Hey all…
Check out my latest press clipping with Sun-Times media. I’m particularly amused by the full glass of whiskey at my side.
http://www.suburbanchicagonews.com/beaconnews/lifestyles/2034835,AU08_AUTHOR2_P1.fullimage
Time Magazine has released a 25 Best Blogs of 2009 list.
I, of course, am not on it. It’s my own fault really; I’ve steadfastly refused to play nice in the proverbial sandbox since my start as a blogger years ago. And that’s fine, especially considering that I appear to lack every single aspect from the blogosphere’s top elements for relevance.
Case in point: in 2009, I:
1) Did not get pregnant, give birth, or become a parent. It seems as though every chick who has gotten knocked up fancies herself a writer these days. Belching out children is amusing enough I suppose, and yay them for that whole launching a new life thing and all, I’m just not convinced all these blathering “momversations” make for anything other than weathered cautionary tales. A chick like me can only read so many botched episiotomy stories, excruciating toilet training soliloquies, and “vaccinations equal retardation” arguments before she logs off permanently and schedules an emergency appointment to double her birth control.
2) Could not name a single prime time network TV show. Oh, I’m not so pretentious as to claim I didn’t watch any television – I caught episodes of Entourage and Curb Your Enthusiasm whenever I could, I just (wrongly) assumed that they mean nothing. Silly me. If Time believes that recounting the plotlines of television shows (written by someone other than the blogger) makes for a stellar blog, who am I to fight it? Perhaps in the new year I will begin documenting every single episode of Man Vs. Food until I see the one I crave, where what’s-his-name finally succumbs to the ultimate competitor: his heart.
3) Failed to appropriately comment on the economy, politics, and celebrities. Name dropping, be it celebrity, cultural event or news story, seems to be the biggest blog seller on the Internet. It’s always been my policy to opine only when I have an actual story to tell, and since the online world seems to think in 180 characters or less, I fear it may be time I rethink my writing. Instead of relating the story about how I was nearly run over when an overly self important musician darted into his awaiting limo and sped away, rather than saying hello to the only two people waiting in the backstage alley for him, I should instead just write, “Davy Jones is a gay, douche nozzle, ass monster.”
4) Refused to link to other blogs, articles and web sites. According to Time, to be a “best” blog, one need not have original content. All one needs to do is create a dumping ground of links to other sites. I can have shiny object mentality, too – and swear to soon create my own “Links Not Language” blog.
5) Avoided interaction in comment forums. The real content of a blog isn’t so much in its posts, but in the comments people leave about them. That’s where a blogger can really flex her writing muscles: nothing says “future Pulitzer winner” like a two-paragraph tirade that includes gems such as, “U R a donkey sucking hoze beast thats’ goin to hell. I don’t start shit on boards but ur too stupid to know it.” Sadly, my fondness for punctuation, grammar and not verbing letters or numerals would brand me a “noob” the second I poked my nose into any comment forum – I’m best leaving that to the professionals.
I suppose I’m coming off as a bitter writer throwing sour grapes, and I’ll admit it: I am. Half the blogs on Time’s list weren’t even blogs by the traditional “web journal” definition, but repositories of random links and jabber-inducing headlines by people who are too cheap to dish out the six bucks a month for a real website.
Therefore, my allegiance is officially being thrown in with all the real writers of the world, who also happen to maintain blogs – we may not post often, we may never be able to tell you all the nominees for Grammys or Oscars or Heismans, and we will only flame you for misusing an apostrophe, but you can always count on every word being crafted carefully and with complete dedication to our story, whatever it may be.
And just to ensure Time and all their “best blogs” get my point, I’ll just sum it up in 180 characters or less: suck it, ass monsters.
PS – New blog coming soon detailing my guy’s attempts to teach me a song on bass and my eventual debut on stage. This may not end well for anyone.
“It’s a coming of age story about lesbian vampires.”
Somehow, I doubt it’s wise this early in my career as an author to resort to lying to generate book interest. But five years writing the book and another two struggling to get it published seem to have culminated in one publicity campaign where I find myself at a nervous loss for words.
I blame my editor, really. In a recent exchange, she felt the need to warn me that my book is filled with “incendiary passages” that might “alienate readers” and that I should, in my final round of edits, consider reversing some of the “sexist and biased” language.
Were I with a larger publisher, I might have refrained from responding with, “Go reread my book, and ask me that again.” If my book has any point to it at all, it’s to not compromise on what matters most.
My editor was only doing her job, I know, and she probably knew that the likelihood of my heeding her suggestion was slim. Still, my guess is that she’s on the streets now spreading the word that I’m more difficult to work with than Bukowski, which leaves me feeling both pleased and terrified.
The pleasure comes from knowing that my book will be released without any compromise – that it is, unequivocally, my words and my story. That kind of creative control was exactly what made me sign with a smaller agency: I could use their editorial expertise to better my book without losing my voice.
The terror comes from wondering if I’m too stubborn in my convictions. Will my “incendiary passages” doom the success of my book? Should I have toned them down in order to gain a broader audience?
History proves that homogenation has never particularly suited me, even in the most desperate situations. During one of my last-ditch attempts to survive in Los Angeles, I broke my cardinal rule to never, ever seek work in the most homogeneous field ever … retail.
It’s not that I had anything against retail, really. Enough people seemed to make ends meet off it. I just viewed it the same way I did my then-boyfriend passing out band flyers at that ridiculous Valley bar Paladino’s: a ton of work for very little reward, and just a little pathetic.
Had my lot of freelance work not been so sparse for so long, I could have avoided that trip to the mall. As it was, my only other work option was Bob’s Classy Ladies, and let me tell you, it was a toss up.
Both jobs would force me to hawk wares to a clientele who would most likely be unruly and demanding. At least at Bob’s I had the added benefit of security backup, whom I’d seen first hand toss obnoxious patrons out the back door head first.
Apparently, they frown on that kind of thing in retail.
If it wasn’t for the clothing discount that I hoped a mall job would afford me, I probably would have wound up dancing for dollars in a cage. Instead, I packed up what was left of my dignity and hit the stores.
My preferred choices were all a bust: Victoria’s Secret wasn’t hiring, the bookstore was closed for remodeling, and the music store was going out of business (it figured). I half heartedly filled out applications at the mall’s department stores and my favorite clothing shops, but knew that my applications would be buried under those of all the out of work actors and models who got there before me.
Two hours of desperation finally led me to The Gap. A vivid shudder rolled through me as I eyed the window display: crew neck sweaters, the dreaded khaki, and more poorly made, low slung jeans than you could fill a sweatshop with.
Bob’s Classy Ladies was suddenly looking very appealing.
Every fiber of my being screamed that working at The Gap would be a miserable fit for me. I could hear the promise I’d made during my trek from Chicago to Los Angeles – that I would, no matter what, always stay true to my goals.
That certainly didn’t include working for The Gap, but really, how bad could it be? Never mind my general distaste for customer service. Never mind my hatred of authority. Never mind that in high school, the only summer job I could get was working for my dad. I put on my biggest smile and went inside the store.
The drone working the floor informed me that the store was, in fact, hiring, and called the manager up front to speak with me. The excitement at actually having a lead rippled through me like a parasite. Suddenly, the t-shirts started to look less hideous and I almost thought I could, with the motivation of a paycheck, be persuaded to don one of the white button-front blouses on the wall. What was happened to the self I knew and loved?
A very short girl approached me with an application in hand.
“I’m Betsie, the manager here,” she said. “Come into the back and we can talk.” Judging by the height of her ponytail and bounce to her walk, I was certain she dotted the letter “I” with little open circles. It was also a safe guess that she was only recently able to legally buy liquor.
I followed her anyway, and took the seat she offered in the hallway between the dressing rooms and stock room.
“You can fill out the application in a few, but let’s talk first. Why do you want to work at The Gap?”
Is there a right answer to that question?
“Well, I’m looking for a flexible position. I’m available nights and weekends especially, and wanted to find something close to home.”
She pressed me to answer further. “But why The Gap? Do you shop here a lot?”
My skin began to crawl very slightly. I could only assume it was my integrity taking leave.
“Sure,” I found myself burbling. “I come here all the time.” I just neglected to mention my typical eye rolling and quick sprint to Lucky, which was next door.
“Well, that’s super!” Betsie cheered. “I always like it when people come in who are familiar with our line. Now, can you tell me what the last retail job you held was?”
I prayed she didn’t notice my eye starting to twitch. “Well, my last job was for a post production facility. And before that I managed tour publicity for a band. But I have a lot of experience working registers, I’ve worked in extremely high pressure environments, and I’m really adept at problem solving on the fly.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “So, you’ve never worked in retail?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I’m super sorry, but I’m afraid we need to stop here. You’re more than welcome to fill out the application, but I try to only hire people who have experience.”
“But I can do this kind of job in my sleep! I’ve coordinated seminars on cruise ships and run credit cards at giant industry trade shows and managed an entire crew on a video shoot. What makes you think I can’t do this?”
The words poured out of my mouth, and I couldn’t believe I was actually fighting for employment at a shitty retail store run by a fascist munchkin.
“It’s been swell meeting you,” she said. “But you just don’t have any retail experience. Sorry!”
I was officially a Gap reject. Once the stung wore off, I re-promised myself that I would never do anything that compromised my professional instincts. Sure two weeks later I wound up accepting a job collecting shopping carts at a local grocery store – a girl’s gotta eat, after all – but I’m proud to say that to this day, approximately seven years later, I still do not have any retail experience.
What I do have is a book that’s about to be published. And for all the “incendiary” language in it, it’s being published without compromise. Whether or not this is a good thing remains to be seen.
And just in case it isn’t, I’m working on the outline of my next book. Everyone likes a good coming of age story about lesbian vampires, right? Read the rest of this entry »
It’s official all: my book is in production! That means y’all can expect 100 days of shameless self promotion, followed by another 365 days of hard core promotion when it is actually on shelves. In the meantime, join me on Facebook and become a fan of the book. I’ll be posting all my updates, advance signing dates, lectures and more.
Inexplicably, and despite being in my 30s, I have become a tween. Again.
Being a tween was a miserable state at 10. If I didn’t have Judy Blume for comfort, I probably would have found solace yanking the heads off the Cabbage Patch Kids that I still sort of liked, but kept out of sight of the Madonna poster I loved yet didn’t quite understand. All the jelly bracelets and neon shoelaces in the world couldn’t ease the discomfort of transition, and I’m unnerved to find myself in a similar position now.
My current tweener state has nothing to do with confusion over boys or the development of boobs. (Although really, Mother Nature should be ashamed of herself. Is an A cup ALL you could muster up for me? Really?)
It’s more a social limbo that’s got me frustrated: I seem to have graduated from Judy Blume to Jim Beam in the same time it’s taken other women my age to become parents or morph into one of the characters from Sex in the City.
If there’s a middle ground in any of that, I have yet to find another person standing on it. Even people whom I admired – several well known female writers and bloggers come to mind – have crossed over to the pink side.
It’s as though they’ve let Sex and the City become the grown up equivalent of a Barbie – only instead of dressing the doll, these women are dressing themselves as a “Charlotte” or a “Carrie”.
I refuse to take on the role of Skipper in that crowd – the slightly less put-together acquaintance no one really wants to play with – which is where I’d inevitably wind up. I don’t need them eyeballing my lack of stilettos and they don’t need me eyerolling at their petty dialogue. Besides, I hate cosmos. Get a new drink already, would you? The froth is turning as rancid as the copy of Bridget Jones’s Diary that I haven’t opened in nearly 10 years.
Of course, I feel equally awkward and socially retarded in a room full of pregnant women and mothers. Believe me, it is not a battle of life choices – I respect the decision to have children just as much as I hope people respect my decision to not.
It’s just that there’s so little common ground. No matter how much mutual respect we all may have for each other, there’s no denying the disquiet of conversations like the one I had with a coworker:
Me: “How was your weekend?”
Her: “Eh – okay. We took the kids for haircuts and went to the park. What about you?”
Me: “Well, my guy and I got new tattoos and drove to Indiana to see John Fogerty in concert.”
Her: “Oh.”
That leaves me in a no woman’s land of sorts, stuck ‘tween two worlds that just aren’t for me, and staring down the far less populated path I’ve chosen for myself.
My guy, bless his male heart, has suggested I seek out some new female friends who are in my same position. If only it were that easy.
I can’t just place a personal ad that says, “Child-free, acrid Tina Fey-type seeks same to join me in tossing back a few drinks, snickering self righteously, and discussing the finer points of Bukowski, music and Rob Zombie movies. Bonus if you’re a part of a couple who likes the occasional excursion to rock clubs and sushi restaurants.”
I know, I’m a winner.
Making new friends when you’re a woman is almost as hard as finding a good boyfriend. I’m fortunate in that I’ve got one half of that equation locked. Until I figure out the other half, I’ll just fill in the blanks with my good pal Jim. Beam, that is.
This isn’t so much a blog as it is coming attractions, I suppose. But if there is a lack of new blogs over the next few months, I just thought I’d explain why: my book – Morning Neurosis – is being published!
I doubt I’ve ever more happily typed a sentence in my life, and frankly the words seem rather unreal. Admittedly, it is an independent press, and all of the PR to get the sucker to the world will need to be self-generated, but the fact remains that my words will exist in book form, and they’ll soon be available for purchase online at Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and by special request at actual bookstores.
I’m sure I’ll look like a giant idiot at the bookstore this summer – likely August – special ordering a copy of my own book, but I can’t say that I care very much. It’s MY book, damnit, I’ll special order it if I want to. In triplicate.
If you’ve ever laughed, chuckled, smiled, shook your head in shame, or fought the urge to hit me with a blunt object while reading my work, I’m asking you now to save up the approximately $12 (for soft cover) and buy my book when it’s available. And if I’ve ever bought your album, tickets to your shows, lost precious hearing by sweating it out in a dank bar to see your band play, or written free web copy, bios or press releases for you – fair warning, turnabout is fair play.
I’m in the process of making final edits and additions to Morning Neurosis, so it definitely won’t be the same story you may have once read in draft. My web and blog sites are in for a major overhaul this summer, too, and I’ll be developing special Morning Neurosis Myspace, Facebook and Twitter pages as well, so this summer is undoubtedly going to be a busy, absolutely outstanding time.
You’ll receive 782 more notices from me in that time, likely more once the book is available for sale, I’m sure – shameless self promotion has never been an issue for me. Because really, who wouldn’t want to read “The mostly true stories of a girl reconciling her rock ‘n roll roots with a new reality”?
Don’t answer that. Just support the book. Please.
While accompanying my guy on a recent trip to Sam Ash, the salesman made the mistake of jokingly calling me a roadie. My guy quickly made the international “Don’t hit me!” gesture and I had to suck back the foam that was starting to bubble at my mouth.
I have enough trouble with the term groupie; roadie isn’t much of an improvement. I am neither. I am my guy’s girlfriend and bass tech. Admittedly, the distinctions are fuzzy at best: my own line involves a refusal to carry gear or work the merch table. And as much as I like to believe my ability to string and tune my guy’s bass at soundcheck makes me better than the rest, it doesn’t change the fact that I am still, at heart, a fan.
Still, I consider it a privilege to be a part of my guy’s musical career in all my capacities: girlfriend, partner, bass tech, fan, and even critic. It’s a complex balance that does indeed provide insight into the world of music that not everyone is granted access.
That’s why, as I watch my guy become a member of a new band, I thought it useful to create a primer of sorts – a checklist to ensure that we can both enjoy his next musical endeavor. I hereby present:
Top 10 Ways to Know Your Guy Has Joined a Good Band
10. He’s not replacing someone who a) got carted off for starting too many fires b) had a curfew or c) ran off to join the German production of Cats.
9. “Sweet Child of Mine”, “Iron Man” and “Jessie’s Girl” are NOT in the set list.
8. The band doesn’t have a street team … run by the singer.
7. The first photo shoot isn’t scheduled to take place in front of a brick wall or by railroad tracks.
6. The band’s website and press kit are not written and maintained by their fans or girlfriends.
5. Shows are not booked at clubs where a) the bartender is also the sound guy b) the drummer’s mother’s van is the backstage or c) a passport, concealed weapon and inoculations are needed to get there.
4. No member of the band currently owns and/or wears anything circa 1987, regardless of whether they can still zip it up.
3. Phrases like, “Yeah, we have connections,” and “We’ve got a label deal in the works,” are never uttered.
2. The merch table doesn’t include specialty items like cheap panties with the band’s photo on them.
1. When the guitarist calls to schedule rehearsal, he says, “We’re all bringing our girlfriends with us; you should invite yours, too.”
“Look at it this way: you’ll be going into your office looking all relaxed, tan, and hot. Everyone will hate you. You like that.”
My guy always gives the best pep talks.
Still, after a week in Vegas, where I woke every morning to breakfast in bed and had a vague drunk going by 10 a.m., it was going to take more than envious hatred to get my day started.
The transition to reality was slightly easier for my guy. He had been required to work for a portion of our Vegas trip, though “work” is relative, of course. It was the kind of work that only served to confirm my envy of his job: where I work for a company dominated (I use this term loosely, mind you) almost exclusively by women, he works for a company of men – old school men, to be specific.
It was a group I had no problem endearing myself to, despite being 1) the only female in attendance and 2) a democrat. The tumbler of Jack in my hand certainly didn’t hurt, nor did my penchant for somewhat salty conversation.
At the very least, it was preferable to my own job-related outings, which I have started to feign illness – food poisoning, stroke, face-eating virus, whatever – to get out of.
It’s just so much work to socialize with female colleagues. Discussion usually revolves around topics that I have no point of reference for: daycare, the genius of movies like Mama Mia, and why Vince Vaughn is “fake boyfriend material”. I’d wish someone would explain the concept of “fake boyfriend” to me if I didn’t fear a desire to chew my own hand off in response.
Food, too, is an ordeal. Ordering it (no, a kid portion bunless cheeseburger is NOT on the menu), eating it (is it really necessary to save half a side salad to take home for dinner?), and especially paying for it. Because it’s not enough to split the bill: these women will insist on individual checks for group meals, then each pay their individual bills with a combination of cash and credit, and spend 45 minutes huddled over a phone calculator to determine the exact amount each person should contribute for the tip – which is also paid by both credit card and cash.
In contrast, my guy’s boy’s club will order one of everything on the menu and an endless supply of drinks with two or fewer ingredients (that being ice and alcohol), and stick whatever poor schmuck is left standing with the bill. Sure, it’s a bit ruthless, but at least you don’t have to worry about what’s getting spit into your food by a pissed off server.
My superiority is easy to maintain in such settings; it’s when I’m left to my own devices that I seem to regress into a simmering nitwit.
While my guy spent his mornings in Vegas dealing with a work-related convention, I’d eventually emerge from our hotel room slathered in sunscreen and ready to suck down my morning alcohol allotment by the pool. It was a routine I had fantasized about since the previous February, when outrageous snowfall made beach combing seem a viable career choice.
All the elements of my fantasy were in place: the heat, the sun, a poolside lounge chair and a table littered with empty drink glasses and a half-read Bukowski novel. What I did not envision was a biblical plague of grasshoppers.
My guy and I disagree on the actual amount of grasshoppers needed to constitute biblical proportions – he thinks I’m too generous in my estimate, but he’s never emerged from a blissful mojito-soaked catnap to come eye-to-eye with three of the fuckers.
I concede that I may have over-reacted just the slightest bit. The others by the pool likely didn’t appreciate the crazy lady shrieking and wildly slapping at the ground with a flipflop in each hand. And if those horrid winged beasts hadn’t started flapping dangerously close to my hair, I wouldn’t have had to make a mad dash to the pool, where I may have plummeted into the deep end – my inability to swim notwithstanding.
I really don’t care to recall what happened after that, but I do take solace in the fact that the MGM Grand had four other pool areas staffed by entirely different lifeguards that I could relocate to for the remainder of my vacation. Even so, I still eyed the greenery, convinced it was teeming with more grasshoppers than the casino was slot machines and walkers.
Despite all my best efforts, logic, and reason, it seems I am still a girl, and a particularly squeamish one at that.
That post-vacation Monday morning was indeed a dreary one. My guy was right to complement my hard-won tan and my besting my coworkers, but to get me on my way, he would likely have been better served to assure me that my route to work was, in fact, grasshopper-less.
…A few Vegas pic. Click the thumbnail for larger image.
“I can find my recipe for chloroform, but I can’t find my recipe for bouillabaisse, damn it!”
My guy believes that I am the only woman in the entire world who has ever sputtered the words “chloroform” and “bouillabaisse” in the same sentence, but I’m not so sure. Martha Stewart appears to blink crazy every so often, and from what I’ve read in the tabloids could likely put the two words together to form a recipe well-suited for a cooking show from hell. Not that I haven’t mentally made the same combo, too, of course, but fortunately for my guy (and the general population), my crazy stays in check.
Most of the time.
Crazy runs in my family, I’m afraid. Mostly it’s been the Beautiful Mind kind of crazy – where genius comes with a side serving of compulsive ticks and maybe an apparition or two. We laugh about it more than anything else, and perhaps boast just the slightest bit as we regal each other and guests with stories that begin with phrases like, “Remember the chicken bones!”
They’d been heaped on a plate, a tangled mass of legs and wings awaiting transport to the trash compactor when my father got to them. His eyes circled the plate. Where I only saw the remains of a dead and cooked animal, he saw something more. And he stared at it for nearly an hour, unblinking and steady.
Even my mother wasn’t sure what to make of my dad’s catatonia. We cleared the dishes around him, held a mirror under his nose, and made nervous conversation until something snapped back in place and he returned to the land of the socially functional.
Two days later my father had the thesis for his doctoral dissertation.
I’d like to say that my own crazy has the same productive results. Unfortunately, I fear all it does is make my guy secretly program the local psych ward into speed dial.
I was half ready to make the call myself last weekend. Admittedly, I was edgy, having read far too many Martha Stewart Living magazines in preparation for a dinner with my guy’s family that night. I’d finally located my bouillabaisse recipe and was surveying the living room to ensure all was correct before I began cooking.
Rationally, I realize my home will never resemble Martha Stewart’s. I’d sooner jab myself in the ear with scissors than craft anything, and my idea of decorating involves displaying artbooks of industrial erotic surrealism on the coffee table and hanging a string of Indonesian Spirit Birds made out of multi-colored bandanas in the kitchen.
But I do take great pride in our bookshelves. I fell in love with them the second I saw them in the store – so much so that my guy had to prevent me from walking up and licking the shelves.
Since being delivered, I’ve lovingly filled them: first run hard covers, well worn paperbacks, framed photos and random things we’ve collected. My odd organization system likely makes my guy dizzy, and certainly wouldn’t win any nods from Ms. Stewart, but everything in those bookshelves has a specific order, and I can tell at a glance if something is out of place.
What my system doesn’t account for is the random misfirings of my brain when I am anxious or stressed. That particular day, as I planned a menu and hoped I could host my guy’s family with enough grace to cover my usual social bumblings, I lost something. My sense, my logic, whatever glue it is that holds my brain in place came undone, and as I stared at the bookshelf, I believed with every fiber of my being that a prized possession was missing.
A large amethyst that my father had given me when I was younger was supposed to be sitting on top of a stack of Charles Bukowski books. I KNEW this. I knew this because I loved that rock, treasured it and made a point to look at it and think about my dad every so often, conveniently forgetting to consider that he is slightly nuts.
I ran my hands over every single book on the shelves, hoping to somehow find the rock in a rearranged place. I began to panic as it became clearer that the rock was. not. there. Conspiracy theories raced through my brain. My guy had recently held a band rehearsal in the living room. Could the new guitarist also be a klepto? Could he have seen the amethyst, been entranced by its glimmer or thought it valuable and slipped it into his guitar case when no one was looking?
Or had my guy in a fit of playfulness snuck it off the shelves to test my neuroses? It was the more unlikely of the scenarios, yet it didn’t stop me from ambushing my guy the second he walked into the room.
“Where is my rock?” I asked, lips quivering and eyes rolling around their sockets. “You know the one – you made fun of it once and when I said it was from my father you stopped and it was on the bookshelf I know it was and now it isn’t and where is it!”
My guy looked at me the same way you look at a pet who has snatched something you need back: slightly amused, yet with trepidation. I’m sure he wanted to prevent me from gnawing off what was left of the sanity we both needed.
“Calm down,” he said. “Are you sure it isn’t in your closet?”
Of course I was sure. I had held it up and polished it and always kept it with my books.
“Are you sure you unpacked it when we moved in?”
Of course I was sure. I had packed it in the same box as the Living Dead Doll I wasn’t allowed to put on our bookshelves and the record album I meant to frame just as soon as I unpacked it. And with that, my eyes blurred, my brain slowed and it suddenly dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, I had never put the rock on the shelf at all.
My loving guy went to our garage as I sat with my head in my hands then, found the box I had not unpacked, unpacked my rock, and came back up to place it in my hands.
As I shook off my crazy and displayed my favorite rock where it belonged, I gave my guy an embarrassed smile, hoping he still found me cute enough to humor.
He gave my head a few soothing pats and told me it was all okay.
“I have my own weird issues,” he said. And to show me that I am not alone in my wackiness, took me to the garage and pointed to the license plate on my car.
“Look at the number 2,” he said. “It’s bigger than all the other numbers. I’ve stood here nearly every day staring and wondering why. It drives me insane.”
I looked. He was right; the two was bigger. I smiled with the realization that my guy is equally wacky, and he smiled back. Relief washed over me as he engulfed me in a hug, and I knew that we could both be freaks together happily. It was an unexpected, but welcome, ingredient to our relationship.
We walked back into the house, and as I turned to close the door behind us, I caught site of my license plate. What the hell is up with that two anyway? I made a mental note to investigate further. I’m sure my guy will understand.
“I’ve been meaning to chat with you, Juliette. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I said, letting an insincere smile pull tightly over my teeth. I always have time to chat with Human Resources.
It seems wherever I work I have the opportunity to get well acquainted with HR. It’s never so much a testimony to my work ethic, but more a result of an overly anxious corporate environment. Here especially, seeing as how HR knows not only my credit score, but also the contents of my pee.
I’ve come to accept such indignities as routine in a workplace, and as I settled myself at the foot of HR this time, I braced myself for a request for bone marrow or spinal fluid.
As far as I could think, there wasn’t much reason to call me in. Unless, of course, my casual Friday Rob Zombie “Blood Mania!” t-shirt offended someone. Snark had gotten the better of me that morning, and the shirt I typically reserved for concerts and horror movie conventions seemed a nice contrast to the usual office attire.
But when HR began our chat with the phrase “ladies are talking”, I knew it wasn’t my t-shirt that was offensive.
The scene unfolded like a bad musical, and I half expected a gaggle of Ladies Auxiliary members to tap into the room and cluck their commentary alongside my HR rep:
“… you were with I’m assuming your boyfriend…”
(She’s not married, she’s not married!)
“… inappropriate public affection…”
(They were kissing, they were kissing!)
“… brought to my attention…”
(Look at them, look at them!)
“… consider the environment…”
(It’s indecent, it’s indecent!)
My skin started to crawl; I guessed it was a scarlet letter burning its way to the surface. The only thing I could think was: “Really? Are we really having this conversation?” Because as it was, the pitchforks those office folk carried were raised over nothing more than a single kiss my guy and I shared. At lunch. In his car. For less than 10 seconds.
Had my guy and I been pressed against the main entrance of the building, tongues a-twirl and clothing disheveled, HR and the Hens (which is SO the name of my new fake band) would have had a valid point about my perceived moral deficiency.
Frankly, I would have preferred that to be the case. It certainly would have made accepting the reprimand easier. Instead, I was forced to defend my decision to lock my guy in something other than a loose handshake in a place where Victoria’s Secret, when mentioned at all, is referred to as “Vicky’s” in hushed and embarrassed whispers in the restroom.
Needless to say, my rendition of “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” fell flat. I left HR with an updated list of things I cannot do: make personal phone calls, use the internet for personal business, and kiss my boyfriend on company property.
I commiserated with my guy at home that night, jokingly calling myself the “office whore” and predicting that the next time we meet for lunch, the only thing visible in his car would be my head bobbing up and down.
“Baby,” he said, “you can do anything you want on your last day.”
I smiled, and added that to my mental “to do” list. My last day had the potential to be very busy indeed.
