This is not in my job discription

Yesterday I had to help a 90-year-old woman to the bathroom, and then into the bathroom, and then onto the toilet. I saw an old ladies cooter. Thats not in my job description.

Today an old man told me he thought my wig looked ridiculous, and I don't wear a wig. I wanted to tell him his tiny body looked ridiculous on his giant bald head, but I figured, with the company downsizing and all, I shouldn't press my luck.

Office Christmas Party

I didn't go to mine. I was encouraged to go, because it was open bar (still not completely sure what my co-workers meant by " What do you mean you're going?? You have to! Its open bar!"), but that was exactly the reason I didn't go.

Let me explain. Its not like I'm not easily persuaded by an open bar, or I don't like my co-workers, but sometimes you've got to make the right decision for the greater good. And being the youngest employee of an otherwise middle-aged company is hard. You've got a job to do- and not just your actual job- you've got a reputation to withhold. For starters, you're fun. And cool. And you can drink a ton and wake up the next day unscathed. And just because all those things are true- just because I can drink a ton- doesn't mean I can control myself afterwards.

Case and point: A friend of mine who also happens to be the youngest employee at his company, and yet despite efforts to prevent embarrassing work experiences, continues to attend office parties.

Last year, he went to his office Christmas party and after hitting the open bar, he commented to his boss that his credit card company was "Harder to get rid of than a dead hooker". So of course, this year, wasn't going to let that happen. .. Until the CEO of the company suggested they do shots.

Side note: Shots are every could-be-party-disaster's weakness. We can't say no. Sort of like how vampires can only enter your home if invited. If its offered, we've got to take it.

So, a few shots later, he's laughing and joking with his bosses, and his boss comments that he likes his hat. So he says "Yeah, a lot of people say it makes me look gay. But I figure it couldn't make me look any gayer than the gay sex does."

I'd be surprised if his girlfriend lets him go next year.

Snow Days that should have been...

All but one of our afternoon patients cancelled today because of the weather. The 3 o'clock patient decided he'd weather the storm. So, since 10:30 this morning, we have had nothing to do.

It is currently 1:45.


I just overheard one receptionist say to the other, "I spy... with my little eye.... something that is.... bored."

Dear Facebook,

You are making people into liars.

Well, maybe that's too strong. You're more enabling people who are prone to lying to do so more freely.

You know that personality type that is always trying to one-up you? The person that, when you cook dinner for your family, they just cooked dinner for a soup kitchen? Or when you're excited because you just became an aunt for the first time, they're more excited about the fact that their Godchild was just nominated Soldier of the Year. And its exponential, and they can't stop. They have a problem. Well, thanks a lot, Facebook, because you just made that person a thousand times more annoying.

I'll admit that I post what I'm doing on facebook-- almost daily. Where I'm going, what room in my house I'm cleaning; but that annoying one-upper is posting hourly. And much like real life, they're posting about stuff that never really happened.

Other than one time where I outright asked one of my friends how the 5-K went, and they admitted they slept in, I don't exactly have proof-- but I feel I have the makings of solid evidence. For example: You are not doing your grad-school homework. You're on Facebook. I'm not even convinced that the Community College of Vermont offers a long-distance grad program, but thats a different issue. And I have an unrealistic number of friends who go to the gym, and THEN go running. Really? You're at the gym, then running?-- Funny, because 12 minutes after you posted "Running" you posted "Whipping up some homemade hummus. YUM! ;)".
And then there's the 'super woman' post. The: "Just got home for work: crockpot boiling, cookies baking!! Cleaned the bathroom, finished my core thesis, and about to go for a 3 mile run before starting another knitting project tonight!! I <3 Life "

I think you love Lie.

A few things I've noticed about observational humor...

According to Wikipedia, the source of all unscholarly knowledge, Observational Comedy is described as, "a style of humor based on making remarks about commonplace aspects of everyday life." And following that description, the website gives a list of both American and British comedians that have made that style of comedy popular. I hold those comedians directly responsible for much of my adolescent awkwardness, and the misery I have to endure every time I am rhetorically asked "whats with" a utilitarian object.

I think Observational Comedy, or OC as it will from now on be referred to, has been done. Its been overused, and needs to be retired, or at least put on vacation for an undetermined amount of time, along with 'That's what she said'; 'Wasn't that your nickname in high school?'; 'Oh, burn'; 'Zing'; 'No Homo'; and many other expressions that could have been used for good, but instead were quickly overused for evil.

While I'm at it, let me just point out that I also include Lady Gaga in that list.

I focus mainly on Observational Comedy because despite being used primarily to note commonly shared experiences, at this point OC almost always misses it's mark. Because, when someone starts an observation with "Have you ever noticed..." someone else will, without fail, say "No." For two reasons. One: because all the really obvious OC has been done: all social situations, all types of people, all condiments, all restaurant chains, everything. So by the time OC got down to the 'everyman' it sounded something like, "Ever notice how rich housewives from Connecticut lose their shit over cranberry mayonnaise?". The second reason people will say "No" is because people are fed-up with OC, and would prefer to be unnecessarily argumentative with a humor based on the listeners compliance with a common idea.

OC has made everyone a comedian, the problem being: not everyone is a comedian. It is not a universal human trait. I had a girl say to me, while playing a game of twenty questions, "What is a breadbox anyway? And who uses a box for bread. I mean, really." Long story short-- the game became a half hour conversation about shit no one cares about only to end with everyone feeling slightly bitter, and on top of it all, no one ever figured out what she was thinking of.

At the risk of using one of the should-be banned over-used phrases, we have all become 'That Guy'. We're all becoming the guy in your office that wont stop 'Thats what she said'ing side conversations. And if 'That Guy' 'Zing's you one more time you'll stab him with a pen--'No Homo'.

Its gotten to the point where we've figured out how to act like lofty yet pointless pontificating drunks without the drinking. Way to beat the system, us.

To conclude, it's no longer funny and it needs to stop.

Giving Thanks for Microsoft Paint

I think I may have a future in marketing.

Did we ever find out what was eating Gilbert Grape?

It has been brought to my attention that I may be a retard.

I can't say that there weren't signs: People calling me adorable, or patting me in the head like a child, when in reality I'm an average sized human being and lack any adorable traits. Or My boss congratulated me on a job well done when the job I did wasn't done very well. Or My boyfriend constantly calling me a retard.

What if everyone is in on it? My parents, and my 'friends'; I graduated college a semester early-- but what if I didn't actually graduate at all? What if I'm not actually getting paid money at my job right now, but sparkly stickers? What if I'm not even typing right now, but instead drawing pictures of kitty cats on an old white board?

But, of course, if I was retarded, I would know. Wouldn't I? But then, That girl in my high school, the one with downs syndrome who thought my female friend was a boy and would call her 'handsome' and give her pictures of them holding hands-- she didn't know. She thought she was Normal.

But... All that being considered... things are going pretty well for good ol' RetardKim, so, I'm not about to rock the boat.

I love my job.

Today:

An old man with Parkinson's yelled at me to go get him some common sense. In all seriousness.

I was looking through a patient's chart after one of the tests came back a little strange, and I found out he had Glaucoma. And then he found out he had Glaucoma by my saying "Does anyone else in your family have Glaucoma?"

A patient shit themselves during an exam. THIS IS NOT THE FIRST TIME THIS HAS HAPPENED.

A co-worked harassed me about how I don't respect the tradition and sanctity of marriage because I'm not married. Because I'm twenty-three years old and STILL not married. Darn me, and my liberal spinster ways. Its not my fault you knocked up your girlfriend in college.

Lets Make a Deal...

So, CBS re-made the show 'Let's Make a Deal', which was a show I loved when I was younger, because it was retro, and the costumes were cool, and I've always wanted to dress up like little-bo-peep and win a brand new gas range.

But I'm a little disenchanted with the remake. Because now I see that the reality of the show is a bunch of adults who have enough time on their hands to dress up like the village people and get 'zonk'ed in the middle of the day. Who carries around two hard boiled eggs in their purse anyway? Gross me out.

Feels like a good day to get Murdered...

Recent events in my life have had me thinking. Thinking about getting murdered. And how its a decidedly negative thing to get killed-- or is it? I mean, people always focus on the negative; all the life lost, all the things the person who died will never get to do, but whose to say they would have done any of that anyway? I've made a list of all the things I wouldn't have to do:

Wake up early, go to work.
Shave my legs, worry about holiday weight gain.
Pay my student loans back.
Pay for a house, or a wedding, or have a kid who grows up to be a teenager who hates me.
I would never get caught speeding
I would never be audited.
I would never get old (This is the big one people usually mourn about. 'So-and-so never got a chance to grow old!' Right. An opportunity to sag, ache, wrinkle, and become increasingly embittered by the youth generation. Tragic.)

People would remember me as this young, smart, smiling person-- who I never was, but I didn't have enough time to make a really strong impression on most people, so they'd fabricate these great memories of me.

Just a thought.

Thanks for the input

Today was "Tell the tech how to do her job" day at the office. If I had known in advance, I would have called in sick.

An old man says to me, "I think you're getting entirely too close to my eye. But I'm not trying to tell you how to do you job..." Only... I think he was trying to tell me how to do my job.

See, and the thing that really rings me out is that I was testing the pressure inside of his eye, which requires me to touch his eye. So yes. I was extremely close to his eye. So close that I was touching it. But you've got to touch it to test the pressure. So shut up.

I didn't know I had this much time on my hands...

I was at home this Halloween, waiting for trick-or-treaters, and I caught part of TLC's Halloween Marathon of the show 'I didn't know I was pregnant'. (very scary)


I quickly realized that the show would more accurately be titled 'I refused to entertain the idea that I might be pregnant' as I watched woman after woman recall the horrifying story of how they didn't realize that their cravings, weight gain, missed periods, and mood swings were all signs of.. SHOCKER-- pregnancy.



But that wasn't the best part of the show. It was dramatic reenactments of the woman's stories that made it. They had actresses who looked exactly like the women, except pretty and thin. At one point a nearly toothless, squat woman with a bad dye job and a southern drawl was played by a tall, thin model with no accent. I'd like to believe that the woman themselves were involved in casting.

There was very little variety in the monologues read by the woman who retold their story. Every woman made the same two statements.
One: "My weight always fluctuated a little, so I didn't think much of it..." Quickly followed up by many recounts from family members who stated they didn't think she looked pregnant. Which translates strongly into 'this girl has always been dumpy'.
Two: "I was concerned about the health of the baby, because of the lack of pre-natal care." Which is a thinly vailed "I smoked and drank A LOT."


The show was designed, I think, to scare women into thinking that they too might be pregnant, to what end I'm not sure. But it didn't really accomplish that for me. Because I'm not a retard.

Sad goodbyes...

As I find myself browsing the Dell website, I ask not 'where do computers go when they die?' but rather, 'where do they go when they don't?'

What do you do with a computer that is almost completely useless because of how slow it runs once you replace it with a much faster, sleeker computer? Is there a rest home for computers that refuse to die?

Because you've had this computer for almost five years, and you have a strong bond. But, much like a five-year-old golden retriever, regardless of the fact that its a beloved member of your family, it's best years are behind it, and its time to put it down.

That is the struggle that I currently face.

With my laptop. I don't have a golden retriever. Anymore.

Caution

I've been having a hard time getting dressed recently. Its getting colder, and my summer clothes aren't really reasonable, but my winter clothes are driving me crazy. While in storage over the summer, my entire wardrobe shrunk. Like magic or something. All my clothes from last season are tight on me. So,because I can't afford go out and get new clothes, I've had to get creative as I try to find outfits for work. Last Monday was a failed attempt. I tried to go for a sort of loose top with a tank top under it, to cover my middle parts the best I could. Except my tank top kept riding up in the back, and my baggy shirt kept slipping down in the front. You've heard of casual Friday? Well, this was more like, Dress like a whore Monday.

Despite the slight "Northern Exposure" I was toting all day, I thought I pulled it off. 'It' being the hiding of the post-summer bulge. To test how well I did, I fished.

"I haven't felt very good about myself recently." I said with a frown, as I led my boyfriend down a fatal path. I pulled at my shirt-- a blatant hint! Without looking at me, hopefully without thinking, he said,

"You should try running."

Stay tuned for my next few posts which will undoubtedly involve dieting.

Ohhh sickness.

I know that I've been told about a hundred times: do not go to work when you feel sick. Especially me. Where I work, people are sick, all the time. I could cough, or rub my face, and end up killing grandma. And not Sarah Palin's grandma, but like, a real grandma. So, its common sense to stay home, I don't need a television news report to tell me that. And yet, scratchy throat, hot/cold, muscle pain... I'm going to work. Because Time Magazine never told me how I was suppose to manage my bills if I don't work.

So, I've come up with a plan. First, develop a rating system, from one to ten, to determine how sick you really are. Maybe you're nose is running, and you have a sore throat, that would only be like a 2. and then fever and vomiting would raise the numbers. Now, call into work and tell your co-workers you're ill, and inform them of your current sickness rating. Then they negotiate with you on a price to keep you home. It wouldn't have to be an exact exchange, because you're not actually working, but it will help compensate for the missed day.

Oh. Gross.

Do you know what happens when you forget that you bought a gallon of apple cider, and leave it in the trunk of your car for two weeks, in the heat and sun?

Well, I do.

In related news, I found out what was rotting in my car.

I Hate Women.

Some of the most successful bouts of self-loathing I have ever experienced were brought on by logic-less comments made by women. This post is devoted to a few of the women I work with.

Most people would say their weight fluctuates, it seems natural enough. Every year I gain and lose the same 10 or so pounds and try not to think that much of it. I mean, I'm over worked, and underpaid, and stressed about my future and global warming and the nation's economy, -- I really don't need to add another insecurity to that list. That being said however, I work with women, and it is a well known fact that women will not rest until you are crippled by insecurities about every aspect of your life.

Yesterday, I was chatting with the ladies who work next door, and I mentioned that we ate dinner at my boyfriend's parent's house last night. The older of the two women said "And how old are you??" and when I told her she curled up her lip, "And you're STILL mooching off your parents??" Because if women ever find even a kernel of doubt in you, they will put heat on it until it explodes. And remember that.

That same day, the co-worker whom I work most closely with asked me what I did this weekend.
FACT: When a woman asks you what you did this weekend, in reality, she doesn't care. She is simply fishing for a topic with which she will make you feel like shit about. And I know this, but for whatever reason, I excitedly told her about the new restaurant I found with my friends, and the squash soup I had there. She immediately stated, "If you keep eating all that milk you're going to get chubby." Milk. I'm being advised to avoid milk in my formative years because it is MILK that will make me fat. Yes, I'm sure it's the milk. Not the beers, or the chips, or the hot wings, or the heavy dinners. Its milk.

On that same thread, a few days ago, I was joking with the doctor about how poor I am. I told her about how my boyfriend and I eat rice with every meal (nearly true,-- at least five nights a week) and last week we were busted by our friends eating just rice with hot sauce for dinner (true. and embarrassing). -- I'll admit that this time, it was MY mistake to share that information; I should know better. Women have notoriously bad senses of humor. She snipped at me, "You shouldn't be eating rice at all. You'll get all thicker in your middle."

Thick-er. Great.

Wedding Season...

Normally, I would make a joke like Vermonters make about Tourists: "If its wedding season-- why can't we shoot them??"


But that's not how I feel this time. Because this wedding is my brother's. I found out last week the pastor has requested I say a few words at the ceremony as the maid of honor/sister of the groom, she wants me to "tell the story of Chris and Denise" and all I can think is "Wow. This woman has obviously never met me." Because if she did know me, she'd know how I feel about the world. It pretty much revolves around me. Exclusively. And I was informed by the bride and groom that there were a few things they'd prefer I wouldn't bring up in the church. Mainly, drinking and bars, swearing, throwing up, and anything involving sex. So, I'm going to have to make something up.


I looked up online phrases like "wedding toasts" "maid of honor speeches" "wedding speeches" and I realized that no one has any taste. Its like Cosmo magazine threw up all over the Internet, and I've figured out a formula, let me share it.

First of all, no speech centers around the groom. Ever. Its the first rule of speeches. It starts with an introduction. Then you say something generic, like "when I was first introduced to (groom) ..." and this could end in two ways, either you knew the second you saw him he would be with (bride) forever, or the generic 'anyone (bride) loves, I love too'. Which is speech talk for 'I kind of thought he was a dillhole, but we're stuck with him, so I'm learning to deal with it. Then, most speeches involve a joke about hair, makeup, or nails, and will undoubtedly end with " but seriously..." and then you say something sappy, maybe your voice cracks, and its all over.

But seriously. I'm freaking out. I'm not sure this will be like when I was 16, failing drivers ed, and for my final presentation I pulled a tear jerking story out of left field about the dangers of drunk driving and, as a reward for my dumb luck, received the highest grade in the class. ...I don't see that happening this time.

Sneaky Pity

Four days ago, I went to my parent's house to pick up some of my mail, because yes, even as an adult, my permanent address is still my parent's house, and at the time of arrival, I felt pretty good. I had been out of work for two weeks, but I was returning, my bills could wait, life was good. My mother and stepfather starting asking questions about my employment. Whens, and wheres, and how long. Its shocking how quickly a conversation with my parents can go from innocent curiosity to ruthless bullying. Anyway-- I cried. Not even really cried though, just sniffled, teared up, and made a quick exit. Eight miles later I was at home, and I'd forgotten all about it. My mother however, had not. She called me a half an hour after I got home. Just calling saying 'hi'. Hi. My mother never calls just to say 'hi'. So, I said my hello, my awkward 'so, whats new?'.. and hung up. The next day, I had two e-mails in my inbox from my mother. One, a story about a pig being adopted by a family of dogs. Ok... I like pigs, I like dogs, that's totally an appropriate story to send me. I guess. The second was a series of pictures with warm, uplifting captions, characters from Winnie-the-pooh hugging with a flowery 'friends forever'' under it; cats looking into mirrors seeing lions ' its whats on the inside'... Ok.. moving on, I got up and saw my phone had a text message. From my mom. 'I love you. Mommie.' And then it hit me: My mother thinks I'm going to off myself. Super.

I have since received a phone call every evening, a text, and an e-mail every day. Just to say hi

Fitting

In leau of lunch today, I went to a bridal shop to buy a dress for my brother's impending wedding. Much to my surprise, you need to order these things 8 weeks in advance, my brother's wedding, however, is in 4 weeks. But for a small fee, they are able to rush the dress. How good of them. The shop was small, it had been a coffee shop before this, and before that it was an antique store, and the owner of the shop was on the phone with the police, telling them about a stolen necklace... but I was dress shopping. I found two nearly identical dresses, tried both on, took pictures with my phone, and decided that the more expensive one looked best. Of Course. Now, designer dresses run large, especially wedding related dresses, which is a topic I can't even bring myself to get into right now, another time maybe... But, as I am being sized, fully clothed, the woman tells me, "You're about an eight hip, but a six bust..." and then she realized that I may have been offended by the suggestion that I'm pear shaped, and maybe rightfully so, I've never considered myself pear shaped... So she says quickly "Well- Thats okay though. We can just put in *a little* padding, and you wont even need it altered." and I reply, flattly, "I'm already wearing padding."

Lunchtime.

Spaghettio's boast the ability to be "Ready in 3 minutes!" Now, that's pretty impressive, but right under it, it says to microwave on high for 1 minute. So, what I want to know is, what retard takes two minutes to open a can?

I can't even eat in peace.

Therapy Burn

So, this all started as a self-therapy experiment, but armed with the knowledge that I should always spread my interests, I also see a traditional therapist.

Once a week I sneak into town and stare at this woman for an hour. And I talk, mostly about the week. I don't think I'm very good at therapy, and I imagine its pretty frustrating to listen to me rant. Something like listening to a second-hand book review. And then I leave, wondering if she got anything from that, as if the session was to benefit her. Well, that was my plan for today until she called me at 9am, which, by the way, is such an insult. For her to know I'd still be at home, in bed, and not at work, or out, or somehow unavailable because I'm a contributing member of society totally burns me up. So, she says she's in the hospital, and she'll have to cancel our meeting for today. And then she's going on vacation, so she'll see me at the end of the month. And I just say "You'll really do anything to get out of this, wont you?" Honestly though, I think hospitalization is going a little far.

5 year plan

I could be considered an adult, in some social circles. People around me are married, have children, own homes, buy cars, have credit cards. This weekend I drove 123 miles to ask my dad for money. And I tell you what, that never gets old. But neither does being able to pay the bills, so I guess it works out. . . No matter how many times I work out my budget, I still manage to come up short. I'm starting to think that I sleep spend.

The world's most lucid dream

Being moved down to part-time is miserable, but it allows me to really focus on people watching. And better than just regular people watching: people watching at the unemployment office.

Upon walking through the door, I encountered a man at the front desk who was probably younger than he looked, struggling through a work history form with a bear of a man who had been a truck driver for as long as he could remember. The old-ish man told me to sit down because I was making him nervous. I was slightly offended that I had the capacity to make him nervous, but he was comfortable with the Bearman.

I was eventually brought into the back to speak with some sort of a placement director. Betty was impressed that I had a job. And not a job 'recently' but still currently was employed, and looking for another job to bump me up to 40 hours a week. And I had a resume. As she came to these revolutions through her own, slow-moving fashion, I realized that maybe I'd be better off going this alone.

Food for thought: Is there such a thing as too much Fla-Vor-Ice? Is this going to be like the time when I was at work and I found out too many lifesavers has a laxative effect?

Foot still in mouth

Today, trying my hand at idle conversation, I told a patient she looked well. She told me she was stressed. Hoping to salvage the short answer to my pathetic attempt at conversation, which I should know by now isn't worth it, I said she should be happy, her blood pressure was down the lowest it had been since 2007. She said she was shocked, between having to move and taking care of her husband in the hospital, she was completely worn out. This is the point where I should have stopped. Instead I said,
"Well, I'm sorry to hear about you husband." And then, THIS I should have ended with that. but I said "Is he doing better?" No, she said. He passed in April.

Then I really should have stopped, but out of my mouth flopped "Well, at least he's stable now."

Oh Horriffic Embarrassment

Getting your foot in your own mouth is a universal problem in the greater New England area. In the rural areas, the fault lies in people who have poor conversational skills attempting to make meaningful conversation. It should be enough to ask me how I am, and then confirm that they too are doing well, but it never is.

I was pushing my grocery cart up to the casheir counter, and the 30-something casheir says to me, "Isn't it so hard to try to diet on a budget?" And I looked at her, then into grocery cart, then at myself. What was it about any of these things that said I was on a diet? Or, worse, what was it about me that said I was on a budget?!

------

I was buying scrubs for work recently, and the casheir said to me, "Oh, you must be a nurse!" And its true, I do work in the medical field, but I'm not a nurse. My boyfriend says, "No, she's just planning on getting fat."

-------

Which reminds me...
Ever have a sex dream about a co-worker, then when you're at work and they give you this look, this 'I know what you did, you sick pervert.', look? Or worse, you feel as if they're tormenting you, you ask for a pen and they say "Yeah, you want it??" And even though its completely impossible, you still can't help but wonder to yourself 'how do they know this?!' and then you promptly avoid eye contact for the rest of the time you're working there.

Joke of the day: All the girls I knew in college were bi. I'd mention sex and they'd just raise their hands and say 'Bye!'

Mom Burn

I was sitting in my parent's living room, visiting my mother at about 8 o'clock this evening, and we were talking friendly about the parents of people she works with, and the company who mows her lawn in Florida, when my mother stood up, and walked into the dinning room, and I followed her. "Pie?" She asks. I decline. "Coffeecake?" I decline. "Do you need anything?" She says, as she sifts through her pantry, I say quickly, No.
 

Her pantry has had the same dry goods in it since I was in high school. There have been multiple logo changes --full companies have gone out of business-- since she replaced any of that food. We move into the laundry room, and out onto the porch. She hugs me and says "Alright then, Goodnight sweetheart." Except I wasn't leaving. Well, I was now, but I hadn't thought I was before. I didn't even have my shoes on.

I was kicked out of my own house by my own mother. burn.

Also, I saw six skunks. two biggins and four little ones. They were very
cute, and I did get a picture.

Black Out

As you probably already know, I'm a terrible fan of domestic abuse.

A few months ago I was sitting on the T, on one of the older bench style underground models on the orange line, and this girl sits down across from me and she's had one black eye, and -- I kid you not-- a fist shaped bruise on her right cheek. And I'm wearing my dark sunglasses, so I can pretend that no one knows what I'm looking at. Not that anyone would notice what I was looking at; we're all gawking at the human meat bag sitting across from me. Regardless, it made me regret not paying more attention in Spanish class, so she would understand me when I yelled, "Bet 'cha wont do THAT again!".

--- On a related topic...

Today, at work, I was completing an intake form for a woman with a bruised chin and two black eyes, and being the naturally curious but non-threatening person I am, I asked her "So, what happened?" And she told me that on Sunday she slipped getting out of the tub, and I said "Oh, is THAT what they're calling it now."

I do believe God gives us second chances.

Pinky out

So. I believe I need to take a moment for etiquette.

At the market today, I was picking up a few things for dinner; Spaghetti sauce, brownie mix, white wine, and as I was reaching down to a low shelf for the ginger ale I heard the sound of bottles falling behind me. And now, in Boston, I wouldn't have flinched. It would have been rude of me to even acknowledge that person behind me juggling. But I turned around anyhow, and there was a boy, younger than myself -but not too much younger- holding about four bottles of Snapple, with two bottles on the floor, his knee his crooked holding open the freezer door, and he was giving me this look, this 'well, aren't you going to do something about this?' look. As if, in the time it took me to contemplate not turning around, I had inconvenienced him. It was my responsibility to pick up those bottles for him, regardless of my own juggling.

Now when I attempted to share this story, all I received was a 'I hate it when people don't help you in the grocery store.' Right. Now I'm the asshole.

Cheesey Mac and Bacon

When left to my own devices, I rarely do the right thing. Tonight, I was on my own for dinner. It turned out well, and so I am including the recipe, in case there are any bachelors out there looking to get either one: fatter, or two: more alone. Or both.

Ingredients:


Box of mac and cheese
4 pieces of bacon
Shake cheese

Directions:

To make mac and cheese, follow directions on the box.
Cook all four slices of bacon and let cool.
Crumble 3 slices of bacon and add to mac and cheese.
Eat fourth slice of bacon separately while standing over the sink.
Add a little shake-cheese.
Stir and enjoy.

For a healthier alternative:

Eat a salad, you fat, lonely bastard.

Ball-er-ama

There aren't many venues for a person to experience night life in this green place. However, if you were in the market, White River Junction is like the Detroit of Central Vermont. You can find a mediocre Thai restaurant, a Mexican restaurant that boasts a margarita the size of your head, and the Jewel of the town: a combination bar/bowling alley/strip club. This marvel of modern engineering serves to please all walks of life. Where else is it appropriate to have a eight-year-old's birthday and a lewd bachelor party simultaneously in the same establishment? Separated by a black ply-wood construction, its enough to make you spill your lemon seabreeze. All that is left for patrons to decide is whether they want their 15 dollar fully-nude lap dance before or after a round of bowling.

Bear it

Yesterday I was introduced to my neighbor.

She was a broad, sunny woman named Michelle in a pink peasant blouse. I hate peasant blouses. She drove her crossover SUV up the driveway, got out of her car, and started to walk toward me all without any greeting. I was on my way back from the chicken coop, still in my pajamas with a water bucket in my hand, and finally, pulled by the awkwardness of the confrontation and the realization that I could never overpower anyone with a plastic water bucket, I said "hello". And she said "I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood." And with that, my heart filled with love. What a wonderful gesture. Followed immediately by, "Yesterday I saw a bear." And pointed to the corner of my garage, the place of the bear sighting. If there's one thing that scares me more than change, and the dark, its bears. Because bears smell fear. She looked me up and down, and held her hand out at shoulder height, "It was about this tall. Maybe 150 pounds. But when I drove toward it, it ran away." Oh, good. I was considered about its ability to run. "It was probably looking for garbage." She said as she slowly, judgmentally, scanned my yard. As if my yard was a perfect place to find garbage. I look behind me at a heaping ancient burn pile that was my back yard. Sticking out from the soot were aerosol cans, insulation, half-burned books, and other trash left behind by the previous owner.
I'm probably going to have to clean that up.



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I was picking up feed at the local store, and there was a middle-aged man in front of me in line. On a rack hanging by the counter were pamphlets on how to best raise your live birds. Feeding and Breeding mostly. "How much for the 4 foot picket?" He asked. Erskine replied "89 cents". 89 cents, I thought. What a bargain, what can you get these days for less than a dollar? A four foot picket. As I marveled at the beauty of local business, the man proceeded to haggle. Unsuccessfully. "I'll give you 85." "It's 89." Erskine said with a tone of finality. The man grumbled something about highway robbery. My 50 pounds of chicken feed: $6.50, I didn't haggle.

Sweetness

Earlier this week I was driving home from work, and as I went over the crest of a hill I could see up ahead an old red pick-up truck, pulled off to the side of the road. Since returning to Vermont from Boston, I've have this idealize image of what it is to live here, and as I drove closer to the truck, I was thinking about how lucky I was to live in this perfect state. It was dusky, and the humidity was subsiding. There was someone in the truck, at first all I could see was this large grey beard -and I thought about how much I had missed those large beards- I could see it was an old man, and there was an old woman with him, and as I drove even closer, I could see they were making out. Right there on the side of the road.

Vermont is a cruel mistress; She lures you in with her natural beauty, and then flashes her hideous c-section scar at you. 

I immediately resented the fact that there was no one in my car to share that experience with. And so, perhaps as a form of healing, I'll record it here.

There is so much more than I resent, but healing takes time.