Cheap Accommodations

On the coldest night of the year, my man and I decided to brave the brisk evening for some bar-be-que. Choosing Famous Dave's, we quickly made our way in, hunched over, braced against the cold.

We followed the hostess past two large, mostly empty rooms in to a back area filled with people.  As soon as we crossed the threshold, we were hit with a chill not unlike a meat locker.  As we are seated, I begin to realize that all the patrons in this back area are still jacketed and covered with scarves and hats. We sat.

When the waitress arrived, before putting in an order, I couldn't help but draw attention to the chilly atmosphere.  "Why is it so cold back here?"

"Oh, the heater is broken back here.  But we're working on it and there are space heaters placed throughout. "  She smiled sweetly, got our drink order and disappeared.

D and I exchanged looks.  When she came back with our drinks, I couldn't help but ask - "Why would you be seating people in an area that wasn't heated when the remaining part of the restaurant seems to be open and okay?"

"Oh," she began with a dismissive swipe of her hand.  "That's because the shifts haven't started for those areas up front."

My face went blank. Um...are you telling me, there lil' missy, that because the "assigned waitstaff" hasn't arrived yet, you can't seat people in those areas?  Seriously?  The current staff isn't capable of taking care of those tables in the interim?  I looked around at the bundled up patrons again before glancing back at her.

"I know, doesn't make sense, but the hostesses weren't informed."  She smiled brightly.

"You know, I'm freezing."  I admitted.  "Can you just bring me some hot chocolate?"

I sat on my hands, my jacket pulled tightly against me until she came back with a small steaming cup.  Setting it down, she smiled again at me.  "I spoke with the manager, and because of the situation we'd like to offer you free hot chocolate and as many refills as you like."

As she left, I looked at my man.  "So, what is that actually?  Like thirty-five cents?"

The OTHER Abe Lincoln

Plopping down on the sofa, I turned to my man and inquired about a movie for the night.  As we perused the list of available options, the cover image of a lanky man with an axe snagged my attention.

"You know, that movie we watched about Abraham Lincoln the other day really was a good movie."  I took a sip of my drink and settled further in to the couch.

"Which one?"  His look was the blank page of no recollection.  Then the light dawned in his eyes.  "Oh, where he got killed?"

Um...no honey.  The other one.  'Cause that theater malarky is just a myth.

Interpretations of the Bible

I caught a radio show in progress one morning on the way to work that left me so confused and stumped that I literally could not change the radio station.

"...and there will be no pets in heaven.  They are soulless.  But do not worry!  There will be animals!"  (um...so pets aren't animals?  when did this happen?).  "We will live among the bear, the lion, the beast.  The bible tells us that we will rule these creatures.  They will live in harmony with us.   Amen."

So, while I was trying to reconcile that pets - who love us, are dedicated to us, provide solace and protection have no souls, gruesome cannibals such as the lion and bear will sit alongside us in heaven, meaning they have souls?  How does that work really? - the man continued on another avenue of crazy:

"Another question that is brought up is 'why do I have to work'?  This is a really good question!  Work is hard.  It's disappointing.  In many cases, it's fruitless.  But if we look at the bible, Genesis tells us the reason for this is because work is cursed.  Amen.  But don't lose hope!  Don't lose faith!  For God also tells us that we shall be rewarded in heaven for all this work.  Corinthians explains we shall rule the angels.  That's right - we will rule the angels.  I can live with that, can you?  (laughter in the audience) So, find happiness in your work.  For you will be working for God!  Amen.  You will be working for the King of Kings in heaven!"

So...wait...but won't that still be work?  I thought you just said work was cursed?  If God claims work to be cursed, how can he ask you to be excited about working for him?  Am I missing something?

Truly Bilingual

Still moving through the wilds of office construction, I happened upon a man on a small scaffolding applying paint to the top of the doorway leading to the open area that also housed the bathrooms.

I paused in my dilemma just long enough for the man to graciously step down and move the little contraption aside.

"Thank you," I replied to his gesture with a smile.

Exiting, he had already climbed back on the little two-step support walk and was once again, heavily focused on his overhead task.  I slowed as I approached the blocked doorway trying to assess if there was any way to keep the man from having to climb down again to accommodate my passage.

He caught sight of me and turned in my direction.

"Uno mas tiempo, por favor."  I called out to the Hispanic construction worker.

His eyebrows raised up as he stepped down on to the floor.  "Habla espanol?"

"Un poquito, pero no hablame mas rapido, por favor."  I responded, trying my best to roll my R's.

"How come you know espanich?"  He asked.

"I grew up in Texas."

"Ohhh..."  His grin broadened.  "So, you speaka de...um...Texican?"  He waved his hands at me as I began to laugh.  "Ees okay.  I speaka de Spanglish."

Damn...It's Me.

With my upcoming new book release, I realize that I have left some blogs in draft form.  I am excited to say that the new book, Private Property, published on January 12th and I am back focused on my other 'responsibilities'.  So, here is the first blog that should have gone out in December:

Deciding we'd spend a relaxing holiday season at home without any guests, I eagerly wrapped and packed up all the gifts we needed to send out.  Waiting dangerously close to the last minute, I looked up the nearest UPS Store and fought my way through the downtown traffic to locate it.  As with most downtown areas, all parking spots were angled and metered and making it ever more difficult for me to find a spot.  The wind had picked up in preparation of an upcoming winter storm and I had too many packages to juggle to attempt to park across the street or down the block.

I circled the block once, twice, and on my third lap, at the very last minute a patron exited the store.  I flicked on my blinker, slowed to a stop and glanced at the clock.  5:30pm.  Awesome.  I'd be home before the man.

I pulled in the prime spot just to the left of the storefront and fought the blustery wind to the trunk of my car.  The traffic had backed up as the light turned red and I noticed the bored drivers glancing my way.  I looked in at the seven boxes packed in my car.  Hmmm.  How best to get them out and in to the store?  Well, I'd have to do what I could.

I hefted one large box and two small ones in to my arms, tucking a wrapped cylinder and small container up under my chin.  My purse took that most inopportune moment to jerkily slide down my arm and get entangled between the crook of my elbow and a sharp corner of the big box.  I hitched and lurched, jerking my shoulder in odd movements to attempt to dislodge it.  I tried using my elbow to close the trunk lid but my damnable purse got in the way.

Finally freeing the stupid bag and allowing it to dangle somewhere on my trapped forearm, I leaned the packages up against the passenger door, securing them with my body, as I reached out to close the trunk.  The first swipe was a near miss, my fingertips grazing the metal.  The second swipe didn't have enough force behind it and left the trunk lid popping back open as if to laugh at me.  In growing impatience, I took a swing at the thing and smiled in satisfaction at the audible click confirming it closed.

But my win was short lived as the packages dislodged and began sliding down the door with an odd, irritating sound much like dragging a half-wet cloth across a dry window.  Rrrreeeerrrrrreeeeeee.  I squatted in quick reaction, trying my best to keep the boxes from spilling out across the pavement, my butt almost touching the ground.  Saved from having to pick them up, I realized I was in the precarious position of having to pull myself out of a deep squat with nothing but the balls of my feet.  Damn.

Back in an upright position, and sorely out of breath from the exertion, I moved between the cars towards the sidewalk.  Having forgotten about the bag still awkwardly dangling from my arm, I was not prepared for the severe jerk as my body was wrenched to the side and my elbow collided painfully with the side-view mirror.  My purse had once again executed its well-planned attack and now sat wrapped around the friggin' mirror taunting me.

Precious seconds passed as I finagled the thing off my car and freed myself to pursue forward movement once again.  Up on the sidewalk, over to the door and...locked.  I tried again with the two fingers I had available to pull the handle.  Nope.  Locked.  I looked up.  The storefront grate was pulled down around the shipping counter.  The lights were dimmed.  Are you serious?!  I thought in complete exasperation.  It was only the busiest time of the year for shipping and I had practically done myself in just to get the damned first load of boxes safely out of my car!

Not to be defeated, I turned and trudged back, against the biting wind.  I stepped off the curb, hitched the heavy packages up, lost my balance and slammed my hip in to the car.  Ouch.  Double Damn.  I had already decided that I wouldn't brave the trunk again, and opened the passenger car door.  Only I opened it from the wrong side.  It bounced in to me and then slammed shut.  I shuffled past and tried again.  As I swung the door open, the packages began to fall and I pitched forward in an effort to have them land on the seat and not the ground.

Thankfully, I won the skirmish.  Standing up and smiling, I straightened my shirt and turned, to look in to the faces of all the people staring at me in their idling cars.  The smile faded from my lips.  Damn. Damn. Damn.  I thought to myself, if I had been watching that episode play out, I would have been torn between hysterical laughter and embarrassment for the poor bloke.  And then it hit me - Damn.  It's me.  And that's exactly what these people were doing.

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?"