Enough Already

Jesus.

Watching the news these days is like being treated to a bloody train wreck. I can barely stand it. Doom and gloom: Wall Street melt downs, scary unemployment figures and sour earnings reports.

Enough.

And then, in a league of its own, is the insurance giant, AIG. I cannot seem to get my head around how screwed up the whole situation is. How in the world can the captains of that ship discuss bonuses with a straight face? Fail miserably and get paid to do so? It's mind boggling. I heard the most recent defense which claimed that these monies had to be retained to keep the "talent".

Really.

I'd say, roll the dice baby. Where is the "talent" going to go? They are part of the problem and the unspoken threat is that they might leave the company if they didn't receive bonuses? What does one say to that?

Umm...thank you? I'd be helping them to pack up their offices.

Obviously, some of those employees knew that they'd just won the lottery because over 52 of them collected nearly $34 million and promptly left the company.

And then there is Bernie Madoff and his extended family. After financially ruining the lives of so many people and confessing to those sins in a packed courtroom, this guy has the unmitigated gall to ask that he be granted permission to live in his luxury penthouse until the day of his sentencing. Is it just me or is that unbelievably inappropriate?

His wife, sitting on sixty million worth of assets, continues to proclaim that the family was ignorant to the scheme.

Oh please.

She was the freaking bookkeeper for 50 years. Regardless of when she knew, every luxury that she enjoys today came at the expense of thousands of ordinary people. If she were a principled, decent human being, she'd be doing her part to return as much money as possible to those that have been fleeced.

I guess the thing that has me shaking my head is the overwhelming sense of entitlement that we are witnessing from the likes of General Motors, AIG, the Madoff clan and others who now find themselves in dire straits. Maybe to them, a million here, a billion there is merely chump change but they've forgotten who has funded them. It is regular taxpayers, struggling to make their mortgage payments, juggling credit card bills with newly higher interest rates, taking on a second job or looking for a new one after being laid off, clipping grocery coupons, skipping the family holiday or laying awake at night wondering when it will all get better who have given up a portion of their revenue to underwrite the mistakes and excesses of others.

We haven't forgotten, though. These are very hard lessons that several generations of people have been forced to learn. We are not likely to forget anytime soon.

Delurking Day 2009

Chris over at Rude Cactus invited me to participate in the annual "Delurking Day 2009". ( Thanks to Aimee for the button) This is where we shamelessly pander to the internet and ask our readers to reveal themselves by leaving us a comment. I use this day to relive an embarrassing moment since I have a BUCKET LOAD of those stories.

If you are comfortable, leave a comment. And thanks for continuing to read.

During my first year of university, I worked at a busy restaurant called Kelsey's. One Friday night, during the hours that we were slammed, I was sat a table full of women. This was not a good thing. Women were difficult. I guess I should probably explain that statement.

You see, in the restaurant business, all servers dread three things:

1. PROM NIGHT: Scads of pimply faced high school seniors would make their grand entrance in tuxes and dresses that cost more than my rent at the time. They would sit down, try to order booze and feign shock when I asked them for i.d. that they couldn't produce. Then, they would spend every bit of the fifty bucks that Dad had slipped them with the packet of condoms and the keys to the family car, leaving absolutely nothing for a tip. They were loud, demanding and generally ill behaved. We hated them.

2. FRAZZLED PARENTS: These were the ones that came in asking for a highchair or a booster seat and who looked like they hadn't slept in two years. They had diaper bags the size of Texas out of which they were able to pull crackers, squeaky toys and a McDonald's Happy Meal. Their offspring were demon spawn. They either screamed at the top of their lungs or methodically took every item within their reach and threw it on the floor. Crackers, french fries, crayons, spoons, napkins, sugar packets and salt littered the floor. These people often meant to tip properly but when you picked up their credit card statement after they had left, they had invariably added incorrectly, leaving less than 10%. We felt sorry for these people but wish they had had the good sense to order themselves a Big Mac with that Happy Meal and call it a night.

3. WOMEN IN SENSIBLE SHOES: These were the professional women that felt it necessary to behave like their perception of men in the workplace. They wore their attitude like their business suits: big, boxy and no nonsense. Somewhere in their journey up the corporate ladder, they had shed everything feminine and morphed into uber bitches. They dined in packs and insisted on separate cheques. Clearly, they resented having to sit down to pee and they treated the waitstaff poorly. This was the group that I got on that Friday night.

There were eight of them and my usual approach to women like this was to behave like a competent administrative assistant. I used formal language, was all business and tried to blend into the woodwork when they weren't speaking directly to me. After they settled into their seats, I began the task of taking drink orders. The first seven ordered wine, wine coolers and mixed drinks, which pleased me because the usual behaviour of this group was to order water with lemon which did nothing for my average ticket sales. Woman number eight was slow to make up her mind. I noted her swollen belly and figured that she was trying to decide which non alcoholic drink would be most suitable. I thought I'd try to help her along.

"May I suggest one of our smoothies? We do the real deal here with fresh fruit and milk. They are delicious."

"No," she said, "I'm thinking of something else."

"Well, we can do a virgin version of any one of our blended drinks, if you'd like that."

"No," she said, "I just can't seem to figure out what I'm craving."

"Well," I said, "Caffeine is bad for the baby and alcohol is out of the question so that leaves our cold or hot herbal teas, Seven Up or water."

All of the sudden the entire table was silent and eight pairs of were staring at me, some with obvious mirth. The woman in question was flushed bright red from her neck to her forehead and immediately, I knew my mistake.

"Get me a small draught," she hissed through clenched teeth and then promptly got up and excused herself to the bathroom. I watched her waddle away, my mouth open and my own face hot. I wished for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. The woman was not pregnant. She was merely tubby.

Reluctantly, I dragged my eyes back to the table. Some of the women were giggling. Some were clearly upset at their friend's distress. One of them grabbed my hand and when I leaned down, she whispered, "truth hurts," into my ear. For the better part of the next hour, I served the table, dying a little each time I had to interact with my non pregnant customer. To my great relief the table finally left after lingering over coffee and dessert. I was surprised to find a generous tip from the lady that I had offended.

Several months later, my general manager came up to me with an envelope in her hand.

"A woman left this at the bar for you"

I opened it to find a thank you card from my non pregnant customer. Apparently, shamed by the experience of being mistaken for a pregnant person in front of all of her colleagues led her to do something about her weight and her health in general. She included two Polaroids of her new thinner self and thanked me for my inadvertent honesty.

While happy that this story had a happy ending, I NEVER again made the mistake of assuming ANYTHING.

Holiday Spirit

I am not finished with my Christmas shopping.

This is so not like me.

This weekend, we hiked over to our local Wal-Mart trying to get the necessary ingredients for Christmas dinner and to pick up some stocking stuffers. It was a freaking zoo and there is no denying that this season brings out the absolute worst in some people. It seems that every single rude and graceless tool on the planet crawls out from underneath their rock at least once a year and for some reason, as discussed before, I am the person they find. To the elderly lady in the stationery aisle whose hair smelled like rotting olives and who used her bony hip to violently move me out of her way as she took the last Crayola Disney Princess Color Wonder package:

Be grateful that you qualify to collect social security because I am Canadian, a former left defense hockey player and respect for the number of years you have terrorized the earth is the only thing that stopped me from laying you out flat in that aisle. Also, that shade (Ronald McDonald orange) that you are using in your hair is not complimentary to your skin tone. I'm just saying...

To the extremely large man who parked his motorized cart on a diagonal in one of the toy aisles and who sat there, clearly conscious of but not caring a whit for the bottle neck that he was causing:

It's bad enough that you are a thirty five year old man who has eaten himself to the size of Hummer. To make yourself even more repugnant, you come to the store unbathed, in sweat pants that haven't seen a washing machine since the Reagan administration and with something unidentifiable lurking in your mangy beard. There are truly disabled people that need that cart, mister, so the least you could do as you accelerate past the amputee with the crutches is yield the bloody right of way.

I'm thinking that next year, I'm going to make all of my holiday purchases online. Things can get pretty heated on eBay but at least I can shop in my jammies with a coffee in my hand an no possibility of walking into someone else's fart fog.

The Kiwis Have Landed

On Wednesday last week, Dallas's parents and another couple they've know for ages arrived from New Zealand. And I don't think that I've had an entirely sober existence since.

Actually, that's not true. There might have been a few bad moments in the wee hours of Saturday morning but since then, things have stopped spinning steadied to a more even keel. Following along with the whole nautical theme, I'd like to relay a story we heard this past weekend.

Lloyd and his wife, Leslie, have been long time friends of Anne and Bruce's. They decided to make the trip for our wedding and it's been wonderful getting to know them a bit better. Besides being two of the kindest folks on the planet, the one thing that they do really well is spin a hilarious tale.

For instance, there is this beauty:

Lloyd's mum (Mama D) was a heavy smoker. Lloyd's dad (Papa D) was a lousy sailor. Under normal circumstances, neither one of these characteristics would be particularly noteworthy but one lovely summer morning, they came together in a South Pacific version of the perfect storm.

It all started when Mama D broke her arm after a nasty fall while retrieving mail from the letter box (all colloquialisms remain for maximum Kiwi authenticity). Her arm was casted. Then somehow (memory fails me), the other wrist or arm was compromised which resulted in a second cast. Picture this poor woman with both arms in right angle casts. Clearly, this affected her ability to get her nicotine fix as she could bring neither hand anywhere near her mouth.

Being a smart and empathetic man, Papa D employed the services of a local glass maker, who fashioned a halo with a curved tube that extended down over her nose and ended in a "T". When wearing the halo on her head, she was able to stick a cigarette in one end of the "T" and puff on the other end, thus eliminating the need for hands. Everyone was happy. Mum got her fag and dad got some peace.

Until they decided that some fresh sea air might be in order.

The day was beautiful; sunny and cloudless with a good, stiff breeze. Perfect sailing weather. Leslie, Lloyd and his parents climbed aboard the sloop and set out into the Hauraki Gulf. As previously mentioned, Papa D knew the basic mechanics of sailing but he was unable to put them all together with any proficiency. Depth perception was most definitely not his strong suit.

Early in the voyage, Papa D made a trip to the head for his morning ritual. The loo was one of those old fashioned numbers. There was a handle that had to be pumped up and down to create a vacuum. Once the business was done, a lever was pulled up and everything was sucked out of the system. It worked a bit like an airplane bathroom except the vacuum was done through manual means.

In any case, Papa D finished, pulled the lever and failed to notice that there were a few treats left behind. Mama D, on the other hand, was feeling a bit crook in the belly as she was sometimes prone to be and decided to go below deck to lay down until her seasickness passed. On her way to the forward berth, she stopped at the toilet. After maneuvering her halo encapsulated torso through the door, she sat down and lit a cigarette.

Things were quickly unraveling above deck. Papa D was having a hard time navigating. Lloyd was urgently telling him that he should bear to port as his dad appeared to be sailing directly into the path of the only other boat in the vastness of the gulf.

"Dad! You are going to run into that boat!" Lloyd exclaimed.

"Never you mind," said Papa D dismissively.

Lloyd and Leslie watched in horror as the gap between the two crafts narrowed to an uncomfortable margin. As foretold, Papa D crashed their boat into the only other vessel within twenty miles. Their sloop heaved and then listed badly to port. The anchor from the other boat was somehow lodged onto the bow of Papa D's and thus, they found themselves dragged along, unable to right the mast.

And then they heard it. A strident, high pitched keening from below deck.

"MUM!" Lloyd called.

"Mama D!" Papa D lamented.

They all three scrambled down the hatch to find Mama D, pants around her ankles lying on the floor below. Apparently during the crash, she had been pitched off the loo, along with its contents.

She was covered in a thin film of shit.

But her halo and cigarette survived and she was puffing furiously, blowing smoke out of her mouth between four lettered epitaphs.

I believe that Papa D gave up sailing that day for a less demanding pastime, like lion taming.

Motherhood is Overrated

Oh joy. Bliss. Elation. Glee.
This past weekend, I celebrated hitting the twenty twenty pounds lost mark. And I was so very, very happy.

Until I went shopping on Saturday.

With teenage daughter, Olivia and Dylan.

I needed some career clothes now that I'm "wasting away" (according to reader from Huntington Beach, CA) but somehow, I became delusional and wandered into the bathing suit section. My tummy is pretty flat these days so I thought I'd try on a few bikinis. Like I said, D E L U S I O N A L. The dressing room was equipped with a three way mirror and everything was fine until I had a gander at my backside. In that moment, I clearly understood why human beings were never given the flexibility options of an owl. It wasn't pretty. I distinctly remember thinking, "Jesus, where did THAT come from and how the hell did it get so WIDE?"

After recovering from the shock, I refocused my attentions and got back to business. I didn't have another peek at my ass because I am not one of those people who feels compelled to slow down and get a good look at the wreckage on the side of the road. I only need to be horrified once.

Teenage daughter, in all her youthful perkiness, had parked herself in the dressing room beside me. Olivia was in the toy section of the store and Dylan was busy pulling the wings off of stray flies or something like that. He was having himself one of those shithead days which seem to be occurring more frequently of late. Everything out of his mouth is either sarcastic, sullen or angry. Have I told you recently that adolescence sucks? Um, yeah.

Anyway, thirty minutes go by while teenage daughter and I worked our way through a basket full of clothes. Suddenly, Olivia entered the dressing room and pushed her way into my stall. Her eyes were wet with recent tears.

"I have to tell you something," she said and I felt my stomach clench involuntarily. I was thinking that one of two things had happened. She had either pooped her pants (don't ask) or broken something in the store.

I waited and she didn't say anything.

"Why are you crying?" I asked.

"Dylan told me NOT to tell you. He said you'd be mad." Oh, no. Oh, no. OH NO! I had visions of him pushing her into a shelf full of china.

So, I pulled the mother card and told her that she had better spill the beans or I'd punish her. Still, she resisted.

"Did he break something?" I asked.

"No. Worse"

"Did he hit you?"

"No mama. It was worse than that."

At this point, the dressing room is silent except for the conversation happening between me and Olivia. I could actually feel the other mothers in the room holding their breath.

"Livvie baby, what happened, honey?"

She teared up, grabbed my hand and finally confessed.

"He locked me in a cage and I got stuck and I COULDN'T get out and I cried and he couldn't get me out and then some people came over and helped us but mama you can't tell Dylan I told you."

"A...a..cage?" I was confused. "You mean the BIRDCAGE?!!!"

"Yes."

Teenage daughter couldn't hold it one second longer and burst out laughing which started a chain reaction in the dressing room. I quickly scanned Olivia for cuts and bruises and then sat down on the bench trying to figure out how to get out of the store without being seen.

I was THAT mother.

The one that lets her children run WILD in the store so that she can shop. Sympathetic strangers extracted my six year old from a birdcage.

A BIRDCAGE.

So, I did what any woman would do. I pretended that NOTHING weird had happened. I walked out of the dressing room and straight for the check out. I didn't acknowledge my children even though Olivia trailed behind me chanting, "Mama. Mama. MAMA!" I was deaf and determined. I looked straight ahead.

I paid. They bagged. I left.

Once we were safely ensconced in the car and headed home, I allowed myself a giggle. After all, can you imagine the surprise of the kind people who got Olivia out of the cage when they saw she was a one brow wonder?

Oh yes. I'm THAT mother.

Week in Brief

This is day 21 on the HCG diet. I've lost all interest in food.

Yeah, whatevah.

If that were even remotely possible, I wouldn't be in the sorry shape that I am. Knock, knock, knocking on twenty pounds lost. I am totally cheesed with myself for giving in last weekend. Even though it was a little cheat and I only went up half a pound, I didn't lose Saturday, Sunday or Monday. I could have been at twenty today if I'd shown a whisper of restraint. GAH! Ah well, I've been back in the saddle all week and results are good. I'll update you Monday. In the event that I don't hit the goal, I may be cranky and will be forced to blog about something I despise, like the current administration or taxes or young, hefty people riding around in those electric shopping carts at Wal-Mart because they are too lazy to walk.

I was a wedding planning goddess this week. Of course, you know that last weekend was kind of a breakthrough for me and now that I've drunk from the bridezilla goblet, I have become militant in my need to cross items off of the "list". This week I:
-Ordered the wedding favours.
-Ordered a little something something for the brave women who have agreed to stand up there with me
-Reserved the limo BUS. Yes, BUS.
-Got pricing on the flowers.
-Decided on the table centerpieces (did not have to put head between legs and breathe deeply)
-Organized the logistics of the wedding day with a specific timeline.
-Organized rehearsal dinner.
If I was allowed, I'd reward myself with a dark chocolate truffle and a glass of merlot.
*Sigh*

My daughters, all three of them, have been sent from someplace fiery to torment me. Eldest, the one who made me a grandmother, phoned very late one night, repeatedly, until I answered. I don't usually pick up the phone after 9pm because I wear bifocals now and beauty rest is no longer a joke. I answered this time because I'm a grandmother and for goodness sakes, it could concern the baby.

Nope.

It was daughter crying incoherently because her tooth hurt. Apparently a strawberry seed was lodged in the wrong place.

Threats of the emergency room.

Ice pick in the head stuff.

HIGH DRAMA.

And then it passed. I suggested that she might want to get a sitter every now and then and get a full eight hours. Or perhaps a psychiatrist with a liberal prescription pad. Jesus.

Teenage daughter got herself a new boyfriend. He is the same age, clean cut, polite and generally delightful. He's also the lead singer in a death metal band. I'm told this type of music is an acquired taste, like jazz or rap. Hmmm...Since they seem to be spending nearly every waking moment together, the birth control issue is bound to rear it's controversial head again because abstinence is a fairy tale. I dread the conversation but I'm going to take another run at it anyway. So everything is all good. She's babysitting Olivia for the summer. We think that perhaps the boyfriend might be a distraction, though. He comes over most days that he doesn't work and "helps" teenage daughter with Olivia. I'm not sure it's working out so well. Yesterday, I came home to this:

Oh listen, I know she looks peaceful enough. You need to look a little closer.


See it now? She's missing a bloody EYEBROW! Apparently, while teenage daughter was otherwise engaged, Olivia took a pair of scissors to her eyebrow. And this, thirty five days before she is scheduled to pose in about a million wedding pictures. I'll be damned before I DRAW one on. Then she'd likely do the whole Norma Desmond, "All right, Mr DeMille, I'm ready for my close up" thing.
I am praying for a quick regrowth.

And this is why good chocolate and alcohol are part of my vernacular. It's called COPING.

Repressed Road Rage

Wow! There must be something in the water because lately, the roads are full of crappy drivers and I'm like a bloody beacon for the auto-challenged crowd.

Take Mr. Belligerent, for instance. He's the nasty bugger who refuses to let ANYONE merge in bumper to bumper traffic. Instead, he inches his half ton truck (with a lift kit, of course) forward to the next vehicle (because ain't nobody gonna squeeze in on his watch)and in doing so, he manages to BLOCK THE DRIVEWAY OR SIDE STREET from oncoming traffic, as well . So there I sit, while cars pile up behind me, waiting for Mr. Belligerent to move so I can make my left turn. I despise this guy.

And his gun rack.

And his Playboy mud flaps.

And his spit cup.

Then, there is Ms. Woman Driver Stereotype who is texting with one hand, sipping coffee with the other and steering with her knees. There is a virtual circus happening in the back of her car as toddlers swing from the headrests. She is always the one at the front of the traffic line and she rarely responds to the advanced green arrow because she is too busy retrieving her mascara or wet wipes or animal crackers that litter the passenger side floor boards. I NEVER honk. I just don't do it because it is so freaking aggressive and obnoxious. But people behind me do and Ms. Woman Driver Stereotype invariably pulls her eyes up to the rear view mirror, makes contact with my own and FLIPS ME THE BIRD!! Now, I'm not violent by nature but seeing her middle finger raised and pointed in my general direction makes me want to tee her pony-tailed, Chanel sunglass-wearing head up and drive it off the hood of her car.

To give you a little background, I live in a small but quickly growing cowpatch. Urban planning has become an oxymoron. There is someone in charge of the whole thing but let's just say that his elevator isn't going to the top floor. When the major artery to the ONLY mall in our area is reduced to a single lane during rush hour, I imagine him sitting in an office, his tongue between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration as he puts the finishing touches on yet another sign that says, "Smile! Your tax dollars are at work!"

Fuck. Off.

Finally, we have the guilty Catholic driver. If it's one thing that we Catholics know, it's guilt. This one drives at breakneck speed, weaving in and out of traffic apologizing profusely as he comes to a screeching halt with his nose in the crosswalk. He has turned tailgating into an art form. He accelerates and passes you only to pull in front and promptly reduce his speed to something just over a crawl. But, like confession on Saturday mornings, this guy has found a way to redeem himself. He may cross four lanes of traffic to get to the exit ramp with nary a glance in his mirrors but he's the one that gives you the nod and lets you in during the worst of the rush hour craze. Hail Mary full of grace, keep that poor bastard safe.

So, I'm guessing that people in my town, who under normal circumstances would be decent drivers, have lost all ability to be reasonable. Traffic is bad. It's not wretched like that of San Diego or the Dallas Metroplex but it's ugly. It brings out the crazy.

In me.

Just yesterday, I had to physically restrain myself from jamming the gas pedal to the floor and plowing into the vehicle in front of me.

And I'm not even premenstrual.

The Picture of Elephantine Grace

Chris over at Rude Cactus and Aimee of Greeblemonkey fame, (who we have to hate for awhile because she just got back from Hawaii..hiss), have cooked up:

What this means is that we are shamelessly asking you to make yourself known by leaving a comment. Not that we are insecure comment whores or anything but..

I have my steady few that comment all of the time but for some reason, the tens of you that read me prefer to email. I understand perfectly. I'm shy like that, too. Anyway, I'm supposed to give you a specific little something something to comment on and this is usually done via the telling of some horribly embarrassing story. The trouble is that most of those involve situations that I'd hate for my mum to read without first ingesting a pharmaceutical or two. And recently, I've acquired a couple of new readers from New Zealand (hi Mrs. J! Hi Leisa!) who after reading several posts, are probably already very concerned for Dallas. So, after mentally sifting through the debris of my youth, I have landed on a story that wouldn't get anything stronger than a PG rating.

In eighth grade, I was fourteen, athletic and newly interested in all things distinctly girlie. Up to that point, I'd had very little use for boys except as referees for our hockey games. I wore my hair like Dorothy Hamill.

Overnight, everything changed. I discovered Maybelline Great Lash mascara and Lip Smackers. My male friends suddenly became much more interesting. And I bought my first pair of high heeled shoes, which launched a lifetime obsession.

It was announced that there would be a school dance called the "Spring Fling". My father gave me $50 to get an outfit. I spent 12 bucks on the dress and the rest on the most magnificent, 3.5" (9cm), black velvet stilettos. They hurt. I teetered like barfly in them but they made my bum look fabulous because it was constantly flexed in an effort to maintain my balance. LIFELONG OBSESSION. I was the picture of adolescent pseudo-sophistication.

The day of the dance, we had rain and temperatures that were cold, even for April. That night, the rain froze making the concrete steps leading into the school an icy mess. My father suggested that I might be more comfortable wearing my sneakers until I was safely inside the school doors but noooooo, not me. I was Scarlett O'Hara in the damn drapes and I was going to make my grand entrance. Besides, I had practiced for hours getting in and out of the car with my skirt and heels on. I had the side sweep motion down to a science.

And then quite predictably, it all went horribly wrong. I took that first stair and felt the bottom of my foot slide back as I pitched forward. To stop my face from meeting the concrete, I reached out with both hands to the left and grasped the iron railing, twisting violently around, knees splayed, pantyhose ripped and slid on my arse, then tailbone and finally came to rest on the small of my back. I broke one of the heels of my shoes. At that very moment, as I was inelegantly flailing to get up, the boy I had a serious crush on chose that moment to pull up to the curb, exit his parent's car and gaze at me with a mixture of pity and barely controlled laughter. I wanted to die. Instead, I limped back to my Dad's car, got in and begged him to take me home. His shoulders were shaking and every few minutes he let out a little squeak and wiped his eyes. Awful. The worst.

So that's it. Feel free to delurk and share a moment of your own. And hey, thanks for reading.

Another Day After

Is the month almost over? Blogging every day is like having a deadline that never goes away. How do the writers of daily television shows do it? Burnout for them must be worse than air traffic controllers.

...not that I am comparing my pointless drivel to real talent like the Tonight Show staff or anything...
___________________________________________

Today was "Black Friday" and when I got into my car to drive off to the mall, I missed the fact that my HEAD WAS ON FIRE! It's not like the deals were really that great. Oh, I suppose if one got up to be at a store at 4:00 am for the "early bird" specials then who am I judge but I am old enough to remember the Cabbage Patch frenzy and the last place I wanted to be was in a Wal-Mart fighting over a Hanna Montana dress up set with a woman who could eat corn in the cob through a picket fence.

So, I waited until a reasonable time to partake of the shopping lunacy and immediately, I regretted my decision. Between screaming toddlers, Michael Bolton Christmas songs and those god awful Santa Clause animatrons just inside the door of every shop, I'd had enough well before noon. I knew that I would lose it if I laid my eyes on one of Santa's helpers. There is just something terribly disturbing about an elf with a mullet.
___________________________________________

In other news, I think that I may have sold Little Girl today. She wasn't really up for sale but I had someone offer me a reasonable sum and I'm probably going to take it. Strangely enough, I'm feeling sad at the thought of opening the garage door and not seeing the Sporty.

I guess it's true that you never forget your first. Of course, once she goes, there will be an empty spot in the garage......

Telemarketers suck

Last night, I was in bed trying to find a way to make beef stew exciting enough to blog about when the phone rang. It was nearly nine.

I answered and a prerecorded message said, "All credit card holders.....blah, blah, lower your interest rates now...just press nine...blah, blah, blah.....as low as 6.9% just press nine right now....blah, blah,blah, did we mention JUST PRESS NINE."

So, I pressed nine and was directed to another soft, robotic voice which assured me that the next available agent would be happy to take care of all of my needs.

Well shoot. Why didn't you say so? I have a laundry list of needs. Where would said agent like me to begin?

-I need someone to drive my ex husband to Siberia.
-I need liposuction.
-I need the kind of sex that makes you forget your name.
-I need a chef.
-I need more time in the day.
-I need my neighbour to close her west window when she cooks curry.
-I need a pedicure and a manicure.
-I need to read more fiction.
-I need for one of my largest customers to get a personality.

Truthfully, I got just the slightest bit annoyed because it was nearly nine in the evening and I'm receiving a sales call. I am on the national "Do Not Call" list so when an agent finally got on (3.5 minutes later) I was perturbed.

"Are yous holdin' for the low rates?" Oh no. You have got to be kidding me. I shouldn't have been surprised because the call was pretty late but still.

(Clearing of throat and then politely) "Actually, no. I'm on the "Do Not Call" list and I was on hold so I could ask you to remove my number from your logs."

No answer. I listened for some heavy breathing because it may have just been that the agent was thinking. Something told me that creative brain activity might be strenuous for this person. Still no sound.

"Hello? Hellooo?"

Then, there was ringing. The agent must have transferred me to someone who would be able to remove me from their call list.

"If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try your call again. This is a recording."

At some point, she had hung up on me! My caller ID showed no data available and *69 didn't work.

I always felt sorry for telemarketers but that's all done. No more sympathy from this gal. No way. Now, they're all just toe jam.

The Downside of Friday Night

To continue with the horror that was Friday night, we will pick up the story with the arrival of my sober friend.

I distinctly remember hearing my name called and for a brief moment, I thought it was the voice of God. It doesn't seem to matter how much alcohol is consumed because for me, there is always that itsy bitsy corner of the brain which behaves like Ms. Nickelainen, my second grade teacher. She was tall with sharp, pointy features, streaked black hair and halitosis that would strip paint from the walls. Severe in her clothing choice and her mannerisms, she tsk tsked like a hen with Turrettes. I hated her. Strangely, it is her reproachful, nasal voice that barks at me from the cobwebbed crannies of my conscience when I knowingly step outside the boundaries of common sense. By the time my friend got there, she was positively hissing her disapproval.

So I was awestruck, perhaps a little frightened and probably in need of an antipsychotic when I heard an impossibly deep voice call my name. I immediately looked skyward, anticipating an angel or at the very least, a trumpet.

Nothing.

I glanced around, somewhat expecting the fake twin ficus trees at the entrance to burst into flame and then I saw him. My friend was standing over by the bar, with a less than amused expression on his face. Shit. It was as bad as I thought. Ashley wasn't helping things. He was on the dance floor but he still somehow managed to look like he was on a motorcycle equipped with ape hanger handle bars. His arms were raised and as he shuffled to the music, he picked imaginary apples from imaginary trees.

I remember watching my parents dance when I was younger and feeling sorry for them because their moves clearly dated back to a different era. Then, the quiet realization hit me. Even though the roof, the roof, the roof WASN'T on fire, Ash and I were still dancing like it was. Oh dear God. Phones were now equipped with cameras. We needed to be going. Soon.

My friend gave us each a cup of water but it really was too little, too late. And having the attention span of two gnats, we promptly forgot our condition, bummed a cigarette (what was I thinking?!!)and stood there like two idiots. Of course, everything was hysterically funny. Then, we were told that it was time to go.

The ride home was punctuated with several stops. I will not elaborate except to say that I proved the veracity of Newton's Law of Motion. If one takes the action of consuming vast and varied quantities of intoxicants, one can expect the body to respond with an equal and opposite action.

Ashley was asleep in the back and his come to Jesus moment didn't happen until early afternoon on Saturday when his flight was touching down in Buffalo. As the plane was landing, Ashley stood up to make his way to the bathroom. The flight attendants freaked and once they understood the urgency of his situation, they threw napkins and air sick bags in his general direction and told him to buckle in. He was THAT person. You know the one. He was the guy that gets onto a sold out flight with his pores weeping noxious fumes from the night before. He was clammy, fitful and it is very likely that he snored. Loudly. With his mouth wide open. Yes,THAT guy. I am convinced that if he could have held his head up at the baggage claim, he would have seen naked disgust in the eyes of the other passengers. As it was, his father (who picked him up)had to give him several moments of silence. I think that might be South African code for yak.

In any case, Ashley and I talked Saturday afternoon. We were remorseful and subdued. We made a solemn pact that our night on the town would forever be referred to as that-which-must-never-be-spoken-about-again.

Amen.