Shhhhhhh!

Earlier today I addressed the whispering. Two of my co-workers were standing at the end of my desk, about 2 feet away, whispering. I was already annoyed because I had just driven 40 minutes into work right along with the jackass drivers of this state, so I said, "If you guys don't want me to hear what you're saying, then go somewhere else." They stared back at me blankly. I think they were shocked I actually said something, since I usually sit here quietly, hiding my festering annoyance and hatred. Then they replied with, "Oh, we don't mind." And continued talking...only louder this time so I can hear. But since I did actually hear their whispering conversation that took place not moments before, I know they had conveniently changed the subject.

Thumper

I have big teeth. I mean, not so big that you would notice if you looked at me. They don't overbite nor are they bucked. They're just big. They get food stuck in them all the time. If I'm not careful, I'll walk around all day with a piece of lettuce or mushroom or rice from lunch stuck right there between my teeth for all to see. If I'm lucky, my friend will tell me that it's there. But she can't walk around with me on Tooth Patrol 24-hours a day. No, that would be absurd. I mean, a girl's got to sleep.

My job is not ideal for such a big-toothed woman such as I. I often eat at my desk, and the food is more likely than not going to consist of food of the green-leafed variety. I need to stop doing this. Students, professors, or parent's undoubtably come in and talk to me while I'm eating. Just a second ago I was smiling brightly at two women asking me a question. As they walk away, I feel a piece of lettuce the size of South America sliding innocently off of my front tooth, as if it were actually WAITING for them to leave to remove it's self.

Lettuces everywhere are joining together to fight against the crime that is Clean Teeth. The world is cruel.

The truth behind gifts you make for loved ones.

Yesterday I woke up to a white world, Internet. Over the night the predicted snow fall had actually proven true. Go figure! The weathermen were actually right this time. I guess they're off the hook for the rest of the winter, then.

It's wonderful to wake up and for a split second you feel like you're a kid. You get excited about the day that will be spent in your pj's or outside making snow angels. You hurry to turn on the radio to hear your school called and can't wait to get back into bed. For some reason, the bed never feels as good as it does when you have a snow day. But then you put on the coffee and somewhere between the mug and the sugar you realize you're an adult. DOH! And you have to go to work. DOH! There are no snow days in adulthood. ARRRRRRRGH! Sigh. Then instead of being cozy in my bed blanketed by snow, I'm being bombarded with dirty snow backwash that I can't wipe away because the wipers don't even seem to be touching the windshield, despite numerous cleanings. And the drivers...oh Internet...I cannot for the life of me begin to desribe to you the utter stupidity of the drivers in Rhode Island. I have driven all across this country and never encountered drivers as badly as here. And that's on dry roads. I'm convinced that Rhode Island is trying to control the population of the state by not taking care of it's roads properly. Bad drivers and bad roads do not make for a good combination. Nope, not at all.

This weekend I went home to Maine (where people actually know how to drive) for Christmas with the extended family. We all went to my cousin's new house in the woods and got lost on the way out there. That did not start out the evening well with the folks. I would've rather walked down the road risking getting run over by a deer to look for the house on my own than be in that car. Yes, a deer. Ironically, I felt like the adult in the car trying to control the two children in the back that were fighting. We made it, though. And the first thing I did was hit the liquor cabinet. After that was completed, the night got quite a bit more interesting. The best part of the whole night came when it was time to open my gifts from my grandmother. Now, my grandmother is still quite with it. I'm actually of the belief that she will never pass away, she'll out live us all she's so seemingly young. So I was a little shocked when I opened my presents from her. I was delighted I had a bag of presents at my disposal. I get to the very last present and I start opening it, thinking what I'm uncovering looks rather familiar. In fact, so familiar that I quickly put it away so not to have to fake the, "Oh! Thank you so much!" that we are all guilty of. She had regifted. And not just regifted a gift that was given to her by someone else. Nope. She had regifted a gift that I had MADE FOR HER 2 years ago. I had even written on the paper and drawn some designs on it. I thought maybe it was a joke. I mean, she is quite the subtle comedian. But sadly, no, it was serious. She must have found it in a drawer and never used it and thought I would like it. I mean, afterall...I HADE MADE IT. It doesn't get any better than that. I found it hilarious. Although, a little sad I'll admit.

Now I'm thinking I can totally regift the gift that has been regifted to me. I'll re-re-gift. I wonder if I can get away with giving it to my Grandmother...

Dating Story #1

I've had my share of interesting dating stories since I've moved to P-town. There was this guy from somewhere over in Eastern Europe that I met when I was showing my apartment to prospective sub-leasers. He was cute...but then again, I was lonely and anxious for some kind of excitement in my life; and perhaps it comes in packages of Eastern Europeans. He shows up at my apartment and we head downtown for sushi. It's going well, I find him fun and interesting...until half-way through the dinner he grabs my hands from across the table and holds them. I had known him for, oh, about an hour at this point. And he's holding my hands. In a restaurant. On the table for all to see. But I thought, ok, whatever...he's European, I'll let it slide. We leave the restaurant and go to a near-by bar for drinks. About 5 minutes in, I'm over my hope and desire that this actually has a chance of being successful and I just don't like him. I could care less what he is talking about and if my crossed-arms and legs and body tilt away from him isn't enough, I'm staring blankly at the tv in front of me while he's talking to me about who knows what. But I do take a brief moment away from the utterly-boring bowling league championship that I am watching and hear him say, "Come here." I look over and he's looking at me with such cockiness and wiggling his finger towards him. Then he leans in for the kill...puckering lips, eyes closed. "No. Are you kidding me?" I blantantly express, "What are you doing? I don't do that sort of thing." He replies with, "You stupid Americans. You are all the same." Um, excuse me? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don't think so. "Just because I'm an American, you think I don't want to KISS YOU. ON A FIRST DATE. IN THE MIDDLE OF A BAR. You'd be lucky if I kissed you outside of the bar, in private, you jackass." We left shortly after...following intense angry moments of silence. I couldn't believe this. He drives me home, and just to add salt to the festering wound that had become of this Eastern European...I lean over to give him a hug. Why you ask? Yeah, if you come up with an answer to that one, let me know. I'm blaming it on the countless years of hugging hippy after hippy at school. Those dready peace-lovers like to hug. Anyway, he doesn't even move. Doesn't even take his hands of the steering wheel. I found it hilarious. Then...this is the best part, guys...he actually emails me the next day and asks if I want to go out again. I emailed him back, wondering what date he was on because I sure as hell wouldn't be going back out on a second date with the guy I went to dinner with that attacked my culture simply because I wouldn't kiss his sleazy lips in front of strangers at a bar. I never heard from him again.

Next dating story: the guy with fish lips that after 25 years still can't kiss. Stay tuned.

So Annoyed

Seriously, people, the whispering HAS GOT TO STOP. Last time I checked, this was not the hall of junior high, this was an adult WORKPLACE. ENOUGH ALREADY.

10 minutes, MAX.

There is this strange phenomenon in Rhode Island among the folks who were born here where people will not drive further than 10 minutes. When I told people I was planning on moving to my present location (20 miles away from the city), they thought I was insane. “You’re moving where?” they’d say, dumbfounded that anyone in their right mind would actually live there, as if it’s Antarctica or something. I cannot get used to this. In any other city, driving 20 minutes to get anywhere is part of life. In New York, it takes at least an hour and a half to go anywhere in the city, whether you choose train or taxi. And folks, this is the smallest state in the country we’re talking about here…not Texas or California. We should be willing to drive 3 states over, let alone 3 blocks. This weekend I was told of a person whose family used to live in the same town and has since moved 2 towns over, and they now only see one another twice a year at holiday gatherings. I cannot for the life of me understand this. I’ve had a relationship end as a result of me moving 30 minutes away. He started to say he missed me and didn’t know how we were going to make it, having a long-distance relationship and all. We’d have to stay at each other’s houses every other weekend just to see one another. And during the week? Forget it. It would be impossible! We’d have to pack snacks for the drive! (Yeah…there was a lot more wrong with him than this.)

But this weekend I may have had my faith restored. My new friend, born in the Ocean State, showed up to my house with a truck full of wood for my wood stove. I didn’t ask him to come, nor did I ask him to chop the wood for me (Well, ok, I did…but I requested it be shirtless and in my presence. But I wasn’t seriously expecting him to chop wood for me. Not so soon, anyway…I mean a girl’s got to stay warm!). I’m in the middle of Shakespeare in Love, right after the scene where the incredibly hot Will (which we all know is not realistic…both that he was hot and that Shakespeare was called “Will”) unravels Viola’s garments to fall passionately onto the bed, and I hear a knock on the door. Thinking it was my brother-n-law, I didn’t bother to cover my un-showered head with my hat. I open the door and it’s my new friend and a truckload of firewood he had just chopped for me and preceded to drive 30 minutes to leave on my porch, without even expecting me to be home. Does it get any sweeter than that, people? No, it doesn’t. And I am in fact having his babies next week, after I inform him we are indeed getting married tomorrow when he can chop wood shirtless for me every day.

I do need to point out, however, that this very sweet man did in fact leave the state for over 5 years where he lived in Utah, an area of land that probably 200 Rhode Islands could fit in. So, I believe, the phenomenon continues to thrive and I will keep commuting daily from Antarctica with a change of clothing and a snack all the way to the city.

Sir Stranger

The last few weekends while I’ve been driving to my friend’s house on the East Side, there has been a homeless man at the light with a sign that reads, “Food. Clothes. God Bless.” He never asks for money, although if given, I’m sure he wouldn’t refuse it. He’s been there every Friday and Saturday night, passively standing there with his sign, life on the street reflecting in his eyes and apparent by his ragged beard. Lately the temperatures have been dropping below freezing and he’s barely had a sweatshirt on. I wanted so badly to give him a blanket or something, but have had nothing in my car. And being broke myself, I couldn’t exactly give him money. I remembered at home an old down jacket that I didn't wear anymore because of it's size, and I thought I should grab it the following weekend when I go to my friend’s. That was this weekend, and I finally remembered to grab the jacket.

About 10 minutes to the city, I started to feel really nervous. I thought it was because of the people that would be at the party, or the fact my friend is leaving and this may be the last time I hang out with him. As I got closer and closer, the nervousness was intensifying, I could feel it in my legs and my heart was racing and I realized it was because of this man on the street. I was shocked that I was feeling this way simply because of handing a jacket through my car window. I was even secretly hoping he wouldn’t be there; maybe he’d be at a different corner, another light. I was embarrassed that I was feeling this way, despite knowing it was from years of living in the city and reading daily reports of theft, robbery and assault. What was I thinking...that this man would grab the jacket then attack me? Even trying to give someone something they need creates feelings of anxiety and fear...what kind of world am I living in? Perhaps it is the daily reading of robberies, assaults, thefts. But I wanted to give him this jacket; he needed it more than I did. It was silly to feel this way, I know.

I pulled up to the light and there he was, his sign looking a little more worn than last week. I rolled down my window, thankful no one was behind me. He stepped towards my car and I said, “Sir, I have a jacket for you.” He looked me in the eyes and said, “Thank you, God Bless.” He put his jacket into his bag on the ground and smiled as I drove away. “Sir,” the address echoed in what felt like mockery shaped by culture, but in my eyes, deserving. We view the homeless as weak and failures. Perhaps many are. What we don’t see are those not asking for your pity or money for their next fix, but those just wanting to stay warm or full. Those that are out there in the freezing cold no matter what, because if they miss just one night, they might miss out on that jacket or blanket or warm meal someone wants to share. How many of us would go a night without shelter, our bed, or a promised meal? Not many. I know I wouldn’t. I don’t mean to glorify this, that is not my intention. But we do not know their lives. We do not know what they’ve gone through to get to this state; who are we to assume it’s because of giving up or not trying? I’d like to think that it’s not the case. But as I’ve lately been proved otherwise, perhaps I’m a bit naïve at times. You know what? I don’t mind…I’ll stay naïve it if means believing the good in people. I don’t see that as such a bad thing…until I’m proved otherwise. Or, apparently, until I decide to move to NYC.

What was ironic was the fact that I planned on bringing him this down jacket for a couple of weeks now, and when I pulled up to him, he had a big puffy down jacket on. Go figure.

Wondering

Is it bad that when I get a headache I don't think of drinking more water or taking medicine, I think - I should go get a coffee to get rid of this?

The value of an Ivy league education.

As part of my job, I have to do the evaluations for each class in the division. In reading over some from an Evolution course, for the question: "What were the best aspects of the course?" one student wrote, "Understanding evolution on a deeper scale and two hot chicks in class." Should someone clue him in on the part of evolution where women became more than just "hot chicks?" How deep did his understanding actually go? About the depth of his pinky around his "manhood," because that's the only way he can feel it.

For someone spending 50,000 or so dollars a year on his education, it's great to know it's being used wisely.

Note to Took.

We both know you have to poop. Don’t look at me in confusion when we turn around for the 11th time to walk the same 30 ft. we've now been walking for 15 minutes. Don’t start sniffing the ground really slowly, faking like you’re about to poop...I know you’re just wasting time. You know the second you poop we will get out of the cold and back into the warmth of the house. I’m on to you. I know you know we’re waiting for you to do your business. So find something good to read already and squat. It will be better for the both of us, I promise.

A little warning next time, please.

I went out on Saturday unknowingly straight into Coupledom. Coupledom, for all of you that are already residents there, is the world that exists when more than one couple gets together and invites their lonely single friend to join for the evening (and not for sexually good times). It's bad when you're aware of it going in, knowing you'll be the only single one of the group...but it's so much worse when it's not expected, then you're faced with it head on. One couple whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears, the other couple finishing one another's sentences. It's an awful feeling. And it's not even about feeling sorry for yourself that you're not with someone; it's out of complete annoyance that makes it unbearable. Had I known it was going to be an evening of witnessing first-hand other's relationships, I would have stayed home with my newfound boyfriend, Jack Daniels, and partied with my little buddies the mice. When you're single and not pleased with that state, you're reminded every day that you're alone. We don't need to hang out with couples to be reminded of it. We don’t need to watch as you put your hand on her hip and speak to her from behind so only she can hear, or sit in silence as you both speak to one another in each of your cute little two-somes. We’d much rather be home with our dog and whiskey. Save us the annoyance of looking forward to a Saturday night out, only to be crushed by the weight of our own Singledom. Sometimes, it’s a happier place. I swear. No, really.

Civil War

I have mice. Not just a couple. No, Internet. I think I have a colony of mice. They're throwing parties in the walls and ceiling. I hear them rolling their little mice-kegs across the ceiling at varying times of the day and night. I see the reminants of their strolling on my counter-tops, and I'm not happy, Internet. NOT. AT. ALL.

It started a month or so ago when I heard the beginnings of the house party. Let's say it was the cocktail portion. I had friends over for dinner and one girlfriend so nonchalantly said, "oh! I see your little mousy!" And there he was, just sitting on the counter, staring right back at us with his big ears and all. I thought, that's fine, I can live with the mice. I mean, I live in the country surrounded by fields..it's inevitable. I'll be like Snow White and Cinderella, I'll live happily with them, maybe even sing some songs every now and again with them perfoming as back-up while I scrub the floors on my hands and knees. But no! You...you little mice...had to go and chew the shit out of my cabinet. Then continue to eat my grits and the container that held them. You little southern bastards. Then I noticed the holes in my ceiling...holeS, people! 5 holes the drunken southern big-earred bastards chewed into my ceiling. That was the last straw. This vegetarian-animal-loving-northerner is GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS, LITTLE MOUSY. THIS IS WAR.

I bought Decon and loved every minute of it. (Bite me, PETA. You deal with the little mice-shit all over your counter. I'm counteracting it by being a vegetarian and using cruelty-free products...I'm not animated by Disney.) I put the little boxes around my house, out of reach of Took. One was completely emptied and another had been eaten a little. Finally, the shitters were gone.

Or so I thought. Tuesday night I was fixing something to eat when one ran across the floor. Took just looked at me funny when I screamed like a little girl. The mice are still partying with their pot of grits and mice-kegs on scraps of my ceiling.

I should have known from all the years I spent in the South when they said the South would rise again. Internet, it has risen. And it's in the form of grit-loving-little-shitting-bastard mice. Beware!

Mid-stream silences and other bathroom muses

Workplace bathroom dynamics are a constant source of amusement for me. It's like we were bread along with how to suck and breathe and poop, with the knowledge of how to conduct ourselves when entering the restroom while coworkers are present. I just went to, um, "relieve myself" when a coworker introduced herself to me. She recognized me as the girl-who-is-M's-sister, as I am probably more often referred to then by my real name. We were casually chatting about my new nephew (which is all my chatting consists as of late) and both instantly stopped as soon as the streams started. I mean, you just know it's weird to talk mid-stream to anyone that you don't already share everything else with. I find this kind of stuff highly amusing..like, when you're going there to poop and someone walks in, you silently sit there waiting for them to leave. Even though you're sitting there, fully aware that the person who just walked in obviously knows what you're doing and why you're trying to hide behind that foul smell coming from your stall, the ONLY OTHER STALL IN THE ROOM, really is useless. Although, when I think about it, do I really want to hear my coworkers letting it all go mere inches from me? Probably not. So the cycle continues. We will forever hold our bowels while others are present. And I'm not about to be the rebel in that cause.