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.

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?

As with most of my talents, it is my blessing; it is my curse. Several of the 31 posts in draft are unfinished because:

• I got distracted by the looking for the perfect accompanying image(s), found the image and lost the steam to take care of the minor detail of content. Forest – I’d like to introduce you to my close, personal friends – the Trees.
• The idea that I am trying to convey is so specific or obscure that even my might powers of keyword cross referencing are unable to turn up a match.

The former is why G*d created Adderall (BTW- thanks for that, Big Guy). The latter is why serendipity brought me my friend Sean (aka – Demonhood). A while back, I got it in my head that I wanted (nay – NEEDED) an image of a Rufeetini. Not one to turn away from a “dare to be great situation”, Sean took the conceptual directives sent via IM and boldly assumed the role of the hero. Hopefully this is the first of many collaborations.

The Artist Currently Known As Demonhood

By day, this Santa Barbara based photog is an oracle of tech geekery at an area university. Able to photograph tall buildings in a single bound, nights and weekends are spent taking pictures of things the rest of us are too harried to catch the first time around. His lens captures delightfully quirky moments in the most poetic of ways.

Check out his work and if you’re getting hitched in California, hire him to photograph your wedding.

Political figure???

Paris Hilton releasing yet another <ahem> viral video on National Underwear Day?  That’s ironic.

The fact that it’s hilarious? Now, that is H-O-T.

In answer to the question of “Funny or Die?”, I say let them live.

In addition to mediocre musicianship, she can now count time travel as one of her super powers.

You see, she just set the women’s movement back about 50 years or so.  Here’s a sampling of the chanteuse’s unconscientious objections:

You know what – I am actually not that much into voting. I think it’s kinda crazy that a woman is running, because I think that women deal on emotions and menopause and PMS and stuff.

Like, I’m so moody all the time, I know I couldn’t be able to run a country, ’cause I’d be crying one day and yelling at people the next day, ya know?

Needless to say, I take exception to the above statement regardless of whether or not it applies for yours truly.

Fatwah, leg drop, euthanasia… you decide. Regardless of methodology employed for the laying down of the smack, it’s time to chlorinate the gene pool.

Don’t take my word for it: see for yourself.

I had one such evening on Saturday. There are not that many people for whom I’d brave the 40 minutes looking for parking in Boston around Faneuil Hall. Finsy is one of ‘em and her bachelorette party ended up in an establishment in Quincy Market. Ahhh… there’s nothing quite like the smell of urine and sausages on the first day of summer. I’d probably crawl on my tummy through broken glass for that girl. She’s well worth it.

Years ago I appropriated my life philosophy T-shirt ripping-off Buddhist philosophy:

Where ever you go, there you are.

In short, it was a really fun (albeit oppressively hot and sweaty) night of dancing for us. I had several of my signature drink: water on the rocks with a twist. Beverage-wise: I was covered but there was a group of fellow bar patrons who begged to disagree. Literally begged.

These gents had “extra” mixed drink of the green persuasion for which they were trying to find a good looking home. The optimist locked away in the depth of my soul wanted to believe that they had caught the spirit from Oprah’s philanthropy contest and just wanted to pay it forward. After 15 minutes of well-mannered refusals from my girl friends’ it became clear that this particular brood was simply too forward. It was past time to stop trying to give big and just go home. Accordingly, the dainty white gloves came off and my scrappy side came out to play. As great of a character reference as the tattoo on their ringleader’s flabby chest was, we were all pretty attached to remembering the next 12-14 hours. Note to self: there is no polite way to turn-down a free Rufeetini.

For the record, I doubt that there were any additives to the questionable drink in question. They were probably nice, albeit clueless, guys who unfortunately made it well into their twenties without learning that there are certain things you just don’t do:

FOR GIRLS: Do not accept drinks of unknown origin from sketchy men in bars. This goes along with watching your drink being poured by the bartender, never leaving it unattended and grasping the top so that your palm covers the top as you’re walking through a crowded room.

FOR GUYS: Treat every girl you meet as you would like your mother/sister/niece/daughter to be treated as they venture out into the big bad world. In other words, do not seek to disrupt someone to complying with the above rule. If you don’t act like ladies are meat to please you, they will most likely be pleased to meet you.

Do you see the possibilities of this brave new world?

1. Ladies won’t be so defensive and bitchy.
2. Dudes will have a better shot at actually getting laid.

Everybody wins. Let’s make this happen people.

I opened the fridge this morning I noticed that the V-man went to Wilson Farms to buy the equivalent to a full cow of his lactose nectar. It was then that I was struck with one of those once-in-a-lifetime brilliant ideas. So brilliant, in fact, that I may be on the verge of being immortalized as a dairy oracle. Get this:

Peanut Butter flavored milk!

If put into the right hands will REVOLUTIONIZE the flavored milk industry. Quik – get on it ya silly rabbit.

Granted, it won’t be allowed within 100 yards of any school cafeteria but I still believe there’s a robust market waiting to be tapped.

BTW- did you know that some visionary actually found a way to milk peanuts? I wonder what that machine looks like…

I guess you can milk anything. It doesn’t even need to have nipples. (You’re off the hook Mr. Jinks.)

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the beverage pioneers at Signs and Wonders are Evangelical Christians. They are clearly doing God’s work.

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.

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.

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.

• Promotional Bacardi boxers
• Wonder Woman t-shirt
• Hair coiffed in a seductive ponytail as my first Crest Whitestrips application does it’s damnedest to prep me for eventual re-entry into society.

Any takers???

Ah, yeah. Didn’t think so. Whatev.

I decided to surf the internet while brightening my smile but I can’t claim it as my own idea. It was a pass-time activity recommended on the box. The others included were neither appealing or practical. Showering/getting ready or while driving were among those options but let’s be honest: I’m not headed anywhere in my current get-up.

Talking on the phone was suggested – way too awkward with this weird stuff precariously covering my teeth. So here I am communicating the old fashion way: through my blog.

Oh! I almost forgot the last suggestion was to watch television and I indulged whilest sipping a glass of Bailey’s. (Don’t worry about me drinking alone. I have cramps and that’s the closest thing to chocolate in the house.) I watched the Princess Diaries II – IN FULL – on the Disney Channel as I decided to forego the traditional Friday night network TV programming for people with limited social options. (Sorry Ghost Whisperer, but we both know you don’t stack up to the midweek prime-time line up.) I’m not sure why I just announced that but I get the feeling that I should sign off before I admit to enjoying several of Justin Timberlake’s catchy singles.

Wait— did I jus…..?

Nevermind. Goodbye… bye-bye

Regardless of the above factors, it turned out to be my most fun and challenging experience of 2007. Also, quite relevant to the direction I see for my professional life. My official role was that of wardrobe consultant. (FYI – I am the biggest Halloweenie and play the role of ad hoc stylist for those nearest and dearest.) For those unfamiliar with the competition, the film genre isn’t known until it is drawn out of a hat at 6:30pm on Friday night. Shortly thereafter, the three elements that all teams must incorporate are announced: a character, prop and line of dialog.

The one (and only) genre option that struck fear into my heart from a wardrobing standpoint was Sci-fi. Naturally, it was the option that we drew.

I won’t lie: almost birthed a litter of kittens right there. 48 hours flashed before my eyes and each terrifying moment involved fashioning aluminum foil suits for an army of robots. I controlled the urge to skew my plot suggestions for brainstorming session to fit into the caricatures I knew I could deliver: “How bout ‘Space Odyssesy of L’il Bo Peep/Beauty Pageant Contestant/Beer Wench’?”

As it turned out there was little need for costumes and I was tapped to write the background story used in the final scene. My trusty iBook (may she rest in peace) and I locked ourselves in my car and “borrowed” someone’s WiFi connection. It ended up being my first writing credit! (Look out, IMDB – here I come.)

Several of the people from last year’s Chili Willy Posse have signed on to Chocolate Gorilla. At some point during the frantic all nighter I hope to learn the origin of the team name. Regardless of the answer, I like chocolate and gorillas are cute. It’s all cool as far as I’m concerned – especially since I’m on the writing team. (YAY!)

So right now, I’m really stoked and nervous to boot. The nerves thing ought to subside once I’m in the thick of it since the whole point is to push myself and write in a format currently outside my comfort zone. You never know till ya try, right?

….right???

Write.

As a proponent of preach practicing, (with very few exceptions) I hold myself to the same standard. I also tend to lose small inanimate objects. Lipsticks… computer cables… pens… cell phone headsets. My last one was of the wired variety and went the way of the dodo two or three years ago.

After so many replacements I just decided that driving should be considered ‘me time’.

I sing along to the radio or my iPod. It’s great – no one has to hear when my attempts at figuring out the harmony fall a half step below the actual note. Granted, I would look a whole lot less crazy if I had an earpiece but that’s neither here nor there.

Being the luddite that I apparently have become, last week was the first time I used my new toy. (I thought about it at the 3 month point, but didn’t want to rush into anything.) Everything went well. The person with whom I was speaking could hear me. Score!

Here’s the tricky part – the lone on/off button would lead one to believe that there were two modes, namely on and off. There are actually four (count ‘em four) settings.

• On
• Off
• Inactive Stealth
• Social Butterfly

I’m okay with the first two. Those are standard. The last two… not so much.

Number three is problematic since chances are it’ll be tuckered out from silently partying in my purse by the time I need to use it.

Number four is problematic ’cause if your number is in my phone, chances are you will be getting a call from me. Normally this would be good news. I have been told on several occasions that I am an engaging person with whom to converse on the phone. It’s true: I am equal parts chatty and nosy inquisitive.

Off the bat, you’ll notice that I’m not talkative. I may even be downright rude.

More likely than not, you will hear me paying for a cab at 3AM or belting out a Pat Benatar ballad Jamiroquai song. For that, my dear friend, I am/will be truly sorry.

When I sat down I rested my umbrella near my feet and reminded myself several times not to space out and forget it.  Hey- it happens… to me… a lot.  Many moons ago (1999) I kicked myself very hard when I left my Monet umbrella on the PATH train.  In addition to my love of impressionist imagery, this particular umbrella had sentimental value.  My mentor and first boss gave it to me as a send off gift when I left for New York “so that (I) would always be covered.”  It’s nice to have such reminders in the big city.  [The real utility ended up being less about staying dry than shielding against having an eye poked out when charged by a herd of harried commuters with their own rain gear.] 

Lately I’ve chosen to stop beating myself up about misplacing that particular possession.  Thanks to emotional object permanence, I don’t need it.  Better yet, I’m glad I lost it.  Now I am reminded of the thought behind the gift every time it rains.   Furthermore, acknowledging that umbrellas are transitory objects is a more positive way to frame the issue.  They belong to the planet at large instead of the individuals who carry them.  

One is blown away by the wind and boomerangs back with live-in childcare.

Don’t have kids? 
Grieve your lost umbrella with a fruity cocktail.  You’ll likely get a small one as a lovely garnish.

‘Scuse me, would somebody be so kind as to pass the Doritos?

Next thing I remember I had regained consciousness to find a confirmation e-mail awaiting my attention. After reading the induction letter I realized – much to my horror – that implicit in my joining I had actually agreed to <gasp!> do something. Turns out that participation based online communities do exist outside of those urban legend-based Dateline NBC pieces designed to scare the crap out of middle Americans tragically conjoined to vinyl barcaloungers.

Here’s the deal: members pledged to publish one entry per day for the month of November, the idea being that on when the clock struck midnight on November 30th each person would have raw material for a book manuscript. Even if it only leads to me writing this one piece, that’s one more than I may done anyways, right? As for my own participation in this campaign, let me break it down with a simple equation used to calculate complex probability ratios:

Joining 11/15 + general uncertainty of life direction = 0%

Regardless, here I am – a month and a half later typing furiously so that I can lighten the load of “to-dos” brought into the New Year. That and I wanted to alleviate the guilt from not having responded to the bloggers who “tagged” me for a writing assignment. (They seem to be quite lovely – between the two of ‘em there wasn’t one threat of karmic reprisal for breaking the chain.) Considering the latency of my own response, tagging other folks would be a bit hypocritical. The buck stops here: I will be “it” for the rest of my days. The other requirements will be satisfied, so that’s gotta count for somethin’, no?

✓ Link to the person people** who tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
✓ Share 7 random and or weird things about yourself.
❑ Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
❑ Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Without any further ado I present seven tidbits which expose me for the quirk-meister that I am.

1. There’s an involuntarily face I make when tearing up lettuce for salads. My nostrils flare, the soft palette** is raised and my lips purse ever so slightly. “Lettuce face” is especially pronounced with iceberg lettuce, though romaine is also a trigger. The inventor of the bag-o’-salad is my personal saviour.

2. When I was a teenager my mother told me the date I was conceived. My ears began to bleed and I now have a bonus reason to “Remember Pearl Harbor”. Seriously Mom- TMI.

3. I have a weakness for men with prominent noses. I’m not sure what it is. The resulting effect is equivalent to some sort of cryptonite/catnip alloy.

4. I have a hard time walking by someone with a tag sticking out of their shirt without fixing it. When appropriate, I usually tap them on the back to let them know.

5. I like folding laundry… and no: I will not come over to your house to fold yours. (OK- I might but only if you are clearly not doing it right.)

6. I frequently use three different words as prefixes or suffixes: ninjas, monkeys, and pants. Adding them to just about any word or scenario = insta-comedy.

7. I have the tendency to tidy up when I’m at a friend’s party. I don’t break out the vacuum or re-arrange the cabinets but I do try to help with recycling bottles, bringing dirty dishes to the sink and tossing discarded napkins/cups/paper plates. Having hosted a few parties myself I am all too familiar with how much it sucks to wake up the next morning and survey the wreckage.

*Credit for this witty colloquialism goes to my l’il brother and his turdy friend who, in days of yore, would follow me around the house chanting that phrase over and over and over and over…
**Thanks Girl Robot and Lily Potter Knits!
***For those who haven’t had vocal training, raising the soft palette opens up space in the nasal cavity and allows for greater resonance without putting additional strain on the vocal chords. The exercises used to teach this technique involve weird facial expressions (fake beauty pageant smiling, yawning and curling the upper lip while raising the nose) to create the effect until muscle memory kicks in.

Marked with a special kind of awkward, I experienced the typical insecurities regarding body image that made it tough to feel comfortable in my oh-so-problematic combination skin. As if being flat-footed, flat-chested, knock-kneed and woefully uncoordinated weren’t enough, right?

Apparently not. Some people complain about bad hair days; I had bad hair years. This era spanned a decade and not unlike the dark ages from days of yore, there was much suffering. One well intentioned hairdresser in Braintree, MA (the bang capital of Boston’s South Shore suburbs) gave me what I dubbed “the mushroom cut”. This unfortunate hair condition now has a name and hopefully a U.N. resolution to ban it will follow. The trauma to which I refer is now called “the she-mullet” by beauty industry trend analysts. At the time of my affliction, there were no support groups for unsuspecting clientele stricken with the emerging social plague. I suffered alone, albeit not in silence. (I would provide a picture but I put media black-out into effect.)

Funny enough- the biggest missteps were of my own choosing. Crimpers, curling irons and hot rollers were like gateway drugs leading down the primrose path. All of the cool girls in junior high had permanents. It was “the thing” to do and yes- if all the girls at school were gonna to jump off a bridge, my knees woulda been knocking as I ran behind, breathless and squeeking: “Hey guys- wait for MEEEEEEE!!!!”

My mother gave up trying to protect me from myself on the heels of a Sun-in indiscretion which left uneven light orange streaks throughout once lovely chesnut locks. I was a pain-in-the-ass and she gave the stylist the go-ahead. What followed was the perfect storm of ugliness: the poodle perm joined with the straw-like streaks. I had spiral-curled to rock bottom before the tender age of thirteen. Served me right: I followed the herd and came out looking like a sheep.

Oh well. Learned that lesson. No biggie… even a perm grows out eventually, right? Usually, but nope – not this one. It was the most permanent of permanents. Twenty years later, my hair is still curly. There are two schools of thought regarding how this came to pass. Buckle up: both of ‘em drop some serious science.

EXPLANATION #1: Nurture
• Somewhere between the chemical and neutralizer phases, the solution leaked through my scalp to the root.
• Double-helix boo-yakasha – At that very moment the stars aligned: Mercury was in Uranus causing the ammonium thioglycolate to fuse to the follicle, thus altering the genetic material otherwise known as the hair chromosome.

EXPLANATION #2: Nature
• Dormant ringlet curls (from my short-haired-tater-tot phase) were reactivated after the hormone tsunami hit at age thirteen.
• The sheer force of angst unleashed scared my hair curly and permanently made “boy crazy” a default setting.

This debate has divided the scientific community, both sides equally entrenched in the validity of their argument. Will we ever ever have an answer to this query?

I dunno… I’m quite busy in the lab conducting cutting edge research on the whole chicken/egg thing.

I leave it for you, the reader, to decide. Good day and God’s speed.

***For the uninitiated, here’s a crash course in PRMT 101 to get you up to speed:
1. Tightly wrap hair on curling rods. When the client is unable to blink proceed to the Chemical Phase.
2. Apply ammonium thioglycolate lotion. Allow 30 minutes for the chemicals to break open the disulfide linkages between the polypeptide bonds in the keratin (the protein structure) in the hair. (The disulfide bonds give hair its elasticity and breaking this bond allows hair shape to be reset.)
3. Grab a seat and some popcorn and watch as the perm recipient’s wide-open eyes tear from the noxious chemicals permeating the air. (Good times.)
4. Apply the acid neutralizer to bring down the pH of the solution and close the disulfide bridge. Hair rebonds and is reformed to the shape of the rod. Voila!

TSA Officer: Do you have a butter knife in your bag?

Winnie:

A) I butter not.
B) All the better to eat you with!
C) Allah Akbar?

(Upon finding and confiscating said knife)
TSA: Technically, I’m supposed to call a state trooper over to clear you for your flight…

Winnie:
A) Is he single?
B) Will this involve a full body-cavity search? In that case, there’s something I need to tell you….
C) Go ahead, tell him there’s a Sheriff in Nevada that’s got dibs.

A colleague of Jenny’s, noticing her pimply predicament, suggested that she “dab a bit of urine on her cheek- a doctor said it would clear acne right up”. In the name of scientific research, I went in search of evidence to support this claim. I humbly submit to you the hyperlink below.

Urine, a cure for all diseases.

The piece pictured above is entitled “Atomic Love” by Sandy Skoglund. I originally wrote this piece as a part of an essay about my own relationship to creative expression. Upon finishing that essay, I realized that what this particular image evoked several important thoughts warranting a place of their own.

The set and props are covered in orange marmalade with raisins and I find it inspiring for reasons beyond aesthetic. What do I see when I look at it? For starters it exemplifies inspiration transforming “ordinary” items in a concrete and visual way. How many times have you put jam on bread? What is it about how this woman’s brain works that drove her to use this as her medium?

Imagine what you could do or create in the world with things already at your disposal. Imagine the possibilities if everyone used planning and execution paired with the permission to communicate the goings-on of their inner world. This is what I find compelling. This is what resonates. Take away the B.S. peddled by synchophants and the marketing of art as a commidity and what you are left with is a vehicle for connection, alienation, appreciation and defiance.

But that’s about art in general. What resonates for me is that the perishable nature of the materials paralells the very nature of the life cycle. You start with something fresh and new. It ages. Maybe the colors and textures deepen. It is no longer what it was Sometimes the changes produce great beauty. Sometimes changes stink up the room much like rotten food. The set must be stricken and it’s time to start again. Maybe this next time you’ll appreciate while it’s in front of you instead of after has passed through. Hopefully, it will inspire you to build a foundation that allows you to always be surrounded by that which you love.

Beyond the theoretical, I am also struck by the excess. Something beautiful was created but at a cost. Trade off is clear: food is being wasted. Granted, there is no fine print on the food pyramid indicative that putting a hungry person on a jam and raisin diet is anything less than absolute cruelty. Seriously. But it does get me thinking… The money spent could have bought more nutritious food to nourish hungry people in third world countries… or for that matter, those closer to home.

All that from a single photograph. I know, deep – eh? I talk a good game, but what really drew me in is what appealed to my baser side. Raisins? GET OUT! Fruit preserves? FOR REALS? How brilliantly quirky… If there were a monkey and a ninja included, I would be all set. Secretly, I’d wanna live there. I am not kidding. Keep the jam and raisins on the top shelves and hide the step stool.

I frequently get ideas for things to write about while I’m driving. Don’t worry Boston-area motorists: I do not write while I drive.

My brain is like turbo powered revolving door. As such, these musings rarely make it to press but they always fall into one of four categories:

1. Ideas so hot and relevant that they are immediately seared in brain tissue and burn like a son-nuv-ab-itch until recorded, notarized and endorsed by 4 out of 5 dentists
2. Keywords jotted down that eventually make it to a brainstorm list. The lucky ones receive top billing as an entry draft which may or (in all likelihood) may not be turned into a real entry by Gepeto.
3. Those forgotten shortly after inception discrete enough that I don’t even remember thinking them. These could be of the multi-million dollar book deal ilk. There is such sweet beauty in the simplicity here.
4. Then there are the ones that haunt me. I thought about it long enough to have been flagged as a “great” idea with a clever hook and several supporting wordplays. The little bastards are forgotten soon enough after inception before I can get to a pen. (Brings to mind a classic Mitch Hedberg joke that I’ll link to if I find a clip.) I can’t remember what it is that I’ve forgotten… but I know that I’ve forgotten something and am tortured by the thought that I can’t remember the thought I’ve forgotten. You follow? Good. Me neither.

Hopefully by excercising my memory muscle with a passing thought that came to me while heading south on I-95 will help me avoid the dreaded scenario #4.

• With the guidance of a generous mentor, my work study job from the semester became into a credited internship. Post-graduation this morphed further into my first “real” job.

• A directed reading on the subject of gender and discourse with one of my favorite professors
• Intro to Photography (where I learned a great many things… not the least of which was that I am, in fact, allergic to fixer)
• Visual Design (or something like that) – A painting course held at the school of continuing education focused on exploring how line, form and color are used to express and evoke distinct concepts or moods.

The last of which was the biggest stretch. Prior to this, experience with creating anything using own hands (as opposed to???) was limited to the following:

• Coloring books – consistently straying outside of the lines
• Watercolor books – I was the Gutenberg of this particular medium. I filled the bathtub with a shallow pool of water, briefly submerged the pre-colored sheets and hung them to dry on the towel rack. This is likely more indicative of an emerging talent for streamlining workflow than creative prowess.
• Doodling – I have the God-given ability to draw a squirrel holding an acorn. It is a special kind of cute. I also sometimes sign notes with a curly-haired smiley face.
• Mrs. Murphy’s art lessons in grade school. Once a week she entered homeroom, wheeling a cart stocked with paints, markers, glue, construction paper and bottomless supply of critical comments for the less promising students in the class. Let’s put it this way: I was never sent home with a note to my parents about how she was concerned that my ear wasn’t gonna stay attached to my head.

You may be able to infer from negative experiences in your own formative years that this made taking a painting class more than a little challenging. (I’ll save the trauma of gym class for now. One day that book will jump up straight out of my chest and write itself.) Showing others bits of my creative expression soemthing I am very tentative about. Still working on that… but back then? Forget about it.

I’m not sure how came to to see that for the limitation it was at age 21. Allowing myself to be uncomfortable was the master plan in selecting planning that semester’s studies. Most weeks it was pure torture having two classes based entirely on creating things on assignment instead waiting for divine inspiration.  The next step was equally taxing: suppressing the temptation to shove the damned whatever-it-was into the back of a drawer instead of bringing it to class and <gasp> SHOWING it.

That’s actually why I did it: to push myself into pursuing something I found compelling yet simultaneously scared me shitless. It’s the same thing that drives me to write here instead of the privacy of my own journal. When I’m not writing or completing pieces, it’s that same rationale applied in reverse. Instead of being a catalyst for action and expression fear serves to paralyze any and all forward motion.

On towards my point… the instructor of the painting course I took in college was of similar mind as Mrs. Murphy about my artistic potential. Granted, she didn’t sneak up behind me spook me with an un-enthused “Hmmmph” like her predecessor. Each one of the assignments was handed back with a paragraph or two of notes skirting around the crux of the message, “This sucks.”

It’s not that I didn’t see her points. However, I don’t have aspirations of being a painter. Both ears are firmly attached and that’s how they shall stay. (Though I would be able to wear mateless earrings again if I went down that road…)

Chances are that I took the comments more to heart than I should’ve. I do that with lots of things so it’s entirely likely. When I can remember where I stashed the original of the above painting, it’d be interesting to see if those words were what I remember them to be.

Now that I’m further down the road of sorting out my own professional ambitions, I can empathize with those two teachers. I’m sure that they had/have their own ambitions and disappointments that would make teaching anyone other than a prodigy feel tedious. I am going to further increase my range and demonstrate that I can switch my default setting from ‘cynical’ to ‘unicorns, rainbows and warm woolen kittens’.

In closing, I’d like to share the following points from my ‘one to grow on’ file. Ultimately, what these two women thought is irrelevant. The point here is putting oneself out there without apology. Believing that anything I express has intrinsic value as a part of my own experience, regardless of interpretation, is the essence of freedom. Most days I’m pretty far off the mark, but I am hopeful that I’ll get there someday. Preferrably soon.

In the vein of half-full glasses:
• I really had fun with Mrs. Murphy’s apple-head doll project in 3rd grade. It was cool to see those carved, peeled fresh apples turned into smushy old man faces after sitting in the janitors closet for a few weeks. To my recollection, she did not say anything bad about my moldy apple masterpiece.

• That college instructor broadened my horizons and exposed me to artists that I would not have otherwise seen. The Worcester Art Museum mounted one of those a wack-a-doo esoteric post modern exhibitions using food stuffs and we took a field trip that week to attend. It was a room full of trunk freezers. One was filled with fish eggs, another had some sort of horror movie sized fish. My favorite was the freezer filled with Kool-aid. The block of punch leaked across the floor though I’m pretty sure that was an unforseen equipment malfunction and not a part of the gimmick. I seriously doubted her judgement as to what should qualify as an ‘educational experience’.

After viewing the exhibit, there was a lecture given by Sandy Skoglund – an off-beat installation artist whose pieces use mass quantities of items found in your pantry. The slides shown as part of the presentation had such a striking visual impact that I remember them to this day, 11 years later. I look forward to seeing her work in person when there is museum exhibit in my area.

Preliminary Assumption:
• Who doesn’t want to be a millionaire?

Hypothesis:

• Billionaires, trillionaires and kabillionaires – self promotion Trumps demotion ‘cause the dollar being down definitely ain’t money.

Procedure:

• Employ reckless conjecture.
• Lather, rinse, repeat as necessary.

Materials/Tools:

• Supermarket tabloids
• Cunning intellect impervious to super marketing.

Results:

• [Billion/Trillion/Kabillion]aire is to quantification as [Act/Design/Sing/Parti]er is to qualification. (You can trust that funds are not being spent on panties.)

Conclusion:

• When million dollar ideas get to be a dime a dozen, a pair of ≤ $100 shoes is gonna cost ya ≥ $800 bucks.

From the moment I was assigned the making of the punch, I became the mixologist of my own destruction, the architect of my undoing. The recipe was based loosely on something from one of those plastic bound fundraiser cookbooks no doubt compiled by disarmingly matronly pillars of the community. To the extent that I can recall, the recipe was as follows:

• 1 big bottle/jug of orange juice
• 1 quart lemonade
• 1 gabillion quarts Iced Tea – I used Pomegranate Juice tea bags & brewed the vat of it in my unairconditioned kitchen. (I do not recommend repeating said conditions.)
• 1-2 cups creme de cacao
• 2/3 bottle of apricot brandy
• the remainder of a handle of Bacardi dark rum
• 1 bottle Gosling light rum
• garnish with chunks of fresh coconut
• season to taste with a few generous splashes from another handle of light rum (adjustment courtesy of the Zoo Mass alums)

The result? A punch with serious kick. A kick, that I might add, gave me 32 smacks in the ass (and an extra one to grow on.) I’d just as soon not grow any this year so the last one was overkill.

It may have also been the straw that gave the camel a bad back. Had a been younger, I might have suffered through the hangover. However, the wisdom I have garnered in my first 32 years help me to steer clear of that as I slept through the entire next day, waking at 10 pm.

My first meal was typical hangover fare (the closest thing to me which required zero preparation): Betty Crocker chocolate frosting straight from the can. The dark side of my brain took over as I imagined a scenario in which my untimely expiration came about mid-container. I know it wouldn’t be funny for whomever found me deceased under the covers with a partially frosted face and hairdo befitting the bride of Frankenstein. Sugar rush tends to bring about inappropriate reactions and this image thoroughly amused me at the time.

As an advocate for getting one’s daily allowance of the frosting group, this would normally not be problematic behavior. I, however, must fit into the dress pictured (in teal) on September 16th for friends’ wedding. Finding a $498 Elie Tahari dress on sale (relatively close to season) for $36 is the equivalent to coming across the holy grail while cleaning out your parents attic. Would a size 4 have been more comfortable? Yup, but the size 2 did zip up when last I tried it. For $36, I’ll wear a girdle whilest sucking it up (and in) for the afternoon/evening…

I’m also going to lay off the frosting. That should prove helpful.

Once-upon-a-last-year there was a nice girl who was minding her own business while trying to do her part to spread peace, love and happiness across the land. She stood- right, walked- left on public transportation, recycled and always had a smile for friends, wait staff and cashiers alike. The universe choose to reward this exemplary behavior in a rather unusual way.

As she entered her thirties her skin got nostalgic for the good ole teen years and regressed to the kind of breakouts that should have stayed in the early 1990s along with the oh-so-flattering tapered pant look.

Yup. It’s a true story. I am know that girl. Not one to go down without a fight I she turned to the interweb in search of answers and – more importantly – solutions. Information discovered? Something simple to nix late-onset pimples.

-Ever wonder why people would agree to put their worst “before” pics on late night TV for your viewing pleasure? It’s ’cause 2.5% is the magic number for Benzoyl Peroxide. The ladies in the labcoats figured that out and the folks at Guthy-Renker handled scripting infomercials that steer clear of the word “puss” or droppin’ the kind of big science-y words that commonly ricochet off the three walls of those doc-you-drama sets.

-Don’t even think about putting 10% Benzoyl Peroxide on your face. It is no coincidence that the maximum amount manufacturers are allowed to put in their products is 10%. Much like the super sized marketing of fast food, it’s overkill: both for the zit and your poor skin cells.

-If you’d like to save some money for a mani-pedi, go to this website for a list of what products to use and how to use ‘em. Their 2.5% Benzoyl Peroxide Gel works wonders and since it’s not all white and pasty* so it can be applied even when you have to put on your fat jeans and leave the house in lieu binging on chocolate ice cream** while wearing a moo-moo and rapidly changing mood ring.

For the record: I am completely aware that there are bigger issues facing the world. If this little skin care hack has freed up the time of people able to fix said problems, well… then my work here is done. Score 1 for world peace.

*Resist the urge to make the obvious jokes re- “white and pasty” being my actual skintone. I get it: I’m pale. Leave me be. :0l
**Not that I do that… not that there’s anything wrong with it. Certainly not.