simple

he took me where i wanted to go, and was nice about it.

i bit the bullet and stayed late at work for a bunch of reasons.

due to the tunnel and the airport, there are massive fees for taxis who come over here to return. most riders go to a terminal. i go to a condo. although i am sympathetic and willing to compromise, *legally* i cannot be charged any of those extra goodies, yet have had gajillions of late-night fights with drivers who a) refuse to let me in the cab; b) insist i pay the extra $7 in fees (yeah, not so much trouble in the global picture, but try that on relative poverty wages several times a week); c) call me stupid, ignorant and a thief. yeah. for real. all that and more. just what you want to hear in a thick accent after a night of getting your ass kicked.

this guy said, "OK!" when he heard my destination. he wasn't yammering into a cellphone, smoking out the window or ignoring my directions the whole trip. in fact, he didn't need directions. we got here and he charged me the meter, no extra bogus massport shit. so, unlike all the other small-minded bigots who haggle my nerves, he got all the extra. and i was happy to give it to him.

nothing beats coming home on a note of nice. ya know?

christallmighty -- path of least resistance. yup.

underneath

during today's snowstorm, i again saw that poor put-upon english sheepdog in his slicker and boots. as a kid i had a giant mutt of a sheepdog, who would howl to be let out in blizzards. she'd lie out there and be covered by inches of the stuff before my mom would finally freak, drag her inside and plop her in front of the woodstove, where she'd crash like a damp stone for hours, lol. the dog knew, and we found out, that she had a unique 2-layer coat that kept her 1st dry, then warm. either my neighbor doesn't know this, has never had a dog before or thinks they *need* clothes. or maybe all 3. regardless, the poor thing looks like a cartoon.as the snow quietly blanketed my park, i took a brief call about a potential job. not one in which i've invested much more than a fleeting, "maybe i'll make more money doing x." well, the money ain't much and the title doesn't seem approprie. nonetheless, i agreed to meet the director of operations next week. can never have too much practice interviewing, right?

so why was i laggardly and late to work? why did i feel despondent and on the verge of tears? greeted hale and hearty when i arrived, everybody was glad to see me, but i hid in the office awhile to collect myself. it's no secret to you guys i hate my job, but when i'd barely touched the handle on the door of potential change, yet spun so badly down, i realized the depths, and the power of sublimation.

it's interesting, because in many respects it's not *so* bad as far as these sorts of jobs go. but in the last week, i had a few too many conversations with people far more senior/veteran than i, including 2 gm's and 2 executive chefs, all of whom hate their jobs. they freely admitted staying because so little is required of them. combine lassitude and apathy from those in charge; stir it in a cauldron of distrust and belittlement from on high and it all makes for a sour stew with which to feed your staff.

recently the owner reprimanded me that my attitude of late "sucks." i have worked in lots of restaurants. LOTS, lol. never before have i faced such a wall of indifference and blindness to mediocrity. so yeah, i'm sorry, but it's demoralizing to be the only cheerleader. shocking to be met with a blank stare and disdain from a 20-year-career server about why it's wrong to clear a table by sticking your fingers in all the used glasses.

the owner wants to change the markers with which i self-identify, but he's yet to make clear those i'm allowed. my career has always been a post, so with its current state of dessication i feel adrift.

in my head, i know my emotional response to today's call was out of balance. however, it does make me wonder what's under the layer that's keeping me dry. because i am rarely warm.

keeping up

not with the joneses. lord knows, these days the most po' of the hatfields do more shopping than i.

this is about the social contract.

there is a picture of me at age 3 or 4, taken on thanksgiving. there had been a nasty succession of arguments; crying, a fistfight, more crying. i remember just changing locations -- kitchen, living room, car, (flat tire, lost hubcap,) my aunt's house, etc. -- but the drama seemed continuous. it was an ugly day, drenched in sleet, and could be why i never much cottoned to the supposed and projected spirit of the day. in the pic, i am in a frilly dress and shiny maryjanes, wearing a football helmet, playing the guitar and singing. i think we all kinda know where my aptitudes lie both with contact sports and strings. for years, my mom trotted this out as an, "oh, how cute you were!" document. somehow trying to prove i was just an adorable lil scamp always playing, "let's put on a show!" by my fucking self. nope, i couldn't possibly be a distressed only child, the littlest person in the room, trying to change the subject, stop the conflict and make everybody laugh.

italian and irish, there were plenty of men in my families who, along with their colorful friends, (don't tell your mother we were with so-and-so) taught me how to be fast and sharp. how to pace and tell a story. even embroider the truth for a bigger laugh. hell, then that becomes the truth, right? there was no, "ok, lil noodle, now on the third beat, ya go for the laugh," but that breaking of the ice was something i knew i could use.

fast forward to a career that depends on my people skills. on being a certain type of gregarious. not the steamroller-stfu- kind, but the kind that hears your clues and then can engage on another/different level.

my colleagues and friends are like me. if we weren't, we'd not succeed in this field, nor would we keep company. not everybody is on the same plane of verbage. but the accepted expected context is kinda the same. if you don't feel like keeping up, stay home. you're supposed to bring something to the party. and not just a 6-pack.

briefly i had a roommate who even more briefly had a b/f who was painfully shy. she told me one night they were stopping by. i heard them come in, then ... nothing. finally i couldn't stand it and went to her open door. he was sitting in the huge walk-in closet. in the closet. in. the. closet. no metaphor for gay here. i felt a forcefield. it was almost hostile. i said "hello, my name is," and got a downward glance of "um, hi," in return. then more silence. he was 30, not 3. it was so odd, i backed out and mumbled goodnight. so much for small talk. or introductions even. i remember sharing this with my b/f at the time, who howled and worried for the guy's sanity.

so now i am faced with somebody pathologically introverted. i am trying very hard not to be cruel here. the owner is choosing to spend time with her, for his own reasons. that time sometimes overlaps with his time spent with me, so we do and will occasionally share space. it was explained to me that all her interactions happen inside her head. frankly, i'm not even sure i understand what she does. she sits there and imagines what she might say if she spoke out loud? she plays pretend party girl? or are her internal replies 2 or 10 paragraphs late, so better left unsaid?

i am also trying very hard to reconcile my feelings about this. it's been a few weeks, but i think i finally have come 'round to teasing it out from the visceral dislike. her behavior feels parasitic. i don't like being a dog-and-pony-show. to some, this may seem to conflict with my objectification kink. however, if i'm being used as a slut or a dinnertray, the guy above me is perving on using me. it's mutual, it's satisfying and it's hot. if you're a knot of social and verbal impossibility, why are you out with other people? maybe she pervs on being socially uncomfortable? if that's the case, what does she offer me? her discomfort is palpable and it sucks.

when i mentioned her lack of small talk, i was reprimanded with, "maybe she doesn't care." i've already blogged plenty about my low tolerance for the uncurious, so that's not a good avenue for me either.

i'm left empty-handed on this one and i HATE that. my judgement is made, so all i can do is modify my reactions. she is not going to change. i don't think he wants to take that on as a project, lol. so it's left to me. i cannot offer strife. it's disrespectful to him and shows a lack of grace on my end that shames me.

however, i have yet to shake the jeebus out of the fact that she gets to wallow in her comfort zone of pretend and quiet. and ya know what? i find that profoundly selfish. maybe that's why i like my friends, and my owner, so much: because we share.

strange words from an only child, huh?

that being said

some things we ache to hear. a few days ago, i was greeted with an ocean of so much love, so much devotion, i was nearly swept off my feet. it was something for which i'd ached, yet could never ask. that expression, "i love you," followed by the again and never repealed promise of "always". i guess he thinks i *know* it, but with the rippling waters now beneath our feet, i don't feel certain about much. except for uncertainty. ;)

it was uttered after a series of actions and reactions that would have led most to the police or the loony bin, lol. we even joked that morning about "a day in the life" around here. mon dieu! finding a normal between and for *us* will be a thing of ever changing fluidity. it scares and thrills me.

i am a creature of the literal. "what did you mean when you said/did that iota of a thing?" he is a creature of the bigger picture, "what do you mostly mean most of the time?" of course, he doesn't ask obliquely. he observes, he plants seeds, he challenges. so our ways of acting and understanding are vastly different. no different than before, just now with less room between to hedge.

there was a long study of a painting today in a movie i watched. a man was being flayed alive.

a certain class of victorians had a whole lot of extra time thanks to the industrial revolution. (and slaves and stuff in the west indies and colonies; props please to triangular trade.) make the urchins work longer/harder/more and bring me my mock turtle soup, bi-yatch!

a pretty side of this and the point of my meandering here is floriography, the language of flowers. a secret code grew and was transported between gardens, homes and lovers. some flowers had ancient significance, but the code got pretty elaborate in the land of corsets and smelling salts. even whether the poesy was handed lefty or righty, forward or backward, ya know? however, in proper and upstanding society, a certain simple language was known, and i can imagine the gentle yet erotic flutter of opening the box of blooms.

at least since aphrodite, roses have stood for love and passion. red for true love, pink for desire and perfect happiness and white for eternal love. the colors together imply unity.

in many vineyards, roses are planted at the ends of vine rows. they are sensitive and show distress from pests and such before the grapes. masochists for the good fight. :)

kids today

the other night at work, the phones and internet crashed. each company blamed the other, which as we all know makes for a raging snail's pace towards solving the problem. add in that it happened past *normal* office hours (yo, isn't tech support 24-7?) and they're in a whole lot of no-rush to fix anything. emphasizing you're dealing with a full restaurant packed with high-maintenance suburbanites doesn't compute. "when will somebody be there in the morning?" "uh, we're here right now and this is a major issue." "oh. well, i'll call somebody."

the owners are too cheap to buy what's known as a crash kit. it's a back-up for situations like this so you can process credit cards old-school style, so we had only a few manual slips and 200 + people with no intention to pay cash. a scramble among local businesses to get something. a reasonable facsimile is found. not a single waiter or bartender had the slightest clue what to do. i've mentioned not having the sharpest knives in my employ. whether they were merely too lazy to think through what might be needed, or truly too dumb to figure it out doesn't really matter, i guess. the card number, the expiration date, the amount. the same exact info they manually enter if the magnetic stripe is dead on a card. gah. so i had to hand-write every slip, and assume the local affluence assured nobody's card was over the limit. it was painstaking, tedious and thoroughly irritating how dickish many of the regulars were because it took 12 extra seconds to process their bills.

collecting checks and payments from the servers at the end, none of them seemed to realize the check and credit card slip should be attached to each other so i could close them properly. in modern processing, it's now one and the same, yet again my optimism superceded the abilities or inclinations of others. more time to sort through the messy piles bunched in their fists. "can i cash out?" "uh, no. please sort that." "what do you mean?" gah. again. mind you, i'm calm as a cuke through all this and everybody remarked on me being unflappable. i'm ok with my apathy being mistaken for imperturbability.

********************

again at work, different store, different crowd, i mentioned seeing a show just the other night and how long it had been since i'd done so. what great fun it was and how i wished i indulged more often. i saw michelle shocked. never a major star, not videogenic, but at one point a true indie darling. a wall of non-recognition stared back. "who?" i repeated her name as the chef was walking by, and he laughed at me *dating* myself. hell, i guess so. but where is that line of ceasing to know what came before? would they know the god who is elvis costello? the jam? bonnie raitt? black flag? i knew my parents' music but i know timbaland and 50 cent too. ( i love you like a fat kid loves cake.)

are they so barraged with the now, they don't have the bandwidth to go back even a few steps? do they just not care? i've always enjoyed exploring the luxury of context. in school, i remember reading a near throw-away about the triangle factory fire of 1911 and then independently seeking out more info. just cuz, ya know? (waaaaaaay too long a route to explain why that's in here, lol.)

when i'm faced with those who lack curiosity, i'm always disappointed. a particular someone will say i'm holding others to my own judgement. again, lol, i know that. it simply makes me know there will be little *further* with that person.

it's not wrong to enjoy active minds and prefer them in my conversations and my circle. and i don't blame tv or the internet. my childhood included many hours of "match game" and "happy days," and my adulthood allows plenty of perez hilton and mr. wiggles. but i've always liked the open-armed approach to learning and knowing.

a recent "frontline" dealt with this "1st internet generation," with a profile of a very wealthy community near my hometown. these kids all had pcs in their rooms and at some point had a disastrous encounter with parents whom belatedly discovered inappropriate hijinks. they all admitted caging school notes from a net-version of cliff's notes. because they didn't have time to read books. "i know i should have read hamlet, but whatever. the important stuff is all right here anyway."

what will happen in a world where everybody is satisfied with a sound-byte?

who's that?

"almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities which he does not possess."
~~samuel johnson

"at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face."
~~ albert camus

pesky hard-wiring has been rearing its ancient dna head again and i'm at the mercy of pattern recognition, my antennae now tuned to what social pysychologists refer to as "imposter syndrome". they've been studying it since the late 70s when *somebody* noticed the anxiety embedded in successful women. (quelle surprise that 2 ph. d. dudes, during the era of "love, american style" would find insecurity in female execs something to pick at, huh?)

a few years ago i was at one of those rarified dinners to which i'm often invited. the kind of evening precious few get to attend and fewer still have in their job descriptions. (we'll mercilessly exclude those for whom a night with a french champagne maker, a billionaire duke, and plates of caviar and truffles happen only on hbo. "people don't live like THAT.")

a mentor was praising me. we were drinking out of hand-blown crystal and discreetly dressed to the nines. i've known him many years and he was one of the first to set me on my career path. he was, gulp, "proud of me". a buzzing began in my ears and my vision started to swim. i watched the candlelight dance in his glass and what looked like sincere affection glisten in his eyes. i thought i might faint. he must have seen me go white and within seconds an iced mineral water was in my hands. i laughed it off as not having eaten all day and we took to table. the night was a smash, and my dirty little secret stayed secret.

"who the hell do i think i am?"

since then, i've worked to formalize my knowledge, (yo, my name is in that english ledger, y'all) and expand my horizons. i've climbed some career rungs, so at least on paper it looks like mobility. when i answer the question, "what do you do?" invariably i'm greeted with, "wow, that sounds great!" no point poking with the pricking pin.

however, i now host two demons. while others saw me sail through most classes, excel at exams, ride in the *popular clique* (whatever that meant), never at a loss for dates and always ready with the repartee, the one who has long dwelt within manifested through anorexia, promiscuity, emotional avoidance and substance adventures. now we add the one whispering in my ear while carving up my soul. he is determined to make me see i'm nothing. that i've accomplished nothing. that whatever smarts i might pride myself on having do not exist. that anything in my life i think i've done right is a fiction. through his recent prodding, i was in a fit of confusion and he asked me what was i good at? i couldn't think of anything. everything felt like a lie. everything.

on a selfish hedonistic lark, i became involved with a married man. in a heartbeat, he became the oxygen to my life. we lived years of lies and now are trying to build up something on the ashes of heartbreak, yet remain behind a firm lock of secrecy.

my glamorous loft stretches me beyond healthy bounds, and my finances and credit are thoroughly botched.

people think i swill krug all day at work, but i clock in each day with 90% loathing and negative percent hope.

among my co-workers is not a single partner in crime.

my hair is increasingly grey and my body rapidly succumbing to its age.

these are all things of which i'm keenly aware. like my name and eye color, i know this, and it's ALL ugly.

through the ages, certain folks have made handy livings convincing others (and perhaps themselves) they were not whom they appeared. the lost princess anastasia and the undead jesse james managed quite nicely. the delusion brought them solace and likely comfort to others who wished they still went to romanov cotillions or rode the range.

a little bit of "i'm ok, you're ok," sometimes gets us out of bed. a brash flash of "hey, look at me!" might get us over a hump of uncertainty. hubris fucks us over. there is plenty of wiggle room, i'm thinking, between all those brackets.

there is a smart bomb with me in his sights. he wants to seize and destroy. his emotional tnt is dissonance. i know i've made some bad choices and procrastinated recovering from them, but not every decision has been foolish. yet i'm beginning to see i shall be allowed no credit. only demerits.

i know i don't know where this will go. i know i cannot stop it. i know i've already acted out against it. contrary to popular belief, my sense of self-preservation is fierce. (hell, i've leapt from speeding cars and rappelled within electrical storms.) my fuck-ups exist, but, hey! they are mine. is the point to make me let them go? to make me wallow in the seething filth of my shame and guilt? who the hell measures what's normal here? everybody has a corner of the closet cobwebbed and quiet, right? 'cept... i guess... not me. anymore. ever.

throwing stones, glass houses, mary magdalene, orwell, kant, hegel. bah. i'm terrified.


memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.
man remember, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.

happy ash wednesday.

coming up short

we watched.

we'd seen them have undefeated runs before, yet somehow this season seemed... golden. brady seemed telepathic and moss' receptions a thing of grace. he was gorgeous and unstoppable in the air and on the turf. for the first half of the season they were invincible. tanks rolling over tender daisies. the wins got embarrassing for the point deficits.

then the murmurs. then louder. then... maybe?

it did get harder, and ceased to be a walk in the park. the ravens put up a fight and then it seemed everybody found a chink in the armor. never enough to beat them, but enough to make a fan like me, who still picks at her red sox scabs of *whaaaaaaaaat????*, never certain of the win til the clock ticked done.

i'll confess right here a certain close affection for the pats. i've met most of 'em up close and personal. had some young eyes down my blouse, beefy hands on my waist, sweet raps in my ear. i've also dealt with the no-nonsense coach and owner regularly. these are stand-up guys, all of whom put the team before themselves.

it is as old-school as you're gonna get. it's the kind of team with which i grew up and learned about sporting.

game-day, espn posted its equivalent of the electoral map. only THREE states thought the giants would take it. (who knew mississippi had so many ex-nyer's, y'all?) a quick back-flip from when only us blue states thought they'd take it. guess when your team is off playing golf, you back the sure thing, huh?

watching it sucked badly enough, so i'll not belabor the details.

they are physically and mentally specimens of something sublime and superhuman. they played 18 undefeated games. 18. against bigger, stronger, faster guys than those fucking dolphins -- with 12 -- from 35 years ago (shut up, already!) they achieved something i doubt i ever will see again.

yet bajillions of people around the globe watched a *sure thing* come up short. inexplicably defeated, they walked off the field into the arms of wives, supermodels or maybe even jack daniels. ("you gots any cardinale, lil lady? don't open it, i'm just gonna take it to go...") some will go to the pro-bowl; others to pebble beach; others to cabos. whatever. spotlight: off.

recently i've come under closer scrutiny than that of ever before, and i know it's only the tip of the berg. while it is the eyes of only one, it is a microscope whose powerful lens burns. i fall short everywhere. nothing is right or good. how do i tie my shoes and get out of the house? everything, anything, prior to *now* got zapped from the history books.

i allowed myself to get in over my head. you know when people say, "what's the worst that could happen?" well, pretty much it all did. bad, bad, omg, then even worse. the financial knee-bone is most assuredly connected to the shin-bone, and also to the ankle-bone. except the knee-bone now is uncooperative cuz it's under too much stress.

nobody is stalking my building for pix of me in defeat. (well, hopefully, not...) yet, believe me, i cannot get away from it. my failures and demons are a big useful pointy stick for hurt, but not for teasing out the strands of solution and solvency.

last night, i felt bewildered sadness watching my pats trot off the field. then again, not one of 'em has to worry about scraping up the escalade payment next month.