A Strong Dose of Successful - More Powerful than Espresso

Sitting as patiently as possible during Voir Dire as the judge rattled off the names of potential witnesses, I tried earnestly to pay attention to the names.  As he wrapped up, he looked at us all sitting in various positions in the jury box and the additional seating.

"Did anyone recognize any of the names I read?"  The judge, a Gary Sinise look-alike, asked.

Four hands raised amidst the faces and heads I could see.  It was library-quiet and difficult to keep my growling stomach from loudly protesting the lack of nourishment.  As each of the hand-raisers had a turn at describing the potential association with a particular witness, I noticed that I was not the only person in the room waging an all-out battle against boredom and drowsiness.  No one seemed that particularly interested in the proceedings.

Finally, the judge came to a well-groomed, good looking younger gentlemen sitting in one of the bench rows to my left.

"Juror number twenty-seven.  Did you recognize one or more of the names I read out?"

"Yes."  The well-put man answered.

"Which one?"

The man then proceeded to list off every doctor's name the judge had called out.

"And how do you know these doctors?"

"I work with them. And two of them are very close friends of mine."  I noticed several of the courtroom's occupants look over at Juror 27.

"Do you feel like this could cloud your judgment should you be chosen to serve as a juror today?"

"With two of them, yes; I trust them implicitly."

The judge nodded.  "And may I ask what you do for a living?"

"Certainly.  I'm a plastic surgeon."

And just like that, the courtroom came alive as every woman in attendance collectively exclaimed, "Ooohhhh."

Bless Her Heart

Tired one night, I traipsed in to the local supermarket to purchase some things for a quick dinner.  Spying the Starbucks, I found myself inexplicably drawn to purchase a chai on my way out.

As I approached the counter, a lady in Starbucks attire and a bad 80's perm moved to the register.  I noticed two teens standing a bit behind her, also in uniform, as well as two additional young people standing off to my left, obviously market employees and even-more apparent, obviously acquaintances of the Starbucks employees to some extent.

"Well, hi," began the lady with more roots than an aspen grove in the thickest southern accent I have ever heard, "how ya'll doin' tonight?"

I stopped digging in my wallet long enough to glance around.  Nope.  Just me.  I began searching for my debit card again. "I'm fabulous, thank you."

Being from the south, I realize that certain words I say do sound very Texan, such as 'thank you' and 'my'.  And like fine wine and good cheese, the Southern Drawl tends to grow more prevalent as it ages.  So I'm sure at this point in our conversation, it became evident that I may just hale from south of the Mason-Dixon line.

"What can I get ya'll?"  She didn't back off the twang.

 I took another quick look about me.  "There's only one of me, hon, and if you keep saying "ya'll", I'm going to become self-conscious about my weight."  I smiled up at her to find a very irritated fake Southerner from the 80's glaring back at me while brandishing a plastic cup, pen poised at the ready.  "Um, I'll have a venti non-fat, extra hot chai, please."

The teens behind her moved off to join their friends at the end of the counter.  I distinctly heard the sound of snickering.

"Alright.  Will that be it for ya'll?"  She drawled intentionally.

This is one of my greatest pet peeves.  While I understand the enticement of the Southern drawl and mannerisms, I do not tolerate the fake accent.  This really pisses me off.  I directly met her gaze.

"Where are you from?"  I asked, not even trying to sound polite.  That point had passed a good three "ya'lls" ago.  I'm pretty sure she had no doubt now about another southern trait I'm in possession of: attitude.

"Georgia."  She laid it in on thick at this point.  I felt my eyebrow draw dangerously close to my hairline.  I think my nostrils flared.  My expression must have relayed my challenge, because she quickly added: "Well, I'm actually from here, but I've spent the last 15 years in Georgia."

Okay, this wasn't some young'un that had grown up in our dear sweet peach pit and had adopted the accent as speech developed; this was a grown-ass woman, some years older than me that was trying to impress all the Coloradans who love some good ol' Southern hospitality.

I couldn't seem to help myself any longer.  "You do know then, that a true Southerner would never call one person 'ya'll'.  One person in the south is 'hon'.  That's spelled H-O-N, by the way.  Only when you have two or more people does the term become 'ya'll'."

I did manage to regain my self control before adding that it was pronounced either "yaw" or "yawl".

She held out my cup and I smiled, brandishing all of my teeth, as I took it from her.  I briefly glanced at the kids that had witnessed this exchange then back at her before saying, "Ya'll have a good night, now, ya' hear?"

Casting the First Stone

As construction continued on in to its fourth month, we worked diligently to focus on getting things accomplished amidst the noise, the debris and the continual stream of workers coming in and out.

Sitting down at my cube one morning, I heard the entry door within the panel of plate glass windows on my right begin to shake and an irritating pounding set to rhythm.  I knew that across the large bullpen, the development group was meeting, so I decided to see who was attempting to gain access.

As I stood up and moved towards the door, I saw this scruffy, homeless-looking man in raggedy camo jacket and really bad haven't-been-combed-since-the-seventies hair looking in to one of the engineers in this meeting and waving at him as he continued to jerk on the locked door.

Still having not seen me standing to his left, this guy smiles a broad, toothless grin - seriously, all of the top front-facing row had been lost to the abyss oh so long ago - and looking directly at the engineer, the (obvious) construction worker says: "Yeah, come open the door, you dumb mother fucker."

I stopped short in my steps, appalled beyond function at the blatant irony of the situation.  So, outside we had an ill-mannered vagrant attempting to repeatedly try to open a locked door while proclaiming profanities that he didn't think could be heard at a successful, obviously intelligent man comfortably ensconced in a warm, protected environment where he earns what can only be assumed as a good living.

In all honesty, who should be calling who a 'dumb mother fucker'?

Seeing Things Differently

Groggily schlepping out to the car for the morning commute, I busied myself trying to find something other than radio commercials to entertain me.  I happened upon this soothing voice and proceeded to zone out as I made my way to the coffee shop.

As she droned on about her rags to riches story, I heard her say:

"...and in that terrified moment, as I looked down the barrel of the gun pointed directly at my forehead..."

Uh...wait.  What?  Where exactly are your eyes located ma'am?

Monday Morning Mashup

Finding myself patiently sitting in a crowded medical waiting room on Monday morning, I sat staring blankly at a spot just off from the blaring television.  D sat in much the same position on my left.  The lobby area was packed with folks waiting for outpatient procedures or for the patients themselves.

Having had a long night of no sleep and no food or drink, I was less than animated and had been sitting in a fugue state for over an hour when an upcoming broadcast announcement hacked through my fog.

"Fatal crash this morning in Parker.  Happened last night.  Details at ten."  The newscaster boomed.

I blinked as my brain tried to work the calculation to no avail.  I turned to D.

"Wow, that must have been some accident this morning if it happened last night."

Fruit and Alcohol Don't Mix

My man and I decided to drop in to the local Friday's restaurant for some nosh and drinks one Sunday.  The bartender - a lanky, young kid - came over to take our drink order, obviously distracted by his bro who was killing time in front of the game on t.v.

He slipped a couple napkins haphazardly on the table while calling a response over his shoulder then gingerly asked what we'd like.  D ordered his usual tall beer and I decided to try the new blackberry margarita being advertised.

After a bit, he came back over to drop off our drinks and get our order.  While D began selecting a couple appetizers, I noticed that my drink wasn't correct.

"Oh, hon, I don't like salt.  Can you remake that?"

"Oh?"  He seemed thoroughly confused for a moment.  "Okay, sure.  Sorry about that."

As he went to grab the glass, my brain was still calculating the discrepancies.  "Wait...that looks green.  Didn't I order the blackberry?"  I looked to D to make sure I'd actually said my order out loud.  I'm never all that sure that communication between my brain and my vocal mechanism is working properly.
He nodded in confirmation.

The bartender pushed the drink back towards me.  "No, you ordered a regular margarita."

"No I didn't.  I said 'your new blackberry margarita'."  I pushed the small glass back towards him.

He waved as if dismissing the concern.  "No bother," he proclaimed gleefully.  "It's a quick fix, all I have to do is pour some blackberry syrup in it.  I'll be right back."

That made me visibly cringe, but I decided to take the safer approach.  "And, take off the salt.  So you might need to remake it."  Hint hint, dude.  You're gonna have to use a new glass.

"Oh, no.  It'll be fine."  He called as he walked off towards his bar cum chemistry set.

Lovely, I thought and raised my eyebrows at D.  He just shook his head and turned his attention back to the game.

Sooner than expected, a cloudy kinda pink, kinda sickly green drink appeared in front of me.  I turned it around in my hands wondering just what this dude was thinking.

"See?  No problem."  He beamed at me and patiently waited for me to try it.  Joy.

I squared my shoulders and braved a sip.  Immediately, I was overcome with a shudder that went from my mouth down to my knees.  An automatic, guttural sound of disgust poured from my lips.

D chuckled, garnering a quick WTF look from yours truly.

"What?  Is the syrup too much?"  The barkinder asked.

No, dude.  It is NOT too much.  That's not the friggin' problem.  "Um, no.  You can't make a regular margarita, cake the rim and the surface with flake salt, then pour thick, sugary syrup in it."  I tried to reign in my attitude, but in retrospect I realize that it most likely wasn't working.  "You're going to have to remake it."

"So, it is too much."

"What?  No.  It's not the syrup.  It's the everything."  I pushed the glass at him once more, completely grossed out by the fruit-flavored salty lime juice I'd been served.  "Can you just make a new blackberry margarita for me, please?"

"So, you don't like the blackberry?"

The wheels of my mind stopped abruptly, causing my mouth to hang slightly open.  I felt my intellect seep from me like an out-of-body experience, seeing it peer down at me with pity from somewhere high above.

Struck dumb and staring in some twisted Mexican standoff, I briefly wondered which one of us would regain our wits quicker, subconsciously aware that it would be me.  And although not 100% positive, I vaguely remember D re-ordering the drink for me to which our bartender finally seemed to understand.

Some Things Are What They Seem

For days now, we have been plagued with visitors attempting to solicit votes for various political figures in the upcoming election.

Last night, while cleaning up from dinner, the doorbell rang and immediately set off our second-line of defense: hyper-active and very vocal dogs.  Leaving the man on dish-duty, I moved about the excited dogs and cracked open the front door.

A young, tiny, beaming girl stood on the porch cradling a clip-board.  She cheerily greeted me and introduced herself along with her organization.  "I'm wondering if I could speak to Harold, please?"

"Harold?  No, I'm sorry; You have the wrong address.  I guess that man no longer lives here."

I closed the door and headed back in to the kitchen.

"Who was that?"  He was still diligently scrubbing.

"Some political solicitor.  You know, I think we need a "No Soliciting" sign.  They've been coming around a lot.  But they're asking for some dude named Harold, so it gives me an easy-out."  I smiled broadly at him.

The look that passed between us elongated into an almost awkward moment.  "Unless," I began, "they are asking for Jerald but think that since your first name is spelled with a J, you're hispanic and they're trying to respectfully pronounce it correctly."

Our abrupt laughter scared the dogs.

Never Know What You're Capable Of

Because of some serious, recurring neck issues, I had been referred for an EMG of my upper body.  Now, for those of you who are not familiar with the terminology, an EMG is essentially where a licensed Medical Doctor first conducts electricity through your body then literally injects it by way of what can only be described as a knitting needle.

Having previously heard horror stories about this procedure, I originally chickened out of it five months before; however, it had become necessary to provide a "nerve mapping" to the surgeon.  I decided I'd go alone reasoning that if I were to flop around on the table like a frog in a lab, I wasn't all that keen on witnesses.

The discomfort of the electric shock was prevalent but bearable.  The needle, drenched in throbbing electricity and moved about within my muscles, was not.  The further the doctor went up towards my achy neck, the worse the pain got.  At one point I believe I used a rather offensive expletive.  Rather loudly.  But I can't be sure.

Once done, I reached for my cell phone, desperately needing someone to vent to.  Having sufficiently whined to my step-mother, she then handed the phone over to my father.

He got on the phone in his usual cheery disposition.  "Started confessing to the murders and where the bodies were buried and they didn't even know there were bodies, huh?"

"Yeah."  I sniffled.  "Hell, Dad, until he stuck that needle in my neck, I didn't even know there were bodies."

It's Texting - Relatively Speaking...

Working diligently in front of the television one night, my phone chimed off notifying me of a text message.  It was my niece.

Niece: What r u doing?

Me: Working.  What's up honey?

Niece:  Nuthin.  Bored.

Me:  Are you at work?

Niece: Yah.  Inventory.  I'll b here all nite.

Me:  You got plans this weekend?

Niece:  Maybe.  Dunno.  Got school on Saturday tho.

We texted back and forth for quite a while, with longer and longer delays between her responses as she worked.  Towards the wee hours, I finally decided to quit working and call it a night.

In the morning, I got up to find that my niece had responded to me while I slept.  I figured I'd better acknowledge her response and subsequent question.

Me:  Sorry about that, honey.  I fell asleep.  Yes, we'll be home this weekend if you want to come by.

Niece (several hours later): Who is this?

Seriously?

Contact Sport

Hockey.  Love it.  Going to the Saturday night college game at CC, we were all excited.  It was a rather crowded night and there were a lot of "pardon me's" spread around as we made our way to the seats.  A few people were already sitting in the row when we got there and we moved past an elderly couple as best we could.

We were seated above the penalty box and as the game began, I leaned against the railing to get a look towards the opposing corner of the rink.  The next thing I know, this woman next to me places two fingers just above my right breast and presses, saying: "You need to sit back.  I can't see.  You can't lean on the railing, I'm sorry."  Only she wasn't and there was no apology in her tone.

At first, I just stared at her thinking, Oh uh-uh.  I am not your child, lady.

This is what separates a Southern woman from the rest of the world, right there.  Never, and I do mean never, would a grown, Southern lady put her hands on another person and tell him or her what they "needed" to do in that situation.  Maybe if you were hitting on our man in a bar or attempting to correct one of our children without permission...but never on the first attempt to get someone to move.  My mother would have beat me with a shoe in front of them all if I had tried to pull that off.  Even at my grown age of 40.

Of course, being a well-bred and raised Southern lady, I knew I shouldn't flip out on this old biddy with mushroom hair and yellow teeth, so I resorted to a better sort of revenge. Because of a challenge with seating, we had 4 seats available to us where D and I sat and another two over and above us where the boys sat.   Being that our 'boys' were my twenty-something stepson and teenage nephew, at the first period break, I encouraged them to sit with us.  Returning to our seats, I moved past to the last of our four, gesturing for the kids to sit in the seats D and I had previously occupied.  When the oldest boy sat next to our very hospitable row neighbor, my pleasure skyrocketed as I noticed how displeased she was with the situation.

When the opposing team scored a point, I overheard my stepson exclaim rather loudly, "Oh fuck.  C'mon, guys.  Goddamn."  Seeing the Crypt Keeper's lips purse even further at his vulgarity nearly created a buzz in me.  I then also noticed that she was obviously speculating whether or not the boys had a right to be in those seats.

The game was amazing with our team scoring the winning goal just as the clock hit 1:00 remaining.  Settling in at a restaurant for a bite afterwards, our energies were still incredibly high as we recounted the events of the evening.  When we broached the subject of Mrs. Incordial, my stepson smiled broadly and explained, "after what you told me about her, I spent the remainder of the game cussing as loud as I could at every possible opportunity".

One could only hope that she's learned her lesson about asking rather than commanding other people.  But then again, being the karma-loving person I am, I prefer to think that she will continue to be miserable in her life not because she's drawn a bad hand, but because she's not a good player.

Not So Sensible Savings

Visiting the city the other day, I rang up a friend to see if she could break away for lunch.

"Absolutely!"  She agreed.  "Alright, I have a coupon for Indian food and one for Mexican.  You feel like Mexican food?"

I'm from Texas.  I always feel like Mexican food.

We are both bargain shoppers and deal-getters so a coupon for buy-one-get-one-free can send us over the edge.  I think we've even eaten when we weren't really hungry because of one of those danged coupons before.

I traveled the small distance up the road to meet her at a small, local restaurant we'd been to before.  Clean facility, good food, easy prices - can't get much better than that.  We sat down and ordered drinks then began to peruse the menu in search of our buy one get one order.

Li looked at the menu and then looked at the coupon.  "Oh, wait.  The lunch specials aren't valid coupon options."

"Okay."  I agreed without looking up.

"Oh, and it says 'valid only with the purchase of two drinks."  She re-opened her menu.  "I think we can handle that."

"Yep."  As yet undecided, I still did not look up.

"What do you think you'll get?"

"I don't know yet."  I was eyeballing two equally delicious options.

"Me neither, but I'm gonna get some chips and salsa if that's alright with you."

"Oh yeah."

Li looked at the coupon again.  "Oh.  'Total reimbursement not to exceed seven dollars'."

We looked at our menus.

"Great.  And nothing on the menu is only seven bucks."

So we split the combo and threw the coupon away.

Bland Greek Desserts

My daughter was visiting her grandparents in Texas one summer when she was just 6 years old.  One warm Saturday afternoon, she called me eager to tell me about their day spent at a local Greek festival.

“What did you do?”  I asked, smiling in to my cell phone.

“We watched dancers and walked around a lot.  Gramma made me shop with her.”  I could hear my mother laughing in the background.

“Did you get to eat any of the food?”

She got extremely worked up, taking a huge breath to begin rattling off all the unique treats she’d gotten to sample.  “Yes!”  She practically screamed in my ear.  “We had lamb meat.”

“Gyro.”  I informed her.

“Uh-huh.  And chicken kabob.  And hummus with pita chips…and a dip I didn't really like and we had uh…uh…”
I heard her cover up the mouthpiece of her grandmother’s cell phone.  “Gramma,” she whispered.  “What was that dessert thingy we ate?”

I heard my mother’s faint response of “bakalava”.

"Oh yeah," She whispered back.  Then said excitedly to me, “And ma, we had blah-blah-blah!”

I don’t know who laughed louder, me or my mother.

Great American Smoke Out

Construction abounds at my workplace these days – a remodel on the office suites, new sidewalks and outside stairs…even the parking and curbs are getting face lifts.  And as would be expected, this makeover is accompanied by some of the best people in most social circles: stained shirts and skin, butt cleavage, green cards and black teeth.  These guys can be found at any given time, standing about “discussing the project” while expelling copious amounts of second-hand smoke.

Sitting at my desk just inside the glass fronted door, I began to feel a tickle in my throat and noticed an irritating cough working its way through my chest.  After a few moments, I realized that it was because a small gaggle of these guys had parked just outside the security door, propping it all the way open with a large plastic paint bucket.  The smoke was wafting directly into my cubicle and causing my respiratory upset.

I politely walked over to the guy in charge, standing among his employees, happily puffing away.  I explained my dilemma to which he jumped immediately in to action.

“Oh!”  He explained, smoking butt dangling from his burnt bottom lip (how he wasn't catching the scruff of his beard on fire was beyond me), “Let me remedy that for you.”

He grabbed the large plastic bin as I walked back through the doorway.  I heard it scrape across the ground then stop prematurely.

As I sat in my seat, I looked back.  He had moved the bucket only a minute distance, closing the door only partially.  The aroma circled my head like a buzzard, my nose swelling shut with every breath.  Good thing he helped me out.

Happily Never After

Literally failing to function after an unbelievably hard breakup, following directly on the heels of a lay off from my job, my best friend was practically worrying herself sick trying to keep me from going all the way under.

The weekend was fast approaching and she didn't want to leave me in the midst of my painfully broken and disappointed heart.  Acting out of desperation, she called me early that Thursday evening.

“Hello?”  I croaked, my voice still warbling in and out of control.

“Hey.  How are you doing?”

“Okay.”  I paused to get control of myself before I burst in tears again.  “I just can’t believe how horribly painful this is.”  My chin began to twitch so I shut up.

“That’s why I was calling.”  She sounded rather cheery.  “Listen, I don’t want you to be alone this weekend, but I've got to go to the Springs.  There’s this girl - cute story really - getting married.  She’s doing a pagan ritual wedding and exchanging the hand-fasting vows and all that.  I think it will be a wonderfully romantic time.  Why don’t you come with me?”

The loaded silence enveloped us while I waited for her to realize what she was asking of me.  After a few awkward moments, she ended the call with a hasty apology.

Smashing Good Time

Taking a leisurely tour of the Colorado mountains by train with my man, we were thoroughly enjoying the ride, the views, and the live music accompanying us in the Club Car.  I couldn't have managed a better first train ride for my man if I had tried - and quite frankly I had, landing a fabulous deal for the day.  But even my expectations had been surpassed.

After a wonderful day spent sipping drinks and taking it easy, we were finally on our way back, reveling in the privacy we had by being the only passengers in the car.

The door opens and in walks a railroad employee, ensemble complete with conductor hat.  He perched on the seat next to me, across from my man, D. He lit up a light banter.

He was rather excited to find out that it was D's first train ride.  He explained to us that it was his second to last day on that particular train.  He was moving to Chicago to work on a different track.

He expressed he didn't really want to go to Chicago.

"Really, why go then?"  I prodded.

"Oh, I crashed a freight train recently and I'm being transferred so I don't get fired."

My eyes darted quickly to the word "conductor" scrawled in gold across the brim of his hat.  I shot a look to my now-pale man.  The conversation died a bit then as we wondered in silence to the rocking of the train, exactly what had he meant by 'crashed'?

Unforgettable

Calling this morning to get the cleaning service scheduled after way too long, I ended up leaving a message and waiting for a call back.

A few minutes later, said call back arrived.

"Hi, Ms. Tracie.  This is Jane* with the cleaners."

"Hi.  Thanks for calling me back so quickly."

"Your message said you have a coupon to use?"

"Oh, no.  I meant to relay that the first time I used your service I had an internet coupon.  But now, I just want to schedule a regular cleaning appointment."

"Certainly."  I could hear Jane flipping through the appointment book.  "Would you happen to remember the day or around the date that we came to clean your house initially?"

"I sure do.  I don't remember the actual date offhand but it was the day the fire literally blew up that neighborhood here". (We live in Colorado Springs, now home to an infamous fire that broke out in town a couple months back.)

"Oh, I know exactly what day you're talking about.  I will never forget it."

"I know, right?  So, the lady that cleaned my house before said it was a 2-3 hour job, correct?"

"Um...let me look that up.  So, you said you don't remember about what day that was?"

Uhhh....

Call It A Hunch...

Several years ago while sharing a duplex, I walked out of the bathroom to see my roommate lurching in at a rather late hour.  She was bent forward at an awkward angle and limping to the point that she was almost dragging one leg behind her.  She explained that she had taken a bit of a tumble while trying to navigate some stairs in an 'impaired' state.

"Well, good lord," I exclaimed, curling one leg underneath me as I took a seat on the couch watching her poor execution across the living room floor.  "You look like Quasimodo."

She stopped near the doorway to catch a rest.  "Yeah, or the Hunchback of Notre Dame."

Well...there is that.

Death and Taxes

Driving down the freeway with a friend on our way to do a little shopping, we passed a rather large sign that read in bold letters: TAXIDERMY.

I shook my head clear of the heebie-jeebies.  "Eck, I still can't believe that people make a living pulling the insides out of animals and stuffing them for their customers."

"What are you talking about?"  The stunning blonde sitting next to me asked.

I pointed at the sign.  "The Taxidermist."

"What about them?"

"Just how they can work with dead animals all day."

She stared out the window for a bit.  "Oh...I thought they did taxes."

Well, at least she's pretty.

Blind Admiration

Saw a picture of Andrea Bocelli recently that reminded me of a conversation that happened a few years back:

I was super excited about the tickets I had just purchased to the see the then rising star, Andrea Bocelli.  This classically trained, yet modern tenor born of Italy with the amazing voice that seemed to eradicate his lack of sight, would be venturing to my neck of the woods and allowing my crush-filled senses to take in the glorious experience.

Speaking with a co-worker on the event, who knew of him as well, I excitedly recanted that I'd managed to land third row seating for my mom, aunt and daughter to join me (we were all huge fans).

"Wow, that's fabulous."  She responded in all sincerity.

"I know!"  I gushed.  "I just wish there was a way for me to tell him that I'm his future wife."

"You're in the third row, right?"

"Yep."

She smiled brightly.  "Well, just make a sign and hold it up when he comes out."

I was speechless for a moment.  "And do what?  Rush the stage and hit him with it?  He's blind."

The Concept of Confidential

The other day we stumbled across some very important documents, including a checkbook for a young lady, lying in the road.  We picked them up and looked for some contact information, but only found the address on the checks.  However, one of the documents had the contact info listed for a local government-funded agency that the young lady was apparently a part of.

The following morning, in an effort to return the papers, I contacted the person at the agency.  Getting her voicemail, I explained the situation ending the message by providing my phone number for the young lady to get in touch with me.

A few minutes later I received a call back.

"Hi, Tracie.  This is Barbara with the ABC Agency.  I received your message and thank you for taking such good care of my client's belongings; however, due to confidentiality issues, I cannot have her call you."

Wait...what?  "You mean you can't allow me to call her."  I tried to sound polite as I corrected what I assumed to be a very confused individual.  "That's why I left you my number to give to her."

"I understand, ma'am.  However, I cannot give your number to her due to confidentiality issues.  But if you're close by our location, maybe you could..."

I rudely cut her off.  "Are you serious?  I am giving you permission to have her contact me, but it's a confidentiality issue to do so?"

My brain started whirling away at possible explanations - maybe the girl was unfamiliar with using a number blocker so a direct line wasn't published on someone's caller id?  Maybe since it was my cell phone I was dealing with a government agency there were legal complications...?  But, no...that didn't make any sense either.

"No...I'm trying to do the right thing here by returning what looks to be very important and private papers to someone and I'm not going to be held liable to continue to make additional effort just to be a Good Samaritan.  I will attempt to have my postman get the stuff to the address listed but that's all the additional effort I'm going to make.  And shame on you for failing your client."

I hung up completely flabbergasted by what I had just been told.

Cracks in the Sidewalks

Walking out to run a quick errand, I noticed a young lady sitting on the curb just outside the office.  What caught my eye first and foremost (and my sense for that matter) was the large portion of her ass displayed in the space left bare between her too-small babydoll tee and her too-low, too-tight trashy jeans.  To make matters way, way worse, baby girl was sporting a large, bright purple thong hitched up higher than her waist.  She was not a well put together girl, if you know what I mean, and the bright purple against her skin accentuated not only the plethora of stretch marks about her hips (fully exposed) but also her crack (again, because the undies were sheer, also fully exposed).

As I drove past her trying not to display my best Calvin and Hobbes grossed out face, I wondered: Is it really possible to not know your ass is literally hanging out all over your jeans?  Can you really manage to be so confused as to put your underwear above your waist and your jeans below your pelvic bone?  Does anyone know that this is never attractive, no matter your body type?

I guess I will just be proud that while big hair and acid-wash jeans should never have been allowed, I'm certainly thankful every day that "muffin top", "crack view", and "low-riding" weren't trends in my day.

Rude Disability

Topping off my water bottle at the gym before beginning my meager routine, I was interrupted by a loud, high-pitched barking noise directly behind me.  Startled, I turned around, glaring at the little man standing behind me.

Unaffected, he waved as though to shoo me away.  Apparently my derriere was blocking his ability to use the water fountain next to me.  Appalled, I moved away only because my bottle was already filled and got on the treadmill convincing myself I could let it go.  I was wrong.

Once re-dressed, I marched directly up to the counter and complained, describing the perpetrator as short, in a wife-beater ('cause those are HOTTTTT), with small headphones on that wrapped around the back of his head.  I politely informed them that it was inappropriate and even if he had some kind of impediment or problem, waiting for one person to finish did not take that long, and besides, there was another bank of water fountains located along the other wall.

The next day, as I was walking in, the front desk hostess stopped me and informed me that she'd been able to follow up with the man about the situation.

"Yeah, Ms. G., he's deaf."  She announced with that please-understand-and-feel-sorry-for-him expression.

I stood for a moment trying to understand this statement.  "Yeah," I responded, quite aware I was mocking her.  "Except for two things: one, impatience isn't a handicap.  If it were, the government would owe me a lot of money.  And two, if he's so deaf, why is he listening to music?"

As though by divine intervention, the culprit mounted a treadmill directly to my left.  I pointed to drive my observation home.  There he was, trekking along with his iPod perched on the machine, happily texting away.

Yeah, that's called 'dick' not 'deaf', sister.

Literally Kickin' Ass

Taking the dogs for our nightly walk, we passed by one of our favorite neighbors out chatting with a girl I hadn't seen before.  The guest brandished a brand new cast and crutches and was sitting on the porch leisurely sipping at a beer.

After exchanging hellos with my neighbor, I looked at her.  "My goodness!  What happened?"

Assuming I would hear some generic response such as "broke my foot" or "hurt my leg" as justified when someone is not familiar, I was ill prepared for her answer.

"Oh, I got in a fight."

My face went blank.  Was this supposed to be a subtle warning for me not to mess with the Brawlin' Beauty or a bragger's right?  I wasn't sure.  Being tugged along by the dogs fortunately gave me an easy out.

The automatic response dying to come out was, "Aren't you supposed to use your hands for that?".  But judging by her announcement, I didn't want this young lady to risk another dangerous encounter.

"Well, good luck with that."  I replied, thankful I could walk off.

iFail

Excitedly arriving at the Apple store to pick up my much-anticipated MacBook Pro, I practically bounced with energy over at the Set Up bar.  The place was packed - a children's camp going on at a table behind me and along with all the other patrons milling about, another Set Up bar directly at my back.  A quick speaking, tall young man introduced himself but was immediately absconded by a member of the blue-hair squad brandishing an iPhone.

I turned back to my own computer still sitting in the box; however, because of their close proximity, I couldn't help but catch snippets of their conversation.

"I need some help with this new phone."  Her shaky voice informed the Genius.

"Certainly.  What can I help you with?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of her phone.  "Hello?"  She answered.  A pause.  "Hello?"  A bit longer of a pause.  "Hello?"

"Ma'am, you have to turn the phone around."  The Genius offered, pulling the phone away from her ear just long enough to flip it around so that the face of the iPhone now pointed towards her.  "You may want to consider returning to your mobile provider and asking for a different phone."

Under the circumstances, I couldn't help but agree.

Trash Teachin'

On my way home, passing through a green light, I noticed an SUV pulling in to the turn lane on my right to merge in to traffic.  It was obvious that her light had been red as mine was green and still, as I came up on her left side, she attempted to pull in to the lane space I was currently occupying.  I did not move; just drove past her, taking note of her quick swerve back in to her own lane.

Several lights farther up the road and I happened to look over to my left while rolling to a stop.  Lo and behold the same army green SUV had pulled up alongside me, the passenger windows rolled down.  Two children accompanied the driver, the oldest in the front seat and the youngest - a boy of about 9 or 10 years old - sat in the back flipping me the bird, a huge grin on his face.  His mom, proudly grinning at me from the front seat.

I just shook my head at them, thinking: Nice, lady - you've managed to train your kids how to never earn respect in their lives.  Nice.

Sub-stantial?

Thinking myself starving, I left work in the late morning and jetted down the street to the nearest Subway.  The creaking door echoed as I stepped in to the deserted restaurant.  A young girl peered around the edge of the back room and held up a quick finger.  I waited patiently in the silence.

Soon, she was out and helping me build a delicious breakfast flatbread sandwich.  While the ingredients heated up, I attempted to strike up some small talk.

"A bit dead while you wait on the lunch rush to begin, huh?"

She shrugged, looking up directly at me as she responded: "Oh no.  I'm always busy with a pretty heavy breakfast crowd straight through to lunchtime."

Uh...I looked around me, certain I had not been mistaken on the emptiness of the dining area.

"Will that be all for you ma'am?"

"Yes."  Yep.  That's all.

Buddha Call

In search of a deity statue for a friend, google image results plastered my screen with hundreds of buddhas in all different shapes and sizes.

"What are you doing?"  A coworker asked.

"I'm searching for Buddha."

"You need Buddha?"

"My friend wants Buddha but she only likes my Buddha.

"I bet everyone likes your Buddha."

"The problem is my Buddha is unique."

"It's not that Sexy Buddha that's usually lying down is it?"  He asked with a smirk.

"It wasn't lying down.  She saw my Buddha in the bedroom and now wants it."

"Isn't that an expensive Buddha?"  Another coworker asked.

"Well, Sexy Buddha is usually Expensive Buddha."

"But her friend likes Tee's Buddha and wants it even though Tee's got a one-of-a-kind Buddha that's apparently quite expensive."

"That's why they call her high-maintenance."

So much for being enlightened.

Not Okay

My niece turned 21 on Sunday and to celebrate, I took her out to for muffins and mimosas and a little lite shopping. Chatting on our way back to the house, I mentioned that I was drawn to visuals and liked to just see things.

To which she excitedly responded, "Oh, I totally know what you mean! I ask for pics from every guy I talk to, and now I literally have a dick library on my phone."

Yay.