Achilles Heals

Hot or Naughty?

You have a problem. You’re vulnerable – desperately in need… of answers, that is.

Who you gonna call?
One of the ridiculously attractive professionals  standing by, of course.

A new website, headsethotties.com, is devoted to documenting corporate culture’s obsession with the sexy librarian type.  Headsethotties.com provides readers the opportunity to give customer service reps the Dewey Decimal points they deserve by rating the “perceived helpfulness” of each entry.

These bookish babes are waiting… waiting for you, big guy.

Ladies – don’t despair: they’ve thrown in a few competent cuties for us to ogle.

My Maine Man

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before:

A guy walks into a bar, gets drunk off his ass, and later that evening the same ass is found… in the driver’s seat of a renegade zamboni.

Adam Patterson, a resident of Vacationland and employee of the Cumberland County Civic Center, is being held without bail, pending trial on charges of aggravated criminal mischief and D.Z.U.I. (Driving a Zamboni Under the Influence). Apparently he broke into the office after hours and decided to take more than the usual pack of pens and post-it pads.

While this particular crime may seem humorous, I shudder to think what would have happened if the ‘Capades were in Portland, ME.

It’s a cold, cruel world out there folks. Is anyone else wondering if the workmen’s comp premiums for skating mascots are gonna skyrocket?

Get Some Tale

I know: you can’t get enough of my stories. There haven’t been so many lately.

Yeah. Sorry bout that. My technical difficulties will soon be detailed in a humorous and touching essay sure to please the whole family.

In the meantime, I contribute monthly over at Blog Me A Tale – a group blog that I am very flattered to have been tapped for as I respect and enjoy the literary stylings of every contributor. Keeping good company is key.

So, check it out. My submission for May will be posted under the wire before the clock strikes midnight on Saturday. Count on it.

Oh- I’ve been a very knotty girl.

I woke up this morning and checked the floor surrounding my bed, certain there would be tire tracks left by the truck that ran me over repeatedly while I slept.

Who knew knee surfing across a floor all day coloring all of the improperly filled knots of a floor with a Sharpy would deliver such a beating? Well, I knew but that doesn’t seem to make a difference to my poor, poor muscles.

Adding insult to my injuries, I stepped on the scale this morning. See- the past few months I’ve been wanting to gain 5-10 lbs. Yep- you read it right. I don’t like the scrawny “Please feed me!” look to which many women aspire. Apparently my midwestern “No-Carb-Left-Behind” tour has done the trick… perhaps a little too well. It would seem that I’ve overshot my mark. Bye-bye Dairy Queen. I’ll always remember the good times we shared.

Well- I currently have feeling in my lower back. Better get back to work and nip that in the bud.

Well, I was born a floor contracter’s daughter…

Granted, it’s not the same as Loretta Lynn’s humble beginnings but there seems to be a certain commonality of stoic character amongst those who chose professions involving physical labor. There is something to be said having that kind of work ethic model growing up. My father has a habit of dispensing wisdom at unexpected moments, mostly during long drives in his Econoline van (a.k.a.- the executive vehicle.)* The one that made the biggest impression on me was something to the effect of when faced with the choice between working smart and hard, always choose the latter. These days that kind of life philosophy makes for a rare breed.

As a kid, the family would attend the floor Olympics to cheer him on in speed nailing competitions. As an adult, it lead me to come back to the area where I grew up to work in the family business. That chapter is now closed and job searching is, in essence, my full-time occupation. Might I add this new “job” makes up for the absence of benefits and compensation with an astronomically high level of stress. Good times.

My father’s favorite conversation ender is to proclaim in a harsh/agitated tone that he “has been crawling around on his hands and knees all day”. Never mind that it is his choice cemented by a passion for craftsmanship that has him doing so. There’s no point in arguing further. Simply none.

This is where the irony comes in. My currently wide open schedule has left plenty of room to help my father with a out of town job. Dad needed help with the detail work that doesn’t come easy nowadays. I imagine the offer was extended so that pops and I could spend some Q.T. and bond against a wood grain back drop. So, here I stand kneel in the middle of nowhere, crawling around on my hands and knees.

Yesterday was my first day on the job and by the end of it my patricide fantasies grew increasingly more elaborate. Luckily, today has been an improvement. I’m knocking on hardwood floors as I say this but today has been downright pleasant. Chances are I won’t have to off the old guy.

The job site is in the middle of nowhere and the accommodations (the owners’ guest house) are downright lovely. No offense Super 8 but this ain’t a close contest. The house is surrounded by fields being plowed through into the night in preparation for Spring planting and ladybugs are the current infestation, and a lovely one at that. The sky is exponentially bigger than the landscapes of New England and the wind whips through these parts at gale force with no valleys and winding rows to temper it’s velocity. Farm country sure is different. Silos are the tallest structures and the air actually has a different feel. If we have time to visit my grandmother on the way back there’s no doubt that we’ll run into second cousins, former patients of my grandfather’s dental practice and my dad’s old school buddies. It gives my family more context and history which is comforting. That’s something you just don’t get being from a nuclear family in a large metropolitan area when all of your closest relatives are spread out all over the country.

Anyway – enough waxing like a poet. I’m going to get back to work in the hopes that we’ll finish with enough time to visit with Grandma in New Harmony.

*Until recently there was no back seat. When the four of us rode anywhere in the E.V. my brother and I would have to “ride the buffer” which was quite the adventure. The heavy machinery would rotate side to side at every turn as we were “secured” to the side with bungy chords hooked into the metal slots made for hanging interior panels in the higher line van models.