I Am Woman, Hear Me Rant

(I know, I know.... I need SOME kind of intro)...



I planted an opened can of sardines under a co-worker’s desk last Friday. The guy fancies himself a prankster, and I wanted to smack him down in no uncertain terms.

I was cackling wildly to myself on the drive to work Monday. The smell would be so bad. “What did YOU do this weekend?” would be my opening salvo.

The sardines failed miserably. I walked into his office only to encounter everyday routine. What happened? Did someone come in after-hours, discover my salty stash, and remove it? Did the cleaning crew actually do a good job? There was no opportunity to investigate my hidey-hole, and I retired to my office to wallow in self-pity.

At the end of the day, I poked around. The sardines were still there.
They just didn’t stink. At all. Disgusted, I threw them into the dumpster and reconsidered my game plan.

I’d had much success with a similar gambit a couple of years back. I used packing tape to secure a peeled, halved onion to the bottom of a friend’s chair. She hates onions. It took about two minutes for her to come back from the bathroom, start typing, and then start bitching.

“Who in the hell brought in stinky food? It smells like onions in here!”

After everyone denied having stinky food, she toured the office. She spent a good ten minutes checking trash cans, inspecting the kitchen, and then her work area.

“Why the fuck is it worse at my desk? Did one of you bitches put something in my desk? There’s nothing in my desk! What the fuck is going on?”

You can see why I like her.

Kelly was working a tight schedule and had to get back to work. Her muttered curses kept me entertained for the next hour, until her agitated movements caused the packing tape to finally fail. A soft thud beneath her chair caught her attention.

“What the fuck is this? Oh my God, who the fuck TAPED A FUCKING ONION TO MY FUCKING CHAIR?”

I was shaking with silent tears when she stormed into my office. I tried placing the blame elsewhere by stating that I was just laughing because I was glad it was her, not me, who had been pranked. She didn’t buy it, and I got punched in the arm hard enough to bruise.

Fair enough.

Guess I know what I’ll be doing this Friday.




Speaking of stinky shit, I was assaulted with the genuine article today. My office opens into the break room, which also houses a bathroom. I usually keep my doors shut, since our billing department tends to shortcut through my office if they are left open.

After realizing I was uncomfortably warm, I headed towards the break room to lower the thermostat. As soon as I opened my door, I was assaulted with Essence of Evil Poo.

Breathing through a covered mouth, I adjusted the temperature (priorities) and peeked at the bathroom door. Closed, with no light underneath. Empty. I hastily reached in to turn on the fan, and made a quick exit.

Who could drop a deuce powerful enough to taint 1000 square feet? My boss, Champion of The Lingering Shit, was on vacation. There are a couple of pregnant girls on staff, but their leavings are more reminiscent of chocolate and olives.

We have a new technician named Josh. He’s fat, young, and a likely target. I barged into the tech workspace with a “Seriously?! Who just stunk up my office by not courtesy-flushing? Josh, you look guilty. What the fuck did you do?”

Josh reddened, stammered out a denial, and fled the room. I followed him with a “Just leave the fan ON if you take a shit! Flush the toilet as soon as the first round hits! It’s not that hard!” Poor guy. He’ll either suck it up or leave. I’m good either way.

I returned to my office and was nose-raped again. I threw open the break room doors and stepped outside to cleanse my palate with a cigarette.

Bathroom etiquette in the workplace can be a tricky business. We have two independent, gender-free bathrooms. The one up front is open to the public, and is considered the toilet of last resort. The other abuts the break room and has no buffer-zone.

The Front offers some anonymity due to its distance from populated areas. If you’re having a blowout from last night’s Mexican, this is the place. But our customers are usually really old, and often miss their target. A Shell station out in BFE would be worse, but not by much.

The Back is clean, comfortable, and sports reading material. Then again, there are often coworkers sitting right outside that door. I eat at 1:00 to avoid the lunch crowd, and can usually avoid any awkwardness. An equally anal coworker eats at 11:00.

We’re bathroom buddies.






I ran someone off the road today. I feel great about it.

While commuting to work, a driver looked my way, paused, and then pulled in front of me when I was about seventy-five feet out. There was no one behind me. I was driving fifty miles an hour.

I trust my vehicle, had no passengers, and played the odds. I allowed myself to immediately come within two feet of his bumper. As I finessed the brakes, Mr. I’m-In-A-Hurry swerved onto the shoulder, hopefully to soil himself.

Did I tell you I’m a bad person?

I know, I know. I could have killed somebody. I could have died. Defensive driving is good driving. This guy will probably continue to believe he owns the road.
I still felt better.

This temper thing is throwing me for a loop. I don’t like being pissed off. But DAMN IT people, why must you continue to act like assholes?

Like YOU. Yes, you, guy in the far-left lane keeping pace with the car to your right. See that mile-long string of vehicles behind you? Wonder why folks keep riding your ass? Because you’re driving seventy miles an hour IN THE PASSING LANE.

Later that day, I stopped by a national hardware chain to pick up a birthday present for my Dad. I grabbed a gift card and got in line. Said line immediately lengthened.

A harassed-looking, managerial type walked by, noted the wait, and proceeded to announce that Checkout Two was now open for the next customer. Hey, that’s me! A man three places behind me immediately cut me off as I approached the register. I fought the urge to trip him up and then kick him in the crotch, opting instead for a short prayer.

Ten minutes later, this guy left happy. He’d cashed in a handful of coupons, called for a price-check on four items, and had to run out to his car to get his checkbook.

If I had not resisted my baser instincts, I would have made my lunch appointment on time. Practicing tolerance resulted in grabbing a Zantac and chewing furiously while fantasizing about blood-spatter patterns and Dexter-like analysis.

Nice girls finish last.









7:00 a.m: A piercing shriek startles me to wakefulness. A peek outside reveals Lucy’s Mom indulgently observing her daughter running circles around my lamppost and wailing like a banshee. The bus-stop kids are again rioting outside my bedroom window.

My alarm is set for 7:30. Thirty minutes shouldn’t be that big a deal, right?

Wrong.

I cherish those minutes. They allow me to roll over, snuggle more deeply into my blanket, and gain a few more precious moments of true rest. Gently waking to my day benefits everyone in my life. Trust me.

I’ve tried the proper channels. The school board denied my requests for bus stop relocation due to “safety parameters”.
If these kids don’t shape up, I can’t vouch for their safety either.

My attempts at politely asking the parents for quiet were obviously unsuccessful. “But, that’s what kids DO” seems to be the consensus. Undercurrent of We’ve-got-to-get-up-at-six-so-what-the-hell-do-you-expect prevails.

I printed up a Clipart of a sleeping bear with “Quiet, Please” and taped it to the lamppost. The volume increased.

I want to saturate the area with this incredibly stinky, vomit-inducing extract that you USED to be able to get online: “Liquid Ass”. I swear, I didn’t make up the name to make my folks cringe. I don’t know what happened, but “Liquid Ass” is no longer available. My boss suggested “Doe Urine In Heat” as an alternative. Supposedly it has quite the bouquet. Maybe I’ll find out.

A truckload of fertilizer might be an option. A sprinkler system on a timer may substitute nicely.

If these little monsters won’t learn to shut their pie-holes, I at least get to enjoy the fact that they are suffering as well.










I am a weekend Stepmom, and am thankful that my morning routine is just mine. Parents, especially single parents, have it way harder.

How does it take an hour and a half to get ready for work? My husband shits, showers, shaves, brushes his teeth and hair, and gets dressed and on the road in thirty minutes.

Really?

I tried to break even with his time by prepping as much as possible. Sunday night, I staged my morning. Clothes were laid out in classic “invisible man” formation. Cosmetics were neatly arrayed on the bathroom sink. My beloved Keurig coffeemaker was filled with water and had a to-go cup and spoon laid out beside it. A Jimmy-Dean breakfast sandwich and Tupperware container of soup stood ready in the fridge.

I showered. I shaved. I conditioned and moisturized. I went to bed.

Shuffling into the living room the next morning, I nearly tripped over a pair of slippers. I absentmindedly put them away, and then emptied the ashtrays and cups littering the living room.

The dogs have no food in their bowls. Poor babies. C’mon, eat! Now go outside. Good boy. Good Girl. Thirsty, too? Here you go. Oops, here comes the next batch of bus-stop kids – get in your crate. My good puppies. I love you.

Next: bathroom - teeth, hair, makeup. Crap, is that a hair on my cheek? Ouch. Bye-bye, witch-hair. My eyes tear up, and I now have a smudge on my previously perfect eyeliner. Damn, where are the Q-Tips? Are we out? We are. Who didn’t replace the TP? I start a grocery list.

What the hell is that smell? I follow my nose to the garbage can, which has become a work of art. A perfect pyramid of trash towers above the edge of the bin, topped with a precariously balanced paper plate. I take out the trash and write a friendly reminder to the menfolk about housekeeping.

Time to get dressed. The invisible man cooperates until I strap on the underwire. Damn, that hurts. Maybe I can get away with my sports bra. Ahhh, better.

The alarm signals five minutes to go. What the hell? Better grab some coffee. Where are my keys? Damn it, I can’t find my glasses.

Don’t even try to do the guy thing if you’re not a guy. You’re just not wired for it.






I want to destroy my TV. I’m surfing at 8pm on a Monday:

-Trading Spouses- “She Needs to Put That Kid on a Leash”
-Commercial- Weight Loss Pill Guaranteed to Make You Hot
-Commercial- Payday Loans at Only $479 a Month for Seven Years
-Commercial- Erectile Dysfunction Drug Unleashes Awesome Powers
-Toddlers and Tiaras- “My Baby Stuffs Her Bra”
-Commercial- Bankruptcy Protection is The Christian Thing to do
-Commercial- Life Insurance Allows Your Wife to Party When You’re Dead
-Jersey Shore- “He Called Me a Whore, But Then We Smooshed and Made Up…”
-Commercial- Malpractice Lawyers Embody American Values
-Commercial- Hair Replacement Fools Everybody
-Hoarders- “I Need Those Roaches. They Feed My Rats”
-Commercial- Frozen Dinners Strengthen Family Relationships
-Commercial- Modern Science Banishes Depression With Only a Small Chance of Death
-Commercial- Super-Sexy Tampons Transform You Into a Ballerina
-Bizarre Foods- “Andrew Eats Another Bug”
-Commercial- Join the Army if You’re a Gamer
-Teen Mom- “Why Can’t You Watch Her? I’ve Got a Date”
-America’s Funniest Home Videos- “Laughing Baby from 2005 is Funnier Than Ever”
-Commercial- Sara McLaughlin Cries Over Neglected Pets
-M*A*S*H* - Hawkeye goes crazy again, gets counseled by Dr. Friedman. I resentfully tune in, since there are only fifteen minutes left to round out the hour.

What am I doing? I remember when you paid for Cable to avoid ads. Now I pay to be pissed off. My provider conveniently axed the TV Guide channel for customers unwilling to upgrade to their “Premium Basic” service, and the above channel-surfing ensued.

Increased volume during commercials is an added bonus. Online viewing only might be the way to go, unless a-la-carte plans are offered soon.

Yeah, right.

Read a book to relax. At least you get to pick your poison.











Honey,

I’ve been up since 5:13 a.m.

After a grueling day, I went to bed a little after 11:00. Your not-so-gentle snores bolted me into consciousness six hours later. Need I remind you that I need a good eight hours of sleep?

Funniest thing…you didn’t snore before I made you fix your nose.

Your deviated septum was a source of amusement and irritation for the longest time. I could always count on blaming that damn nose-whistle for an early wake-up. Your snuffling throughout the day became background white noise, like traffic, and was catalogued into Quirks To Accommodate.

I nudged. I wheedled. I coaxed.
I made the appointments to discuss the state of your nose, and made sure we kept them.

You got your nose fixed.

I miss the whistle. Your new nose is so much worse. Instead of the gentle squeak that nudged me into wakefulness, a startling, abrupt snarl forces me into fight-or-flight attentiveness at all hours.

You sound like a lion. In Fantasy World, this is a good thing. Real-time, not so much.

You’ve also started telling me that I smell like corn chips and onions. You’re giving me a complex.

I want your old nose back.

Love,
Boo-Boo Kitty


Be careful what you ask for. You just might get it.











Shopping around for Health Insurance was a treat.

Our current plan, a ten thousand dollar deductible, catastrophic-coverage policy, was pissing me off. I went online and checked out an innocuous-seeming site promising to make life easier by sending me quotes from “ALL MAJOR PROVIDERS”. Hey, cool.

I filled out the contact form, including my phone number, and clicked “SEND”. Ninety seconds later my cell phone exploded. A full two weeks later, it is still setting small fires.

Of course, these unknown numbers never left a message. They simply continued to call three times a day, per number, on average. This meant about 30 missed calls a day. I decided I’d had enough.

A call from Idaho came through. I picked up, said hello, and waited out the inevitable four-second lag that indicates a real, live person is being patched through. A youngish-sounding Midwestern guy asked, “Michelle?”

“Yes?”

“Hey, I’m so glad I caught you! This is Greg from Central Health. I’m responding –“

“Greg, I’m so sorry to interrupt you, but I’ve just signed the papers on a new policy today. Thank you for contacting me, but please remove me from your call list.”

“I’m sure we can offer you a better plan that - ”

“Sorry, I’m not interested. Have a good night!” - CLICK-

That was polite, right? After ten calls of the same ilk today, I’m not so sure. I can hear the mounting desperation in their commission-driven, straight-out-of-school voices. I, too, have had to sell something I don’t believe in.

My saving grace came in the form of a local agent who’s been in the business for decades, has a nursing background, and is a genuinely nice person. She respected my preference for email, was low-pressure yet outspoken (how do you do that?), and lured me into her office with the promise of espresso and biscotti. An hour later, I signed up for a plan that provided much better coverage for the same price that I’d been paying.

Shopping local to begin with will save you lots of hassle, and supports your community. Who would have guessed? Now go check out that fruit stand on the corner.






My God, I hate working with women.

Now that I’ve paused to absorb the inevitable backlash from some ladies in the workplace, allow me to elaborate. I hate working with women, who, having passed their 30th birthday (or 40th), still insist upon behaving like high-school drama queens.
Take Trina. Thirty-one years old, great paycheck, two adorable children, and a hot, hard-working husband. Trina had nothing to appreciate. Our boss had the audacity to request a doctor’s note when she called out sick for the fifth day in a row. Her sister-in-law brought deviled eggs to her potluck when that bitch should have KNOWN she hated deviled eggs. Her leather couch made her ass sweat. I heard all about it, and much more.

How about Rhonda? Her first day consisted of meeting with every employee and explaining that she was not there to make friends, and that anyone who was not “on the bus” was free to get “off the bus”. Apparently, riding the bus implied consent to daily progress reports covering such fascinating topics as her alcoholic ex-husband, NASCAR, anti-Obama rants, gay marriage, and her lovable pit-bull puppies. I left after a year. She got fired a year later. Damn it, I wish I had known. I would have waited it out.

Then there was Sandy. So, so sweet. So, so needy. I was initially charmed by her soft-spoken intelligence and gentle demeanor. She was a great file clerk, until being let go. Two months later I was dodging six calls a day about how her life was falling apart. I was happy to discover how easy it is to change your phone number.

Ah, Monica. You could go far. It’s a shame that you spend three hours a day texting, IMing, making and taking personal phone calls, and posting on FaceBook about the bitches that you work with and how stressed you are. I’m stressing because those bitches complain about you to ME.

Linda – please, please brush your teeth. Wash your hair, your ass, and your clothes. You smell like your horses. I wouldn’t particularly care if you didn’t insist upon grabbing my arm at lunch and regaling me with tales of the Guy Who Didn’t Call. But then I can’t eat, and comfort myself with an easy, calorie-laden Hot Pocket when I get home.

Give me a guy who rolls in on time, grunts a hello, spaces out on his IPod all day, and doesn’t make my job harder. Drama-free workdays are awesome.











I’m turning into a dirty old lady.

My local grocery store has a new cashier. His name is Vance. He is maybe twenty years old, athletic, and runs about 6’4”. Vance has a brilliant, innocent smile to go along with his outgoing personality and soulful brown eyes. He seems totally unaware of the response he elicits in women. What a package. Hehe.

What the hell am I doing eyeing a man young enough to be my son? I wanted to share the funny story about my check-out encounter with Sam when I got home, but figured that he might not be amused. Friends and family agree.

I cringe when confronted with the sight of my dear Uncle Tim shamelessly flirting with a woman half his age. May – December romances give me the creeps. Why can’t guys just grow up and have real relationships with women in their age bracket? I mean, eww.

So why am I sucked into Gene Simmons’ “Family Jewels” reruns? Could it be that his son is incredibly hot? Umm, yes. Master Nick Simmons has that certain something that can lead respectable ladies toward inappropriate musings.

Rupert Grint, the Ginger of “Harry Potter” fame, tugged more than my heart-strings as I watched him mature along with the series. Same goes for his costar Mr. Radcliffe, he of the ever-growing six-pack and proclivity for nudity on stage.

I have never taken the time to watch any of the wildly popular “Twilight” movies. But gee, those previews on TV sure do catch my attention. Who is this Robert Pattinson guy, and why do I find his pallid, skinny bod so fascinating? The werewolf dude with incredibly full lips and dark, smoldering eyes would make an outstanding pool-boy.

The man-boy who changed my tires last month had a wisp of a beard and no behind. Watching him bust his hump hauling out tires and installing them in no time at all while sweating that non-existent-ass off was a very entertaining fifteen minutes. I berated myself the entire time I thought of him during my shower that evening.

Down, girl. Nothing there but pain.












Have you ever had such a screwed-up experience that you want to share it with all your friends, but at the same time are too embarrassed to do so? I can’t hold it in any longer.

After a horrifyingly bad week, I chose to get blind drunk. I drank until I had to lay down and sleep it off. Then I’d drink some more. Drink, sleep. Repeat for three days. My liver is still spasming. Long weekends aren’t necessarily good for you.

Upon climbing out of my self-induced black hole, I was lucky enough to get lucky. Or so I thought. One minute into the act, I was struck by a very unfamiliar smell.

Darling husband was either oblivious, which I doubt, or was being very kind by not mentioning it. I wasn’t able to ignore the swampy miasma filling the room, and was simply thankful he was able to cross the finish line.

Washing up afterwards, I noticed some spotting. What the hell? I finished my period a couple of days ago. Is this early menopause or something? Wait, this stuff doesn’t look…fresh.

Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

With much effort, I fished out a horrifying, chewed-up remnant of a personal hygiene product.

I’d forgotten my last tampon. That sucker had crawled up to hide during my blackout, and was then mercilessly pounded into the very backwaters of my being. I wanted to blame Sam by arguing that there was no way he couldn’t feel a foreign object repeatedly hitting the head of his cock. I haven’t been able to work up the nerve.

I also haven’t made a move since. Neither has he. He has every right to be hesitant. I, of course, am horny as hell. What kind of conversational gambit do you throw out in this situation?

“Hey honey…I know it smelled like New Orleans at low tide last time we did it, but I’d love to rock your world!”







(delete?)

Driving to a show, I witnessed a guy who had set up a full drum set on the side of the road. He was having a private jam session while facing a sea of grass, with traffic whizzing on by behind him.

I had no idea what he was up to. Was he on his way to a recording session and decided to decamp for a few minutes to blow off some steam? An itinerant street performer who had run out of gas and was playing for dollars? Just a random crazy guy who figured that a county highway was as good a place as any another to hang out?

I didn’t stop, and regret my complacency. I was headed north, he was in the southbound lane, and I was on a schedule. Damn you, highway divider. I wish I’d had the foresight to at least pull over and take a picture of the awesome guy on drums playing to a crowd of zero. I could have asked him what he was doing. He might have told me.

There was this old guy wearing Rollerblades who hung out on the sidewalk at a major intersection in town. He wore a neon pink jumpsuit and Roller-danced. Whenever I saw him, he was jamming out to some internal soundtrack and making pretty impressive moves, especially for a senior citizen. He would make a point of waving to traffic while nodding and grinning. Crazy? Maybe. But every time I passed him, I’d smile. I think that was what he may have been trying for. Old Rollerblade Guy has been absent for the past year or so, and I miss him.

Homeless folks camping out at red lights make we wonder what circumstances have led them here. Grizzled, dreadlocked, twenty-year-old holding an “Out of gas. Please help” has me believe “Junky who got kicked out after pawning Mom’s jewelry one too many times”.

Young, obese dishwater blonde surreptitiously smoking behind her “Four girls to feed. No job. Anything helps” sign leads me think “Irresponsible whore”.

“Iraqi Vet. No job. Will work for food. God Bless”. Wait, how old is this guy? Sixty? I sympathize with genuine Vets who have been used and discarded. I’ve given my Emergency Twenty to likely candidates. But screw you, fake-war guy.

I’ve probably been conned. I know I’ve made wrong assumptions. But, the occasional odd sight is likely to turn a bad day around. *EDIT*










Summer has arrived, and the air-conditioning war has resumed.

I grew up in Germany (Army brat) and remember swimming outdoors once, when the temperature had reached a balmy seventy degrees. Florida, on the other hand, averages a good twenty to thirty degrees higher. Good God, how did I get here?

So, I like it cold. My family has joked about installing a walk-in freezer with a radio, TV, bookshelf, and reading lamp to accommodate my tastes. The initial cost of installation is high, but would probably be negated by our air-conditioning savings over the years.

We have central air, and also a window unit in our bedroom. Sleeping while hot is not an option. I was bitched out yesterday because the temperature was sixty-five degrees when my husband came in to crash for the night. Dude, I was laying on top of the covers, naked. You can put on your jammies and snuggle up.

Perversely, I love a hot shower. Ten minutes of scalding spray loosens sore muscles and puts me in a mellow state of mind. Afterwards, I lie on the couch in front of the AC vent and cool off for a few minutes of TV before getting dressed for work.

I usually “forget” that I’ve lowered the AC before leaving, resulting in a lovely 70-degree environment when I get home. Apparently, not everyone enjoys a cool breeze at the end of the day. A lecture about the electric bill often ensues.

There is a picture on our ‘fridge of me with my head stuck in the freezer. At least my stepson has learned to capture precious moments on camera. He is fifteen now, and needs a hobby besides World of Warcraft.

My Mom started Menopause at thirty-eight. She’d been subjected to chemotherapy at thirty, and I thought her treatment had pushed her into an early Change. Maybe not. I’ve been consumed by The Sweats for over a year.

One minute, I’m fine. The next has me stripping off my shoes and socks, folding my pants up into shorts, and walking around waving my hands in the air like a referee just to throw off some heat.

It sucks to become wiser as you age, and then have your body betray you. I’d better become a freaking genius before I lose my mind.











When I was twenty-one, I asked my Gynecologist for an IUD. He laughingly refused, telling me “You’re young yet. You’ll want kids soon enough”. I left with a package of condoms and a brochure about STDs.

Condoms are a really nerve-wracking form of birth control. They could be old and tear, or be applied incorrectly and slip off. Condoms can leak if left on too long afterwards, or get lost inside of you. If you’re drunk enough, you can believe a condom is being used when, in fact, he’s barebacking it.

When I was twenty-five, I asked my new Gynecologist for an IUD. She clucked, adjusted her glasses, and informed me that women who had not yet born children were poor candidates for an intrauterine device. I got on The Pill, which was marginally better.
My Mom became pregnant while on The Pill, resulting in “such a happy accident”. Hey, that’s me!

When I was thirty, I requested sterilization. I was granted an IUD. It hurt from beginning to end. The insertion of this device required no anesthesia, and felt like I had been impaled upon a coffee-can. Avoiding doggie-style for the next year and having a knot of fishing-line protruding from my cervix made creative intercourse problematic. Severe, random cramps became increasingly common.

At thirty-six, I was diagnosed with a persistent ovarian cyst. I blame the IUD. As I was being sedated for surgery, I asked my M.D to tie my tubes while he was down there, and he complied. I got a bonus morphine pump that made my two-day stay a breeze.

Afterwards, I gleefully launched into the uninhibited world of Sex Without Offspring. Whoo-hoo! The lack of concern over creating a fetus led to spontaneous acts of debauchery that strengthened both my marriage and my self-confidence.

I have always known I don’t want to bear children. Why did it take twenty years to ensure that freedom? The ever-present threat of a malpractice suit surely contributed to the reluctance of my physicians to support sterilization. Why not just have the patient, of legal age, sign a binding Waiver?

Healthcare professionals have observed the many repercussions of unplanned and unwanted pregnancies. Cycles of poverty and violence are often created or renewed by babies born to underequipped mothers. Assisting women who wish to focus their energies on citizens other than their own offspring should be a no-brainer.

Girls like fucking, too. Allow us to do so responsibly.




Have you been so overwhelmed with the work in front of you that you just shut down?

Returning from a four-day vacation and finding a pile of dirty equipment, a couple dozen Post-It notes plastered to my computer screen, and an eight-inch stack of unprocessed paperwork. My voicemail houses eighteen messages of increasingly desperate pleas for attention.

Hour one: my OCD kicks in, hard. I make things look organized by plastering Post-Its into one neat pile, arranging equipment in a tidy row across the counter, and writing down each voicemail’s name, phone number and subject. The furiously blinking light on my phone quiets.

Hour two: Sift through paperwork and stack in order of importance. Of course, it’s all essential. Rearrange Post-Its with most urgent matters on top. Revisit voicemail list and number according to necessity. Function-check equipment, bag ‘em, tag ‘em, stash away all.

Hour three: What’s first? Boss-man, always. I shoot back a few emails regarding stock orders and upcoming events. Second: Boss’ wife, of course. Respond enthusiastically to suggestions of instituting a dress code and having the fridge emptied every Friday.

Third: Oh, shit. I don’t know. I freeze, undecided, and then opt for a YouTube/Spotify browsing session followed by a smoke break. Refreshed, I dive back in. Physicians’ requests first. Billing requirements second. There goes another two hours.

I’m feeling comfortable enough to relegate the shrillest demands to the bottom of my pile. A client’s “you people won’t return my calls” message is summarily lost. Don’t you EVER “you people” me, especially when my voicemail states that I will return to work in four business days. Call back and feel free to ask for the Manager. She hates you, too.

A walk-in patient refusing to accept our appointment-only policy is ushered into my office. She has a bad sinus infection, she’s sure, and blames it on the oxygen equipment we provided a few months back. A cursory inspection reveals yellowed tubing, a clogged intake filter, and scaled-over humidifier.

I, too, will be old one day. I breathe deep, smile, and gently re-educate regarding supply replacement and cleaning. Written instructions are again provided, along with a warm reminder to call anytime to schedule a meeting if further assistance is required.

Forty minutes left in the workday; a glance at the remaining tower of paperwork shrivels my resolve. Time for a two-cigarette break. I guiltily relish a chapter of my latest sci-fi trash while soaking up late-autumn sun and chill, and then look up, realizing:

It’s OK to take a break. In fact, it’s necessary.



1:10 am: crystal night poised on the edge of winter. The rhythmic thunder of crashing waves is both immense and soothing. Countless pinprick stars and a new moon cast faint light over the abandoned beachscape. I step out of my shoes and socks, fold my jeans into shorts, and diffidently approach the shore.

Loose sand compacts, cools, saturates. The first cold rush races across my toes. I laugh and throw my arms open wide, facing the darkened horizon. Water rushes back to the sea, and the world shifts beneath my feet.

Crabbing sideways into the mini-breakers, mindful of the rip-currents and drop-offs, I resist the urge to dive headfirst and swim deep. Buoyed by the surge and eddy, spray of salt-mist and grumbling surf, I look toward the sodium-arc lamps behind me. Civilization. Warmth, food, and light, albeit manufactured.

I turn back to the ocean. Vast and indifferent, seething with beauty and danger, tidal pull singing sweetly within. This is home.

A muffled laugh catches my attention. Scott. German-Irish but usually placid, teeth gleaming in the starlight as he grins and gestures at the tide, “Fucking awesome”.

He’s about ten feet behind me, a little more cautious but obviously digging the ebb and flow. Another Cancer, simpatico. We stand silently for a few minutes, caught in sea-spell, until a shout breaks the reverie.

“Dude, its fucking freezing out here!”

Claire has chucked her shoes and waded out far enough to be heard. We reluctantly slog back to shore, joining her and Sam at the water’s edge. My jeans are soaked through, and I begin to shiver as we walk back toward the hotel.

Scalding shower, change of clothes. Cold beer and hot pizza. Contemplating the sea from the fourth-floor balcony, surf muted but still serving as soundtrack. Fine, fine weed stoking fanciful tales and recollections from each participant, beer bottles languidly dangling, voices rising and falling, slowly angling down to bemused silence.

Time for bed. Clean sheets, soft pillow. Sleep.

There’s a lot to be said for that manufactured light and heat.







Out for a ride, dodging traffic, falling behind an SUV with those damn stick-figure family decals. The Mom had been removed, with a “Position Open” message scrawled above; a nice variation on an aging theme. Another SUV (of course) with said stick-family rendered zombie-style. Another Mom-only, three daughters, three cats display. Ouch.

In Loving Memory of Paddy O’Brien
1973-2010
Father, Husband, Son, Friend

Holy crap, this person has been dead for three years. The lettering is beginning to crack and fade. But grief is brought anew each day as the Bereaved leaves for work. It must be a great conversation-starter. Does there come a time when you spend a day sweating in the heat, meticulously scraping these letters away, wiping tears away, hoping to finally erase the shadow of his memory?

“Jesus is coming. Be careful, he’s HIV +”
Best. Bumper-sticker. Ever. I’m kinda surprised this car isn’t randomly keyed and dented.

“Salt Life”
Back windshield of a Ford Taurus with a spoiler tacked to the trunk. You douche; you’ve never touched a surfboard or caught a fish. You’re wearing Ray-Bans and a pair of Vans and figure you’re gonna pass as a Native? Move over.


*ANOTHER PARAGRAPH*