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.