Twenty Questions, Part I or Ten Questions with 10 More to Follow

Below is one of the final exercises for my writing class. The purpose of the exercise is to get to know yourself. My teacher believes that you must know yourself in order to write characters to which your readers can identify.

A lot of times, when people write, they have a tendency to gloss over the bad parts. We were encouraged to be honest when answering the questions and to write the good and bad about ourselves.

The lesson was not intended to be viewed by others, -- we were instructed to answer the questions and then destroy them -- but I want to learn to feel more comfortable with revealing my whole self and not just the cleaned up version of me, so I am posting my answers here.

1.) How would you describe yourself in three sentences?

Believe it or not, I am not much of a talker. I only speak when I have something to say. Also, I am a hopelessly good person who always tries to do the right thing.

2.) What have you done that you are proud of?

Wow. I'm having such a hard time answering this question. I don't know if it's because I feel I haven't done anything noteworthy, or if I feel uncomfortable tooting my own horn. It would be lame to bypass this question without offering at least one thing I've done that makes me want to puff out my chest, so I'll go with this: I was really proud the first time I had one of my posts showcased on indiebloggers.org, but that event was tainted when I emailed the link to all of my friends and only one of them (a freelance writer) wrote back to congratulate me. I was disappointed by the lack of response I received from those who care about me the most, but I was still proud of my achievement.

3.) Do you have any bad habits?

I am a notorious nighttime snacker and have the waistline to prove it. It's a habit I have a hard time breaking. Everyday I make the declaration that this will be the day that I stop snacking, and I'll do fine for a few days, maybe even a week, but sooner or later, I'm back to my old ways. Will someone please volunteer to come to my house at 7 pm every night and duck tape my hands and mouth? I think that's my only hope at this point.

By the way, this was the cleaned up version of my bad habits. I said I wanted to learn to reveal my whole self; I didn't say that I was going to be 100% successful at it. Besides, no one really wants to know that I sniff toe jam on occasion.

4.) How do you feel about the way you look?

Every once in a while, I'll look in the mirror and like what I see, in spite of my imperfections, and I'll feel amazingly beautiful. Most of the time, I feel uncomfortable with the reflection staring back at me. I spend a lot of emotional energy trying to recapture that confident feeling, and it always seems to allude me.

5.) What kind of work do you do?

Incredibly unchallenging, uninspiring, life-sucking administrative work.

6.) How do you feel about your parents?

I love my mom dearly. She is my rock. Whenever things start feeling shaky, I lean on her, and she steadies me. My mom and biological father divorced when I was a baby. He went back to his native country and we haven't seen or heard from him since. I'm a bit unhappy with him for that, but not so unhappy that I wouldn't pursue reconciliation. My stepfather is no longer in my life, and I'd like to keep it that way.

7.) How do you feel about your siblings?

I am an only child so I don't have any siblings. My mom was pregnant once when I was in elementary school. I was happy and all but I wouldn't allow myself to get carried away with excitement. Deep down inside, I knew that I was not destined to be a big sister. A few weeks later, my mom miscarried.

8.) What's your attitude toward money?

I am horrible with money. HOR-RI-BLE. I set another goal this year to save a certain amount of money and have failed miserably. Again. Eating out, another one of my bad habits, was my downfall. My attitude toward money is I wish someone would save me from myself and manage it for me.

9.) Tell me about your childhood in one paragraph?

My childhood wasn't great -- there was a lot of dysfunction and sadness -- but it wasn't completely horrible. There are people out there with much more tragic childhoods than mine. I have quite a few happy memories, most of them involving my mom and grandmother, but some of them involve my stepfather and his side of the family. I spent most of my childhood alone, but I wouldn't necessarily call it lonely. I had one close friend in my early youth, but by the time we reached junior high school, we had drifted apart. I never had any friends that I hung out with after that until I reached young adulthood. Being alone is an environment that I learned to adapt to and enjoy.

10.) What's your philosophy of life?

What?!? You mean I have to pick just one philosophy that I have to live by and apply to every area of my life regardless of whether it's appropriate or not? Well, if you are going to put a gun to my head, I guess my philosophy would be this -- "So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets." Matthew 7:12. I truly believe that this world would be a better place if we all treated each other with more compassion.

To be continued...

Taking a teensy break

The coming week is the last week for my beginning writer's class. I am going to take a bit of a break from blogging while I finish up our final writing assignment. I am actually revising The Wedding post to turn in as my final assignment (Shh, don't tell anybody.) When I wrote it originally, I thought it would be a nice piece to use in my class, so I think I'm gonna go with that.

Another reason for the brief hiatus is so that I can spend more time with The Boyfriend. He's going to be on vacation from work starting Tuesday, and I want to make sure I have plenty of time for phone dates.

After this class is over, I won't be taking any more courses until the first of the year (There's way too much turkey and dressing to eat between then and New Year's.) Then I'll probably take two more of these lightweight workshops before moving to something more intense.

My mom is against me taking endless classes and thinks I should start putting out "product". To a certain extent, she has a point. I don't want to take class after class in an attempt to avoid experiencing the rejection that I am bound to get. But at the same time, I don't think my skills are developed enough to produce "product" that would make it past anybody's file 13.

And so I write, and learn, and write some more. I just pray to God that it's helping.

Sun Chips & Chocolate Cake

L.'s last day of work in our office was Friday and I took on the responsibility of planning her going away luncheon. The menu consisted of typical lunch fare but the star of the show, the reason to drag yourself out of bed and come to work that day was the chocolate cake.

At our office, we never pass up an opportunity to eat chocolate cake. We actually look for excuses to fill our mouths with moist, fudgy goodness. Your grandmother didn't die in her sleep? Let's celebrate the occasion with chocolate cake. You stubbed your toe on the coffee table? Chocolate cake will fix that right up. Your husband left you for another woman? Eat some chocolate cake. You'll feel better.

Even though there are very few questions in life where chocolate cake isn't the answer, woman can not live by chocolate cake alone (although Lord knows I've tried.) With that knowledge, I felt compelled to offer something more substantial to co-workers who don't actually enjoy bouncing off their cubicle partitions in a sugar-induced fit of hyperactivity. For those people, I provided sub sandwiches and chips.

Once she heard about my party plans, Melissa asked if she could do anything to help. I pretty much had everything under control. I had ordered the subs and picked up several 2-liters of soda at the grocery store. My only concern was whether the one bag of chips I bought would be enough for 10 people. Melissa eagerly volunteered to bring another bag. Great, I thought, problem solved.

The day of the luncheon, as I was arranging the sandwiches, plates and cups, I asked Melissa if she had remembered to bring the chips. "Oh, yeah, they're right here," she said and placed a bag of Sun Chips in my hand. "I brought these for people who wanted to eat something healthier." I stared at the bag for a moment and wondered how Melissa could have missed the mark on this one.

I mean, really. Who brings Sun Chips to a party? A party where everyone is looking forward to pigging out on chocolate cake, mile-high sub sandwiches and. . .chocolate cake. When you are eating food this decadent, what difference does it make how many fat grams your chips have?

As I grudgingly opened the bag and placed it on the table, I made a mental note to never ask Melissa to bring food ever again.

After I had eaten my sandwich and the fat-laden chips I brought, I decided to be a little adventurous and sample some of Melissa's Sun Chips. I put a few chips on my plate and then cautiously placed one in my mouth. To my surprise, I didn't feel like vomiting. The french onion seasoning was almost enough to mask the funny taste and texture. The not-so-bad flavor coupled with the belief that Sun Chips might actually be good for me may be enough to inspire me to buy a bag or two at the grocery store today.

I wonder what they would taste like smeared with chocolate cake?

Writer's block

I have a scandalous post swimming around in my head but I am really struggling with how best to tell the story. Please bear with me for a little while longer. I think I may be tired from all the busyness and drama of work.

In the meantime, go check out my interview at BlogInterviewer.com. If you vote for me to win $50, I'll promise the money will go towards important things like feeding underprivileged children in third-world countries. Or I'll spend it all on chocolate. It's a toss up really.

The Wedding

Thirty minutes after I put on my brand new pair of dress pumps (black satin sling backs with a fake, silvery jewel accent on the straps), my feet started to hurt. The heel was just a little bit higher than I am used to wearing, causing my feet to slide forward, jamming my toes into the pointy tip. I don't know how other women do this on a daily basis. Wearing heels higher than 1.5 inches is so unnatural not to mention uncomfortable. But I decided to tough it out because, as Billy Crystal's Fernando Lamas says, it is better to look good than to feel good. And look good I did in my wispy long, black evening skirt worn with a sparkly black, square necked blouse. I didn't feel as put together as I would have liked because I didn't have time to wash and curl my hair so I twisted my limp mane into a bun and secured it with jeweled chopsticks. Not my best look but it would have to do.

The ballroom where the wedding and reception were held is located in one of downtown's most historic locations. The trey ceilings boasted intricate moldings and supported several large, crystal chandeliers. Huge columns adorned in gold fleur de leaf flanked the wedding area while shimmering champagne-hued drapery hung between the columns serving as a visual wall and creating a chapel-like atmosphere.

Although the setting was gorgeous, the seating was very uncomfortable. The small, dainty chairs were crammed so close together that my shoulders frequently rubbed against my neighbor and the tightly constructed rows ensured that my knees stayed planted in the backside of the woman in front of me for the duration of the ceremony.

The large collection of bridesmaids looked elegant as they paraded down the aisle one by one. Their chocolate satin gowns complimented the decor of the ballroom perfectly. The bride wore an antique white strapless dress that fit snugly along the bodice and hips before gradually flaring out into a short, chapel-length train.

The bride and groom, although unmistakably happy, were not overly sentimental. They recited their vows without any difficulty or visible signs of emotion. The wedding itself was short and sweet. There was no singing or music to draw out the ceremony. Almost as soon as the wedding started, it was over.

After the procession, guests were asked to wait on the mezzanine while the wedding area was transformed back into a ballroom filled with tables draped in crisp white linens and dotted with red rose petals. Those same uncomfortable chairs from the wedding were also used for the reception and I stared at them longingly from above as my feet began to swell and throb with pain.

Forty-five minutes, 3 million pictures and one huge helping of shrimp dip later, we were finally allowed back into the ballroom where guests quickly formed lines to consume the extremely mediocre (and expensive) hors d'oeuvres.

As I sat at my table and watched the bride and groom perform their obviously choreographed first dance, I couldn't help but wonder what The Boyfriend's and my wedding might be like. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to finally have our lives joined together permanently. I daydreamed about our first dance and how I would rather do the funky chicken and the robot than pay to learn some stuffy dance moves that we would never use again. I fantasized about us engaging in the social busyness that a reception requires while occasionally catching each other's eye across the room and exchanging knowing glances in anticipation of our wedding night, the culmination of the day's activities.

Unfortunately, my daydreams will have to go unfulfilled for a while. The Boyfriend and I have vowed to move slowly. Not until this time next year will we reevaluate our relationship and determine for sure which direction we want to go in. In spite of our slow, deliberate pace, weddings and the subsequent girly dreams they inspire often team up with my growing hatred of long distances to create an impatience that sometimes overwhelms me.

Goals

Recently, The Boyfriend and I each made a list of 5 goals that we wanted to accomplish in the next 3 years. None of the goals we came up with were outlandish and all of them were fairly practical and attainable. I wrote the goals down as we were naming them and sent them in an email to The Boyfriend for posterity's sake. Always up for making a competition out of anything, The Boyfriend suggested that the loser perform certain. . .favors. . .for the winner until the winner determines the finish. I accepted his challenge and decided that unless I wanted to, as coffeypot would say, learn to suck a golf ball through a 20-foot garden hose, I'd better get cracking.

One of my goals is to take 3 six-week writing courses over the next year. I've never taken any sort of writing classes whatsoever and was a bit nervous about the whole thing but felt that it was time to get serious about improving my craft. Published authors say all the time that the way to become a better writer is simply by writing. But I'm finding that I need a bit more than that. I need some guidance to ensure that my skills are progressing in the right direction. I also need the encouragement and critique from other aspiring writers. A writing class promised to provide just the type of challenge I needed.

I signed up for an Internet course -- Beginning Writer's Workshop. An Internet writing class seemed like the perfect setting for a timid soul like myself. The anonymity makes it easier to submit your work for review by your classmates. Besides, standing up and reading while 40 eyeballs burn holes in your flesh is very nerve wracking.

One of our first writing assignments was designed to hone our descriptive writing skills. The teacher asked us to light a candle and then write one paragraph describing the candle. We were encouraged to let ideas emerge from the description and to allow emotion to come into play.

Below is the assignment I submitted. You may notify the Pulitzer committee if you wish.

The Candle on my Desk

The candle burning on my desk was a housewarming gift I received almost 2 years ago. Tonight is it's inaugural lighting. Even though the candle is barely the size of a shot glass, it casts a mighty shadow. The image projected on the wall of my office makes my computer monitor look as if a giant owns it. The flame on the candle is strong and bright without being overpowering. It's warm, yellow glow is the perfect amount of light for a cozy dinner. I blow out the candle quickly to save it for a more romantic occasion.

Okay, so I won't hire an agent just yet. But what I'm learning to do that the words may not reveal is to trust myself and the creative voice inside me. I'm also learning to tune out my inner critic so that ideas flow freely without judgment. I'm learning to harness the power of my critical voice so that it may be used to build up a piece and make it better instead of tearing it down. In essence, I'm learning to take the very first steps toward becoming a better writer.

On dryers and making apologies

I have been fortunate enough that most of the apartments I've lived in during my lifetime have always had a washer and dryer located inside my living quarters. Only in college was I ever subjected to the indignities of communal washing. And that was so long ago that I barely even remember the embarrassment I experienced while watching my unmentionables tumble in the large, industrial dryers. For the last 16 years, my unmentionables have tumbled in the privacy of my own home.

As with all conveniences, they can easily be taken for granted, causing you to not fully realize how good you have it until you come across someone who is not as blessed as you are. In my mind, not having your own washer and dryer is almost akin to living in a third world country. I want to adopt that "underprivileged" person who is forced to wash and dry their clothes in public and send them .25 cents a day so that one day they too can experience the joys of laundering in their own home.

The Boyfriend is one of those poor souls who is unable to wash his clothes in his own apartment. Once a week or so, he packs up his dirty clothes and does his laundry at his aunt's house a few blocks away.

Ordinarily the opportunity to do laundry for free in a semi-private environment would seem like a pretty good deal. Unfortunately for The Boyfriend, his aunt's dryer has not worked properly for some time making an already long process even longer and effectively negating a portion of the benefits he receives.

The Boyfriend and I were joking one night about how long it takes him to do laundry when I remarked, "Why didn't your aunt get the dryer fixed instead of buying a big-screen television?"

Sure, it was a tacky thing to say but I was joking. It's not like I actually expected her to forgo the purchase of a big-screen television in favor of repairing the dryer. I was simply trying to be funny by making a offhanded comment. Besides, I felt pretty confident that my joke would never make it past the two of us.

I was wrong. Oh, so very wrong.

A few weeks later The Boyfriend revealed that his aunt doesn't have a very high opinion of me. When pressed further for an explanation he added, "Well, I told her what you said about..."

"Oh, God," I groaned as my head fell into my hands. He didn't finish his sentence. There was no need because I knew exactly what he had told her.

The Boyfriend tried to reassure his aunt that I was just joking and meant no harm but she wasn't hearing it. She was offended. And, to be honest, she had every right to be. Joking or not, it was a horrible thing to say.

My first inclination was to call and apologize but I don't know The Boyfriend's aunt that well and wondered if I would be making too big a deal of it all. I decided to let it slide. When The Boyfriend mentioned a few weeks later that his aunt had fixed the dryer but was still mad and asked for my phone number to, presumably, give me a piece of her mind, I knew it was time for me to act.

I called The Boyfriend's aunt and offered a sincere, heartfelt apology. I added that even though my comment to her nephew had been in jest and was without malice, it was still tacky and uncalled for.

During our phone conversation, The Boyfriend's aunt tried to downplay her offense, making it seem as if she hadn't given my comments a second thought. I knew better. I knew that she was mad as hell. But she was very gracious. She accepted my apology and assured me that "all is well" between us.

I don't know for sure if all is well or not. Some people can hold grudges for a long time and I don't know The Boyfriend's aunt well enough to decipher if she is one of those people. Sometimes though, a simple apology can go a long way toward smoothing the most ruffled of feathers.

I hope I did just that.

A little too racially sensitive?

Recently, three employees who worked for the local municipal theatre were fired by the city for leaving hangman's nooses dangling from the stage rigging. Another city employee, who happened to be African-American, saw the nooses and complained to his superiors that he was "hurt and offended" by the racist message they conveyed.

The stagehands claimed that they were unaware of any racial connotations surrounding nooses. They stated that they were simply practicing their knot tying (knowledge of knots can be very useful in stage work) and left the nooses hanging so that the ropes would stay off the floor while it was being refinished.

City officials found it improbable that anyone living in the South would be unaware of the racial imagery associated with nooses. In addition, officials questioned why the men, if they were indeed concerned about keeping objects off the floor while it was being refinished, left a chair in the stage area.

After an investigation it was determined that the young men created a hostile work environment and they were relieved of their duties.

********

I am interested in knowing what you think readers? Were the men intentionally trying to create a hostile work environment? Or were they just goofing off without giving a second thought to the racial overtones associated with nooses? Do you think the city act appropriately? Or did they overreact?

TMI Tuesday. . .on Wednesday.

I normally do not participate in TMI Tuesday but I always enjoy reading the posts of those who do. This week, I thought the questions were interesting enough and safe enough that I could give it a whirl.

Without further ado, my first, official TMI Tuesday post:

1. Define "infidelity" as it relates to a relationship. Have you ever been guilty of infidelity? Have you ever been the victim of infidelity? Have you ever been a participant in someone else's infidelity?

In my mind, infidelity occurs when you give yourself (either emotionally or physically) to someone who is not your significant other. I have never had an affair and I've never had a significant other to be unfaithful but I have been a victim of infidelity. Because my stepfather was a notorious adulterer, I can honestly say that infidelity is an act of betrayal against not only the spouse but the entire family.

2. What is the last thing you stole?

Our competitor's newspaper out of one of their news stands. I put in enough money for one paper and took four. Shh, don't tell anybody.

3. Name one place in your country that you have never been but would like to visit and why.

New York City. It seems like such a lively and diverse place. And I have always found the sight of concrete and tall buildings exhilarating. I believe I was born to live in a big city even though most big cities are known for having naive, Southern Belles like me for lunch.

4. What movies can you watch over and over again?

All of the movies in my collection were bought with the intention of watching them over and over again. However, I rarely watch the same movie more than once a year. There are a few movies though that I've seen multiple (3 or more) times. They are: Happiness, The Matrix, Brokeback Mountain, Simply Ballroom, Bridget Jone's Diary, Barbershop, Dirty Dancing, Rope, About Adam, Clerks, Under the Tuscan Sun, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, In the Company of Men, Bound, El Mariachi, Something New.


5. Who is the last person you saw naked?

Look, Mom, at the pretty flower! Over there. To your right. Away from your computer screen.

The Boyfriend.

GrizzBabe's Week in Review

Sorry that I've been absent from the blogosphere for the last couple of weeks but my life has been incredibly busy as of late. My 24-day housekeeping plan in preparation for The Boyfriend's arrival (now a mere 6 days away) was for naught as my activities this week have thrown a monkey wrench of epic proportions into said plans. Let's review exactly what GrizzBabe has been up to for the past 7 days:

• The week started off with 2 nights of overnight babysitting only I didn't find out about the second night until I had arrived for the first night (that kind of knowledge is always fun to learn at the last minute.) Like the professional that I am, I rose to the occasion but I was very tired at the end of those two nights.
  

• Wednesday night, after working my ass off on my day job, I went to dinner with a friend that I had not seen in a couple of months. We ate and talked for hours, catching up on all that we'd missed in each other's lives. A fun time to be sure but it wasn't a situation where my body could truly rest and rejuvenate. I came home and collapsed, too tired to even have a phone conversation with The Boyfriend.
  

• Thursday, again after working my rear end off at the newspaper, I went to the storage facility where I work on Saturdays to be trained on the new credit card processing software. Afterwards, I went to dinner with my boss and her husband at a local steakhouse where I pigged out on a ribeye steak, loaded baked potato and broccoli. Yum, yum. But once again, I was pooped.
  

• I actually had Friday off from work. The plan was to get the hole in the eave of my house fixed so the birds in my attic can find someplace else to call their happy home. The company I hired to do the repairs got my work number confused with my home number. When they called my office to confirm our appointment and received no answer (even on my day off, no one can find it within themselves to get to the office before 9 a.m.), they assumed that I was not at home and went to their next job. We rescheduled for next week.
  

• I had a 3 o'clock hair appointment (in preparation for The Boyfriend's arrival) and decided to laze about the house until 1:30. That's when I decided to take a long, hot shower. BIG mistake. Little did I know that the heat and moisture from the shower would open the pores in my scalp causing the straightening chemicals my beautician uses to burn. It felt like my hair was on fire. My hair dresser promptly rinsed the chemicals out of my hair but because she had overbooked, I still didn't get out of the salon until 7 p.m. Once I got home, I decided to sweat out my $60 hairdo by spending the next 2 hours cleaning up.
  

• Saturday I worked all day at the storage facility and then went clubbing with a friend at a honkytonk bar near my house. The last time I was at that bar several years ago, some drunk guy who smelled like vomit wouldn't leave me alone. I had hoped to experience a better time on my second visit. I was wrong. The weirdo magnet that has been surgically implanted into my brain was operating at full strength last night. Out of over a hundred patrons in that bar, some woman desperate for female companionship (the platonic kind) picked me to try and convince to be her new best friend. Do you like to read? I love to read. I read lots of erotica. I have over 50 books in my library. We could be book buddies and exchange books with each other and everything. Wouldn't that be fun? I really would like to get to know you better. You are so calm and I am so all over the place. I need to be around someone calm. I'm having a housewarming party on the 9th and I would really like you to come. You don't have to bring your friend if you don't want to. After spending five minutes giving me directions to her house, I know you have a pen in your purse. If you wanted my phone number, you could write it down.

It was a fitting ending to a long, tiring week.

My most painful childhood memory, part 2

I don't have much recollection of the conversation that occurred in the car immediately after dropping my aunt off at her home. I just remember that it started off angrily but calmly. The term "conversation" is a bit misleading because my mom hardly said a word; it was my stepfather who did all of the talking. He would make a snide remark here, a disapproving statement there. For 20 minutes, the argument was very constrained, that is until our vehicle stopped at the light of a busy intersection. It was there that my stepfather decided to let loose.

There were 3 lanes of traffic going in each direction of the intersection. Our vehicle was in the middle of the westbound lane, which means we were hemmed in by cars in front of us, behind us and on the side. By this time, my stepfather's one-sided conversation had gone from occasional nasty comments to an angry rant. My mother's continued silence seemed to bring confusion as to whether his points were getting across so he began to accentuate his statements with violence.

Right in the midst of talking, in front of God and everyone who had stopped at that intersection, my stepfather lifted the back of his hand and smacked it across the side of my mother's face. The first hit not only caught my mom by surprise but it had damaged her ear drums as well. She immediately placed her hands over her ears to protect them and to stop the intense ringing. My stepfather, undeterred by any injury he may have caused, continued to hit my mother again and again.

From the backseat, I began to scream and cry hysterically, partially because my mother was being hurt and partially because I was incredibly embarrassed. With each slap, I scooted farther and farther down in my seat until my head could no longer be seen through the car window and I was almost on the floorboard. I reasoned that if I could not be seen then this couldn't be happening.

The violence continued when we got home but the tool changed. Once home, my stepfather began beating my mother with a belt while he chastised her for actions like she was some misbehaving child. I watched in horror as my mother quietly fought off the punishment with her hands. Eventually, I decided to put a halt to this situation before an ambulance needed to be called.

I ran to the kitchen and called the only person I knew who possessed enough righteous indignation to get involved in such a messy situation -- my grandmother. She lived less than 3 minutes away and I knew she would put a stop to this nonsense immediately. In my hysteria, I managed to confuse my elderly grandmother and by the end of our conversation, she thought that I was the one being abused. It didn't matter because my call had the effect I had intended -- it made my grandmother mad as hell. She sent my uncle over to settle things down and to make sure that my mom and I were okay.

Once the incident was over and the dust had settled, my stepfather somehow convinced my mother that he was really, really sorry and that he would never do such a horrible thing again. He even apologized to me for behaving so poorly. Unlike my mother, I was not so easily swayed. His apology fell on deaf ears. All I could think about was how my mother was violently beaten for making such a personal and admirable decision. She didn't deserve that sort of treatment and I decided at the time that he didn't deserve my forgiveness.

Blogging vs. Cleaning House

Have you ever felt like you would rather clean house than blog? That's what I've been feeling lately. It's not that I have lost the desire to write. I have not. Like all good narcissists, I get life-affirming satisfaction from droning on endlessly to total strangers about the mundane details of my life. But, right now, I really want to clean my house.

The Boyfriend is coming to visit in exactly 24 days and I'd rather not be running around at the eleventh hour like a chicken with my head cut off trying to give the false impression that I am a paragon of domesticity. I prefer to slowly build that illusion over a period of weeks. Besides, it will take me at least that long to wash the mountain of dirty clothes that reside on the floor of my bedroom.

Not to worry, though. I'll be back in a few days. If past experience is any indication, this cleaning up business will get old really quickly. Until then, I'm gonna ride this wave of motivation until it crashes.

My most painful childhood memory, part 1

My mom and stepfather were not very big church goers. We rarely went when I was a young child. Like all good Southerners though, we believed in God and The Holy Trinity but we never exercised that belief by crossing the threshold of a church sanctuary. At least not until I was about 10 or 12. That was about the time my mother must have had some sort of spiritual epiphany because we started going to church more regularly. My stepfather tagged along, not unenthusiastically but not with fervor and commitment either.

During this time, my stepfather's aunt would often accompany us to church on Sunday mornings. We usually picked her up on the way to services and dropped her off when it was over. My aunt, a bitter, angry woman, must have decided she needed some religion too.

The church, pastored by one of the city's more popular ministers, was your typical predominately black, Missionary Baptist church. The music, easily the best part of the service, was soulful, spirited and uplifting. It's entertainment value was only occasionally surpassed by the flamboyant choir director's energetic and rhythmic arm movements. The congregation was always lively and vocal and could easily be whipped into a frenzy whenever the pastor yelled in a sing-songy fashion while simultaneously dancing up and down the aisles. The services were long (3 hours or more) but my mother and aunt seemed to enjoy them so we kept coming back.

On one particular Sunday, my Mom, being moved by the message, decided to accept the pastor's invitation. Invitation to what I don't exactly remember but, with tears in her eyes, she went forward for prayer and made a decision to become a full-fledged member of the church.

The church was so crowded that day that our family had to be separated. My mom and I sat in one section of the church while my aunt and stepfather sat in another. Even though I could not see where my stepfather was sitting, when my mom went up for prayer, I immediately sensed the intensity of his disapproval. I knew he would be angry that my mom made such a decision without consulting him. Our unusual seating arrangements coupled with the fact that no one ever plans to be moved by the Holy Spirit would mean nothing to him. His permission was not sought and so there would be hell to pay.

As I watched my mother receive prayer, the muscles in my stomach began to constrict into a large, tightly wound mass. I was concerned for my mother and secretly wished that she had not gone forward. Didn't she know what this would do to him?, I thought.

The ride home was a silent one except for the occasional nervous chatter from my aunt. Could she feel the tension in the air? Was that why she kept talking when no one else said a word? Was she aware of my stepfather's angry state? Did she sense that his wrath was being contained because she was in the car? Did she fear, as I did, what would happen once she was no longer in our presence? My aunt was not a pleasant woman to be around but that day, I wanted nothing more than for her to stay with us for as long as humanly possible. I knew that once she got out of that car all hell would break loose.

(To be continued)

Open mouth, insert cell phone

When I pulled up to the house where the family that I babysit for has recently moved and noticed the gray truck outside, I knew it meant one thing -- David, the college-aged son of my boss Janice, was back. Despite the fact that David has always been nothing but nice to me, I still hated to see that he followed the family from the old house to the new one.

David is lazy and irresponsible (the fact that Janice has to hire a babysitter to take care of the kids when there is a grown man living in the house rent free should tell you something.) In addition, the kids and I feel more relaxed when he is not there. The boys can have the run of the house without fear of being yelled at for simply being kids. Not having David there would have made all of our lives a little more pleasant.

After going inside and getting settled in my room, I pull out my cell phone and send The Boyfriend a text message that reads: "David is back. Ugh."

Sixty seconds later, as I'm talking to Janice in her bedroom, her cell phone makes a noise. She removes it from her purse, flips it open and begins reading.

"Did you send this to me?" she asks, " 'David is back. Ugh.' "

I gasp the mother of all gasps. After sucking all of the oxygen out of the room, I cover my mouth to hold it in for a moment before releasing it.

"Did I send that to YOU?!?" I exclaim as air rushes out again.

Janice chuckles. "Yes, you did but that's okay. I feel the same way."

We proceed to have a good laugh (I'm SO glad she has a sense of humor about the whole thing) and she went on to explain how she loves her son but hates it when he's an ass and wishes he was out of the house too. She also added that he is only staying temporarily while he looks for a second job. I was relieved to hear that.

Janice should consider herself lucky that the text I sent her only contained disparaging remarks about her son. I could have accidentally sent her one of those naughty messages that I'm prone to sending The Boyfriend. Talk about embarrassing.

I can hear it now -- You wanna do what to me?

C.S.I. Grizzbabe's World

I had gotten to work at my normal time that morning carrying my usual breakfast that I have on workdays that follow a night of babysitting - a sausage biscuit and a large orange juice. Nothing about the morning seemed unusual. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping. Everything pointed toward a typical start to a typical day.

Even the front door of the office being unlocked and slightly ajar didn't immediately strike me as odd. The graphic artists have been known to leave the back door unlocked after a late night at the office. I just figured that this time they decided to change things up a bit by leaving the front door unsecured.

After rolling my eyes at the absentmindedness of our staff, I walked through the door, sat down at my desk and proceeded to consume my breakfast, just like I do every morning. Little did I know that this would not be a typical morning.

About 15 minutes later, my co-worker, Martha, called. I recount to her my experience of finding the office door unlocked and we both reasoned that the graphic artists, having spent an exhausting night of production trying to make deadline, must have inadvertently left the door open.

As I'm talking to Martha, I get a funny feeling. It was a familiar sensation similar to the one I had when I lost my house key as a kid and got a hunch to open the freezer door. To my amazement, I found the key suspended in a small block of ice in an ice cube tray.

This time the hunch was telling me to open my right desk drawer and look in the petty cash bin. I obeyed because my intuition has yet to steer me wrong.

The bin was empty. The only thing that was left were some receipts.

I spin my chair around and opened the left desk drawer. The cash for the payment of several small ads was missing as well.

I sunk in my chair as the realization set in. We had been burgled.

I said goodbye to Martha and immediately called the local police department. They arrived surprisingly quickly. At first I thought it was because the police station is so close to our office but in actuality they were already in the office complex investigating other burglaries.

Despite the fact that there were multiple burglaries in the area that occurred on the same night, I felt rather uneasy. Our burglary seemed to differ from the other burglaries because there appeared to be no sign of forced entry. Entrance to the other offices had been gained by prying open the door. It was obvious by looking at our door that no prying had taken place.

I began to fear that The Controller, who already looks at me suspiciously, would blame me for the missing money. After all, I'm the one who controls the petty cash bin and accepts money for ads. Couple that with the accounting-gate incident and I felt like I would be a prime suspect.

Fortunately, once the crime scene investigator got there and did a more thorough examination of the premises, it was discovered that entry had been gained through a window. The window was open and there were pry marks on the outside sash.

We didn't immediately notice the open window because the purps had returned the blinds to the down position - just as they had found them. In addition there was a huge desk in front of that window that had to be moved in order to enter the building. The desk had been returned to it's rightful place as well. We are so fortunate to have had such considerate burglars.

We are also fortunate that only about $100 in cash was taken. It could have been a lot worse. They could have chosen to wipe us out completely by taking our computers as well. Not only would that have been a bigger financial loss but it also would have created an administrative nightmare. It's even possible that the paper may not have been printed that week.

The incident was good for adding a little excitement to our day though. We watched as the detectives dusted the window for fingerprints and took photographs. I also got to yell, "Don't touch anything!" to everyone who walked through the door. It was all very CSI.

Despite the diligence of the investigators, I doubt they will find the people who broke into our building and 4 other offices in our complex. There's simply not much information to go on and I'm sure they have bigger fish to fry (not to mention lots of donuts to eat).

The burglary did serve as a not-so-subtle reminder that there's never a dull moment at my company. Whether it's financial scandals, tawdry affairs, conspiracies or criminal activity, there's always excitement to be had in Grizzbabe's World.

Doubts, the conclusion

Parts 1 and 2 can be found here and here.

Oh my God, he's touching me!, I screamed silently. Some strange guy from Chicago that I hardly knew and who wears white socks inappropriately had invaded my personal space and was touching me in an intimate way. This was one of the weirdest feelings that I've had in a long time. And not in a good way.

The Boyfriend sensed my uneasiness but he was undeterred. He kept his arm around me for the duration of the movie. And I allowed him to mainly because I believed that the only way to get over the uncomfortable feeling of being touched by someone I hardly knew was to allow someone I hardly knew to touch me.

You would think that on our next "date", when I vistied him in Chicago, I would have been more relaxed. And I was at first. I remember sitting with The Boyfriend on a loveseat in my hotel room. I had my arm stretched out over the top of the couch and The Boyfriend's arm was on top of mine and wrapped around my shoulders. I distinctly remember thinking , This is not so bad. I kinda like this. I felt as if I was having a breakthrough and that I might finally turn into a normal person. As it turned out, my breakthrough was very short-lived.

The next day while we were waiting for the train to take us to downtown Chicago, The Boyfriend, being convinced that it was now safe to touch me (silly boy!), put his arm around me again. For some unknown reason, I had a flashback. I tensed up and repeated that freakout scene that occured in my living room a few months before. I wanted to yell "Stop touching me!!" at the top of my lungs. I believe The Boyfriend must be a mind reader because he immediately pulled his arm away.

What would cause me to want to react so violently to The Boyfriend's show of affection when I had been fine with it the day before? I don't know. The only explanation I can offer is that I'm a fruitcake in need of serious medical attention.

Fortunately, my uncomfortableness in The Boyfriend's presence eventually went away. As I spent more time getting to know him, I began to want to be close to him and express myself physically. Now, I can't keep my hands off of him and I want some part of his body touching me at all times.

Wow, I'm amazed at how far I've come. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get to this point. It took some time, more than most people need, but I am finally able to relax around The Boyfriend and not only let him touch me in an intimate manner but allow him into the deepest areas of my soul.

It seems the doubts have disappeared.

I KNEW there was something in my attic!

Almost a year ago, I wrote a post proclaiming that something, I didn't know what, had taken up residence in my attic. Well, I've finally discovered what loathsome, mythical creatures have chosen to make my home their permanent abode.

Last night, as I am talking to The Boyfriend on the phone, I suddenly realize that I hear birds. They are chirping. Loudly. And at midnight. I am accustomed to hearing birds chirp at ungodly hours but never before the sun's up. It was rather strange, like living in a place that's cold in the Summer and warm in the Winter. The laws of nature, as I understood them, seemed as if they were being violated. I chalked the noises up to my bedroom being in close proximity to the Bradford Pear tree in my back yard and continued my conversation.

This morning, I was about to get in my car and head to the office when something told me to walk to the side of the house and inspect the outside wall of my guest bedroom. I spend a lot of time in that room on my computer and that is where I hear noises most often.

Well, Mother Nature must have read my mind because as I'm coming around the corner, I see 3 or 4 black birds flying hurriedly out of a huge hole in the eave of my house. The wood looked as if it had been peeled back like a banana. I walked a little closer and I swear I could see the eyes of another bird hiding in the hole praying to that bitch Mother Nature that I wouldn't notice him.

My first instinct was to scare him and any of his remaining friends out of the attic but I've seen that Alfred Hitchcock movie. I know what their kind did to Tippi Hedren and I wanted no part of that. Scaredy cat that I am, I tiptoed back to my car and left for work.

I realize this is a situation that I can't ignore. These critters, over time, could do some serious damage to my house if they haven't already. Unfortunately, I have no intention of going up in the attic and forcibly removing the birds from the premises. I have every intention of hiring someone else to do it for me. Then I have to get the hole in my eave fixed. If all goes well, maybe I won't be so afraid to go in my own attic anymore.

Oh, who am I kidding!

A poisoning of the mind

I had a very lazy day Sunday. So lazy in fact, that I didn't turn on my stove once to cook a meal, unusual for someone who loves to putter around in the kitchen. Instead, I opted to make fast food my main form of sustenance. I had a steak and biscuit from Mrs. Winners for breakfast and fish from Captain D's for dinner.

There was one odd thing about my fish dinner. When I picked up one of the last remaining fries and put it in my mouth, I noticed that it was cold, colder than the rest of the fries, and wet. Not wet like it was a victim of condensation from being on the bottom of a pile of hot fries but wet like it had come in contact with some sort of contaminate. At least that's what my overactive imagination thought. I took the fry out of my mouth and placed it back in the styrofoam container and finished the rest of my meal.

I felt fine for the rest of the evening but when I woke up Monday morning, I didn't feel so hot. I was extremely nauseous and I had an unusual pain in my abdomen that I would later identify as stomach cramps. I dragged myself to work but left the office around 11:30, went home and promptly collapsed in my bed.

My symptoms (nausea, stomach cramps, low grade fever, chills) and the suspect fry all pointed to food poisoning. As the evening progressed, the stomach cramps became less severe and save for an occasional reminder, they have all but disappeared. Today, however, the diarrhea has started. Fun.

I probably could have been a trooper and gone into work despite the fact that I still don't feel my best but I decided to stay home an extra day to give myself a chance to heal completely and to get some much needed rest. It's a shame that I wait until my body violently revolts against me before I allow myself to take time off from my 3 jobs. Surely, that must be some sort of sickness too.

Doubts, part 2

Part 1 can be found here.

Even though The Boyfriend and I had spent countless hours talking on the phone, the idea of holding hands or cuddling on our first date made me feel more than a bit uneasy. I am well aware that most normal people would not be unnerved by this, but, as my significant other has already attested, I am not normal.

With regards to closeness (emotional and physical), I tend to move at a much slower pace than the rest of society. Before I can display even the slightest intimate gesture, I need time to get to know a person. And when the potential object of my affection lives in another state, I also need time to acclimate to their physical presence. Unfortunately, it wasn't until The Boyfriend's first visit that I started to understand this about myself.

Our very first date was a simple one - dinner and a movie - made simpler by me choosing to cook the meal and opting to watch a video rather than go to a theatre. After a bedazzling display of culinary skill, we settled in to watch one of The Boyfriend's favorite independent movies.

We had talked about this moment before the visit and we both expressed a desire to cuddle on the couch while we watched the movie. Even though my brain had agreed to this and my mouth uttered concordance, when the time finally came, my body decided to resist any attempts at physical intimacy.

After placing the video in the VCR, I scoped out a place on the couch. I decided on a spot right next to The Boyfriend, a spot that was closer to him than I had been all day. After sitting down, The Boyfriend tried to initiate the cuddle portion of the evening by putting his arm around me. I immediately felt myself tense up. I tried to maintain a calm and cool exterior but on the inside I was freaking out.

(To be continued)

The production staff is trying to kill me

My co-workers seem to be at the center of a plot to force me to commit suicide. And they are using the subtle yet subversive tactic of bad music to do their dirty work.

Monday morning I arrived at the office to discover the production department listening to Dolly Parton. That's right, I said Dolly Parton. For an hour, I was tormented while the twangy vixen belted out her deadly melodies. Luckily, the constant phone ringing was enough of a distraction to stop the fatal bleeding from my ears.

Yesterday, after the failed country music attack, they went right for the jugular and pulled out John Denver. Although his syrupy, folksy brand of music produced much gagging and dry heaving, I'm proud to say that I am still standing.

Today, the production staff has gone a step further and is currently playing the obnoxious sounds of various 80's hair bands.

Is there no end to their torture?!?

Fortunately, I have finally come up with a defense that will, at the very least, spare me much pain and suffering and maybe even my life. Whenever life-threatening noises start emanating from the back of the office, I race to find my radio and put in my earphones. The music from the stations I have programmed is able to miraculously repair any damage that has been done to my internal organs.

Plan thwarted.

A day of rest

I'm aware that I promised a conclusion to my Doubts post but I've decided to postpone it for a few days.

Okay, maybe a week.

I've had the week off from one of my part-time jobs (that means I worked only two jobs this week instead of three) and I've used the extra time to catch up on some things around the house. Consequently, I'm exhausted. Too exhausted to put the kind of mental effort into Doubts, part 2 that it deserves. And since I'm a perfectionist, I will wait until I can do the post justice instead of spitting out a bunch of drivel like I'm doing now.

I'm postponing the post for a whole week because I looked at my schedule the other day and realized that I will have to babysit overnight 3 nights in a row next week and I'll need some time to recover. Normally, two nights in a row is enough to knock the wind out of me. I can only imagine what 3 nights will do.

Needless to say, I am not looking forward to it. Not because the two young boys who have been entrusted to me aren't cherubs (they aren't but that's beside the point) but because 3 nights of not sleeping in my own bed takes a lot out of me.

Maybe I'll take a pad and pencil with me and in between breaking up fights and enacting the discipline of strangulation, I'll find some time to work on the Doubts post. I also have to tell you about the nutcase we almost hired to replace The Stripper.

I know. A moment of silence for the boobs.

Doubts, part 1

When I saw him for the first time in the airport he was easy to pick out because he looked exactly like his picture. This would relieve some people but I never had any doubt that the tall, husky yet handsome man in the photo that resided on my hard drive would resemble the man that stepped off the plane to greet me. My doubts didn't start until we had gotten back to my place and I had an opportunity to observe my future boyfriend’s mannerisms and pick apart his dress. It was then that I began to question our ability to have a relationship.

My biggest male fashion pet peeve is white socks, especially when worn with dark colored pants. To me, it just screams nerd. And not the Yes-I-like-computers-and-play-fantasy-sports-but-otherwise-I’m-really-cool kind of nerd but the I-play-computer-role-playing-games-and-attend-Star-Trek-conventions kind of nerd. It's a brand of geek that emanates from the core of one’s soul and can’t be disguised by wearing contacts and throwing away your pocket protector. Regardless of how hard you try to hide it, eventually this form of geekdom will always come out. White socks are a woman’s only early warning signs alerting her to a life of sex while wearing a Klingon costume. I wasn't sure I was prepared for that.

The more serious threat to my relationship with The Boyfriend was the effect his mannerisms had on me. It’s not that his tendencies are offensive or repulsive. They are not. The problem was my overactive imagination.

After spending months talking on the phone to someone you’ve never met, you start to develop an idea in your head of how that person’s face must look when they say certain things and what hand motions they use to accentuate their words. More importantly, you start to fall in love with those make-believe characteristics. When you are finally face-to-face with that person, you discover that the daydreams that had become your reality were anything but real. In a long-distance relationship, that can take months to get over. It wasn't until the third visit, when I had enough tangible knowledge of The Boyfriend’s actual mannerisms, that I was able to replace the images that were created in my head with something more real.

Incidentally, this is about the time that I became more physically comfortable around The Boyfriend.

(To be continued)

Low Carnal Intelligence Quotient

I like to think of myself as an intelligent person. In elementary school, I always scored above my grade level on standardized tests. And in high school, I was enrolled in a college preparatory program where the course work was more academically advanced than the average student's. So, despite what I am getting ready to tell you, I am not an idiot. Really, I'm not. It's just there are some things that traditionally I have been slow to grasp, particularly things of a sexual nature. I have what you could call a low carnal intelligence quotient. If there is a colloquial term referring to anything sexual, chances are I will not only fail to pick up on the innuendo but I will have to have it spelled out for me as well. And maybe even have a picture drawn.

My naivety can partially be explained by my Bible belt upbringing but mostly my carnal ignorance comes from spending my youth being a goody two shoes. As a teenager, I did all the "right" things. I didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't cut school, didn't sneak out of the house and never hung around with people who did. While most kids my age were out partying, losing their virginity in the back seats of cars and generally being educated in the ways of the world, I was doing my Calculus homework. This trend continued until I reached young adulthood but, by this time, I was so far behind that there was no catching up.

The Boyfriend often chuckles at my innocent nature (I think he thinks it's endearing) and bears much of the responsibility of explaining sexual references to me. Recently he had to point out that a Prince Albert wasn't just a tobacco product. And he practically had to pull out charts and graphs when he mentioned that an ex-girlfriend of his was into water sports and I responded, "You mean like scuba diving?"

My ignorance doesn't stop at sexual terms. When it comes to songs with sexually suggestive lyrics, I often give the impression that I rode the short bus to school.

Not too long ago, The Boyfriend explained that Mtume's Juicy Fruit is not about chewing gum. Only recently it was brought to my attention that Grace Jones' Pull Up To My Bumper is not about cars. While listening to the radio several years ago, my mom and I both realized the meaning of the song Afternoon Delight a full quarter century after the song was made.

Apparently, this affliction is hereditary. And that pretty much means there is no hope for me. I should just wear a bracelet that announces my handicap to the world and lets people know that if the subject of a conversation should change to a sexual nature then they need to speak slowly and plainly in my presence. And have a drawing tablet nearby. Then maybe, just maybe, I'll have a chance of catching on.

My name is Kathy

I couldn't stop laughing while watching this video of The Short Circus singing My Name is Kathy. For more than one reason, it is the stupidest song ever sung on The Electric Company. First of all, it has no purpose. "Kathy" pretty much sums up the song when she instructs the other members of the group to "Just sing your name and some other stuff and stop when you sing enough." (Those are some award-winning lyrics. Did you write that yourself, Kathy?)

Secondly, how can you do a round robin of singing and not let Irene Cara (or "Iris" as she was known in The Short Circus) get in a few bars? We were tortured by that no-talent "Buddy" droning on about his drum playing when we could have been mesmerized by the vocal stylings of Miss Cara. So many injustices in the world.

A stroll down memory lane

I was driving home from work the other day in what was unusually warm weather for this time of year. While at a stop light, I looked over at the car next to me. The driver had his window down and I could clearly see the brightly colored rugby shirt he was wearing. I gazed at the shirt for a moment. It sparked memories of my childhood and the TV shows I loved to watch back then.

Whenever I see a rugby shirt, particularly red and blue, I am always reminded of one of my favorite childhood programs -- Zoom. Not the episodes produced in later years- those were lame- but the original show from the 70s.

Unlike other children's programs of its time, Zoom was almost completely unscripted. It relied heavily upon projects and ideas submitted by everyday kids as well as the personality and charisma of its cast to hold the attention of viewers. In addition, the kids seemed to have a confident air about them that, as a shy 7 year-old, I always admired. Here is a perfect example of what made Zoom so appealing.



That is classic Zoom material. It's so educational. You never know when the skill of whistling with a mouth full of crackers will come in handy.

And who can forget Bernadette and her weird arm thingy.

(For the record, I could do this with ease as a flat-chested kid but now, the boobs have become a mortal enemy to the twirly arm trick.)

Sesame Street makes everyone's list of all time favorites. Characters like Big Bird, Cookie Monster and Mr. Snufalufagus managed to capture the attention of even the fidgetiest 5 year-old. Throw in the occasional celebrity guest and you have one of the most memorable children's programs of the our generation.

In fact, the coolest moment -- EVER -- in children's television has to be when Stevie Wonder sang "Superstition" live on Sesame Street. If you missed this because you were too young (or too old), for the love of God, watch it now!! It doesn't get any better than this.

Rounding out my top three favorite programs as a child is The Electric Company. I consider this show MTV for kids. Hardly a thing was taught unless music and dancing was involved. The Electric Company also boasts my favorite version of Spiderman. Not only did The Electric Company Spidey look hot in tights, but he communicated only through word balloons. Take that Toby Maguire!

I tried to find some Spidey Super Stories clips for you but there weren't any on YouTube that were still available. So I've decided to leave you with this Electric Company public service announcement (aka Scared Straight for Toddlers) warning all you young tykes on the dangers of poison. "It'll kill ya'!"

Update: I forgot to add that the guy in the back dispelling the myth that all black people have rhythm is "Eddie" from Good Times.

Once again, work is kickin' my ass

Sorry about the lack of posting. Working late at the office this week has sucked all of the creativity out of me. I should be back to my old tricks by the weekend though. Right now, I'm going to go curl up in my bed and watch the Spurs-Suns game. Hopefully, I'll be asleep by halftime.

Butterflies

Earlier this week, I was exchanging light banter with one of our clients while standing in the parking lot located outside my office. Our conversation was interrupted when the client stopped mid sentence and announced "Oh, there's a butterfly!" He picked up the insect gently and raved about its vibrant yellow and blue coloring. I flinched as he shoved the butterfly enthusiastically in my direction. "Isn't it pretty?" he said. I feigned admiration. I must have been pretty convincing because he asked me if I wanted to take the butterfly inside. He seemed slightly insulted when I answered no. "Oh. Well. I guess I'll put it over here then." And he placed the butterfly on the ground by the side of the building, presumably out of harms way.

I didn't mean to offend my client's animal loving sensibilities but my office is not a wildlife sanctuary. It is a place of business. What the hell am I supposed to do with a butterfly indoors anyway- put it on a leash and pet it? Seriously. A butterfly is one of those creatures that God intended to roam free in nature. Even a meat-eating, mink coat-wearing, tree-chopping person like myself is sensitive enough to know that. Besides, I can't have butterflies, regardless of their beauty, flitting about the office willy-nilly. It's just not professional.

I don't think our client was thinking in terms of professionalism. After my heartless response, I believe he pegged me as an enemy to all things zoological and reasoned that he'd better place the butterfly as far away from the mean office manager as possible. Although I've never considered myself an animal hater, I must admit he made the right decision. Had he left the butterfly where he found it, I might have inadvertently squashed it as I walked out of the office. Once I realized my error, I would have mourned for approximately a nanosecond and then promptly scraped the butterfly off the bottom of my shoe and kept on stepping.

What kind of cold, cruel, butterfly-hating monster am I?

Keeping up appearances

I spent this past weekend visiting The Boyfriend. Even though we have been dating for a year, the distance between us has caused the relationship to progress at a much slower pace than one where both parties are geographically close to each other. Consequently, we are still in that stage where we are both trying to be the best representation of ourselves even if those representations are not entirely accurate or realistic. Or at least I thought we were both still in that stage.

After this weekend, it has become obvious that The Boyfriend has moved on to the Comfortable Phase of our relationship where superficial acts aimed at impressing the other are tossed aside in favor of something more real and ultimately more satisfying. Apparently, I didn't get the memo.

Since this would be the first visit where I stayed at his apartment and I didn't want to look my normal crappy self, I decided to do a little shopping. I bought new panties, a sexy black bra and a comfy, casual pajama set. While packing for the trip, I painstakingly picked out panties and bras that matched and even picked coordinating socks to wear with my pjs so that I would still look cute as we snuggled on the sofa and watched college basketball.

My attempts at keeping up appearances didn't stop at fashion. My first morning there, in anticipation of some early morning cuddle action, I got up before The Boyfriend and brushed my teeth, washed my face and combed my hair into an attractive ponytail. Yes, dear, my breath typically smells pleasantly minty when I wake up. And I always look this fresh-faced and well-coiffed first thing in the morning.

While I was busy trying to give the impression that I always look this good, The Boyfriend entertained no such nonsense. He confidently and comfortably kicked it in a pair of sweat pants and a holey t-shirt that looked as if it had seen better days. And he didn't let a little thing like morning breath stop him from putting his tongue down my throat. His intent was to relax and make the most of my brief stay. He wasn't worried about whether his socks matched his sweat pants; he was focused on enjoying my company.

I should take my boyfriend's lead on this issue. He really does have the right attitude. At this point in the relationship, we should be able to relax around one another, be ourselves and not be so concerned with appearances. I'm just afraid I'll scare him off once he sees me in pink hair curlers and a mud mask.

Mysophobia

The Polish sausage infused with jalapeno peppers and cheese and baked in bread dough was amenable going down that morning at breakfast but now it was starting to rebel. The only remedy for my discomfort would be a couple of Tums. And chocolate. I had neither in the house and decided to make a quick trip to Walgreens. Once there, I grabbed a large container of extra strength, fruit flavored Tums and a medium-sized bag of peanut butter M&Ms. I placed my exorbitantly priced items on the checkout counter and patiently waited my turn.

After ringing up the guy ahead of me, the cashier inhaled deeply. The superfluous mucus that threatened to escape her nose was quickly drawn back into her sinus cavity. She picked up a Kleenex, turned her head and discreetly wiped her nose. Instead of throwing the soiled article away, the cashier placed it back on the counter. The tissue looked as if it had been an unwilling participant in that routine all night.

I groaned in my head. I was not looking forward to having items that would soon be placed in my mouth fondled by a woman with the West Nile virus all over her fingers. It only increases the amount of work that I have to do once I get home. Before one tablet or M&M touches my lips, a complex set of procedures aimed at preventing contamination must be performed.

I walk through the door of my house and set the Walgreens bag down on the floor of my office. I take the items out of the bag and place them on my desk. Now I need some scissors to cut open the bag of M&Ms. I don't want to touch anything unnecessarily so I decide against rifling through my desk drawer to look for a pair of scissors and opt for the kitchen shears that are conveniently sticking out of my wooden knife block.

I use the shears to cut open the bag of candy and set it aside. I put a few squirts of antibacterial gel on my hands and rub them together. After grabbing a couple of Kleenexes out of a tissue box and placing them on my desk, I open the plastic container of Tums, turn it upside down and shake it gently until two tablets fall onto the tissues. I pick up the tissues and toss the antacids into my mouth. As I am chewing the disgustingly milky tablets, I pour some peanut butter M&Ms on the Kleenex and put more antibacterial gel on my hands. Once the gel has dried, I enjoy my chocolate treats confident that I have successfully avoided catching the bubonic plague.

Mysophobia, like all neuroses, is irrational and prone to inconsistency. Had I not been aware of the cashier's diseased state, I would have happily gone home, popped the Tums in my mouth and ate my M&Ms without giving a second thought to germs. But then a few days later, after coughing up a lung, I would have wondered how the hell I got so sick.

Alka-Seltzer: not just for acid indigestion

I read a post over at Funky Brown Chick's blog on the secret to great sex. She provided a link to a Redbook article entitled 20 Amazing Sex Secrets. It was the usual stuff -- read trashy novels, wear sexy underwear, strengthen your PC muscles, blah, blah, blah. Nothing too earth shattering. Until you get to the end of the article where "experts" offer some, shall we say, less conventional methods for adding a spark to your sex life.

Sit in front of your partner and give your genitals a voice. For instance, "I am happy to live with Margot," or "I'm unhappy she keeps me under the table." They may say, "I'm rusty and out of practice," or "It's about time you gave me some attention." Let your genitals speak for as long as needed. Then, switch roles.
—The Sexual Ecstasy Workbook by Margot Anand and Philip Duane Johncock

I can actually see myself doing this. Only I wouldn't name it Margot. I'd give my hooch a stripper name like Destiny, Fantasia or Delicious. Margot sounds like something I'd call my grandmother. By the way, anyone find it interesting that the last name of one of the authors is "Johncock"? You think that's his real name?

Underarm deodorant should be banned absolutely. A truly deodorized woman would be like a deodorized carnation.
—The Joy of Sex: Fully Revised & Completely Updated for the 21st Century by Alex Comfort

Okay. Ewwww. If you want to kill any chance of ever getting laid again, try going a few days without putting on the Right Guard. I don't think carnations were meant to smell that pungent.

You can achieve an eye-popping effect by wrapping the nipple with dental floss.
—Tricks to Please a Woman by Jay Wiseman

If by eye-popping effect, you mean doubled over in hysterical laughter, then I can see that.

Are you suddenly inspired by phallic objects around the house? Then get creative! Candles, rubber handles and cooking utensils will all get the job done very well. And when a friend uses that spatula to flip your pancakes, you'll get added pleasure from knowing where it's been!
—Toygasms! The Insider's Guide to Sex Toys and Techniques by Sadie Allison

If any of my beloved readers try this little tip, please let me know in the comment section. And then remind me to never, ever, ever accept a dinner invitation to your house. Or touch any knickknacks you may have that resemble a penis.

Insert a moistened Alka-Seltzer tablet in your love tunnel and beckon your man to enter. Makes an invigorating fizzy tingle for both of you.
—302 Advanced Techniques for Driving a Man Wild in Bed by Olivia St. Claire

I am one of those people who relies heavily on intuition. I wouldn't describe myself as clairvoyant but I've always been able to get a sense of the outcome of certain situations. And my intuition tells me that if you stick a moistened Alka-Seltzer in your vaginal cavity, there will be a trip to the emergency room in your future.

Thank goodness for small favors

I had mentioned some time ago that heads were gonna roll at my company. Since then, I have been waiting rather impatiently for the first cranium to come spiraling out of The Sheriff's office. Unfortunately, I am still waiting. But we did get a bit of good news though.

The Sheriff called today to inform us that the employees of our paper and one of our sister publications will no longer report to The Vice-President but directly to him instead. This was music to our ears. None of the employees at either paper like The Vice-President. His character is questionable to say the least and lately the rumor mill has been churning out talk of financial misdealings. Regardless of the motivation behind this maneuver, I'm just glad we will be shielded from him to some extent. That should make our work life more bearable.

Quirky is as quirky does

During a recent phone conversation, I was basking in the unbridled adoration of my boyfriend, who was extolling my numerous lovable qualities. As he spoke, I could hear the faint sound of harps being gently plucked in the background, angels hummed in melodic unison and there was a golden glow emanating from above. My shower of praise was abruptly halted when he mentioned that one of his favorite things about me is that I am "slightly quirky."

When the words left his mouth, I am sure they were meant to be a compliment but by the time they had traveled through the hundreds of miles of fiber optic cable and bounced off a couple of satellites, it had been transformed into, "I love you but you are a grocery cart away from being that homeless woman who talks to herself and takes up residence in bus shelters." (This interpretation may very well be Exhibit A in the case against me.)

Whenever my friend P. and I would catch the shuttle to go see my favorite NBA team play, she would always remark that everyone on that bus was a weirdo, including me. I had always assumed she was joking so I never paid much attention to her comments but now I'm beginning to wonder. What is it about my personality that earns me the quirky label?

Admittedly, I have a rather strange taste in movies. After watching films like Happiness and The Piano Teacher, most of my sane friends usually hurl in disgust or at the very least go, "Huh?" I, on the other hand, revel in the dysfunction that is prevalent in these movies. That's not to say that I don't enjoy a good blockbuster. On occasion, I'll allow myself to be herded along with the masses into a theatre to watch the latest chick flick or action film. But I would much rather spend the majority of my entertainment dollars going to see Indie movies. And the sicker and more twisted the story line is the better.

According to The Boyfriend, I also have a penchant for making oddball comments, usually after noticing something that most people would simply ignore. It seems this skill manifests itself most often while watching television. Personally, I can't think of one thing I've said that fits into this category. Every comment I make seems normal and appropriate. To me. Of course the inability to recognize one's own weirdness may be the very definition of quirky.

Dictionary.com defines quirky as "strikingly unconventional". I like the sound of that. And it's a good thing too because I don't think I could be normal if I tried. Hell, I thought I was already being normal. How can I rid myself of the quirky aspects of my behavior if I have no idea what they are? So I've decided that if I can't buck the label, I might as well wear it like a badge of honor.

Besides, I've always been very fond of bus shelters.

I really need to stay away from Wikipedia.com

I was blog hopping on my lunch break today and came across the term "smegma". I had no idea what it was and decided to look it up at wikipedia.com. I discovered that there is not only a definition of smegma at wikipedia but a picture of the foul substance as well.

What kind of pervert accumulates this stuff, takes a picture of it and posts it to an online encyclopedia?

I think my bologna sandwhich is on its way back up.

Weird thing #7

I just thought of another thing to add to my six weird things about me post: I check all of your blogs obsessive compulsively several times a day or more.

For those of you who have site meters that keep track of such things, I'm certain this makes me look like some crazy stalker or, at the very least, like someone in desperate need of a life. I can assure you that the medication my doctor has me on keeps my stalker tendencies to a minimum. Consequently, I have a very full life.

I'm not crazy. I promise. I'm a normal person like you who just so happens to enjoy reading your blogs so much that I like to check back for updates or for new and interesting comments your readers leave. The only thing that separates us is the fact that I feel the need to do this incessantly.

There's no need to worry however. I'm told that once I've had the lobotomy followed up by a couple of rounds of electric shock treatment, I should be good to go.

Mail-order bride

It was late in the work day and I was having a conversation with one of my more. . .offbeat customers. It had been awhile (over a year) since I'd seen him. He stopped by the office just to chat.

"I'm getting ready to be on my third wife," he announces.

"Really?" I say.

"Yes, I've been talking to a Filipino woman over the Internet. Several of my friends are married to Filipino women and I thought I'd give it a try."

He proceeded to explain the reasoning behind his decision. (Let me preface this portion of the blog post by saying that the opinions and ideas listed below are not shared by the author. Some of the beliefs are offensive. Very offensive. But they are not, I repeat, NOT my own.)

According to Mr. Wacky Customer, who apparently had been doing some "research", marrying a Filipino woman that he hardly knows is a good idea because:

The divorce rate among white males and Filipino women is unbelievably low. Something like 1.5%, is what I think he said. "There's no way I can fuck this up," he concluded.

In addition, Filipino women are supposedly demure, which, according to my client's logic, is a characteristic that is most likely to reduce the friction that is so prevalent among American men married to American women, white American women in particular. It is Mr. Wacky's opinion that white women are the worst in terms of giving attitude.

This one was a bit of a shocker. Normally, it's me and my African-American sisters that get saddled with that stereotype. But Mr. Wacky Customer said he would much rather be married to a black woman than a white woman.

"I would LOOOOVE to find a black woman," he says, "I mean a BITCH of a black woman. I would prefer that to being married to a white woman. Both know how to go to war but they go about it differently."

Mr. Wacky also feels that a Filipino woman would be so grateful to leave her impoverished country that she would be extremely loyal and committed to him. And since women from the Philippines are used to surviving on so little, a Filipino wife would be inexpensive to maintain. Mr. Wacky thought this was perfect because, in addition to being wacky, he is a cheapskate to boot.

There was only one thing standing in the way of my client's master plan: his wife. Or should I say, estranged wife.

It's no surprise that she left him but she can't seem to let go completely. She refuses to go to counseling with him and resists the idea of reconciliation but she won't sign the divorce papers because she says she's still in love with him.

Truth be told, Mr. Wacky is still very much in love with his wife as well and can't bring himself to be the first to sign the divorce papers either. But he's tired of waiting.

"I haven't had sex in 564 days," he reveals.

He asked me what to do.

I told him that he should wait it out since it was obvious that he and his spouse still had feelings for each other. Until he could sign those divorce papers and feel good doing so, I advised him to continue pursuing reconciliation. He seemed amenable to the idea.

A half an hour into our conversation, at the exact moment he had finally come to grips with the prospect of staying with his wife, I could have sworn I heard Filipino women everywhere breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Happy Blogiversary to me!

Today marks the one year anniversary of my blog. I never would have thought I could have hung in there this long. And although my postings have been spotty as of late, I have no intention of stopping now.

I originally started this blog as a form of self-expression and as a way to improve my writing. Well, I've certainly got the self-expression part down. And although my writing flows more easily today than it did a year ago, there is still much room for improvement.

When you hit a milestone, sometimes it's good to go back and look at where you've been so you can have a better grasp on where it is you're going so I'm taking a look at some of my favorite posts from "the early days".

Men are nasty.
Could you please pass the KY?
The Dream Channel
Vibrators: a trashy woman's device?
A mind is a terrible thing to waste
100 Things About Me
Gremlins in the attic
An independent woman's guide to replacing your car headlight

A Yuletide Meme

Thanks to Kilroy for coming up with a Christmas-related meme and for thinking my answers might be interesting enough that he included me in a tag.

• Favorite seasonal movie. I went to a friend's house last week to watch Christmas movies. That experience made me realize that, in general, I am not a big fan of seasonal movies. I'm just not that nostalgic. I know, what kind of heartless Scrooge am I? If someone put a gun to my head and forced me to pick a Christmas movie to watch before I die, I guess I would pick "It's a Wonderful Life." Or maybe I'd tell them to go ahead and pull the trigger. I'm just that ambivalent about the whole thing.
• Song you enjoy most this time of year. This is an area where I am not so ambivalent. My favorite Christmas song is "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree." On the other hand, "Jingle Bell Rock" is nice too. So is "I'll be Home for Christmas." Oh, I can't pick just one.
• Holiday Greeting. Since Christmas is a religious holiday, I try to be respectful of others and say "Happy Holidays" unless I am certain of the other person's religious beliefs.
• Do you make a list? If so, how many people are on it? Yes, I usually make a list. The length of the list varies depending on my financial situation at the time. In general, it's a relatively short list. When I win the lottery, I'll make longer lists.
• How up to the last minute do you shop? I have a serious aversion to stress and I usually organize my life so that I experience as little stress as possible. To me, waiting until December 24th to shop is about as stressful as it gets. I don't wait until the last minute to purchase Christmas gifts. I don't start shopping in June like some people but I'm not a last minute person either.
• When do you open your gifts? As early as the giftgiver will let me. Watching an unopened present sit there and mock me for not being able to open it until Christmas Day is just plain torture.
• Holiday food you most savor? It's a toss up between cornbread dressing and sweet potato casserole. It's a travesty in my book to have one without the other.
• Favorite holiday book? Does the Williams-Sonoma catalog count?
• New Year Resolutions? I usually try not to make New Years resolutions because I always break them but I made a short list this year. Oh, I'm not going to reveal them here. If I don't tell anyone, maybe I'll actually have a snowball's chance in hell of keeping them.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

I'm sorry

I apologize to the faithful readers who comment here but haven't switched to Blogger Beta yet as you probably won't be able to post a comment on my blog. I was forced to switch to Blogger Beta against my will because I got tired of trying to comment on beta blogs and having access denied when I attempted to sign in. At first I thought it was just technical difficulties. Now I suspect it's a ploy to force bloggers on the old platform to make the switch. Nazis! To get around it, you may be able to post a comment anonymously, although even that trick quit working for me after awhile. I'd like to encourage the lone stragglers to give up the fight and convert your blogs to Blogger Beta. I completely understand though if you decide to dig in your heels. I'll support you in spirit.

Six weird things

Props to Steve for tagging me to reveal 6 weird things about myself. As I am often hailed for being the embodiment of all that is considered normal and healthy (not), this proved to be a difficult task but I gave it the old college try. Here goes.

• I have a fear of amusement rides. I'’m fine as long as the ride is spinning furiously while still on the ground but once that thing becomes airborne, I start behaving like I need to be contained by a straight jacket. That'’s normal, right?
• I put my name on my office supplies, making it easier to determine where my wrath should be directed if they come up missing. I don'’t label everything, just the things that send me into a tizzy if I reach for them and they are not there, like my pens and my post it notes. Nine out of ten psychologists agree that turning into a fire-breathing dragon is a totally appropriate reaction to finding out that one of my co-workers has rummaged through my desk and taken my stuff as if my workspace were the office supply closet. GET YOUR OWN DAMN PEN!
• I can'’t watch those real life crime shows. After watching an episode of Forensic Files, I spend weeks contemplating how long it would take the cops to find the serial killer that chopped my body up into Ziploc baggie size pieces and stored it in the freezer.
• I prefer to NOT have the toilet paper hanging from the toilet paper dispenser. To me, it'’s more practical and convenient to leave it on the bathroom counter. When I'’m sitting on the toilet in a dark bathroom at 3 o'’clock in the morning, the last thing I want to do is spend a lot of time searching blindly for the start of the toilet paper roll. I'’d rather quickly do my business so that I can get back to the dream involving me and a Jacuzzi full of Chippendale'’s dancers.
• After observing the hygiene habits of my fellow office dwellers (men and women alike), I'’ve come to the realization that the urge to wash my hands after every bathroom visit makes me unusual, a freak of nature that should be displayed at carnivals.
• I rarely watch TV shows that have actors and a plot. For some reason, I don'’t have the patience for those types of shows anymore. If the people on TV aren'’t dribbling a basketball, making a souffle or redecorating a room, I'’m not watching it.

Work is kickin' my ass!

I would go into detail but it would only bore you. Suffice it to say, due to the incredible amount of work I have been saddled with and the unreasonable deadlines I have been given in which to accomplish said work, GrizzBabe's Den will be on hiatus until the end of the week.

Settle down people! No need to write your congressman or anything. I know I've just dealt a serious blow to the blogging community but please. . . find a way to hold it together would ya'?

Vibrators and The Modern Male

My friend, Anita, conducted an unscientific poll among her male co-workers. She asked if they had any objections to their girlfriend or wife using a vibrator. The responses ranged from the caveman ("No. Not even if I'm on a business trip") to mild disapproval ("Well, only if I were there to use it on her.") The conclusion she drew from this experiment was that men do not want their women experiencing sexual satisfaction unless they are involved in the process.

I found this to be an interesting hypothesis and encouraged her to test it on my boyfriend when he came to town. While we were all out to dinner, she posed the question again. My boyfriend is fairly open-minded so I was not surprised when he responded that he had no problems with me using a vibrator. A few weeks later, he sings a slightly different tune.

I get a call on my cell phone from the boyfriend as I am on my way to a Bath Junkie party. Because he's a guy, I knew he had no clue what a Bath Junkie party was and I really didn't take the time to explain it to him. When I talk to him again later in the week he mentions that he was worried that the party I went to was a sex toy party. I asked if he didn't want me going to sex toy parties. He admitted that he would rather I go with him the first time I purchase a vibrator. I stifle a chuckle at the idea of him proving my friend, Anita, right, at least in part.

This whole thing has been very fascinating and has inspired me to conduct my own little survey, so here goes. Men (ladies feel free to offer your opinions too): Would it bother you if your woman used a vibrator? If so, what is it about the idea that does not sit well with you?