I could hit three, easy.  

At the beginning of each week, I would bring in a 12-pack of either Diet Coke or Diet Dr. Pepper (my drugs of choice) and store them in the file cabinet and drawers behind my desk. (I like to keep most of my records on the computer and back-up disks, so I didn't use the file cabinet for much.) And every day, when I was done with my soda, I would wash out the empty can and put it back in the same file cabinet and drawers with the intention of running everything to the recycling center when I got a chance.

Well, that trip to the recycling center kept getting put off, and the cabinet just filled up with more and more cans. This probably would have been fine and just turned into a weekend trip to the office to clean out the cabinet had I not been laid off.

Newly jobless with a cardboard box in front of me for my personal belongings, I also found myself faced with no less than 200 or so empty soda cans. What's a girl to do?

1) Leave the cans right where they were. What did I care? I didn't have a job anymore, and legally, I don't think you can mention someone's potential hoarding when called for a job reference. The problem? It's not like management would be the one cleaning out my office, and the cleaning crew was too sweet for me to leave such a mess for. I wouldn't do that to them, and even I'm not that unprofessional (i.e., management, leaving a company).

2) Pile those cans into the largest trash bag I could find and carry them right out to my car with everything else. Yep, in a building where no one had cubicles, and all of the employees overlooked a common space, I would carry my large, clanging, commercial-size trash bag out with me as I handed in my badge and parking pass to the security guard. I may not have much dignity, but even I couldn't face being remembered as that employee.

3) Take the back stairs and throw all of the cans into the dumpster, wasting all of the potential energy that would have come from recycling the aluminum.

Needless to say, in the end, I chose option three, and I've felt guilty ever since. But, on one of my worst career days, looking like the Santa Claus of the gutter as I left the building for the last time just wasn't a realistic option. I've been doing my best to make it up to Mother Earth ever since. Former plastic bag wine tote, anyone?

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Worst Date Ever

1-1234448484xMeXAs I mentioned earlier this week, I'm no stickler when it comes to romance. I don't have to receive a dozen red roses on every important occasion, and I'd be perfectly fine if no one ever dedicated a Celine Dion song to me on the radio.

However, I do think certain qualities (apart from my short list of fidelity, truthfulness and not signing on with extremist groups/militias) are important to keep love alive:

Thoughtfulness: "My partner seemed really stressed about getting everything done today, I think I'll pick up dinner on the way home."

Paying Attention: "My partner said it was very important that I get this video back to the store today, I'll do that right now."

Reason/Rational: "My partner is not a fan of Pink Floyd. His/her birthday is probably not the time to buy the complete works of Pink Floyd and force my tastes upon him/her. Maybe I'll buy something he/she likes instead."

The story I'm about to tell you completely violates all three of the above. And, while these events did not happen on Valentine's Day, I think the lessons about love -- or lack thereof -- are more than appropriate to the spirit of the holiday.

It was the summer before an election year. I was going to school in Washington, D.C. and my then boyfriend and I had been breaking up and getting back together for weeks. After yet another one of our loud and embarrassing-if-I-ever-had-to-see-those-neighbors-again fights, he told me that he really wanted us to work out.

"I need more from you," I said. "I need to know how much you care about me."

"I can do that," he said. "I can show you how much I care. I'll be more romantic."

"Really? You'll be more romantic?"

"I will. I'll even plan us a trip."

So, we got back together, and the ex-bf took to working on the details of a trip that was supposed to be even more romantic because it was going to be a surprise to me. Him taking the initiative and making plans for something we could do together? I was pretty excited.

The day of our trip, I put on a dress that was a far cry from my standard classroom uniform of capri pants and a tank top and turned in my summer school assignments early. Then I went back to my apartment to wait for the bf.

He arrived in his standard uniform of khakis and a button-down shirt. "Ready?"

"Sure," I said. "Where are we headed?"

"Philadelphia," he said.

I smiled and nodded.

"For the Republican National Convention."

To make it very, very clear how bad this was (as if it isn't clear enough already): a) there is nothing about politics or a party's national convention that I find the least bit romantic and b) I am not a republican.

"OK then," I said. (Please keep in mind that I did not have anywhere close to the self-esteem or mouth that I have on me now.) "How are we getting there?"

"I thought you could drive."

For more clarity, I am now: a) going to the national convention of a party I do not support and b) acting as chauffeur. In the abbreviated words of Charles Dickens, "... it was the worst of times."

"We better get on the road," he said, ushering me towards the door. "I don't want to be late."

Slightly more than two hours later, we arrived in Philadelphia. "There it is," he said, pointing to a large complex or closed-in stadium (I was a bit blinded by disbelief and barely-suppressed rage to remember the architectural details). "That's where the convention is."

"I see it," I said.

"Now, if we can find the box office, we'll be set."

That's right, ladies and gentlemen -- he didn't have tickets. His plan was for us to arrive at the door and get, I don't know, nosebleed section or lawn seating for one of the nation's biggest political rallies. First, all romance went out the door. Now, any consideration I might have given to his planning skills was gone, too.

Of course, no one can just walk up and buy tickets to the Republican National Convention. (I imagine it has something to do with demand and security clearance. But, I don't know for sure, and I never plan to find out. This is not the kind of trip I will make again.) And since we couldn't get in, and I refused to make a two-hour trip in vain, we decided to grab dinner instead.

We found an Italian restaurant nearby. I want to say there were TVs in the restaurant so the bf could would the convention that he couldn't attend, but I can't be sure on that point. What I do know is that we didn't talk much, and we were literally the only two people trying to get dinner in that part of Philadelphia at that time. 

And, for all of you still reading, here comes the real kicker. It's also the part that you might not believe, but let me assure you that I'm not that creative and life is, by far, stranger than fiction.

When the check arrived, the server handed it to the bf. He picked it up, looked it over and started patting his back pockets.

"Oh man," he said, "I think I left everything in D.C. Could you get this one?"

For some reason I still don't understand, I then paid $75 for a meal in a town two hours from home that I drove to in my own car for the convention of a party I don't belong to and couldn't attend.

As the saying goes, I ain't what I should be, and I ain't what I'm gonna be, but thank God I ain't what I was. (And thank God I've begun to learn the word "no.") This Valentine's Day, I hope you're lucky enough to spend the holiday with someone very special. And if not, it could always be worse. Believe me. 

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Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's

1-1264443750SMcf I've spent my fair share of Valentine's Days single. (Most of them for that matter.) Usually, I would watch bad movies (my college roommates laughed when I came home with my own copy of Love Stinks, starring the forever-squinty French Stewart, but I also caught each and every one of them watching it before the semester was through), talk about how much men sucked and I loved being single, drink copious amounts of wine with my girlfriends, go out dancing and come back home for a good cry about whether or not I was doomed to be alone and where all the good ones were hiding.

As sad as you think that might sound (this routine probably encompassed far more nights out than just Valentine's Day in my early 20's), no "I'm single pity party" compares to 2004.

Then, my love life was off-kilter at best. I was in the throes of a romance that was largely in my own head. There were distance, unrequited feelings and far too many late night phone calls. Whatever I had made that mess into, because of the distance I would obviously be having a very single Valentine's Day in Birmingham. So, another girlfriend and I gathered our friends together for a good, old-fashioned Saturday night on the town.

Our logic: Every restaurant in town will be full of couples canoodling and staring adoringly into one another's eyes. How could we avoid this? Why, by doing shots and heading to the cheesiest dance club in town, of course.

(For those of you not from this area, that club was Banana Joe's. To set the mood for you, I was conservatively dressed in a halter top, jeans and heels. Also, what I remember most from dancing is the moment that "Pussy Control" came blaring through the speakers while dudes dressed in Hawaiian shirts sprayed fire extinguishers into the crowd. It was pure class.)

We drank; we danced. Then, I took a break from the mob to sit on the stage after a few songs, and a male friend of mine decided to tell me some info about the ill-fated crush.

As some advice to any teenage boy or male that might be reading this blog: If you know something you're not sure will go over well with a female friend in your life, Valentine's Day is not the time to share it.

In the words of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer when his fiance shows up to explain why she left him at the altar: "Gee, you know that information really would've been more useful to me YESTERDAY." Only in this instance, if you can't get the info in a week (calendar, not business) before Valentine's Day -- and it doesn't involve death or dismemberment -- replace "YESTERDAY" with "TOMORROW" in the above sentiment.

So, male friend shares info about crush. I think it involved another girl, but I'm not sure, and it's not like the crush owed me anything. But, at that time and alcohol-fueled, I was heartbroken. I ran to the ladies' room with my best girlfriend trailing behind.

There, we found most of the girls standing in line to dry their hair under the automated blowers (sweat from dancing), re-apply lipstick or talk about who was the cutest boy in the club. (Needless to say, my friend and I had about five years on most everyone in there, despite being only 24.)

I barreled through to a spot by the sink and let the tears flow.

Within seconds, a Hooters waitress found me, put her arm around me and pulled me toward the high top where the bathroom attendant sat. (Didn't I tell you this place was classy? Of course a restroom attendant complete with "If you like Ralph Lauren Romance ..." perfume belongs in a Banana Joe's.)

"Where is he and what did he do?" the petite waitress said.

"He's not out there," I said. "Well, he is out there, but he's not the he that ..."

"Uh-huh," she said. "Tell me about it."

"I just don't know why this happens to me? Why is it always like this? What is wrong with men?"

"Cocks," the bathroom attendant chimed in, shaking her head. "They're all cocks."

"I'm a good girl," I said. "I'd make a good girlfriend."

"I know honey," the waitress said. "You're beautiful."

"Cocks."

I nodded in the bathroom attendant's direction. "Why me? Why today?"

"Are you sure you don't want to point me in his direction?"

"Cocks."

"It's not his fault," I said.

"I'm willing to teach him a lesson. No one should treat you like this."

"Cocks."

"No, no, it's going to be OK. I know I can get through this."

"You can do so much better than this baby."

"I can," I said. "I know you're right."

"Cocks."

"You ready to get back out there?"

"I am," I said. I wiped my tears on some toilet paper from the girlfriend who had followed me into the restroom. (A girlfriend who didn't know whether to laugh or cry during this exchange and who also can validate every detail of this meeting.) "I can do this. Thank you." I stood and looked back towards my two new boosters.

"Go get 'em," the waitress said.

"Cocks," added the bathroom attendant.

With their confidence and commiseration, my friend and I walked back out into the crowd. I held my head high for a few more songs, and then we headed home. But, at least I didn't cry again.

I vowed to never spend another Valentine's Day in a club bathroom crying, and so far, knock on wood, I've been able to keep that vow to myself. I wish you all the same. 

* I love all of my male and female friends (even those I've only encountered briefly, in, say, a Banana Joe's bathroom), and in case it wasn't incredibly obvious, this story is meant to mock me, not the other players.

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Enough Already

BIG-CITY-SLIDER-STATION We all know I love me some infomercials, but perhaps what you don't know is that my favorite aspect of the infomercial is how they portray life as so hard without the product being advertised -- as if everything sold on television is the equivalent of sliced bread or the light bulb.

My first example? The Snuggie, of course. Watching this now infamous infomercial, you'd think the most difficult task in the world was holding a phone while covered in a blanket.

And we thought the wheel changed the world.

If anyone actually finds it that taxing to grab the phone while covered in a blanket, they have much bigger problems than anything a Snuggie can fix. Every time I see the Snuggie advertised, and the travails of handling a remote control or phone while covered in a blanket are extolled, I can't help but think of the Friends episode when Joey starred on the infomercial touting a product that made it easier to open milk. Because everyone has so much trouble opening milk to begin with.

If you watch the commercial for Aqua Globes, you might think that watering plants is also one of the most painful and difficult tasks on the planet. At one point, the female actress is seen struggling with a dead fern -- like the rotting plant has attacked her or tried to drag her into its water-less and angry clutches.

Is watering plants easy to forget? Sure. Is it a life or death struggle along the lines of a real-life Little Shop of Horrors? Hardly.

Then there's the Perfect Brownie. I'm so glad this product came along because I can't tell you how many times I've worried that my brownies weren't of exactly equal shape and size. And the idea of cutting a pan of brownies with a knife? Who has the time?

No, none of these thoughts go through my head when brownies are on the table. And I can't think of a single person I know who struggles to bake brownies from a box. Unless they invent a product that keeps you from shoving half the pan down your throat before the goods cool, I'm not interested. (Wait -- I think the mysterious product I think of is called self-control, and if it were available, I wouldn't need half the diet and exercise products I have bought off the television. Oh well.)

The Big City Slider Station? Because when you're making hamburger patties it's that hard to make some of them smaller? Again, I am confused.

While I know all products have to say that they make your life easier, watching infomercials, you'd think these days of indoor plumbing, constant Internet access and medical advancement were pure hell. (After all, I'm kind of on the lazy side, and if I think you're exaggerating, you've really missed the mark.)

Walking hundreds of feet uphill in the snow? Hey, I'll tell my grandkids about what it was like when I had to water my own plants and dig for my cell phone in my purse. I can almost hear their groans now ...

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I Don't Do Lines

296-1247241526wes9 I believe there are certain attributes we're allotted fixed quantities of each day -- cleanliness, courtesy, tolerance for TNT promos. No matter what we do, only a new night will refresh our stores and allow us to again be thoughtful, caring members of the human race. I think patience is one such attribute.

I usually have a wealth of patience for children and animals. For everyone else, it's a crap shoot. Normally, I can allot my patience throughout the day -- an extra five minutes waiting in traffic, a few more minutes for the cashier in training at the BP station, deep breaths when someone asks how I ever expect to earn a living as a writer. But, if anything exceptionally time-consuming happens, my patience for the whole day is shot.

If the pharmacists takes 45 minutes to fill a prescription he or she promised in 10 minutes, I'll be perfectly cordial to that pharmacist. (Should I be worried that all of my anecdotes take place in the pharmacy? I guess we all write what we now.) I'll thank him or her and take my meds without complaint.

However, the next person to slow me down is out of luck.

Ruby Tuesday: "You said I'd have a table in 15 minutes. It's been 16, and I want some freakin' sliders!"

Intersections: "Are you color blind? Because that's the only reason to still be sitting still on a green light!"

Neighbors: "Of course, you had my mail for two days. Because Laurel Mills printed on an envelope looks just like your name you crazy b*&%^."

(I rarely get quite as bad as that last one, but it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility.)

On those days when my patience is gone, nothing from meditation to a cocktail can get me back on track, but I wake up the next morning feeling reset to zero and ready to cope with a world of lines, muzak and lagging Internet connections. I might be weird, but all I really know is that I don't get the appropriate daily store for a career in social services or mental health.

Despite what patience I have or don't have, as the case may be, for others, I tend to have no patience when it comes to myself. I often feel like Barbra Streisand's character in The Way We Were, I want, I want, I want, and I usually want now, now, now. I want a career and a family and thinner thighs. And when they're not right in front of me, I worry they'll never come to me. I call it a question of patience, but there's a lot of trust and faith tied up in there, too.

The scary thing is that my impatience often makes me hold onto things not worth having. I'd keep the wrong job or the wrong boyfriend because I didn't want to start all over. (Just think of all that lost time!) Because, if it was a question of will, I'd find a way to make it work. After all, I'm a smart girl, surely I could find a way to make someone love me/advance my career/bend the universe to my agenda. And we all know what pushing and holding on too tightly can do.

Oh, control, or the lack thereof, why must you taunt me always? Even in line at Ruby Tuesday?

I should probably do a little more waiting. Or, at least, a little less rushing.

In my struggles with patience and control, I like to think of something Terri Cheney wrote in her memoir, Manic, " ... My greatest victories have always been surrenders." Surrenders to the universe, to time, to fate. The surrender of letting go. Of trusting a little more and not forgetting to enjoy the ride. Easier said than done, but I'm trying.

I'm sure my pharmacist will be appreciative.

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Travel Needs

Golden-gate-bridge-in-san-francisco The one thing I desperately needed in San Francisco? A topographical map. Sure, San Francisco is known for its hills, but none of that seemed to occur to me as I looked at our grid-like map each morning to plot our trek through the city. 

My failure to account for San Fran's landscape wasn't too much of a problem for the walk to Fisherman's Wharf or Chinatown, but it was far more than I bargained for when I decided the Significant Other [SO] and I should have no problem getting from Union Square to Grace Cathedral/Nob Hill.

I may be prone to exaggeration, but I really don't think there is any hyperbole in saying that this involved a near-vertical ascent. Between gasps, the conversation went something like this:

"How far are we going again?" SO said.

"Top," I said. "To the top."

"That top?" he asked, pointing.

"California Street. Keep moving towards California Street."

"Uh-huh."

Minutes passed.

"Can your heart explode at 30?" I asked.

"Do you think you're having a heart attack?"

"I want to know if your heart can literally explode? Like Pow?"

"I think you're fine, Honey," he said.

"What about your lungs? Can they collapse from exertion?"

"I don't think so, Babe. Do you need a break?"

"No, if we stop now, I don't think I'll start moving again."

More minutes pass.

"How much farther?" I said.

"California Street," he said. "Remember? We're so close."

"I need a break. Let's take a break."

"But, you said ..."

"Break."

"There's a rail over there," he said. "We can grab on to that when we get there." (I was a little afraid that if there wasn't something to hold on to, I'd just start rolling backwards, and then where would be we?)

"Ahhh." It was a glorious, glorious rail. But when I looked up after making sure that my feet were still attached to the rest of my body, I saw that the SO was still on the move. "You left me?"

"I didn't think you'd actually cling to a rail in the middle of the street," he called back. "I'm going to keep going."

So, despite my best judgment, I had to keep going, too. I couldn't be too far away from the SO -- without him, there'd be no one to call 911 when any one of my internal organs caved under the stress. A minute later, I made it to the top of Nob Hill. Ten minutes after that, I caught my breath, and we went to lunch. 

"And to think we did it without oxygen," the SO said.

"Very funny," I said, "but I wouldn't turn down a sherpa."

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Conversation and Interpretation

Bar-pub-club-10 Sometimes, you know exactly where someone stands on issues of race. "I'm afraid of black people" and "All Hispanics are lazy" are pretty strong indicators. In other instances, the personality of the speaker usually lets you know if the comment is racist or said in irony to draw attention to others' prejudices -- "If that's the way they feel, then maybe the Jews shouldn't have killed Jesus" or continued use of the term "Freedom Fries" eight years after the fact. 

Then, there are times you're in Sausalito having a few drinks while you wait for the last ferry back to San Francisco for the night and you have no idea whether or not your bartender spends his weekends plotting the downfall of the federal government and conducting eugenics experiments or just watching the ballgame with his other open-minded friends.

This is one such story.

"So, where are you guys from?"

"Alabama," I said, and the bartender handed me my glass of house Pinot Grigio.

"Alabama, huh? I used to date a cheerleader from Auburn."

"Oh, really?" I said. "How interesting."

"But that was back in the '70s. I bet things were really different then. Lots of Civil Rights stuff going on. What's it like down there now?"

"Much better than those days, I hope," I said. "But I'm still surprised by some of the things that come out of people's mouths. When Obama ran for president, I heard some ugly terms I really thought we were past." (This is all true, and I go in to conversations assuming that people are not racist and that we might have an open dialogue about what goes on in our world.)

"Is it like here?" he said.

"I don't really know what it's like here, but I imagine y'all are pretty open-minded."

"Yeah, here," he said. "We're all PC. So PC. You can't say anything anymore." And before he could elaborate, he had to go get more lemon slices.

Hmmm.

Later, I heard him recommending some of the happy hour food specials to another bar patron.

"We've got these great small plates for only $5.00. You could have the sliders or the fish tacos."

"Those both sound good," the girl said.

"The fish tacos are really great. Very authentic. You know, it's all Mexicans back there."

Ah.

Then, on the trip back to our hotel, the Significant Other turned to me and said, "Did you notice anything funny about that bartender?"

"Like what?"

"Like he might have been a racist?"

Maybe our bartender was misunderstood. Maybe he had some real issues -- like xenophobia. I can't really say for sure. But, I probably should have known that $5.00 drinks in Northern California had to come with some strings.

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The Hotel Talisi

Talisi1 My parents were the kind to go through phases.

In the late '80s they developed an incredible fondness for Cajun cuisine. This involved trips to cooking school in New Orleans, large pots of gumbo and cookie sheets full of pralines (my favorite part of this obsession), as well as a brief decorating scheme that had the kitchen island covered in faux netting with plastic lobsters and crabs trapped in its folds. 

When my sisters and I took dance classes in a strip mall, we all started spending a lot more time at the pizza place two doors down from the studio. This ignited the period in which my parents would host "make your own pizza" dinner parties with each couple having their own genuine, fresh-from-the-pizzeria dough. (Lesson learned: tossing pizza dough is much, much harder than it looks.)

There were also musicals (for my mother), Dennis Quaid films (for dad), self-help books (darkness), ping pong and the Footloose finale. Perhaps most unsettling though, was the period during which my parents decided we should take more vacations -- and take more vacation to random Southern landmarks at that.

Please keep in mind that this was also in the beginning of my tween years, so the last thing I ever wanted to do was vacation with my parents. I was far more interested in talking on the phone for hours and writing involved notes about the injustices of 6th grade than something as silly as travel.

One Spring Break, we drove to see the homes and Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Then we were off to New Orleans. What I remember most about this trip is drifting off to sleep in the car, only to wake up and realize my parents had foregone the highway for back roads. ("Dear God, why did we leave the interstate?" I thought, "Why, God, why?")

We ended up on a tour of a "plantation." I use quotation marks there because I think that when half the tour involves, "This is the rumpus room we added in the '70s" or "We got rid of the old kitchen to make way for our pool," you've forfeited some of your historical clout and should no longer advertise as such. 

Historical home remodels aside, the worst of these jaunts, by far, was a trip to Tallassee, Alabama.

For those of you wondering, no, Tallassee has nothing to do with Tallahassee, Florida. Florida would have a beach. Or some tourist trap. Maybe mini-golf. Tallassee had supposedly one of the best brunches in the South -- and absolutely nothing else.

We arrived after what seemed to be hours in the car (a two-hour drive is nothing unless you're a tween who measures everything by time spent away from the phone) and pulled up to the smallest hotel I'd ever seen. I think I asked, "What else is here?" only to learn from my mother that in Tallassee, what you see is what you get.

"This is it," she said. "The whole town is one block. Can you believe it?"

I could, but I didn't want to.

We checked in, and I proceeded to mope and complain about boredom. The next morning, we went to shop at the five and dime store across from the hotel where a strange man followed my mother around the store and I bought a mini-Barbie for a dollar.

In no way did we have fun for the whole family.

But, I was still sad to learn that the hotel in Tallassee burned down yesterday. Nowadays, I could really get into a quiet weekend with nothing to do but devour fried chicken. And I can't help but wonder how I'll torture my own children without such important Alabama landmarks.

I guess there's always Vicksburg.

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Birthdays

Showbiz I've had my fair share of birthday disasters:

5. A boyfriend forgot my birthday until he was reminded about the date by my roommate. We had been dating for two years. (20)

4. A friend threw a tantrum -- and I mean show-stopping tantrum -- in the middle of my birthday party. (22)

3. I was once dumped on my birthday. Between the celebration and the depression, way too many shots were involved. I saw much more of the bathroom than my friends on that one. (25)

2. Stomach virus. (18)

1. One year, I decided to go to Girl Scout camp in Cullman for the weekend even though it coincided with my birthday. On that fateful weekend, a girl with no teeth went through my underwear, I was forced to learn the polka from middle-aged women in culottes and a homeless man stole my pink and purple duffel bag from the front steps of the school while I was waiting for my mom to pick me up. Not even cake could erase the mental image of Tanya holding my Jockey for Girls up above her head. (9)

Of course, I've also had some great birthdays:

5. Show-biz pizza. It was Show-biz people, do I really need to say more? My chair had a crown on it. There were two cakes. My dreams and my reality have rarely been so aligned. (5)

4. A surprise limo ride. My mom had a limo driver pick me and the family up to go to a Japanese restaurant where they cooked before your eyes. For the early '90s, this was the height of cool and sophistication in my eyes. (13)

3. My driver's license, a car and freedom. My birthday was on a Saturday the year I turned 16 and waiting 48 extra hours to take my driver's test seemed unbearable. Thank goodness, I passed the test. I can still remember turning up the radio to whatever volume I wanted when my mom climbed out of the car so I could drive alone for the first time and grinning from ear to ear. (16)

2. Being legal. Surprise, surprise -- 21 was big for me. Going to Georgetown meant that a lot of the college social scene revolved around bars. (Wow, how's that for marketing my alma mater?) I was also a year younger than most of my friends. Not having to worry about whether or not I would get into the bar was a huge relief to me. It was the beginning of a new era. (21)

1. As I'm writing this, the day isn't over yet, but I'm going to pick this year as a great b'day. Partly, I think it's best to try and appreciate the moment you're in. I also have really fabulous people to share this day with -- friends, family and the significant other. And last by not least, I'm glad to be here. To feel comfortable in my own skin, to have failed and succeeded, to know what I want -- for now, and to have a pretty good idea that it's all going to be OK. (30)

Maybe I'll even get two cakes before the celebration is over.

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The Hermit's Life

1210-12410701093yVu I'm not a customer service-oriented person.

Sure, my resume says that I have plenty of customer service experience, and this is true. I've worked in non-profit development, sports hospitality and the service industry. Rarely has anyone complained (and I used to get great tips). I'll do everything I can for you, but I'm not a fawner or a hand-holder. You'll get what you need and you'll get it in a timely manner, but you also have to be pretty content to get just me -- warts and all.

One of the best questions we received at one of the restaurants where I worked was, "How big is the 10-inch pizza?" Some servers will go out of their way to find a comparable item for you to figure out the size. I'll look you in the eye, give a good laugh that we can both share and say, "Ten inches."

When I worked at a French restaurant, if anyone asked about chicken fingers or ranch dressing, I sent them down a street to a sports bar. (Everyone is happier that way, trust me.) And when I was asked, "What is an olive?" I said, "Do you like peppers? Why don't you have that instead." In some instances, there just isn't enough time.

I like efficiency. And I'd say I don't like to waste time, but the truth is I don't mind wasting time so long as I can waste time the way I want to. I'll spend hours on Family Feud, but please don't ask me to sit in a waiting room, recite a menu that you can read or attend a meeting that could have been accomplished over e-mail.  

I've made peace with this part of myself. My fear is that potential employers have not, and the more time I spend working from home, the more I enjoy my semi-hermit life. (Plus, it doesn't help that when I do leave my house, I tend to get in line behind the one woman requesting a price check at Wal-Mart, pick the sandwich artist who huffs when I point out that I asked for turkey, not roast beef, and find the first day pharmacist. Staying home looks pretty good. And, yes, I usually leave the house only for discount shopping, food and drugs.)

Every job I look at lately, I find myself bothered by one caveat -- people. What has become of me? Am I just a surly curmudgeon? Am I getting old before my time? Maybe everyone would pick a good chair, their pets and a laptop as the ideal office environment; I just don't know.

But I would like to make more money, and if that involves people, I guess it's time to suck it up.

Then again, this chair is really comfortable. Maybe I'll revisit the topic next week ...

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In Which I Learn That I'm Not as Funny as I Thought

Menu I spent Labor Day weekend at my parents' lake house with some friends and the significant other (SO). While we were all hanging out in Coosa County, we decided to eat lunch in Alexander City. And, since Cecil's Public House was closed, and I couldn't seem to get a group consensus on Jim Bob's Chicken Fingers, J.R.'s Sports Bar & Grill was the establishment of choice.

(My father's favorite spot for lunch in Alexander City is the Carlisle Drug Soda Fountain. I'm sure the food is great, but having visited, I think the main appeal for my father is the frugality. The man who refuses to pay more than a quarter for a soda -- and who made us travel to Europe with our own Cokes so we wouldn't ended up paying "ridiculous" European price tags for cola -- can have a selection of sandwiches for $2.65. Yes, it's rather amazing in this day and age. No, the Soda Fountain is not somehow located in 1970.)

J.R.'s has everything the sports bar needs -- chicken fingers, wings, big TVs and rolls of paper towels on the tables instead of napkins. I also appreciate a restaurant that knows its audience and does what it does well.

In case you can't read the menu from the photo, J.R.'s has a relatively limited bar menu. These are your options: wine (white only, there's no red), margaritas, Pina Colada, Fuzzy Navel, Tequila Sunrise, Jack & Coke, Crown & Coke or Scotch & Coke. (Personally, I really want to meet someone who's ordered a Tequila Sunrise in the last decade.) I can only imagine how many people had to order Scotch & Coke before it earned a permanent spot on the menu.

The SO and I both ordered the fingers and wings combo. It included chicken fingers, buffalo wings, french fries and Texas toast and was absolutely delicious. I enjoyed every bite, but it's entirely possible that the SO enjoyed his even more. He ordered the hot wings, as opposed to my mild ones, and spent most of his meal sweating and/or crying. Apparently, he did so much sweating/crying that the waitress mentioned it.

"Did you like those?" she asked.

"I liked them very much," SO said. "I always cry when I'm happy."

That's when I chimed in, "That's what he tells me all the time, but I'm not sure if I believe him."

Afterwards, our waitress stared at me for a long, non-laughing, smile-less time. Finally, she said, "Oh. I get it now." Beat. "Is this all on one check?"

I proceeded to hang my head in shame.

Of course, I've had jokes fail before, but at least I usually get a bit of pity laughter. But, there was no pity laughter in Alexander City. There wasn't even a pity smile in Alexander City. I imagine that this moment was like a preview for when I have children and one of them declares -- in a state of extreme teen angst, of course -- "Maybe, I don't want to be funny!" or "You're not funny, Mom!"

Because, let's face it, you can send a lot of insults my way -- I don't have a job, I'm a single Southern girl turning 30 and what my hair will do from day to day is a total crap shoot -- but I've always tried to maintain my sense of humor. "Funny" is a descriptor I prize far above many others.

I'll get over this soon enough, but it really is too bad for my friends we'll never be able to eat at J.R.'s again. I can only accomplish so much, the rest is up to denial and avoidance.

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You'll Have to Take my Word on This One

Fisherman Now, I know this doesn't count as a celebrity sighting, but I swear that while I was in Florence, I saw the Gorton's fisherman.

I was in Swamper's, the hotel bar and lounge, and a local musician was on stage. The SO and his partners in crime were filming guests enjoying their drinks and fans listening to the music. I looked over towards the bar and saw an older gentleman with a short mess of gray hair and a beer in front of him. He was also wearing -- no joke -- a yellow rain jacket that ran down to his knees.

(I would have taken a picture for the sake of authenticity and verification, but I didn't think the SO would appreciate my taking photos of hotel patrons that look like popular trademarks for my own amusement while he was hard at work. I try not to embarrass him at work -- emphasis on try.)  

Of course, what really gave the icon away was the blank stare we're all so accustomed to seeing carved into wooden figurines that populate mantles all over the middle Atlantic.

I can only imagine the stock pile of fish sticks he had in his room.

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A Trip to Florence -- But Not Italy

Renaissance tower WhenI was 18 or 19, my then-boyfriend took me to Sheffield, Alabamato meet his grandparents. I was thrilled about the purpose of the trip. Ifigured that after a year and a half of dating, I must really mean something tohim if he would take me to meet his grandparents. 

Iwas less thrilled about the destination. Sheffield,Alabama is part of a small conglomerate ofcities making up the Shoals area of Northern Alabama.Florence, Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals and Sheffield make up this bustling metropolis. The University of North Alabama is there, and Tuscumbia isthe birthplace of Helen Keller. (Their tourist slogan: “Come see what shecouldn’t.”) 

Ispent the entire night before we left stressing out about what to wear. Withthe help of my mother, I very carefully chose a long, blue cotton dress thatbuttoned up the back. Attractive? Not so much. Seemingly appropriate formeeting conservative senior citizens in Sheffield?Yes. (At the time, I think everything else I owned stopped above the kneeand/or involved cleavage. I was young and less self-concious then.) 

Aftera two + hour drive the next day, we arrived in Sheffield.We entered through the back of the house and immediately sat down in the familyroom for introductions and pleasantries. A few minutes into the conversation,Grandma said, “Why don’t we move to the living room? It’s so much nicer inthere, and we rarely have company.”

Weall stood to file into the living room, and I heard a muffled “Oh, Dear,”followed by the feel of strange hands at my back. I looked over my shoulder tosee Grandma frantically trying to re-button my dress – which, much to myembarrassment, had come undone from the middle of my back down to my knees. 

Damnthose buttons. 

Toadd insult to injury, at the time, I was rather obsessed with panty lines.Because of my undergarment choices, nothing more than a thin T of fabric(probably missed in a panic) separated me from full-on mooning my boyfriend’sgrandmother.   

Iturned bright red, and it took all of the strength I had not to spend the restof the trip in the car, hoping and praying it would be time to go home soon.  

Insome ways, I suppose you could say that the trip could only get better fromthere. After some more visiting, we drove to the Wilson Lock and Bridge and ateat one of Florence’sbest known restaurants – an eatery at the top of a tower. The outside edge ofthe restaurant rotates while you enjoy a meal and a 360 degree view of all thatthe Shoals have to offer.  

Afterthat boyfriend and I broke up (I don’t think I ever grew on Grandma after shesaw so much of me), one of the few places I thought I’d never see again was thetown that was the source of my shame and the rotating outer edge of a Florencerestaurant. 

Andthat remained true until this past weekend when I joined my Significant Otherat the Shoals Marriott while he filmed a promotional video for the hotel. As hewas telling me about our upcoming trip, he mentioned the 360 Grille, but Inever put the name with anything from my past.  

But,when we arrived in Florenceon Sunday, I looked up from the parking lot to see the tower restaurant of mypast. “There’s the grill I was telling you about,” the SO said. 

“Actually,”I said, “I’ve been here before …” 

Neversay never, I suppose.  

 

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My Trip to Publix

296-1241214231C26p "I'd like spicy mustard and lite mayo on the sandwich, please."

"I gotta tell you. That says lite mayo, but it isn't actually lite mayo," the lovely woman behind the deli counter told me. "It's the regular stuff. Do you still want it?"

"Oh, yeah."

"OK, but it won't be lite."

"That's fine. I'll pretend," I said. "I'm very good at lying to myself."

Most surprsingly, unlike most Publix employees I share too much with, the deli woman laughed and said that sounded good to her.

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For the "Truth is Stranger Than Fiction" File

1-1234637595C8nS Christmas break my senior year of college, oneof my friends became infatuated with the drummer of a relativelypopular local band. Because of her crush, we spent most of our breakfrom school attending the group's nightly shows.

One Wednesday, we found ourselves at a small bar/coffee house. Afterwe had our drinks in hand, we looked for seats only to notice a prettydiverse crowd. It certainly wasn't the sea of college kids and young20-somethings we were used to seeing at the band's shows. 

There were a lot more middle aged men in the crowd, and a lot of thewomen were carrying around plastic magic wands. One woman, inparticular, really stood out -- she was more than a bit overweight, hadA LOT of hair and wore a red feather boa wrapped around her neck. (DidI mention that this show was still during prime time television hourson a Wednesday? Not really feather boa attire time in my book.)

Shortly thereafter, we learned that in addition to the band's show,a group of people from a local Internet chat room had decided to meetin person for the first time that evening.The magic wands helped identify the group, and their name tags all had their screen names on them.

The name tag of the woman with the red boa read "Angry Snatch."

We all learned that the Internet is a fascinating and terrifying place. And that you just never can tell with some people.

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