It Could Usually be Worse

If there's one thing I'll say for my new neighborhood, it's that it's never boring.On Sunday, I stopped for gas down the street. When I walked into the service station, the only working clerk was on her cell phone. Naturally, this annoyed me. Or, more accurately, it annoyed me when she stayed on the phone after seeing me standing at the register and continued to stay on the phone for another five minutes while she ignored me, the only customer in the store. And, when she did finally come over to see what I needed, don't think that she got off the cell phone even then.As she asked to see my id for the beer, she also asked "if I ever put up with any b***s***."I answered "no - especially from men" and waited for my total. (For those of you who know me, I recognize that this was wishful thinking on my part. I know that I often put up with bs from men - hence my unfortunate willingness to believe an ex who had many private dinners with his attractive "cousin." But, I feel it's ok to present myself as the more assertive version of myself I dream of being when it comes to strangers at the Amoco.)"Did you hear that?" she said into her phone. "Ladies don't like bs."And, even though I was only around because I still needed to get change, if I hadn't stayed because of the lackluster service, I would have missed the crucial meat of the conversation."You can't be accusing me of cheating on you," she added, "when you're the one that got somebody else pregnant."I was able to forgive her for the cell phone nonsense after that.The scene reminded me of something I read a few years ago in an indie publication. I don't know if anyone has ever read "Found" magazine, but the entire periodical is just composed of random notes and scraps of paper found by people (hence that brilliant name). My favorite piece in "Found" ("article" or "story" seems misleading, considering) is a note found near a car. The note is obviously from a girlfriend to her boyfriend and says something to the effect of, "I can't believe I found your car at her house again. You are such a lying dog," before ending with the somewhat reductive, "Beep me later."I take it all as a reminder to have standards. Although I'm not the biggest fan, I think Greg Behrendt would consider cheating as a sign that "someone's just not that into you" (or sucky), and I would have to agree. And, if nothing else, he or she should have to sweat it out for at least a little while.So, let's all keep the girl from the gas station in our thoughts. When I run out of peanut M&M's, maybe I'll get to find out what became of it all.

Battle of the Sexes

Long ago, I recognized that there are many things about men I will never understand. Professional wrestling is only the beginning. There’s also that whole being a jerk so that your significant other will break up with you rather than uttering the words "this isn’t working," fantasy football, refusing to go to the doctor even when a bone is sticking out of the skin, and thinking that Joey would have been better off with James Van Der Beek’s character on "Dawson’s Creek."But, in general, I’m willing to write up most of these idiosyncrasies as being similar to ours (i.e. women). I mean, brunch maybe a somewhat nonsensical meal, but I will continue to love it more than the others, make special plans around it, and wait two hours for an eggs Benedict on Sunday. Most likely, I will probably also love throw pillows (and lots of them) for the rest of my life, insist that women’s magazines do not repeat the same topics over and over again ad nauseam, and believe that Hugh Laurie’s character on "House" is an actual "person" who I need to stick up for at the tiniest inkling of criticism.But, I don’t think I will ever understand the idea of a "fight club." Aren’t football and lacrosse enough? Is it really necessary to boil it all down to simply wailing on one another in a dirty, abandoned space? (Dirt and blood - I just don’t get it. And, on anther note, this was the subject of last night's "Cold Case" to clarify why it's even on the brain.)Even if I really, really wanted to hit someone, I certainly wouldn’t want them to hit me back. (Dear God, that could be painful...or cause scarring. I really like my face, and I really like the absence of hurt.)If I’m upset, I usually watch "Steel Magnolias" until I’m sobbing during the funeral scene, Internet stalk, drink red wine, or shop for shoes. And, while these activities certainly lack "normal" logic for dealing with strong emotion, they rarely involve overt physical confrontation. (Admittedly, I did have a close encounter over some clearance priced BCBGirls boots a few weeks ago, but it was diffused long before the punch-throwing point of no return.)I acknowledge that pain can provide a release, but doesn’t that make fight club just like "cutting," bulimia, and other self-destructive behaviors? And, even if we are willing to say that of course a fight club displays some sort of unhealthy pathology, that still doesn’t explain the cult-like following to the movie of the same name. After all, I have yet to see anyone as anxious to emulate Tracy’s Gold’s character from Lifetime’s "For the Love of Nancy" as people are to try on Brad Pitt’s "Fight Club" role.So, I guess we end up with the fact that I don’t understand men, and possibly on a related note, that I am still single.

Another Day in my Neighborhood

This past weekend, I had yet another awkward encounter around my apartment/hovel. (Does it ever seem like everywhere I go, I run into problems with my neighbors/living space? I think this has happened in three different states now. Some people might start to wonder about the "real source of the trouble" considering that the only constant in all of these equations is me. Luckily, I've never really considered myself "some people." If I have a gift, it's denial. As I've said on many occasions, reality has never really agreed with me.)Anyway, as I was leaving my apartment the other day, I saw my landlord's ex-husband in the driveway. I don't know much about my landlord's ex, other than that he is indeed her ex-husband and that he still "stops over" on a semi-regular basis. What these "stop overs" entail, I'll leave to the imagination, but my landlord did offer to have him come over and set up my cable for me one time. Since setting up my cable involved attaching one end of a coaxial cable to the wall and the other end to my TV set, I declined the offer.But, the other day was the first time we officially "met." He was in the driveway when I walked out the door, and he proceeded to introduce himself. It went something like this:"Hi, you must be the new tenant. I'm Andrew.""Hi, Andrew," I said. "It's nice to meet you.""Yeah," he said, "I'm the ex-husband.""Uh-huh...""Yep, I'm the ex..."I nod."This used to be my house.""Oh, really?" I said. After all, what are you really supposed to say in this kind of situation?"Yep, I bought it eight years ago. I bought it long before I even met Cobey."More nodding from me. Really, where do you go with this? That sucks? Life isn't fair? What did you do - cheat on her or something?"It was my house. My house for years. But, I guess that's what happens when you get divorced."Divorce sucks? Divorce isn't fair?Then, almost like he realized he was being awkward but still didn't understand the full depth of the discomfort he was causing me, he said, "So, do you like living in my house?"That's when I said it looked like rain and ran. My second gift (after denial) is the pathological need to avoid confrontation and unpleasantness at all costs. It's one of the reasons I'd have to vote myself off the island after the first day on "Survivor." (Well, that and the fact that I would be hated by all the other participants for my inability to complete physical challenges of any kind or run more than six feet without complaining and/or panting.)

Hmm...

Being a huge fan of celebrity gossip, but not so much a fan of celebrity feuds, I've only taken a passing interest in the recent battle between Rosie O'Donnell and Donald Trump.However, I am a huge fan of the "Today" show and happened to catch the Donald and his daughter on the program today. (Side note, at Georgetown I took a course with Ivanka Trump. The class was "Social Inequality." I've never been able to make a joke that was better than the simple irony in those two statements.)What I found fascinating is that Donald claimed all the polls in the media take his side over Rosie's. For one, I didn't know that celebrities actually payed attention to the votes of us common folk on sites like US Weekly and people.com. And secondly, one of the Donald's primary examples was that those who answered the Fox News poll overwhelmingly took his side.Now, I may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but is it really all that impressive that the viewers of Fox News chose a conservative millionaire over an outspoken, liberal lesbian?I think that's like me responding to anyone who thinks that I might have "a problem" by saying that all the guys down at the bar think I'm perfectly normal. (And, "tons of fun" at that.)

Family Outings

A few weeks ago, over dinner, my parents and I got into a talk about Albert Einstein. We were discussing his intelligence, math, nuclear weapons, "I.Q." with Tim Robbins, etc., when my mother mentioned that it must have been really hard to be Einstein's mother.At this point in the conversation, I paused and asked what she meant."Well, I'm just saying it would be so difficult to parent a genius," she said. "Can you imagine what that would be like?""No," I said. "But, don't you think you have some inkling of what it would be like to have a genius for a child?"Then, there was another, much longer pause.It was awkward.

Hello 2007!

I apologize for my lack of recent posts. Between the holidays and a massive head cold, I've been sidelined for a little while. And, unfortunately, when I get sick, it usually means that it is nearly impossible for me to have a funny and/or interesting thought. (In fact, I can always tell I'm getting sick because I start to have the most mundane and monotonous dreams in the world. Before I got the flu my senior year of high school, I dreamed about walking to the mailbox to check the mail over and over and over again. It was pretty mind-numbing and apparently the sign of oncoming fever and chills.) My planned activity for the evening is to rest and use my new sweater shaver to get rid of the pills on my winter wear. Worse yet, I'm excited about it and thought about it for the better half of my work day.This sickness is obviously physical and mental.But, in light of the timing, I thought I would share my New Year's resolutions for 2007. Don't expect to find anything about diet or exercise here. I believe in aiming low. It's easier to succeed that way and better for the self-esteem. I prefer attainable goals.1. I must stop using the phrase "I'm not going to lie." Normally I say this before I make some sort of mildly outrageous/amusing confession like that I really like the show "Yes, Dear" or that I hate saying the word croissant out loud. But, this is not a good joke. I know it's not a good joke. In the back of my head, whenever I start to say, "I'm not going to lie," I find myself thinking, "Dear God, why am I doing that again? Enough already." Seriously, if I'm this tired of my own catch phrase, I know other people must be too. I must ban these words from my speech. ASAP.2. I will clean out my purses on a regular basis. Now, a lot of people probably think that this doesn't sound very difficult. However, most people probably haven't peered inside my purse to gape at the sea of old receipts, napkins, pixie stick dust, and melted chocolate. I could take up decoupage just to have something to do with all of the receipts I have. (Although, upon further thought, it's probably better to have too many receipts rather than a sea of paper mache woodland creatures crafted from my bar tabs. That path probably only leads to a state run institution and a diet constituted only of soft foods.) To take it slightly further, I might try balancing my checkbook. Might.3. No more Krispy Kreme chocolate glazed, creme filled donuts. (Especially after 2 a.m.) I don't care how many I can have for free when I buy two dozen at once. It's been highly detrimental to my figure.I guess we'll see how it goes. After all, I am a pretty strong creature of habit. (Hence my twenty-plus year devotion to soap operas despite years of education and intense mockery by my peers.) But, not carrying through on that first one is probably going to cost me some friends, so it will definitely remain the top priority.Happy New Year to all!

Mills on Mills

Normally, I like shopping. In fact, normally, I love shopping.

I can pass hours in the mall. I once killed seven hours inside a single department store (Marshall Fields, how I love thee). In high school, I got a 10% discount on food at the Galleria because I was there so much, they just assumed I was a mall employee. In grad school, I used to study in the food court on Sunday afternoons. I liked the buzz of people around me and the odor of bad Chinese food from Manchu-Wok. I try to slip the word "kiosk" into every day conversation as much as is humanly possible. And, the only math I can do in my hand involves the percentage of clearance markdowns.

But, I do not like the mall at Christmas time. In fact, I despise it. I find that merely being in the vicinity of a mall during the holidays replaces my festive Christmas spirit with outright anger and misanthropy. (You might want to reference my previous post on Black Friday for examples of manifestations of these feelings.)

Truth be told, I used to have a similar reaction to "Six Flags" wherein a day at the amusement park made me question the fate of the human race, as evidenced by the fact that bicycle pants have yet to die off in civilized society, to the point that I had to give up on that enterprise for the sake of still wanting to eventually bring children into this crazy, crazy world.

Basically, I don't want to be at the mall with other "mall people." I don't dress up to go to the mall. If I had children, they would not be in matching outfits of red velvet accented by tartan ribbons. I don't own a Christmas sweater or a light-up lapel pin that plays "Jingle Bell Rock." I don't carry around enough shopping bags to make my own Kristo-like installation when I get home. I don't horde shirt boxes that say "Dillard's" in red and green. I don't plan my day around staying inside a multi-store structure. And, I certainly don't make sure I can have a light lunch at some sort of grill that involves overly buttered meat and fries, supplement my afternoon cravings with samples of chicken on a toothpick from an overly aggressive middle-aged woman in an apron, and top it all off with a "nice dinner" at Chili's Too.

I just don't want to be that person.This is why it was all the more unfortunate that I didn't finish my shopping early enough this year and had to head out to Opry Mills Mall right after work yesterday.

Yep, the mall and 5:00 traffic -- it wasn't pretty.

For about an hour, I bypassed all hand cream and shammy demonstrators so that I could fully "power shop." I mall-walked with determination, ignored all distractions and got what I needed.Then, on the way out to my car, a little girl ran up to me. (She was the first one to phase my steely mall-crowd-proof demeanor. I blame the pigtails.) She couldn't have been any older than five, and she shoved a little bag at me and asked if I "wanted to buy some fresh mistletoe."

Now, I know that some of you might be thinking this sounds pretty cute. Little girl, mistletoe, Christmas cheer, blah, blah, blah.I, however, was incredibly disturbed.

First of all, she didn't seem to have any discernible parent in sight. A child that young should be chaperoned at the mall -- especially around Christmas time. Didn't anyone else have to watch cautionary tales about kidnappings and Adam Walsh as a child?

Secondly, if one of her parents was there, why was he or she watching from afar as their child tried to drum up business in the food court? I also think this is creepy.

But, really, what I couldn't get over was the idea that it must have been some kind of scam. I could just see myself being taken down in the parking lot by mall cops or worse. When someone with a badge pulls a baggie of green stuff out of your jacket pocket, I really don't think the explanation that you tried to buy Christmas decor off a kindergartener gets you very far.And, while I not seem full of the holiday spirit today, I wish you all a Merry Christmas!

MyHeritage - photo albums with facial recognition">I thought this would be a fun self-esteem boost. After all, if you're willing to see who your celebrity look-alikes are, aren't you looking for a quick pick me up?Little did I know, that they would pick a guy! A guy! It seems I resemble the star of "Chronicles of Narnia" (I had to imdb him to know that) more than I do Kristen Bell. (Not that I really thought that I looked like Kristen Bell, but, at least I thought I looked like a girl.)Maybe I overreacted to the fact that a man on "The Price is Right" was named Laurel. Maybe my name (and face) are unisex after all.I pray that it's just the bangs.

Nature or Nurture?

Some days, I feel like I am becoming my father. (Please don't see this as an opportunity for stray thoughts about excessive body hair or other effects of testosterone. As a single woman during the holidays, it's not fair to kick a girl when she's down. I'm only speaking of behavioral attributes here.)At times, the sensation is subtle, like an inability to change the TV from a Dennis Quaid movie or ordering a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist when I thought I was going to have a cabernet only a few seconds before.And, other times, it's more oppressive - like today, when I found myself behind a particularly slow driver attempting to make a left hand turn from a stop sign onto a four-lane road screaming, "COME ON! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GROW SOME BALLS?!?!" while throwing my arms up in the air.I guess I should check back in with someone about my road rage issues.

A Friendly Suggestion

On Saturday night, I went to a party with some friends. I ended up sitting next to a girl I didn't know, and we proceeded to engage in the usual kinds of small talk. I told her that I had just moved to Nashville, and she wanted to know how I liked it, etc. Here's a sampling of our conversation:Me: So far, I like Nashville a lot. Plus, I think I needed a change of scenery.New Girl (or NG from here on out): Yeah, I can understand that. Sometimes you really need some space after you graduate college.Me: Actually, I didn't just graduate college. I'm 27, so I've been out of school for awhile.NG: Oh, wow. I mean, wow. I had no idea you were any older than 23.Me: No worries, I get that a lot - mostly from bartenders who seem to think I'm using a fake id.NG: Well, don't you ever let anyone make you feel old...27 isn't really that old...really.Oh, new girl, I don't think that was the best way to minimize our age difference. I can honestly say that I wasn't concerned about being 27 before that moment. For future reference, if you don't want someone to feel old, don't tell them not to feel old in the course of a conversation that does not involve some sort of drunken, birthday-related crying along the lines of "I'm ancient now!"In most situation, if no one else has used the o-word, it's best not to be the one to bring it up. Trust me on this.

Accessories

I think my biggest pet peeve of the week involves people who keep that little ear piece from their cell phone on their head all the time.It bothers me enough when people conduct phone conversations through the ear piece. Most of the time, I don't realize that they're talking on the phone. I think they're either talking to themselves out loud (which increases my anxiety because I think I've had the misfortune of awaiting public transportation next to a delusional or otherwise mentally-disturbed crazy person who might push me in front of a bus at any moment) or that they're talking to me (and that's when I provide an awkward response thinking we're in a conversation before the stranger stares at me like I'm nuts while whispering to the person that they're actually talking to on the phone how some delusional or otherwise mentally-disturbed crazy person has tried to engage them in the park.)Yet, despite all that, it bothers me even more when people wear the ear piece when they're not talking on the phone - like they're so important they might get an urgent call at any moment that trumps all other people or conversation and is so vital that they can't even be bothered with the time delay mere mortals struggle with when they flip open a phone to take to a call.Seriously, few phone calls are that important. For a point of reference, when's the last time you spotted anyone in scrubs with an ear piece on?And, perhaps most disturbing, is that whenever you see people constantly wearing the ear piece, you're not on the floor of the stock exchange or at some incredibly hip eatery that agents and Hollywood starlets frequent. No, the place you're going to see the ear-piece-wearer is in line at Krispy Kreme or scarfing down boneless buffalo wings at the Ruby Tuesday.Certainly, I'm not necessarily the one to judge delusions of grandeur, but I want to guarantee anyone with lingering doubts that an ear piece does not portray importance or social significance. It certainly doesn't matter to anyone in the T.G.I. Friday's happy hour crowd who probably came to play NTN Trivia at the bar while sipping on an ice cream and liquor concoction known as the "Blue Storm" and arguing the finer points of reality television with "the regulars." (Are these really the people you're trying to impress anyway?)Of course, by "anyone" I'm not at all referring to myself in times of guilty pleasure, extreme sadness, or on Tuesdays at 5:30.

Still Reminiscing

So, speaking of major holidays and vomiting (because who doesn't want those two subjects tied together in memory?), today I remembered a Christmas when I actually threw up at the table during Christmas dinner.The culprit was congealed salad, and I haven't been able to taste or look at it since.This makes me wonder if that kind of reaction has something to do with age. After all, the occasional similar experience in the years since has never had the same kind of deterrent effects with red wine.I guess that's just one more reason I'd pick alcohol over strange incarnations of fruit given the chance.

Not Normal

Last week, while I was getting a facial (yes, I am that spoiled), I opened my eyes while the mask was on my face (because it is impossible for me to sit still for ten minutes). And, since the mask covered my eyes and only left small openings for my nostrils and mouth, the only thing I could make out was a small patch of white ceiling and a dimmed fluorescent light.That's when I realized that if I were in an accident and woke up in a full body cast or was like one of the characters on my soap operas who ended up with a completely bandaged face (usually because the character "died" and the original actor is about to be replaced by a new actor who will look nothing like the first actor but will be playing the same part so this must be explained by a "disfiguring accident"), that's all I would be able to see of the world when I woke up.So, like any rational person, I immediately added a new anxiety to my list of fears.

I Miss School

I think yesterday was one of those days when I could actually feel myself getting dumber. (Actually, the trend might have started Wednesday night when I said "Lance Bass" instead of "Lance Armstrong" while touting my celebrity gossip knowledge/skills. Oh, the irony...)First, I couldn't solve the medium level of sudoku in the morning paper(which normally isn't a problem).On my lunch break, it took me almost twenty minutes to find the fire extinguishers at Target. And, when I went out to the parking lot, it took me another ten to find my car, and later at the car wash, I was literally impressed/near giddy as the different colored soaps covered my windows.Then, when I was back at my desk, I tried to roll my chair away to visit a co-worker's, but I still had my headphones around my neck, so instead I yanked the headphones out of the computer and knocked over all of my notes and a book while the office watched with pity.But, what truly frightened me is that on the way home from work, I found myself doubting how to spell "wrapping paper." I started to wonder if "wrapping paper" was the same as Saran wrap or wrapping a film. It started to seem odd that Christmas wrap would be spelled with a "w." And, much like sometimes saying the same word over and over again can start to make that very word seem odd ("hotdog" does it to me every time, and yes, i do use the word "hotdog" often enough for this to happen), the more I thought about "wrapping paper," the more perplexed I became.Eventually, I reasoned with myself that it certainly wasn't "rapping paper" as "rap" defines a genre of music and probably wouldn't apply to other objects. (Not to mention the fact that you are actively engaged in the act of "wrapping" when you cover a present in paper.)But, I really don't think the thought process should have gotten to such dire depths. Maybe I really do need to start eating breakfast.

Strange Encounters

I tried to watch "Haunting" on the Sci-Fi channel tonight. (You know, they interview families who have lived in haunted houses, had encounters with poltergeists, etc. I thought it would be like "Unsolved Mysteries," and "The Office" wasn't on.)But, tonight, the family they interviewed would only be on the show on the condition that the producers would "protect their anonymity." They were in the dark, and you couldn't make out anyone's facial features.And, I still don't understand - protect their anonymity from what? The ghosts? Do they think the dead confederate soldier in the basement will retaliate because they "testified against him"? Are they worried about being sued for slander by spirits? If there are ghosts, would they even watch television?It just doesn't make sense, and, truthfully, I'm relatively speechless.

Goodness Gracious

Interestingly enough, my horoscope yesterday said that I should not change my routine in any way, shape, or form. (Normally, I don't get too into this kind of stuff, but yesterday's was so adamant, I was rather intrigued.) It read that I shouldn't change the way I drive home from work, propose new ideas to my boss, attempt even talking to strangers, etc.Truth be told, even though I was intrigued, it was also kind of nice because "keeping to my usual routine" also means avoiding the gym, indulging in too much celebrity gossip, and eating frosted strawberry pop tarts right before bed.I love life.Anyways, last night, I was sitting on my couch, watching TNT and doing sudoku puzzles on my computer (after all, it was all pre-destined by the stars) when my smoke detector started to go off. I got up, but, having mostly lived in older apartments and homes, I'm entirely accustomed to smoke detectors that go off when a Lean Cuisine gets too warm in the microwave or water boils.So, you can imagine my surprise when I went to grab a broom from the kitchen (to hit the smoke alarm and keep it from beeping in that oh-so-grating fashion) and discovered a small fire on my stove.Being the highly intelligent person that I am, it seems that instead of turning down the heat on my pot of pasta, I turned on the heat for a different burner. And, since the lid to the pot was sitting on that burner, flames ensued. (It appears that the downside of doing all your shopping at the Dollar General is that not all of your purchases are "high quality" or "flame retardant.")Luckily, a lot of my dishes were on the sink (again, fate didn't want me to put anything away or clean), and I grabbed a bowl and doused the fire in water.My kitchen is messier than before (which really shouldn't be possible), but at least the crisis was averted.I have two little lessons to offer from my evening's adventure: 1) Astrology is important. Is cooking part of my normal routine? Certainly not. If I'd driven through Krystal on the way home, none of this would have happened. 2) Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes an event to "break up the mind-numbing monotony of the evening" is a fire, and that's not good.And, as important as these morals are, perhaps the most important info to take from yesterday is that I will be spending today's lunch hour at Home Depot buying a fire extinguisher.

Cautionary Tales From my Youth

The other day, as I was driving to work, I spotted a hitch hiker on the side of the road.I have to say that it's been a really long time since I've seen a hitch hiker. I kind of thought all those reports about serial killers and stories on "America's Most Wanted" destroyed the enterprise, but I suppose I was wrong. Anyways, my main point is that hitch hikers always remind me of my father.And, right now you're probably thinking, "How in the world could that possibly be?"Well, no, it has nothing to do with the time my father thumbed a ride to the Auburn/Alabama game when his car overheated halfway through the drive, and he didn't want to miss the first ever match-up between the two teams at Jordan-Hare Stadium.You see, back in the day (i.e. the 70s) my father used to pick up hitch hikers. Now, he has told me plenty of times that hitch hiking was much "safer" and "more acceptable" back then, but I still can't imagine anything at all fun or American-open-road-romantic about being in incredibly close quarters with a transient you just met, but bygones.So, my father used to pick up hitch hikers. Of course, that was all until one day when he picked up a particular hitch hiker who pulled out a knife about twenty minutes into the ride. Here's a little something of what the conversation was probably like:Hitch Hiker: So, you like this knife of mine? (He proceeds to sharpen said knife on the sole of his shoe.)My Father: (With obviously raised anxiety) Yeah, that's a nice knife.HH: It's a real nice knife, don't you think?MF: Uh-huh...HH: Yeah, it's a real sharp one too.MF: (Just silence and nervous gulping.)HH: It's a real good knife.MF: (Wide-eyed staring and fear.)HH: So, do you think you might want to buy this knife off me?MF: YES! Yes, I do! Let's do that right now!Obviously, this was the worst and best deal my father ever made. Financially speaking, you really don't have any bargaining power when you're the one not holding the knife, but, survival-wise, it's always better to be the one who's armed in a two-seater Volkswagen beetle.The moral of the story - don't pick up hitch hikers. Otherwise, not much has been going on over the past few days, and I've had to revert to telling my father's stories rather than my own.Hopefully, more to come...

Sexual Politics

The other day, as I was getting in the elevator, a man called from down the hall asked me to hold the door for him. Of course, I had no problem doing this as it is the polite and courteous thing to do.But, when the man approached the elevator, he wasn't interested in actually getting on. Instead, he handed me his card, introduced himself, and invited me to lunch.Now, while this is flattering in many ways, I really wasn't at all prepared for a date request at 9:00 AM on a Monday. (Meaning, I responded with general awkwardness, avoided eye contact, and stammering.)But, what really bothers me is that when he asked me to hold the elevator for him, I wasn't facing him. The only thing he could see when he decided to approach me was my back, and he hadn't even seen my face.So, I'm pretty sure he decided to approach me based solely on my backside, and I really don't think I'm comfortable with that. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I really do think you should at least examine both halves of a person before asking them out. (As for this "halves policy" of mine, I can see not checking out the back, but not checking out the front? It makes me feel a bit like a piece of meat. After all, it's not like he's ever spoken to me or heard me talk.) Face time is important.It kind of reminds me of when I was living in D.C. Men on the street would occasionally make comments to me and it was usually on the days that I hadn't showered. It's very hard to feel special when you know that if I man will give a compliment to a greasy-haired, dirty person, he probably gives every woman on the street a shot.Plus, now I have to avoid the elevator at high traffic times of the day because I don't want to have a second awkward, stammering, avoided eye contact kind of moment.We all know how little I like overt objectification - and taking the stairs.

Too Sensitive?

Some of my friends keep telling me that it's time to "get back out there" (i.e. dating).But, then I have days when I feel like the Mailer-Daemon return service on my e-mail sounds like it's breaking up with me. (After all, it does say, "This is a permanent error. I will not try again.")And, on those day, I think I'm not quite there yet.

A Word Please...

We all know that I love my celebrity gossip. In fact, one of my favorite gifts this year was a subscription to US Weekly magazine. (Of course, considering my somewhat severe addiction to celebrity gossip websites, I usually know everything in the magazine before it arrives - excepting, obviously, stars and how they're "just like" me, but bygones.) Even if I have all the details on Britney's divorce and Kingston Stefani's hairstyle, I still read it. (I know, I know - between the repetitive play of Lindsay Lohan's shenanigans and soap operas, my brain is well-fed.)And, by most accounts, this Monday was no different from most: I came home from work, I changed into sweat pants, I spent time actually talking out loud to my dog about how my day was, and then I sat down on the couch with my recently-delivered US Weekly.That's when I noticed it. It was right there on the cover, staring up at me. That's when I saw that this particular US Weekly was, in fact, a Collector's Edition. That's right - a collector's edition. A collector's edition of a those-of-us-who-read-it-pretend-it-isn't-but-deep-down-we-all-know-it-really-is-one tabloid.My obvious question is, WHO THE HELL COLLECTS US WEEKLY?!?! Is there someone laminating TomKat's wedding album as we speak? Does it get a special place on the coffee table where it stays - forever? Do you pull it out when people come over for dinner along with slides from that last trip to the Grand Canyon saying, "Now I don't know whether you've seen this before or not...but we've been saving something really special for after dessert"?It's US Weekly people! Everyone has seen it! Anyone can have it! Collector's Edition or not, there's nothing that special about it.I really don't think it will be worth more if they break up, if that's what people are hoping for. I'm pretty sure mainstream copies of celebrity rags don't appreciate in value like baseball cards or discontinued, sexist Barbies. Sure, when my grandmother held a garage sale years ago, her National Enquirers sold out and sold fast, but they went for ten cents a piece. She couldn't exactly retire on rumors. (Hey - do you think that phrase could catch on? Maybe like "living on love"? "Retiring on rumors"? Huh? Ok, I realize it doesn't work and barely makes sense, but I've been dying to slap something on a needlepoint pillow and make my fortune for years. After all, if people like collector's editions of mediocre magazines...)Of course, when I consider that some people amass Precious Moments figurines and clocks shaped like trains from the Time Life corporation, none of this seems that bad, but, as I've said before and will say again, when people are thinking inside "the crazy box," I don't dive in there with them trying to work with their logic. If you're taking "the train to crazy," I'm not hoping on board with you. I'll stay in "reason-ville," and we can have any discussion you want there.Holding on to an US Weekly just because it says "Collector's Edition" on the top is a little bit crazy. I can't help but thinking it's the same mindset that leads to one day far in the future when EMT technicians have to fight their way through a maze of years-old newspapers and empty cans of Le Sueur green peas to find your body.In short, throw it out. Get out of the crazy box. You'll thank me in the long run.

Labels: pop culture rantings