Feminism, 40 years later

Ah, the modern day and age. A time when a woman can run a major corporation, raise a family, play competitive sports, even be a viable candidate for President. A time when a woman can compete on “The Bachelor,” where the culture icon is Paris Hilton and there are no real movie roles for women over 40—unless they want to play a mother.

Why is it that every main depiction of women these days is so stereotypical? It’s the hot wife and the fat husband, the diva, the ugly girl who blossoms into a sexpot. The only options for women in the media are being attractive (i.e., appealing to men) or being a bitch. Even the mean girls are vapid.

For that matter, think of how women are considered overall. The Madonna, the Whore, the Bitch, the Child. We have so many buzzwords that have nothing to do with the reality and the complexity of life. (I realize that men have just as many stereotypes to content with. This rant is woman-specific.)

In this time, when there is so much potential, why do we get put into these pat niches? Because we do it to ourselves. You know how you become equal? How you finally get to the top? Stop comparing yourself. Stop pretending that it’s us versus them. That attitude creates an issue. We validate the inequality every single time that we compare. Being equal doesn’t mean finally being just like a man. It means reaching your potential.

I’ve heard women say they want to vote for Clinton solely because she is a woman. That kind of attitude diminishes us. It means that we don’t think she’s better, but we want her to win because of gender. It’s softly saying that we don’t believe a woman can earn it, so we’ll vote for the first possible option. If you agree with what she says, vote away. But don’t you dare do it because she has a vagina. That’s as wrong as voting for McCain because he’s a man.

I’m sick and tired of women whining about how they’re being held down by men. About how men call other men assertive and call women bitches. There are two answers to that. First of all, pot, meet kettle. Women are terrible about undercutting other women. Second of all…maybe stop being a bitch. Half of the ladies who complain about this double standard aren’t aware of the difference. Rather than understanding confidence is power, they put on a show of tyranny. If you actually are a bitch, you deserve the title. Have some accountability!

It's just so easy for us to blame someone, to have a scapegoat. As long as we can blame men, or someone else, it isn't our fault. Every single thing that we do is our own choice. Maybe one time in 10 we are held back due to gender. Screaming, "take me seriously!" won't fix that. We complain that we have to be the best to get ahead, rather than good enough. Why on earth would "good enough" be our choice? We had better damn well want to be the best. Anything less and we don't deserve to call ourselves people...much less equals.

Domo Arigato, Mr Computo

I got to work early yesterday and had a lunch meeting, so I left early, intending to spend some quality time at home in the afternoon. When I arrived, I flipped open my computer to check my email. I had no Internet connection. No connection! A bead of sweat trickled down my brow. Now I had to check my email. There might be a crucially important message! With trembling hands, I flipped the toggle to attempt to catch a wireless signal from a neighbor. I found a signal, but it wouldn’t connect. (my condo community has standard internet for all occupants, so I guess it was all down)

I began to panic. I couldn’t reach the world. My condo was an island, segregated from the larger community. Thinking there might be a problem with my computer, I called DP and asked him to bring mine from work. While waiting for him, I obsessively hit the little “firefox” icon, hoping for good news. When he brought my little black plastic bundle of joy, I snatched it from his hands and tried to get online.

No luck. I almost cried. About a half hour later, another friend called, suggesting a hotel for an up coming trip to Orlando. I rushed to my computer to look it up, hands dropping when I got there. Shortly thereafter, I turned on the television, and again turned to my computer to see what was on.

We don’t realize how often we access the Internet daily. We all know that it’s revolutionized the office and changed our home lives. However, it’s also become a pretty strong addiction. Think of how much of your life relies on the Internet. We all know we have other options. I could buy a tv guide, I could check the paper for opening movies. I could call a travel agent for hotels. Even more simply, I could wait until work tomorrow to check half of these things.

In this day and age, we become accustomed to having knowledge instantly. If I hear someone mention a geoduck on Top Chef, I can immediately Google it. Heck, I can figure out the appropriate spelling of geoduck. If I'm mid-blog and I want a decent thesaurus (not the auto Word one, but a real one) I look it up online immediately. I can't even use my usual venue to whine about things, Google-chat.

Obviously, I regained my internet...but I remain traumatized.

Shut up, Dunkin Donuts

"My mouth can't form these words. My mind can't find these words. Is it French or is it Italian? Perhaps Fritalian."

Those of you who watch as much television as I do have probably heard these lyrics multiple times. Dunkin Donuts, in an attempt to branch out from the hungry-cop consumer base it currently occupies, is attempting to move to specialty drinks. They apparently offer whatever snobby drink you want...without the "crazy" sizes.

First of all, a little Starbucks history. The drinks were originally "Short," "Tall," "Grande" and "Venti." Before the super-sizing of America, venti was a relatively rare drink order. Short and tall make sense, grande isn't exactly a complicated foreign word. And venti, you ask? Italian for twenty...like 20 oz, which is the drink size. It's not an indecipherable code.

In the ads, prior to the little jingle, a woman offers a 20 oz cup and calls it a "dieci." When DP first saw the ad, he yelled at the tv "That's 10! You aren't making sense!"

Dunkin Donuts is attempting to cut in on an incredibly successful product line. They seem to be doing that by insulting the customers. What, your drink is intricate and pretentious but you are too good to use a different sizing convention? Part of the "Starbucks" experience is getting your special drink. Using different drink sizes creates originality.

It's not a secret that Starbucks and I have been going steady for about 14 years. I bought a condo within walking distance, I've been to S-bux across America and out of it, I even have a menu on my kitchen wall. I have dated 3 baristas. However, I also live within walking distance of a Dunkin Donuts and I really like donuts. If I could combine delicious coffee and a jelly donut, I might not ever leave the store.

Now? I'm not even going to try the drinks because I don't believe in supporting crappy advertising. Shut up, Dunkin Donuts. You aren't better than I am.

Versus

We seem to need rivals. No matter what we practice, from college to politics, we have rivalries. Not only do we compete against others, but we villanize them. I like to think that this only exists in it's extremes, like politics or religion. Not that it's appropriate in these realms, but it's understandable as people have such different beliefs. However, we also hate the Sun Devils, or the Bulldogs. People earn our antipathy by simply living 100 miles north of us.

It seems obvious, but aren't we all the same? In fact, isn't the tenant of so many of these issues our equality? We all are children of _____ deity, we were all created equal. If we believe in these issues so fervently, shouldn't we remember what it is that we're believing in?

Listening to the current political discussions has reminded me of this fact. People claim that they will vote democrat no matter what. No matter the democrat. They say that McCain has "betrayed" the republican party. Our affiliations take precedence over common sense. The label someone represents seems to be more important than what they stand for.

I wonder if this is a leftover remnant of the feudal system. We want to feel part of a small, select group. We ally ourselves with the lord of our choice--a God, a team, a nominee. We defend those things, sometimes to the death. You may think that I'm being extreme, but think of all the riots between football teams, think of the fights that break out. The things we choose to hate.

And, for being a die-hard vassal, we get our little fiefdoms. We get the opportunity to get seats first, we get to be the nominee next time, we go to heaven. What we don't get is progress or evolution. If change or the "other" is anathema, will things ever get better?

Mermaid vs Sea Cow

A Window to Lunacy ep.1

I was talking to a male friend today, who commented on his love for the one-piece swimsuit. He stated, innocently, that he guessed most women don’t find them flattering so they don’t wear them. Let me say this again…he believed that women choose to wear bikinis because they find them more flattering than one-pieces. The following is a segment that I like to call: “A Window to Lunacy.”

We aren’t that dumb. Maybe some percentage of the population (the percentage with rock-hard abs) loves how flattering two-piece swimsuits are. Most of us realize that something that’s slimming and has slightly more material is vastly superior to something that showcases all of our flaws.

The fashion industry disagrees with us. Unless you are 12 years old, a lifeguard or a grandmother, one-piece swimwear is practically forbidden. We’re all expected to try to find 2 scraps of fabric that somehow don’t make us look lumpy, or bony or somehow extra jiggley. Imagine if they only made old-man swimsuits or Speedos…and pretty much everyone on the beach wore Speedos. In fact, even if you wanted to rebel and wear and old man suit…you couldn’t find one.

So, we all scamper into the fitting room, with about 30 swimsuits. We start trying them on. One of the first five is usually a size small or ill-fitting in some way. Due to that one suit, we have a miniature crisis and decide that we look horrible in all the swimsuits.

We look at the suits with little sarongs or some kind of tank top. They’re so tempting, a lovely obscuration of our slightly less perfect zones. Then we think…won’t it be obvious that we’re trying to hide our huge thighs? Everyone will look to see what we’re hiding. Maybe we’d be better off without it?

Finally, at some point, it has to be functional in the water. It can’t turn transparent, or show too much. It has to be tight enough that it doesn’t suddenly leave you topless but loose enough that you don’t have fat rolls.

We’d be much happier in a one-piece, say, with boyshorts. However, right now, that’s hard to achieve. And if you do manage to find the combo, people (other girls) assume that you’re either out of date or insecure.

Swimsuits are traumatic. Designers, it'd be super-cool if you guys could whip up some young-looking and flattering suits that are composed from more than a square foot of fabric. It would be even cooler if some of them weren't bikinis. Guys...like I said before, we aren't dumb. Crazy, yes. Dumb, no. We make the best of what we've got.

"That is heresy!"
"That is the truth."

I am often confused by modern-day Christians. It seems like most religious organizations have determined that they are at war with science. We are in a final crusade, folks. But rather than attacking Muslims, the church is attacking Thought. (well, and sometimes Muslims too)

Scientists rarely seem to have any problems with religion. Evolution doesn't mean that there is no God. Life on other planets doesn't negate a higher power. Questioning things doesn't kill faith. In fact, many scientists will agree that evolution and the creation story show many similarities. Questioning usually means that--once you find an answer--you are sure of it.

Perhaps this is because I reside firmly in the buckle of the bible belt but it seems like so many Christians believe that the bible is literal. Evolution is a lie because there isn't a talking snake involved. I think anyone will agree that there was a point where people and apes differentiated, and "humanity" began. Not a falling from grace, but certainly the creation of the new. What is grace worth anyway, without choice?

More insidiously, rather than following the behavior of Christ, most of the southern Christians seem to have gotten themselves confused with Him. Their personal prejudices, their weaknesses, their need for power. So, they attack people who are different or people who theoretically endanger their power. Thus, the attack on science. Because science teaches us to think and these people want us to obey.

As many of you know, I've loved Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series for many years. The recent release of the movie adaptation of book 1, The Golden Compass (or Northern Lights in the UK) is highlighting this religion vs thought battle. The Catholic League has called a boycott of the movie. Other religious organizations are in an uproar over it. In fact, much of the anti-religion sentiment has been removed from the film version--to avoid too much controversy. (For those of you who haven't read the series, book 1 is rather innocuous. I have no idea how they plan to have a movie version of book 3 if they leave religion out of it.)

Stupid as it is, this boycott is proving the truth in the statements from the book (the irony will be lost on the movie-fans--as they won't get to see the movie as it should have been). One of the main sentiments in the Dark Materials trilogy is that free will and thought are crucially important. It also says that religion attempts to keep us from thinking.

I would love to argue, to say that to be religious you should think, in fact, that you have the responsibility to think. However, isn't proof of the theory Pullman suggests found in the church's ban on a movie that might invoke thought?

Which raises the question--do they want to ban the movie because it's false...or because it's true?

I have read this series many times. If someone did not actually think about the content, and just read the words, this book would appear anti-God. The truth of the matter is different. The series is strongly against the misuse of power. The final defeat isn't over the power of good, it's over something that masquerades as good. It isn't about defeating God, it's about defeating an impostor. Perhaps it is a danger to modern religion, then. All those people who get themselves confused with an infallible power.

I just know that it's a story about people making the right choices. They don't do so because they are afraid of going to hell. They do it because it's right. It seems like that's the most important thing you could teach any child--no matter what religion.

There are many reasons, most of them embarrassing, why I love America's Next Top Model. The best reason to watch this show is quotes like the ones listed below.

“Being flirty and sexy and controlling your body, it’s all so hard”

“Do you know how to slide down a wall?”

“Did you apply sliding down the wall to sliding down the pole?”

Let Down Your Walls

I've been told by a large number of guys that one of the hottest things ever is seeing a girl be vulnerable. They're lying.

I'll be fair. They don't know that they're lying. It's just that the translation of "vulnerable," to a man means "periodically needing my support." And I'm not harshing on the fellas here. It's perfectly understandable to find someone who wants or needs you attractive.

The thing is, when a girl hears that vulnerability is a good trait, she usually translates that as "be yourself and it's fine to let some of that crazy out." Because guys, we keep a lot of crazy behind lock and key. Even the coolest gals have an inner maniac, just waiting to flip out over the old t-shirt your ex left at your place a year ago. So, when we hear that it's ok to be vulnerable we decide to release just a little of the crazy. A venting of the crazy, if you will.

In a test run, a girl might send her guy a text that says she misses him. Usually "I miss you" is like a pre-"I love you." You don't toss it out if you don't think you'll get it back. But, since vulnerability is hot, she decides to go for it. If the response is unsuitable, she becomes upset and (because it's attractive to be vulnerable) she actually expresses that sadness.

The guy is confused, because his formerly independent and cool girl is reacting strongly about a stupid text message. He doesn't understand that he unknowingly gave the green light for this. What he thought would be pretty tears and an easy consolation became insecurity and raw nerves.

So guys, when you praise vulnerability, keep this in mind. Your meaning doesn't translate directly to female language. And gals, remember when he says that he wants your wall down, he doesn't really mean it. In truth, he'd just like a door cut in the wall. Sometimes you can let him in, but you can lock the door when the crazy is threatening to escape.

Reality Television

An interesting interview with the girl from Yale who was on America's Next Top Model.

Or

Killer Heels

I Don't Want to Hold Your Hand

I have a long history of being hit on by "Flies." My friend Skippy coined this term in high school, and I've always found it appropriate. Flies are rather like they sound, they usually circle around creepily until they decide it's appropriate to land. Pesky as their namesake, human flies are difficult to get rid of, have bug eyes and have no idea when they aren't wanted. Also, like real flies, they have no discrimination upon who they land. A fly will pester any female--from the hottest model to the plainest nerd. However, though they usually show no descrimination, it's a guarantee that if there is a fly in the room--he will decide to land on me.

Today, I entered the costume shop at the local mall. I wasn't sure what exactly I wanted, but I knew immediately that I didn't want the salesman. The feeling was not mutual. He immediately swooped down upon me and complimented my glasses while breathing heavily. I nodded politely and attempted to walk past him. He scampered along behind me and asked if I knew what I wanted to be. At my response of "No," he suggested that I check out the "Sexy collection." To those of you who aren't familiar with female Halloween costumes, that's code for "what you wear for role playing sex-capades." I'm just not comfortable doing a public showing. I politely said no to that as well and he steered me to--as he called it--the "spooky section."

Now, I've been to the store before. I know the spooky section and he actually lead me to the sexy section, hoping I wouldn't realize. I thanked him and looked at the costumes, hoping to find something interesting. Or at least to show enough attention to the display that he would go away.

No luck. He was still there, staring at me. I gave him a tight smile. He asked me (with a rather lecherous grin for someone so young) what school I attended in the area. Not only do I dislike being taken for a student, I especially dislike it from someone I plan to give a commission to.

"I'm an engineer." I replied.

"Oh, so you want to be an engineer?" he said, nodding sagely.

"No. I actually am an engineer."

"Oh." He looked surprised.

I looked back to the shelves and he continued talking until I looked over, brightly thanked him for his help and said that I just needed to peruse the costumes right now. This finally got rid of him, leaving me free to cruise the store and find something better. I realized there was nothing better when I ran into him again and he followed me about some more. He asked if I found anything. I said that I hadn't. Then he asked for my name, holding his hand out. I told him, and he introduced himself as "Chad." Then he shook my hand, attempting to hold on a bit too long. Oh, Chad.

I took that as my cue to leave the store.

Spite your Face

"All of us have infinite potential but most of us are self-sabotaging."
-Mark Victor Hansen

I've been around a lot of people who, when met with a great opportunity, immediately sabotage it. People enter a fantastic job, and then--afraid of what they might achieve or encounter--they undermine themselves, slack around and search online for other jobs. People enter a relationship with lots of potential and they obsess over their past baggage, look for others on the side or try to force their lover to be the villain...so they can feel good about themselves.

Some people want to be the bad guy or think that they aren't worthy. They grow comfortable with it and it makes life easier for them. It's just another coping method. And, like all other coping methods, it stagnates you. You won't ever be happy if you diligently work to keep yourself upset.

Quite often, the self sabotaging people are martyrs. They enjoy being victims and arrange their lives so that they will be always used. If they are in a healthier situation--they try to give and push until they can be a martyr again.

Other times, people twist the martyrdom. They almost enjoy brooding over the fact that they always hurt others or always fail. Rather than having themselves up on a pedestal as a giving, unappreciated saint--they choose to live in a pit of their own angst. It's emo syndrome. If someone embraces their poor tortured soul and then has the opportunity to be happy, that person might spit in the face of opportunity because it's different. Because they don't deserve that happiness. And in thinking that they don't deserve to be happy (because of whatever) they make martyrs of themselves.

I've posted before about martyrs but don't think that this is rehashing. This is discussing something that they do, not what they are. I'm sick and tired of people refusing to take opportunity when it's presented to them because it doesn't fit into their current world view.

So, to those of us out there who self-sabotage (and we all have at some point), I say this: Look for a promotion, appreciate your significant other for who he is--not who he was or who you used to have, go back to school, and let someone compliment your weight loss. Open your eyes and see the world you live in and where it stands right now. Realize how lucky you are. There isn't an infinite amount of happiness in the world, nor an infinite amount of opportunity. Appreciate what you have. And figure the hell out what you want.

Alpha Dog

Those of you who know me, know that I like to compare people I know to animals. Half of this is due to an enthusiastic admiration of Pullman's "His Dark Materials" series. I like to figure out what someone's daemon would be. The other half is because it's hilarious to observe the dominance struggles that ensue around the workplace.

You get a group of people together and they vie for the spot of alpha dog. I think it's inherent in human nature to try to be the best. It's our method to attract the strongest mates and to work our way to a successful career.

This is more outwardly apparent in men, who have to one up each other from the handshake on. They tell competing stories about their expertise, argue about minutia just to establish "rightness" and sometimes resort to actual physical displays of "prowess."

This fight for supremacy is less obvious in women but it still exists. We do it with everything from our shoes, aggressive haircuts and manicures--to the way that we present a report. Our battles are more subtle but can be just as serious.

When you consider history, it's obvious how this came about. The guys got to battle for dominance the obvious way. They could just have a duel. Women had to play the piano fancier or have prettier hair. Social manipulation was the female arena. Differences aside, it all goes down to the same purpose--the alphas have control of everything.

So, when I determine what animals people would be, I consider whether they are naturally predator or prey. If he is a predator, is he dominant or subordinate? I was in a meeting today with several people I've categorized. Eight of the nine people in the room were either predator or "other." ("Other" animals are hunted and hunt) One person was prey. I like him quite a bit and I've always gotten along with him but he tends to present a more vulnerable aspect than many other people in my group.

A predatory person could give the exact same presentation that this man did and it would go unquestioned. This man isn't as confident or dominant and is constantly challenged. Like a pack of hyenas, the aggression of the group focuses on him. They aren't doing this to be mean and he doesn't mind the group dynamic. It just seems to be the natural pattern that both sides fall into.

By the time you've reached a certain age, you tend to settle in whatever role you have chosen for yourself. Sometimes it's difficult to put a person and their animal nature together. Other times it's immediately obvious (one example is when a larger co-worker settled his back against a pillar and used it to scratch his back like a bear with a tree trunk).

I'm not making a call as to which is better (or which I consider myself). There are far more submissives than dominants and far more prey than predators. The world needs both types to get anything done effectively. Not everyone can be top dog.

Still, it's funny to watch them try to be.

Quite Grope-y

I realize that I haven't posted in over a month. That doesn't mean that nothing interesting has happened...it just means that nothing has happened that would interest anyone who isn't myself. There was even something resembling a public outcry, for which I thank you. I still don't have anything to write about, however. I had planned to write a post on diction. I know, I know...sometimes I excite even myself. There still might be something there, but I can't think of a way to word it that isn't preachy or just boring.

And so, the rubbage bin of paragraphs commences.

This evening, I was talking to CB on the phone. We got to talking about cats...as you do. One thing lead to another and I found myself conducting an image search via Google. I scrolled through galleries of Bengal, Siamese and Abyssinian cats before realizing that I'd crossed a line.

"I'm worse than the crazy cat lady," I told CB.

"No, you aren't that bad until the ratio of human to cat is in favor of cat," she replied (or something to that effect...I'm awful at direct quotes but I get the gist of things)

"This is worse," I insisted, "It's not even a real cat! I'm sitting at home, alone, Googling cats. This is like...kitty porn."

She laughed and said "That's even worse than your sex mirror."

Which nicely segues into the story of the sex mirror. Recently, I grew tired of the fact that--barring contortion--there was no way for me to see my feet and my face in the mirror at the same time. Sometimes, you want to know that your camel-colored strappy heels coordinate with your eye shadow. Or, you want to see how your shoes make your butt look without climbing on a chair.

I went to the store and purchased a large mirror that leans against the wall. It's roughly 7 feet tall, surrounded by a thick, black wooden frame. Super sleek. With growing excitement, I waited for the delivery. About an hour before I went to the airport for a trip, I received a phone call. My mirror was ready. As the delivery men maneuvered it up the stairs, I felt a pang of worry. It was bigger than I remembered. I skittered into my bedroom (where the mirror was going) and looked at the space I had cleared.

It was not at all big enough for the mirror. There was only one place where the mirror would fit--roughly a foot from the side of my bed. I grimaced at the space...willing it to expand. No such luck. Resigned, I walked out and directed the movers towards the bedroom. They shoved the mirror in beside the bed. Leaning it against the wall placed it even closer to the edge of my bed. The bed was perfectly reflected on the giant surface. It appeared that I had purchased a huge sex-mirror.

The movers cast several glances at me. They cast several approving glances at DP. I bit my tongue to keep from over-explaining. Later, I moved my furniture around so the room looked marginally less tawdry. I hung the mirror on the ceiling. Judge me now, moving men!

"Ooooo, gummy worm!" CB exclaimed over the phone.

I stopped thinking about the mirror and the kitty porn. "Gummy worm?"

She said, "Aaaack!"

Her husband had tenderly offered her a gummy worm. As she approached him, he dangled the worm...and then grabbed her boob. "Quite grope-y," she said.

It was the perfect bait and switch. Yes...the pun was intended. Also, shut up, it's not the lowest form of humor.


Your mom is the lowest form of humor.

Come Sail Away With Me

This weekend is the first regatta I’ve sailed in months. Sailing is one of those hobbies where I kind of forget about it when it’s not around (in fact, when it’s not around I wonder if I ever really liked it). Then, I get called about a regatta and I agree to go. I’m reminded why I enjoy this sport.

Today, I woke up early. This is one of the reasons that sailing is questionable. I’m not an “early morning” sort of girl. A friend arrived for our carpool (1 hr) to the yacht club hosting. About halfway there, I got a call from my skipper saying that his boat was broken and they were going home. My driving friend very kindly turned around and drove me home. I was kind of disappointed, but at the same time…hey, free weekend! I imagined the fun things I could do with this new time. I could get a pedicure. Or buy a new purse. I could read some sort of technical book to build my expertise in the workplace. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

As I was sitting in Starbucks, sipping my coffee and reading a book, my skipper called again. The boat was fixed. Could I just hop into my car and toddle out there? I supposed so. Goodbye weekend. I drove the hour up to the island and hopped on the boat right before we launched. We scooted across the water towards the starting line, taking note of the looming thunderheads to the west.

Thunder started booming and lightening flashed. We decided that it wasn’t the best time to be isolated on a floating lightening rod. The current began to pull us out to the ocean as we attempted to retreat. As a violent downpour of rain began, we were forced to take down the sails. The boat rocked and nearly toppled several times. We hailed a passing motorboat to tow us in. Their engine was so weak that they couldn’t pull us any farther into the creek.

Eventually, we were forced to row ashore. As we approached the beach, Kat and I jumped out to pull the boat onto the shore. We landed in 3-foot deep mud. It immediately sucked me down and the waves pushed the boat forward. Kat and I both attempted to extricate ourselves from the quick-mud and keep the boat from overturning on top of us. With a disgusting sucking sound, we wrenched our legs out and dragged the boat higher at a run. Crabs skittered out of our path as we charged up the muddy sand. We looked like mud-wrestling refugees.

For the duration of the storm, we took shelter farther up the shoreline. A larger boat came to tow us into the yacht club. Several other sailors had been forced to seek refuge on Cumberland Island. They spent the storm drinking. This was evidenced as they attempted to hoist a 500lb boat with a 200lb guy inside…using a tiny tiny line. About 6ft into the air, the line snapped and the guy went a-tumbling out. He dragged the rudder out with him and it spun out down the river. I asked if he was ok. He laughed drunkenly and dragged himself onto the dock. The rudder twirled in an eddy. I was forced to leap in and rescue the rudder.

I’ve been around several people who have fallen or nearly fallen off boats. A reporter sailed with us once, and I helped her from one boat into the other. In between boats, she fell and I caught her and pulled her onto my boat. Her shoe fell off. Who the hell wears strappy sandals to a sailboat race? Still, I couldn’t let a pair of sandals go to waste. I rescued the shoe. Now I’ve rescued a rudder also.

We sailed 4 races today and did all right. There was nothing too remarkable, except I saw an alligator lingering around the same part of the river I hurled myself into yesterday. On the way to the yacht club today, I was pulled over by a cop. On the way home, I had to pull off the road because the rain was pounding down so hard that I couldn't see the road. I am an albatross.
Koo koo ka-choo.

Welcome to Paradise

When I'm getting ready for work in the morning, sometimes I watch VH1. I'm not sure why I watch it. Perhaps to gain a better understanding of what kids these days listen to. Or, because watching Fergie shake her hips in her latest fashion atrocity is more entertaining than the infomercial for the vacuum that will even slurp up ball-bearings. My options in the morning are limited. I used to have Buffy re-runs. For some reason, FX has stopped running them. I could watch the news...but that usually just makes me want to go back to bed and sleep some more.

A Green Day song came on, featuring people from the Darfur region of Sudan. They were asking for UN assistance. It struck me that they've grown past the point of political help and are now almost literally taking out a commercial on national television asking people to please do something. Part of this is probably due to the fact that African aid has become the new purse-sized dog of celebrity fads. With all the Bono's and Jolie-Pitt's out there attempting to make a difference, the rest of the celebs are trying to follow suit and show that--darn it--they really do care. Since saving lives and helping people is more commendable than toting around miniature dogs, I'm not really going to judge the trend beyond pointing out that most of them are helping in such a way as to gain more publicity. Good done for a bad reason is still good.

When you consider the global family, I see the UN like the doting mother and the US as the well intentioned but periodically ill advised father. Neither side has it wholly together. However, all the other countries are subject to our rearing (get your mind out of the gutter). We have Iraq and the Middle East filling the position of the first born. All of our focus and attention is going to "disciplining" them. We have North Korea, the poor middle child. He keeps hanging out with a bad crowd and smoking the reefer, trying to get our attention. And we have the babies...the countries who we aren't going after or ignoring, but we keep our eye on them and give them a hand or a light smack when necessary.

However, barring celebrity involvement, many of the African conflicts have become the neighbor children down the street. We avert our eyes and pretend that they aren't ours. "Our hands are full," we say, "Shouldn't their own people look after them?". They knock on our door, trying to sell a magazine subscription and we politely tell them that we aren't interested.

The difference between the countries we acknowledge and those we avoid is simple. Gain. Influence in the Middle East could build our economy, it could provide security. North Korea is in a powerful region. Currently, we think that we have little to gain from Africa. They aren't threatening us. Why should we become involved?

I'm not a fan of America interfering with other countries. I don't necessarily think that we should impose our agenda on everyone. However, if we make a habit of doing it in some places but not others, we are making hypocrites of ourselves. And, if we must--maybe we should give the real reasons and not make excuses that feed our egos.

What's your flavor?

I recently got an intern who reports to me. I sign off his time sheets, provide day-to-day instruction and also stand in as a mentor. I’m fairly certain that my new employee is my age. I have no problem with this, as I have work experience that he does not. Plus, I have the huge ego that I received wrapped in my engineering diploma. Engineers are more egotistical than nearly any profession I can think of--except for all Ph.D.’s and medical doctors. Then again, I don’t want someone who’s cutting into me to be wallowing in self-doubt. I want the scalpel-holder to be a cocky bastard.

I had an intern last year as well, a nice girl. Still, I’ve been hoping for a presidential style intern. Not for a dirty reason, but it’s nice to have pretty people doing things for you. I enjoy subordinate eye-candy.

“You’re objectifying the intern!” you might say. I most certainly am. Everything in the intern process feeds this practice. We get resumes. They are like intern-menus. What flavor intern do you want? A pre-med student who enjoys lacrosse? A chemist who rides a unicycle? An engineer who has no social life? We conduct phone interviews…like a taste test. It’s not really for their merit, but to see how they communicate and how you interact with them.

We even put in purchase orders for them. You hear down the hall, “Fred just finished the PO for the new intern.” We have purchased them. Much like lab equipment, but more mobile. In the case of an intern, it’s sort of rent-to-own. Each week we make a payment towards the ultimate cost.

We gave him a medical check to make sure he could work and was worth the money. I don’t know if they checked his haunches or teeth. After all this prep-work, last week, the project he was going to work on fell through. I have a horse with no wagon. We’re trying to think of other stuff he can work on. At some point, he’s going to get tired of fetching me drinks and dusting my cubical.

Hot Child in the City

There’s something about a visit from the parents that makes you feel more like a child, but dedicated to becoming a super-adult. When my parents appear in town, it’s after a week of prep-work at my home. I replace the dead plants on my porch. I wash my car. I give my house a super-cleaning and buy vegetables to stock my refrigerator. Usually, I’m forced to drink a lot of beer and wine that week, so they don’t see all the beer and wine that I usually stock. For a week, I become a heavier drinker—so that my folks don’t think I’m a heavy drinker. The silliness of this isn’t lost on me.

I get my hair cut and styled—something edgy, yet professional. I also get my nails done. I wake up early and get to work on time when my parents visit. Hell, I could cut that sentence off at “I wake up early.” Even on the weekend, I rise at about 7 when they are in town. I take the Cosmopolitan magazines off of the coffee table—replacing them with Physics Today. I am afraid that they will inspect my nightstand drawers and learn that they are not stocked with back editions of Physics Today.

I don’t know why I assume that my family will snoop. They really aren’t snoopers. Still, I have this fear that one day I’ll come home from work and encounter an intervention because they found my hidden wine cache and also have some questions as to why I need red fuzzy handcuffs. They won’t believe the “I’m a volunteer on the police force and I busted a wine smuggler. My handcuffs broke, so I had to borrow these from the store I caught him in front of…” story twice.

I leave little things out, to add hints about my responsibility. Sometimes it’s a calculator, “accidentally” left on the coffee table. I even buy new cleaning materials—substances in yellow containers with noxious odors. Quite often, I have no idea what you are supposed to clean with them. They are entirely for prop purposes.

I am never more “together” than when my parents visit. Of course, it’s a thin veneer of “together” over an inner core of “crazy.” I’m like an M&M. The green one, probably, as her shoes are cute. Still, no matter the thickness and glossy hue of my hard candy shell, I still get suggestions about how maybe I should comb my hair, or perhaps that three kinds of martini olives don’t count as real food.

My father looks at the staggering amount of shoes that are collected on the artfully arranged shelves in my foyer. He asks if I could possibly need more. I scoff. Of course I need more. My old Mark Jacobs green sandals with shiny stars on the toe (they looked exactly like “dress up” shoes) just broke. I loved them so much that I probably need 2 pairs just to fill the hole in my heart. But don’t worry, they’ll probably be professionally shined and tidily arranged on their shelf by the time my parents actually see them. Because I’m an adult.

Too much fun for MySpace

Zombies are about to attack us and you only have your top eight friends to go to war with you....

(I'm pretending this is a magical world, where everyone I know is in the same geographic location. Otherwise...I don't think I'd have 8 people)

1. Frank
2. Sara
3. Rob
4. John Lopez
5. Aaron (Because I think Sara would make me take him)
6. Josh
7. Patrick
8. Peter

Who would you put as second in command?
I think Sara. The others would be looking at us all the time anyway, on account of we're hot. Also, she and I have talked about scenarios.

Who is the fastest?
I'm guessing Peter. I think he exercises more than the rest of us. Maybe Frank.

Who is the most logical and strategic?
Frank and Sara. We've developed all kinds of plans already. If the ZA comes in a couple of years, I add Rob to the list for medical knowledge. Probably as a biology sort, he could help us live off the land anyway.

Who would you entrust to carry the food?
I concur with S. we all need to carry food. It'd suck if we had to kill the food carrier.

Who would carry the weapons and ammo?
Yup, we all need to. And I've partially chosen my list for people who already have weapons/ammo. J-Lo will carry a lot, I think. Then again, he already carries more knives than the average bear.

Who would drive the car?
Any car that would fit 8 of us will never be able to travel on streets already clogged with wreckage. Josh already has a bike. I think some of the rest of us would need them also.

Who would you eat if you ran out of provisions?
No one. That's a way to get made into a zombie. What if the person you eat is carrying the rage virus?

Who would slow you down?
Patrick. I love ya hon--that's why I'm taking you with us--but you haven't done nearly enough thinking about how this is going down.

Is there anyone who you don't think will make it?
Oh, trust me, we will all make it.

Who do you think your best fighter is?
I'm going to go with Frank. Except he'll start trying to wrassle with the zombies, and that's a sure way to get bitten.

Would you shoot number 1 if they were bitten and going to turn?
Nope. I'd wait until they turned. You always hope there's a way to reverse it. I'd feel pretty badly if I shot someone and then the guy next to me was all "you know, there's a vaccine...right over there."

Who is most likely to be baited into a booby-trap?
I think a harem of well-preserved zombie fem-corpses could potentially distract some of the boys. But the dead body part might ruin it.

Who would mutinize your leadership?
Hm, I'd like to think no one?

Who would be the hero?
Why, me, of course.

Who would you sleep with when you realized you could die?
I refuse to pick one of them. I will sleep with at least 6 of the 8

Who would take one for the team?
Take one what? One good lovin'? One zombie bite? I'm not choosing a sacrificial lamb!

Would you sacrifice yourself for number 7?
::sigh:: Pat...my fear of becoming the flesh eating evil dead may outweigh my nobility.

Who would finish you off if YOU were bitten?
I think most of them would. It'd be harder to find one who wouldn't finish me off.

Cosmo Girl

I went out to a local bar last night. It's not like I never go out--but I usually don't spend much time paying attention to other people in the venue. I don't go to bars to pick up boys. Mostly because the guys in bars tend to be drunk and I tend to be sober. That's never a fun way to meet men. Also because the only people who hit on me in bars tend to be women.

I went past the cover-collector. He gave me my change and commented that it was my lucky day. One of the dollars gave me a phone number with the offer of a good time. I passed on the luck immediately as I paid for my drink. I figure, it's like double the tip.

I met my friend, his girlfriend and a plethora of her friends and their dates. I hadn't expected quite this group. I was quickly delegated the role of "picture taker" as I was the only single person there and didn't know most of the group. One of the guys got the camera and attempted to take a picture of my boobs. His date did not approve. My singleness may not have been the only reason I was given the camera.

As I stood talking to the group, people passed behind me. When people walk behind me in bars, I don't like to move. The second you step forward, people keep coming and eventually you're leaning all over the person in front of you. This is useful if I'm hitting on the person in front of me, however, most of the time I'm not. Instead, I stand my ground and let people walk into me. Sometimes I strike a Wonderwoman pose and elbow them back. This time, someone took a healthy handful of my ass. I turned around to give him a piece of my mind. Or to tell him he could make it up to me with a drink. It was a girl. I don't get it. She didn't even offer me a drink.

The band started playing. Suddenly, the lead singer was on the floor. My friend suggested that there was a banana peel up on stage. His girlfriend thought that he meant the lead singer was a monkey. He did look a bit cro-magnon, so it was an honest mistake. They took a break after their first set--the better to toke up--and then started a new set. They chose to start the new set by repeating one of the songs from the first set. It was still bad. The song was that 3-Doors Down number about how they missed their girlfriends. I guess they really really missed their women.

Some more people arrived and one got a lime to the eye. When she confronted the citrus mafia, they thought she was offering them a line rather than asking about a lime. They were confused by the preppy dealer. Also, they were perplexed by her anger over the their refusal to buy some.

Near the end of the evening, a friend shared his technique for meeting acquaintances of his girlfriend. He dances like an idiot so that she is embarrassed to introduce him. He doesn't have to remember any names and also gets to throw around jazz hands. It's a win-win.

We left the bar some time around 1. Back when I lived out west, this would have been the opportunity for greasy Mexican food. They don't do good late-night Mexican in the south, which left us with...the Waffle House. Sometimes I'm guilty about feeling too good for the Waffle House. Then I remember that I am, in fact, too good. I tried to eat some pie. Mostly I just drink coffee...the pie reminded me why. We called it a night and I went back home. I played some air-guitar in my living room before bed. My hair is near perfect length for air-guitar head banging. It's good to practice your art.

When it Rains

I woke up this morning in beautiful Denver, CO. The sun was shining, the grass was green, it was a perfect day. I had a cup of coffee, checked my email and received an emotional gut punch. As I was not alone, I had to pretend to be ok, so I promptly went to the bathroom to throw up. Years ago, I stopped crying when faced with extreme emotion. I throw up instead. This is both better and worse. If I actually experienced emotion, I might be bulimic. Good thing I only feel rarely. Anyway, the day progressed and I got to the airport 2 hrs before my flight.

Everything went swimmingly, except for eating. By 3 in the afternoon (flight time) I'd eaten 3 bites of bagel, half a banana and a cup of coffee...all had been sacrificed to the cause. I read a book on the plane and the two women next to me pretty much ignored me. My usual row-mates smell, invade my space, hit on me or otherwise--so these two ladies were doing well. However, as they didn't offer to buy me drinks they weren't on the top of the list.

We landed in Dallas early...for my 3.5hr layover. I decided that though food made me nauseous, beer would be ok. I sidled up to the airport bar and ordered a bottle. The gal next to me was drinking away her sorrows. Her flight had been cancelled. I internally gloated. I wasn't on a cancelled flight. My day already sucked...but at least I had that. And I had my beer.

While nursing my Bass, I got a phone call from an old friend. I'd sought him out for solace. That's right. Solace. Midway through the conversation, I was ready to phone-slap him. Griping about social life and jobs only works if both parties are complaining. His life was super-duper. I was green with envy. Then he kind of sort of offered me a job opportunity. I was stunned. I choked on my beer and attempted to pass it off as a cough of excitement.

The girl next to me raised her eyebrows. I gave her a sunny grin. I'm sure she wanted to real-slap me. I paid for my drink, hopped away from the bar and skipped towards my gate. There was something wrong. All these angry-looking people were standing at the gate. Children were crying. That's all pretty normal but the true alarm bells started ringing when I saw the people at the counter actually doing something. My flight was cancelled.

I shuffled through the line to get my hotel and new ticket. The lady at the desk was very helpful--directing me out into the thunderstorm to wait for the hotel limo.

We drove to the hotel where I got my room, toothpaste, floss, and deodorant. My phone is broken and there is a suspicious stain on the floor by the door. Either someone gave birth, was stabbed or had a badly house-trained puppy. I haven't studied it too closely. Right now, I'm sitting gingerly on the bed, attempting to avoid any other stains, and thinking about the future. A lot of potential, maybe a move. Silver lining.

Anyway...the moral of the story is: when it rains--it pours. But sometimes, just sometimes, there's a rainbow at the end.

One Fish, Two Fish

This weekend I purchased a fish tank. This was an impulse purchase, on par with buying a new tube of lipstick. (I have an appalling variety of lipstick considering that I never wear the stuff. I keep hoping that if I try enough colors and brands I will eventually discover something that makes my lips super glossy, sexy and infinitely kissable. Once I try out the kissability, the lipstick will be transferred to the face of the kissee...hence my main problem with lipstick. It stays on everything that isn't my lips.)

DP and I were at Walmart, looking for a betta fish for him. His domicile needed some homey touches. Nothing makes a house feel like a home better than a small colorful fish...one which often goes on hunger strike. I know this because I have three of them. While at the store, we saw a 10 gallon aquarium for a surprisingly low price. This seemed like a good deal. There could be a variety of fish. Fish that weren't isolationists.

We plunked the tank into the cart and frolicked down the aisles selecting gravel, tank decoration, water plants and bubble walls. It was like shoe shopping, except cheaper. As we selected fish, the apathetic Walmart employee told us that the tank had to equilibrate overnight. This means no fish the first night. But the fish must always have a filter. Therefore if we kept the fish in the bag, we'd have a beautiful assortment of floaters.

DP and I are all about instant gratification, so waiting a day to purchase fish wasn't an option. He selected 2 black ones, 2 neon tetras and 2 guppies. We looked at small filters to allow the fish to survive the night. At some point (probably because it was late) I decided it would be easier for me to get my own aquarium. We came up with a slightly convoluted scheme where the filters and tanks could be interchanged, allowing fish health. A pasta pot was to be used the first night.

We set up the pasta ecosystem in my guest bathroom, dumped the fishies into it and started up the aquarium. Some friends came over to watch movies. Midway through, one walked out of the bathroom commenting that one of the fish was probably dead. We rushed in and saw that the guppy had hurled itself from the pot and had died on the floor. The melodramatic fish equivalent of suicide by walking slowly into the ocean.

At this point, we decided that equilibration was useless if the fish insisted on killing themselves and dumped them into the tank. Guppy 2 didn't make it through the night. The next day, we went out and purchased more fish. Heartier fish. Today, I returned from work to discover that one of the little ones had been sucked into the filter tank, trapping it by the tail. The other fish had proceeded to eat his face off. Things are pretty cut and dry in the fish world.

As I name everything--from my car to random plants--I had to name my fish. When they were new, DP and I came up with names based on the characters in a favorite book. The downside of this is that it's much more sad to scoop a dead fish with a sentimental name out of a filter intake. With my previous fish, I named them something that would be amusing when they died. I imagined coming home and exclaiming "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead!" I'd feel slightly sad, a little grossed out, and also literate. I've tried to overcome this problem by naming the most eatable fish after characters that are already dead.

When they're alive, the fish are pretty cute.

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

I don't know if I'm a product of my generation or of a western upbringing, but chivalry is always slightly surprising to me. This isn't to say I never encountered it growing up. My father is incredibly gentlemanly. Watching he and my mother seemed sort of like watching the older generation do something cute and moderately archaic--like watching your grandparents polka. You sigh and miss days gone by--but you know that's not the world you live in.

I got used to being a tomboy. You can't be one of the guys if you wait around for someone to open doors for you. It seems to make sense that whoever gets to the door first, opens it. This usually doesn't pose a problem but sometimes I approach a doorway with a chivalrous man. We get in an odd little dance where both of us reach for the knob and almost wrestle for it. At some point, I let it go and walk in. I do always say "thank you"--even post-wrestling for the knob. Because I am a lady.

The car-door opening is also kind of awkward. I don't necessarily mind having the door opened for me as I get in--but it's really weird to wait for it to be opened so I can get out. And how do you know if you're supposed to do that? As she is a genteel lady, my mom told me I should always wait. I never wait.

Pulling out the chair is another oddity. Maybe it was started because women had big poofy skirts and had to fuss with them while sitting. I just don't understand why it's still done.

Speaking of the group seating reminds me of my least favorite civility. If I am sitting in a group and have to go to the powder room (see, I learned that term in the south...sounds so fancy) it's irritating when, as I stand up, all the guys stand up with me. Then when I come back, they stand up again. It feels like I'm ruining the flow of the conversation. As much as I like to believe that discussion revolves around me (and that while I am gone, all the guys sit in awkward silence and stare at each other) all the standing and sitting really makes dinner seem more like a Catholic mass.

I like gentlemen. I find them adorable. I didn't meet many of them in the west. It was mostly my father and my friend Marcus. (Not to insult the rest of you...you are all gentlemen...you just allow me to be more one of the guys than the Southerners do:) ) Still, I'm awkward with the concept. I don't know if it's the inner feminist, or I'm just set in my ways. I understand that it's a sign of respect. And again, I'm complimented when I am on the receiving end of gentility.

It's like any other compliment. I don't know how to respond appropriately, so I stammer, punch someone in the arm and drink some beer. Or, since I'm in the south and this is an appropriate situation, I fan myself and have the vapors. I'm not sure what they are, but they seem very southern. Much like gentility.

Son, be a dentist
People will pay you to be inhumane

A month ago, I succumbed to pleas from my mother to schedule a dentist appointment. It had been two years since my past one, so I figured I was probably due. The appointment was scheduled in June, which allowed me to almost forget I had it. Last week, I got a call telling me they had a cancellation and I could come in on May 21. This was said with some excitement, as though—after putting off the dentist for years—I’d be thrilled to get in a month early. I accepted the new time and showed up this morning.

I dressed extra cute, operating under the assumption that people don’t like hurting cute things. (I forgot about sadists). By the time I reached the chair, I’d received comments regarding the cuteness of both my car and my purse. (I didn’t actually plan those things…made me wonder about my actual clothes). They sent me through the styling new whirly-gig x-ray and plopped me in a neutral colored chair that allowed me to watch some gamboling squirrels. (not gambling…we don’t support squirrel gambling here in the south.) There were televisions set in the ceiling, and the office manager offered me headphones. So far, the dentist was better than I remembered.

I reclined and watched some of the Today show, wondering if this was the precursor to dental torture. The torture warm-up, if you will. This proved to be true when the dentist arrived. He cackled and twirled his handlebar mustache. Over steepled fingers, he inquired if I was comfortable. Ok, so maybe he wasn’t that stereotypically villainous. He did have extremely contracted pupils, however. Tiny little pinpoints. And his eyes were utterly flat. (not topographically, but expressively). He checked me for oral cancer…which I passed as I don’t chew great wads of tobacco. I started to get cocky. Obviously the cute outfit was working.

Then, he pulled out this little plastic probe and told me he’d be checking my gums. This was new to me. I’ve never had my gums checked. Turns out, maybe I should have. After he’d probed all around 5 teeth, I decided the dentist was definitely evil. He growled out numbers to his assistant. They appeared to be associated with the pain scale. Not wanting to be a dental wuss, I kept a stiff upper lip.

According to the gum poking, I have periodentitis. I won’t get into the details, but the cuteness of the outfit had backfired. The dentist asked if I was allergic to anything. I told him and he implied that I was lying. He had the sort of patronizing chair-side manner that he would have if he were checking the teeth and gums of a cow. I considered mooing but figured that he wouldn’t get it anyway.

Following the delightful gum poking, I got to experience “root plaining.” They clean around all the gums with an ultrasonic tool. There is a local anesthetic applied. My hygienist was very enthusiastic with the anesthetic, which is usually a good thing. However, as my tongue and throat went numb, I realized that liquid was pooling in my throat and I was having problems swallowing. She realized that I was having difficulty when I started thrashing around in the chair. I am a subtle person.

At the end, I was sent home minus quite a bit of money and with the addition of some medicinal mouthwash and floss. Also, a toothbrush emblazoned with my dentist’s name. I can think of several places to put it.

(As an endnote: I was a huge fan of everyone at this office who wasn’t the actual dentist. The office manager and the hygienist were both quite nice and explained everything they were doing.)

Birds flying high You know how I feel

I am always right. This is a curse that I’ve dealt with for many years. Sadly, it’s never helped me with exams or memo writing. It has given me an unerring knowledge of which professors will give me a pity grade, which aren’t worth the time, which guys just aren’t that into me and which people may or may not be in prison in the upcoming years.

That’s right…I know people. There are millions of things in the world that I don’t know but I do know people. I have never had a gut feeling about anyone that was wrong. Each of my inexplicable distastes has been accurate after time has passed. Those who I felt warm and fuzzy about have proven to be good people. The warmer and fuzzier the initial emotion, the better the person has been.

This isn’t always useful in the workplace, as there are plenty of spectacular people who are crap at their jobs. It wasn’t always useful in school, because while someone may have great qualities, an innate knowledge of quantum physics isn’t necessarily one of them. It’s very useful in relationships. Every time I’ve gotten the willies about a relationship, I’ve been right.

The downside of this is: I am fantastic at rationalization. I can talk many people (including myself) into (or out of) anything. Even though I know things, I can still convince myself that I am incorrect. I can convince myself that I’m being hard on someone and he or she isn’t really the raving psychopath that my animal instinct seems to think he or she is. Of course, it usually turns out that I was correct all along. But you don’t want to just believe in instinct. And, in my case, it makes me feel pointlessly cynical and oftentimes bitter.

I don’t like being right. I don’t like knowing, because I tend to second-guess myself. Or, after a repeated pattern of eerie empathy, I start to believe my gut. And then, I’m sure, it will turn out to just be paranoia or a story I’m telling myself. Still, it’s hard to periodically understand people better than they understand themselves. Or to deal with people who are changing day by day.

I’ve never been really surprised at a breakup. I’ve been surprised at the timing, or the situation but I always knew. Even the worst one, where I’d rationalized so damn hard that up was down, I knew. I’d just convinced myself that I couldn’t possibly be correct. Because who could be that much of a jackass, right?

I’m not always dead-on. I once dated a guy who had just stopped dating another girl. A couple months in, I started to get really shady (for want of a real word) “vibes." At the time, it never occurred to me that it had anything to do with his ex. (I have an ego, as many of you know, and to be honest--at that point in life--it was utterly inexplicable to me that a guy I was dating would ever want someone who wasn’t me. I still find this hard to believe but I’ve come to terms with the fact that I may be an acquired taste) I actually thought that his dark turn was due to some health issue that he wasn’t telling me about. It wasn’t. He was thinking about the ex and eventually went back to her.

I usually know when there is a problem, even if someone is doing a bang-up job of hiding it. I just don’t always know what the problem is. Damn frustrating, especially when I’m in a situation when I can’t do a thing about it. I have an innate desire to make people feel better. This is always rather difficult if there isn’t anything I can do to influence their feelings at all or if any distraction that I can offer is fleeting.

It’s also difficult if it’s none of my business at all. I usually know very quickl