The Eulogy.

Ed delivered the eulogy. His bright blue eyes peered at the mourners over his reading glasses.



"Everyone here today is asking themselves, 'Why?'



"When I was in college, I had a professor that challenged us to take a glass and fill it with water. Try to hold that glass straight out in front of you for twenty minutes. It's hard, isn't it? Try holding it in front of you for an hour. For a day. It gets harder and harder, and sometimes, it's just impossible to hold it there.



"Now, take that same glass of water and hold it out in front of you for five minutes. When it gets too heavy, put it down. Rest for awhile, then pick it back up. You can hold the glass of water again for five minutes. It's too heavy? Put it down again. You'll find that you can hold that glass of water out in front of you for as long as you want, as long as you put it down when you get too tired. You'll always be able to pick it back up and hold it again.



"It's the same with problems that life hands to you. Don't carry those problems with you all the time. Just put them down when you can't hold them anymore. Pick them up again when you can.



"There isn't a person here today who isn't asking themselves 'why?'. There isn't anyone here who could have said something, done anything, to stop what Brad did Monday morning. But I can tell you, here today, if it gets so bad, if it gets so hard, just put it down the glass for awhile. Pick it up again after you feel strong enough to do so.



"For us who are left behind, you know that life has great sorrows.



"I'll remind you, though, that life also holds great happiness. Do not lose sight of that."



He sighed deeply and said:



"Happiness and good things... well, folks, they just have a way of dropping out of the sky."

Sunday Nights.

On Sunday evenings, fresh out of the bath and in my nightgown, I'd saunter down to the basement and to Dad, who was usually hunched over his drafting table, measuring, drawing lines, writing meticulously on plans, whistling to music on the radio. A cigarette burned in the ashtray and a cup of tepid coffee was at arm's reach. I'd hover next to him and watch him work, hypnotized by his confidence and flair while working on drawings. He bristled with energy.

"You brush your teeth?" he'd ask without looking at me.

"Yeeeesssssss," I'd answer, sometimes lying, sometimes not.

He'd place his pencil on the table, turn to me and say, "Let's see."

I'd pull my lips back over my teeth, a rictus, and Dad would grip my chin firmly. With his thumbnail, he'd scrape my teeth and inspect his thumbnail. "Very good," he'd say, turning back to the drawing board. "Did you finish your homework?"

"Yeeeeessssss," I'd answer, dreading what came next.

He'd stand up and stomp up the stairs to the kitchen. I followed after him, bracing myself for the inspection. He'd sit down at the table and shuffle my papers, looking over my homework. I was always amazed at the speed with which he checked my work, which seemed so hard to me. He would grab a pencil and check the incorrect answers with a big, sharp checkmark that indented paper three pages underneath.

"Do those again," he'd order, and stomp downstairs.

I'd do them again.

Stomp, stomp, stomp. Shuffle, shuffle. "Okay. This looks good, except for the math. See this, this and this-- they're still wrong."

"Daaaaaaaad--"

"Just do it. I'll stay here while you do."

He'd get up from the table, wander into another room or get a glass of water. He'd smoke. He'd pace. Minutes would pass while pressure built in my head, struggling to line up neat columns of numbers, nervous he'd catch me counting on my fingers. He'd stand behind my chair, arms stretched out on either side of my head, his palms pressed to the table. I could hear him breathing loudly through his nose. I was trapped under his blue gaze, adding numbers slowly, uncertainly, my writing shaky and sloppy and the paper bruised with the smeared erasures that had scrubbed the paper thin.

"Okay. That's good," he'd say, "But you need to recopy it. It needs to look neat."

"Daaaaaaaaad--"

"Just do it. I'll stay here while you do."

It's Friday! Time for Limericks!

The Secret Service has given Sarah and Todd Palin "code names" (why are these code names leaked to the press?). Sarah has been given the moniker of "Denali" (the frozen National Park Wilderness in Alaska) and Todd was given the name "Driller".

After reading this news item, The Redhead sent me a limerick that I'm excited to share with you!

An Alaskan fish, moose, and wolf killer

Had five kids with a husband who'd fill her

With his supercharged stuff

(As if four weren't enough)

Who'd have blamed them for naming him "Driller"?

Notes on the RNC

Alrighty! So I was taking notes while watching the Republican National Convention last night. Here they are, along with some random thoughts.


Watching this event is like walking into K-Mart-- yellowish, unflattering lighting, NASCAR references, bad haircuts. Deeeeeeeeeeeeepressing.

CINDY McCAIN

"Cindy Lou"-- angelic music playing prior to her clip. Hm. Her Dad was a Budweiser distributor after WWII. Product placement? I'm so cynical.

Looking at Cindy and having once been on the brink of being an officer's wife myself, I can see that she is a machine. That woman is the PERFECT military wife (hence a perfect political wife). I like her! Can she run for President instead? I would vote for her. Empathic, calm, beautiful, reasonable, sensitive. Cindy gets this Democrat's vote.

Note: there's a guy in the delegate's section filming her with a laptop computer. Bet he goes to the hotel later and beats off on while watching it. Sorry, but there it is.

Question: where's their other East Indian daughter? This makes me worry.

THE CROWD


I'm noticing a lot of twenty-something Young Republicans in the audience. Maybe they should join up and go to Iraq since they're so hot on the perceived necessity of this war.

Lots of bad dancing and white man's overbite during "Footloose", "Danger Zone", and "Rock This Town". I bet Brian Setzer wouldn't be too happy knowing his song was playing at the RNC!


Chant of the convention: "DRILL, BABY, DRILL". Oh boy.

Misspelled sign: "MAVRICK".

Ominous sign: "RAISING McCAIN".

Another sign: "COLLEGE REPUBLICAN'S FOR McCAIN". Phys Ed majors?

Yet another: "PEACE", then website address for John McCain's campaign. Did I miss something?!?

MOVIE SHORT: SARAH PALIN

The voiceover intones, "Mother. Moosehunter. Maverick." I am not kidding.

PROTESTERS

Up in nosebleed, a guy holds a banner that reads "McCAIN VOTES AGAINST VETS". He's heckling McCain during his acceptance speech! Uh oh! He's still there!

Oops. Not anymore.

More hecklers-- a pair of them! Women. Dragged up the stairs and out of XCel. They must have been cheerleaders at one point, because you could hear their voices over the boos of the crowd. Thought: are there lots of hecklers planted in the crowd? I hope so! That would be exciting!

JOHN McCAIN

Observation: all politicians point at their friends before they give speeches.

Senator McCain quoted Thomas Jefferson:

"...that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights..."

-- except immigrants and folks like that who don't deserve life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness in the United States. I wish McCain would quote this Jeffersonian jewel (but he never will!):

"My opinion on the right of expatriation... is not left to the feeble and sophistical investigations of reason, but is impressed on the sense of every man. We do not claim these under the charters of kings or legislators, but under the King of Kings. If He has made it a law in the nature of man to pursue his own happiness, he has left him free in the choice of place as well as mode, and we may safely call on the whole body of English jurists to produce the map on which nature has traced for each individual the geographical line which she forbids him to cross in pursuit of happiness." -- Thomas Jefferson to John Manners, 1817 (emphasis mine, o' course).

McCain on Palin: "I can't wait until I introduce her to Washington." Yeah, I can't either! It's gonna be hilarious.

McCain is opposed to state-run health care systems. Oooooo! Not those! Like those in Australia, England and Sweden? Where it doesn't cost anything to go to a doctor? Where everyone has healthcare? Where you can stay home with your newborn baby for months if you choose and not have to go back to work right away? Where birth control pills are free? Yeah, that's some evil stuff there-- healthcare. For free. Baaaad voodoo, man.

"I'm working for you," said McCain, pointing to the Republicans in front of him. He most certainly will.

Scary.

My Tonstant Weaders know the back story.


For several years now, a rash of idiots have felt perfectly entitled to park in my private parking space when all the "fun" events take place in The Hamlet and public parking is non-existent. Irrelevantly-- apparently-- this parking area in which I park my car is infested with signs reading "Private Parking", "No Parking", "Tow Zone", "No Parking Tow Zone", and finally, "Private Parking Tow Zone No Parking".


The entitled rash of idiots don't care what the signs say. They simply want a convenient parking space for their car so they don't have to walk to additional 100 feet to the fucking music festival, clay festival, restaurant, farmers' market, bar, concert, beer festival, marathon finish line, art festival, holistic festival, or whatever stupid noisy event is going on down the street that's supposed to make The Hamlet's tax base stronger-- oh sure!-- our tax base is stronger but somehow, even though I work for The Hamlet for pennies an hour and have no health care with The Hamlet because I can't afford it, these outliers come here and park in my spot... but I digress!


I used to get even with those interlopers who stupidly parked in my spot:

I would smear thick, smelly cat laxative on the interloper's windshield wipers, door handles and locks, but that got a little dangerous as people who parked in my spot would almost catch me redhanded, hunched over their stupid car, smearing pet laxative on their door handles. I tried towing the offending asshole parkers' cars, but one night the towtruck driver was slipped some money by the outliers, he backed their car off of the tow truck, bade them goodnight. The outliers and I had a verbal altercation wherein they called me a "bitch", and I retorted, "Oh, please. Can't you come up with something better than that? I mean really." They drove off laughing at me, presumably to another private parking space.

So today I came home and someone was parked in my spot. Again.

So I got to use my new tool! It's a cool little gadget thingy that, when placed on the tire's air valve and pressed, allows air to escape from the tire, flattening it. I did this to the outlier's front left tire.

Two hours later, upstairs waiting for Mellie to come and share dinner with me, I looked out my window to see if the outlier had returned to the car. The outlier had not. My car, blocks away, waited for me to put it in its proper place. I fumed. I paced. I mumbled. I bit my thumbnail.

"This is not good enough," I thought to myself, pissed beyond all recognition.

Mellie arrived and I told her to be my lookout. "What are you going to do?" she asked nervously as I grabbed my butcher knife. "Never mind," I said, "Just tell me when someone's coming."

We went down to the outlier's car. Mellie posted herself at the front of the entrance, and I slashed the outlier's driver side and left rear passenger tire.

"Oh my," said Mellie. "Couldn't you have called the tow company?"

"I did. They want the owner of the parking lot to be here to okay the tow. I don't own this parking lot, but I sure as shit pay for the space. That doesn't matter to the tow guy. They aren't going to do anything, so I am."

I turned to Mellie as we walked up The Hovel's stairs. "You know, Mellie," I said quietly, "I'm sick of people fucking with me."

Cheesehead No More.

As you know, Dear Readers, I relish my bad habits.

Once in awhile I will saunter half-heartedly into the Land of Health by swallowing vitamins and various nutritional supplements, stretch languidly with yoga and even allow those super-positive thought thingies into my consciousness.

This never lasts too long.

My much-loved pursuits do require the rapid-fire of brain cells, but are tempered with many hours devoted to sitting on my ass. These pursuits include reading, writing, eating and drinking. Other pursuits I enjoy require a minimum of effort, such as strolling through a gallery or a museum, poking around in a library, perching on a bar stool listening to music, or just sitting on a couch, talking, talking, talking.

To other people. Not to myself.

So keeping this in mind, sports are the dead last thing on my mind (see my post one year ago about MARATHON WEEKEND). However! Recently I've been captivated by the on-going saga in Green Bay:

WILL BRETT FAVRE COME OUT OF RETIREMENT AND PLAY FOR THE PACKERS?

I know!!! Isn't it nuts? This is so completely out of character for me. It is.

The other night at the restaurant, a bunch of waiters were standing around talking about the possibility that Brett might come out of retirement. One guy was saying, "Who cares if he comes out of retirement? Who cares?"

An alien being took over my body and I piped up, "I CARE. I don't even care about sports, or football, or any of it. BUT I CARE ABOUT BRETT FAVRE."

They all turned and stared at me-- me, with my eyes wide, eyebrows up, hand over mouth.

Until I said it, I didn't even know (read: acknowledge) that I'd been visiting Sports Illustrated's site every day for the past week, that I'd open stories about Favre posted on CNN, that I'd been pondering Brett's possible return over my morning coffee, that I'd hoping he'd come out of retirement and KICK SOME ASS AND TAKE SOME NAMES!!! YEAH!!!

So when I voiced my opinion about Brett Favre, it was as odd as shaving my head on a whim or tossing my books out the window of a moving car. I mean, I'd entered a parallel universe. My concern for Brett was part of me, but I didn't know it was part of me!!! And suddenly, there it was, like I'd gotten out of bed and suddenly noticed I'd grown three extra fingers overnight! On my forehead!!!

Today I read with great interest that Brett had been traded to the Jets. Oh, Green Bay. I understand your logic-- "That train has left the station" etc.-- but the Jets are going to have a fantastic year. A fun, glamorous year, filled with anticipation and excitement.

I may subscribe for NFL Extra this year.

Favre? Just one of the coolest guys on the planet.

That is all.

Try Try Again

So I smoked like a madman over the weekend. "Oh, I'm going to miss you, my little friends," I'd say to the ciggy each time I torched up.

Sunday night-- failsafe.

I lit up the last ciggy. "Goodbye! Goodbye!" I said to the ciggy.

I finished it, went inside, showered, flossed and brushed. Soon after falling into bed, I slept deeply, with the clean conscience of a pollyanna do-gooder.

But as Grandma Louise used to say, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

The alarm went off Monday morning, and the fun began!

For two days, I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. My head was a balloon floating above me connected on a fraying string. My arms and hands tingled. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't speak in complete sentences. I was fatigued.

Most of all, I was hungry.

Massive quantities of food disappeared into my yawning maw. On Tuesday for lunch I had a footlong Subway sandwich and A POUND OF CHEEZ-ITS. On a dinner date that night, I polished off a loaf of bread with olive oil, along with a large dish of rigatoni and sauce and a side of grilled chicken. Bags of salted and roasted sunflower seeds were inhaled. Bavarian Creme donuts disappeared down my throat. Bags of nectarines and pints of blueberries were consumed. An entire bag of greens was liberally doused with spices and Paul Newman Italian dressing and sucked into my gut. And on, and on, and on. I began to realize that there wasn't enough food in the world to satisfy me.

In short, I was a slack-jawed, empty-eyed, shivering, starving zombie.

I thought, "This is not working. At. All."

Last night I went off the wagon and am again equipped with my little deadly friends. "We knew you'd come around," they whisper to me from my purse.

I answer, "Ohhhh, the fight has just begun, bitches!"

If At First You Don't Succeed

I went to my doctor for my annual pap schmear.

My doctor is a tiny little Hispanic lady with a heavy accent.

"So... I'm thinking about going back on birth control," I said to her. She outlined several options. "Choo can haf an IUD," she offered.

"Nah, I'm not too keen about having a piece of copper in my body for five years," I answered. "I'm kind of good with the pill."

"Well," she said, her intelligent brown eyes sizing me up,"Choo haf to quit smoking."

"Oh! I know that. God! I'm all for it."

"Jes? Well. If you're 'all for eet', then I'm chur choo won't mind I don't write a script for the pills until choo quit smoking for a month."

I stared at her dumbly. "Are you serious?"

She nodded, her hand on her hips. "Oh, jes. I'm serious."

Uh... "Okay. I'll quit this Monday," I mumbled.

Goddamn doctors wanting me to be healthy and stuff. Shit.

Just Say No!

I downloaded some porn and a nasty virus infected my computer, completely blowing out my operating system.

God was punishing me for my sick and twisted sins.

Whatevs!

So, I took the computer to the shop. Two weeks and an economic stimulus check later, I'm back writing for you, dear readers. I will attempt to post something terribly clever within the next couple of days.

Remember kids-- don't do porn!

Snapshots From The Hamlet II.

"Thank you for calling The Hamlet. This is T-Bone."

A quavery, accusatory male voice said, "Yeah. I need to talk to someone about the fireworks this year. Who can I talk to?"

"Sir, I can try to help you. What's your question?"

His lengthy pause prepared me for the oncoming shitstorm.

"I wanna know where the fireworks are bein' shot off this year."

"They're being shot off from the flats this year, sir."

"So they aren't gonna be shot off the mountain," he stated.

"That's correct," I answered.

"I been goin' up the mountain for thirty-five years now. Can you tell me why they aren't bein' shot off from the mountain this year?"

Breathe. "Sir, they're being shot from the flats this year because we haven't had any significant rain for the last three weeks. It's very dry up there, and they don't want to start a forest fire."

"So! They're being shot off the highway?"

"No. They're not shooting off the fireworks from the highway. It's the last exit into town off the highway."

"So, they're shooting 'em off of the top of the storage facility?"

"Noooooo... they're not doing that, either. There's a big parking-lot sized space there off of the exit. That's where they're shooting them from."

"And who thought up this bright idea?" he said sarcastically.

"Well, I do believe the fire department decided, sir. They're the guys that shoot off the fireworks, and they're the guys that fight the fires if they start. We don't want another Mt. Hamlet fire, like last July."

"Well... that's just... I bet it was the Mayor, wuddint it? He's the one that decided this. He's that same guy that had the police department do a Reverse 911 in case there's a mountain lion wandering around near houses and shit!" he concluded.

The Mayor didn't decide anything like that and I opened my mouth to say so. But first, the caller spat:

"You people. You're so stupid. So fucking stupid! YOU'RE STUPID!!!"

Click.

I sighed and hung up the phone.

Kerri said from her desk, "Another happy citizen?"

"Yeah," I said. "Jesus Christ. All's he has to do is turn his chair a little bit north."

I Am A Cliche.

What's for dinner tonight?

A pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream, which I'm eating with a fork.

It's delicious.

WWJJD

Major applause and warm appreciation to Tracie "Slut Machine" Egan over at Jezebel, who put together this latest Comic Confrontation-- AMY WINEHOUSE VS. JUDGE JUDY.

Something to Avoid When Aunt Flo is Visiting.

Refrain from trying on bikinis at 6:00 p.m. Friday under the cruel, green fluorescent light of Target's fitting room.

I can guarantee that you will see a mottled, pale, saggy and bloated version of your former hot self, then you will wonder what the fuck happened.

Then, you will think of nothing else for the next two hours.

The Whisper 2000.

These days, the Hamlet's Public Works Department is divided into two camps-- those who want changes in the way it is managed and those who manage it, and those who think that it is perfectly fine just the way it is. These factions are antagonistic toward one another, so much so that longtime co-workers no longer speak to one another, except to call each other "asshole" and "motherfucker", etc.

The paranoia level at the Shop is high because of the poisonous partnership between the Boss and the Stump. Boss is highly paranoid in nature, but with the Stump's constant whispering in his ear telling him what people are saying, what people are doing or not doing-- his suspicion, fear and resentment of those he manages grows unchecked.

Boss's nature is what led to his current "administrative leave". He's been gone for a few weeks now, amid accusations of harrassment, disparate treatment and ineffective management. His cozy little relationship with Stump, she of the filthy nails, frizzy hair and feta cheese-covered keyboard, has finally bit him in the ass. Stump is still doing her job, whatever that is. Hence the bad blood between co-workers at the Shop.

Two of the water department guys, Richard and Star, are old-timers in public works. Combined, they have over 50 years' experience slogging through sewage, repairing broken water mains, responding to panicky late-night phone calls from Hamlet residents. They've seen and responded to every imaginable water or poop emergency, and consequently, nothing surprises them. They've worked with Boss for over twenty years and have seen him morph into the bitter, sarcastic man he is today. Their view of Stump? Aw, she's just some girl Boss is screwing, and they perceive her as a malignant harpy.

The other day, Richard and Star were fixing a hydrant outside Hamlet Hall. I went out to visit them on a break.

"How's it going?" I asked.

Star, in his mild way said, "Fine... just the usual stuff. You know."

Richard, armed with a large wrench and tightening a bolt on the hydrant, said, "Yeah, really exciting shit. I think I'm ready for a drink."

"What's going on up there?" I asked, tilting my head in the general direction of the Shop.

Star shook his head slowly, his eyes earnest. "Just more of the same. Everyone's mad at everyone else, people driving out of the parking lot flipping each other off, calling each other names. We just stay in our building and away from all that. No point in participating."

"It's really that bad?" I asked, stunned. Some of these guys have worked together for decades.

"Oh yeah," Richard said, straightening up from his work. "You wouldn't believe it-- it's pretty bad." Star nodded in agreement, looking at the ground, hands in pockets.

Then Richard said, "Still not as bad as that one time, Star-- dontcha think?"

Star laughed. "No kidding. That was really bad."

Richard asked Star, "What was the name of that thing?"

Star squinted up at the sky for a moment and answered, "The Whisper 2000." They chuckled.

I looked at Star, then at Richard. "The Whisper 2000? What the hell is that?"

"It's a microphone that hunters use," said Star. "You point it in the direction of where you think animals are and you listen for their noises."

"You've got to be kidding me! Why were they using the Whisper 2000?"

Richard said, "Oh, you know. Boss would sit in his office and point it over at our building to hear what we were saying. I guess he thought there was a bunch of stuff goin' on over there that he was worried about and wanted to know what was going on." He shook his head.

"Yeah," said Star, "He coulda just asked us. Nothing was going on. Instead he went out and got the Whisper 2000. It was sad."

I Know.

My time is not my own, and I'll resume posting within a week.

Please please PLEASE keep checking back, especially my frequent visitor/reader in New South Wales, whom I fantasize is my husband Russell Crowe.

Oh, come on. I'm working sixty fucking hours a week. Let me have a fantasy life, okay?

Thank you very much.

Ypres 1918

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

- Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army

The Past.

Sometimes living here in The Hamlet is really hard.

Having spent most of my childhood here, my early adulthood, and now that I'm back here as a full-fledged grown-up, it's difficult to dig a hole in the ground, throw memories which I need to forget into a hole, and shovel the dirt back over, bit by bit.

I think of things I shouldn't.

I think of Timmy, who went to college at the Air Force Academy, and who fell in love with me his senior year. Mom says I "underestimated" him, which is true. He was lovely, I know now.

Now he's long, long gone, living in Virginia and married for the last 25 years.

Tonight I opened my cedar chest and found his "cover"-- his hat-- worn on his graduation day from the Academy. "He needs this," I thought, "So his kids will have it one day." Inside was a tag indicating his hat size (ridiculously large) and written inside, in his hand, "Tim G.- (serial number, class)".

On that day in June, 27 years ago, Academy Superintendent General Tallman announced, "Gentlemen, you are dismissed." Timmy, along with his 1000+ classmates, threw their parade hats in the air and hugged each other, cheering and yelling, celebrating their completion of four years of intensive study and incredible pressure.

I was sitting at the top of the stadium with Timmy's parents. I broke away from them and ran down onto the football field, intent on grabbing Timmy's cover. Miraculously, I found it. I ran to Timmy, kissed and hugged him as his parents joined us.

There, someone snapped a picture with my camera. In the picture, Timmy's smiling and his proud parents flank us. We are all grinning. His cover perches rakishly on his thick red-blonde hair, his smile wide, white; his parade gloves removed and crumpled in his hand. I clutch his arm, smiling madly, wearing blue and white for the occasion. In the background, people look upwards with their mouths open, gaping at the Thunderbirds as they fly in formation over the stadium.

Tonight, I stared at Timmy's cover in the cedar chest. The smell of old perfume lifts up to my nostrils. I take the cover out, still in its delivery box. Inside, the cover is wrapped in a plastic bag of a clothing store long out of business.

"This is going to Virginia," I decide.

I go to my box of pictures and find the photo of Timmy, me and his parents that day. I find a card and write, "Darling Timmy, I thought it was time you had your cover back. Yours, T-Bone", put the picture in the envelope with the card, place it carefully on top of Timmy's cover.

I'll mail it tomorrow. He should have it in a week.

He would never call and ask, but IF HE DID, how could I possibly explain the last quarter century? How could I explain that despite all the things we wanted together, I never had children, never married? How could he understand how time just flew by, and suddenly, I was here alone, thinking of the past-- seeing an old hat and suddenly an old movie unwound my head? How could I explain to him-- who probably doesn't even remember that day-- how strongly this memory glows in my mind? How could I explain, and how can I explain to myself, how amazing to me it is that he's lived ten lifetimes since then and I'm still here-- two miles from the house I grew up in, the house he knew then-- so, so long ago?

Deal Breakers

For me to date a man, he must meet certain standards. I want to have a package rather than a project.

As a young lady, my list of standards was terribly unrealistic and ridiculously long. Nowadays my list is shorter; some would argue that it is still unrealistic.


Frankly, I don't care if the list is perceived as unrealistic. I don't ask for a lot from the guys I date. The guy's alternative qualities can often replace those on the list.

For example, I'd prefer that the guy I date is tall-- only because I am tall. Sometimes, though, if I meet a guy who is eye-to-eye or shorter and he's also intelligent or funny or wise or smells good, I'll toss out the "tall" requirement. Same thing for "well-educated". I'd certainly like it if the guy has an advanced degree, but if he's a high-school dropout and happens to also have a lust for books like I do, is curious about the world around him and isn't a mouth-breathing eedjit, I'll cross "well-educated" off the list. It's a weighing of qualities, you see.

There are things, though, that are deal-breakers. This is a short list, but it is carved in stone.


If you've been reading this blog for awhile, you know I have a "thing" for feet. It's not a fetish; it's a "thing".

By their very nature, feet are gross. Feet have a way of going wild without one noticing. If one doesn't wash one's feet properly they're gonna stink like corn chips or-- at the very worst-- nasty cheese. Toenails start getting funky as one ages and one must fight that. Thick toenails? Run a file over the top of them. Stained? Lots of products to take care of that problem. Fungus-y nails? Drugs, man! Dirty toenails? Grab a small, sharp implement and clean under the nail. Just take care of your feet, for God's sake.

Pretty simple.


Unfortunately, there are people out there who think no one notices their feet. They let dirt build up under the toenails and around the cuticles. They have patches of thick, yellow flakes on their heels. Most sickening of all-- they don't clip their toenails. They let their toenails grow unimpeded. Lupine. Curved. Ridged. Yellowish-orange with age.

Pardon me. I'm running to the ladies' to have a puke. Be right back.

So anyway, I was at The Hovel with a new friend. He asked if he could take off his shoes. "Of course," I said, pleased he'd feel so comfortable in my house to ask such a thing. He took off his shoes and socks and sat down next to me, his legs stretched out in front of us.

Reader, I nearly shit my pants.

"Uh, your toenails are really long," I mumbled.


"Yeah, they are. I guess they need to be clipped, huh?" he answered.


"Do your feet hurt when you have your shoes on?" I asked, honestly curious. I couldn't imagine stuffing those Raptor-like claws inside an unforgiving shoe.


"Nooo... they really don't," he said innocently, completely missing my facial expression, which I'm pretty darned sure registered complete repulsion.


Deal breaker.


For days following this episode, I ruminated about this guy. I thought and thought and thought about him. I listed his good qualities. I listed his bad qualities. The recall of his disgusting toenails always tipped the scale over to RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY! I could not work through the toenails.


This disturbed me. Am I really this shallow? Am I such a horrible person that I won't date someone because his toenails make me want to barf?


So I talked to Rebecca.

"I have a question for you, Becca."


"Okay. What is it?" I told her about the toenails. I told her all the other aspects of this guy too-- good, bad, indifferent. I said, "Why am I voting this guy off my island? Is it really his toenails? What on earth is wrong with me?"

She rolled her eyes upward and put her finger on her chin. After a moment, she said, "Tell me about his grooming otherwise."

"Well, he's fine. He shaves, he flosses, he combs his hair-- he cares about how he looks," I said.

"What are his fingernails like?" she said.


Hm! I thought. "This is really weird, but I actually noticed his fingernails. And that's not something I usually notice, either. But his fingernails are so nice, I couldn't help but notice them. He files them, and they're actually buffed," I said, more confused than ever.

Becca said, "Innnnnnteressssssting. And everyone can see his fingernails, right?"

"You're right. Oh my God! And no one can see his toenails," I breathed, all Watson-y to her Holmes.

Other things about this guy ran through my mind-- primarily several shady items he explained away, with which I was having difficulty. He only takes good care of the stuff people can see, I thought to myself. The stuff that he thinks no one can see are the things he lets go, even though these things should be taken care of too.

"Becca, thanks. I really needed that."


"No problem. So you gonna see him again?"

"I don't think so. The foot thing is a deal-breaker for me."

"Yeah," said Becca, "We all have our little yardsticks, don't we?"

Snapshots From The Hamlet.

A disheveled, angry man came into the office. His eyes were blazing. In a tense, controlled voice he asked, "There's a plaque across the street in the park. There's a name of a family on that plaque that donated the land in the park to The Hamlet. Is their name pronounced 'Karr' or 'Kerr'"?

"Sir, I'm not sure. Maybe--"

"Do you keep genealogical information in this office? Like birth records, death records?"

"No, sir, we don't. Maybe if you--"

"So is it 'Karr' or is it 'Kerr'? Which is it?"

"Sir, that land has been a park for a long time, before World War I. I'm not even certain I've seen the plaque--"

"'Karr' or 'Kerr'. 'Karr' or 'Kerr'?! Which is it?"

"Maybe if you went to the library, they'll have information--"

"That isn't what I asked you. DO YOU KNOW. THE PRONOUNCIATION. OF THE NAME."

I stared at him and said, "No."

"Thank you. That's all I needed to know." He turned and walked out of the office.

******

I was transcribing a tape of a recent planning commission meeting. The subject of the meeting was a proposed therapeutic riding center that would be opened in a residential area of The Hamlet. Approximately 80 residents of The Hamlet attended the meeting, most of whom against the proposal, as they felt the stable would contribute to rodent and insect infestations, manure would pollute the groundwater, and traffic on the small road leading to the stable would increase exponentially.

After opening comments and presentations, the public was invited to share their concerns about the facility. One woman came forward and proceeded to share that she was batshit crazy.

"The horseflies!" she screeched into the microphone. "They are going to eat my face!"

******

"Good morning, The Hamlet. This is T-Bone."

"Hello, T-Bone. This is Judy up on Long Street. I was just calling to let you know so you can warn some of the personnel at the fire department and at public works that there is a big mountain lion up here."

"Really. Was he in your yard?"

"Yes. He scared me! He was walking around outside in my yard and looking in the living room windows at my cats! He just sat there and stared at them."

I chuckled. "Yeah, I bet he did!"

"And he's huge. I bet he weighs 150 pounds. He was just walking around, then he started looking in my windows."

"Did you call the Division of Wildlife?"

"Yes. I called them and they sent a lady out. The lion had already left and gone across the street to the creek, but she tracked him. I guess he has an injured left back paw."

"Oh. That's not good. I'm really glad you called to tell us," I said, envisioning the mountain lion attacking an unsuspecting public works guy cleaning out a storm drain or something. "So you haven't seen him since?"

"No. But I do think it's the same lion from last summer. He sat on the roof of my neighbor's house trying to figure out a way to get this raccoon that was sitting way up high in a pine tree in their yard. It was so scary! That lion sat on their roof for over an hour, and that poor little raccoon-- well. Finally the lion just leapt off the roof to the pine tree, got the raccoon in its mouth, and landed on the ground and took off. He took the whole top of the pine tree with him. I watched the whole thing from my kitchen window."

Relief.

Today I began my "new" job at the Hamlet's City Hall.

That's right-- no more dust, no more dirt, no more feta cheese-covered keyboards.

Instead, I was greeted with a lovely vase of daffodils on my desk, a funny card bidding me welcome, warm smiles, sincere thank you's, positive words and pats on the back.

In my new office, the carpet is vacuumed. The trashcan is emptied. There are no disgusting unisex bathrooms with urinals and deodorant cakes.

I am thankful. I am relieved. I am grateful!