By the Numbers: D.I.Y. Edition

1. Pairs of Old Navy jeans ripped, cut, glued, stapled, and stained today. If you ask me, it's an improvement.
   
2. Number of people at last count who are coming to help move me tomorrow. Of the twenty-three people I asked, six have meetings to schedule, five contracted various back, knee and debilitating elbow injuries in the last three days, four are planning to undergo major surgery and six just stared at me. Isn't that strange? That's what I get for moving more than once in a year.
   
3. Number of unbroken fingernails. Considering I've already constructed a baker's rack, microwave cart, entertainment center, bath shelves and an end table, that's actually impressive. Good thing I didn't bother to pay for a manicure this week.
   
4. Number of triple-digit visits to Target in the last three days (ack!). Today they finally strong-armed me into saving ten percent by opening a Target charge, which I need like…well, like another credit card. It's my fault, though. Going in there any more than once in a week is like playing Russian roulette with the checkout people.
   
5. Number of times I had to take apart and put back together the smallest, simplest, most mind-blowingly frustrating microwave cart. That's what I get for thinking I could outsmart the instruction manual. I actually got the whole thing together the third time when I realized all the legs were upside down and unless I wanted the wheels at the top or the baskets inside out, I was going to have to start over. I had to laugh or I would have cried.
   
6. Total hours I spent smirking at all the sexual euphemisms for furniture assembly while I single handedly constructed the world's largest entertainment center. Anyone need a screw? No? Maybe that's because you just have to slide this rod into that hole and bam! The whole thing comes together. At least that's how I'll explain the rug burns on my knees tomorrow. *snicker* Sometimes I'm just an eighteen-year-old guy on the inside.
   
7. Multiplied by a thousand, this is roughly the number of calories I consumed at dinner. I knew I was headed for diet disaster, but it's been so long since I visited my favorite Cuban restaurant and I was so hungry. I'd been lifting heavy boxes and running around all day on nothing but Red Bull and a waffle and I could practically feel my stomach clawing its way through my back. I ordered all my favorites –- arroz con pollo, a bowl of red beans, café con leche and flan -- and barely let the server set the plates on the table before I tore into my meal with all the gusto and delicacy of a rabid hyena. It was not a pretty sight.
   
8. Hours left until I have to go pick up the Uhaul trailer and start loading it. I don't think I have time for bed tonight. I'll probably be a caffeine-powered zombie by the time I return the truck tomorrow night, but it's better than being awakened after two hours of sleep by an alarm clock constructed from a WWII air-raid siren, and probably right in the middle of a beautiful Michael Vartan dream.
   
9. The time, PM, I dropped everything in the middle of a living room littered with the detritus of eleventeen bajillion pieces of furniture in various stages of assembly to ogle George Eads and Gary Dourdan on CSI. I've got my priorities, and although I may not be able to explain them I'll defend them to the death. Or until 9PM on Thursday, whichever comes first.
   
10. New combinations of swear words invented while stepping on wayward nails, dropping screws into itty-bitty little niches and pinching my fingers in a drill. And I still have eight rather large pieces of 'assembly required' furniture on the way. At this rate I'll have to start annexing naughty words from other languages to work into the rotation. Oh wait. I already did that. Merde.
    

Desperate Times Call for Serious Goofing Off

I had much work to do today and every intention of doing it. That was at 0800. At 0805 I found a familiar looking coffee mug in the back of a cabinet in the break room and work was immediately forgotten. The mug gave me an idea that was almost certain to get my long-lost soul sister Charlein's attention and subsequently – I hoped – an email or phone call. It's been more than two months since I've heard from her and that's not normal. I know she's physically okay, but I wonder…
Anyway, I washed the mug and worked out the details of my dastardly plan as I sipped coffee from it in front of my computer. Three hours, one digital photo and eleventeen Photoshop tricks later, I had my masterpiece.
**No paper, coffee mugs or claymation animals were harmed in the creation of this artwork.
Bootlegged clipart and Google Images, however, were soundly abused.**

If finding that in her email doesn't elicit a response, I might have to start playing dirty.

Carole Made It Look Like A Cakewalk

Lately I’ve been dying to write a song. There’s all this poetic shit sitting on my heart and curling up into my lungs and I feel it all the time. I want to say something about a man who lost his beauty when he sold out his dreams, about a reluctant hero, about a girl who is everything to everyone but herself. But I can’t. Despite ten years of piano, four of music classes, two brothers who compose on the guitar and years of singing in public, I’m hampered by my inability to put three notes together and make them sound like anything other than chopsticks.

Perhaps I should have paid attention to the music theory poor Mrs. Palmateer begged me to learn instead of hammering away at the Icehouse and Billy Joel sheet music I got free at the mall. I’ve tried for years to blend notes into phrases that melt into songs, but it’s as if I am missing that part of the brain entirely. Despite the overwhelming sense of having an entire symphony on the tip of my tongue, I simply cannot write anything but words.

And without the music it’s just bad poetry that doesn’t rhyme.

I'd Call Miss Cleo, But She Already Knows

From the archives of Overheard In The Office:

More Telling Words Were Never Spoken
August 19, 2005

Manager #1: Are we meeting sometime, today?
Manager #2: We already met.
Manager #1: Oh. Did I miss anything important?
Manager #2: Well, you missed the meeting.

19 N. 6th Street
Reading, Pennsylvania

The address is across the street from the Wachovia office where I held my last civilian job. And although I live a thousand miles from there, on the date it was posted -- my birthday -- I was home on vacation, shopping a few blocks away.

Is it coincidence or am I reaching here?

Not To Be Confused With the Porcelain God

Roomie and I saw Saint Ralph tonight at the only non-chain movie theater in town. It’s been a long time since I was so captivated by a movie that I didn’t care if anyone saw me tear up or caught me whispering quietly at the screen. I usually spend a lot of time examining the ceiling tiles during sad movies and making fun of people who talk to the characters during all movies.

It was either the saddest comedy or the funniest tragedy I’ve ever seen. Ralph Walker (Adam Butcher) is a 14-year-old Catholic School boy whose dad is dead and whose mother is in a coma. When a Nietzsche-quoting priest (Campbell Scott, acting just wise and tough and compassionate enough to distract me with gleefully impure thoughts) takes him onto his Catholic school’s cross-country team, he decides winning the Boston Marathon will be just the miracle the doctors say his mom needs to wake up. Despite the obligatory obstacles – a curmudgeonly Monsignor, a house burned to the ground – and setbacks, Ralph believes he can win because, as he states simply and without even the merest hint of self pity, he doesn’t want to be an orphan. My heart nearly shattered out of my ribcage. I know kids always act circles around the self-conscious adults in any film, but Adam Butcher’s performance was extraordinarily natural and frank. He played the lovable weirdo with unadorned conviction and complete abandon. The scene at the end of the race, although rendered a bit clichéd by slow-motion, can only be described as bitterly resonant.

I got fidgety toward the end of the movie, afraid the director would take the easy way out and ruin the warm, human raggedness of the tale by tacking on a too-neat ending. I need not have worried. It ended the only way it could have; with me wishing I were 14 again so I could have a crush on the courageous, charismatic, completely unassuming Saint Ralph.

Now If the Dentist Would Deliver, I'd Be All Set

At various intervals in recent years it has occurred to me to wonder if I’d be a lot happier being the kind of girl audacious enough to dance around her living room in her polka-dot panties wailing to Sly and the Family Stone without giving a hoot what’s going through the cat’s mind. Alas, I fear his furry scowl, so in lieu of boogying on the coffee table, I’ll just quietly share the one thought struggling insistently for release from the chaotic hubbub of my brain.

I HAVE A CAA-AAR! I HAVE A CAA-AAR!

To be fair, ‘car’ may be overstating the case a tad, but I assure you the ugly-ass lawn ornament that has been blocking my front walk for two months did indeed sputter to life in a cloud of blue smoke this afternoon, as surely as I live and breathe. That ghetto heap will never see another road trip, but $85, two visits from the cute Mexican-Mechanic-Who-Makes-House-Calls, and six weeks of head scratching from my well-meaning next door neighbor have purchased me the kind of sweet freedom of which those banned from limited-access highways can only ever dream.

I have been biking 15 miles a day to and from work in the wind and rain and searing heat since mid-June, and although I’ve dropped almost 20 pounds and developed thighs that call to mind the haunches of a wiry Appaloosa, I’m sick of having to do all my errands between 6 and 10 AM every other Saturday when Roomie lets me borrow the Santa Fe (woo, I thought that sentence would never end). On the teeter-totter of my carless existence, the fat ass of Inconvenience is about to give that teeny runt Benefits a solid bounce.

To wit: this past weekend after I realized Roomie had flown the coop and left me an empty fridge, I dumped out my biggest backpack and blazed a four-mile trail through kamikaze traffic to the nearest grocery store, whereupon I bought exactly eight items because that’s all the pack would hold (damn those pillowy bags of lettuce and air). Then I wobbled home as quickly as my unbalanced load would allow before my Muenster melted into my backside in the Florida sunshine. It only took me three hours to eat everything I brought home and two hours later I was hungry again. Frankly I don’t care what the French do, I’d prefer to live a little on the wild side and purchase all six of my English muffins -- are you ready for this? -- at one time.

But that’s all a vague nightmare now, already almost forgotten as I bask in the shiny excursionary prospects stretched out before me. I can go anywhere! (Within forty miles as long as it doesn’t involve sitting in traffic which makes my radiator overheat and all the pretty lights come on.) I can do anything! (As long as it doesn’t cost over $35, which is the amount I need to fill up the gas tank tomorrow.) I can listen to music while I go to work! (Except the CD player isn’t wired to the accessory power and starts over every time I get out of the car, which is perfect for those who only want to hear the first two tracks of every CD they own.) The possibilities are limitless! (Unless I’m reminded that I’m moving next month and need every last cent I can spare for the security deposit.)

On the other hand, leaving the house can be highly overrated. I may find lip synching Echo and the Bunnymen tunes at full blast until the cat until hides under the couch just as fulfilling, and that’s free.

Pete, I Heard You Loud and Clear

I miss smoking. Sometimes I want a cigarette and the wanting is so natural that I forget I ever quit. I don’t even know how long it’s been. I know that sometime in late July or early August 2004, I began cutting back to three a day, then two, then one. I don’t even know how I quit, just that at some point I stopped being a smoker. Maybe I threw away half a pack and said, “Done.” Or maybe I finished a pack and just didn’t buy any more. I wish I would have remembered.

I guess it doesn’t matter. The point is,I made a deal with myself many years ago (ten? Twelve?) I would quit when the first of three circumstances occurred.
1. Pregnancy. Yes, you read that right. Now go get a paper towel and wipe your coffee off the screen; it’s not that ridiculous.
2. My voice became my primary source of income. The $30-an-hour voiceovers and commercials hardly counted as ‘primary’, and since the NHL National Anthem gigs don’t pay…well, ‘moot’ is the word that comes to mind.
3. I turned 30.

Now, I could choose to be depressed that 30 came first, but for some reason I really wasn’t. I liked the idea of turning 30; it felt like I was finally getting issued my Grown Up Card and with it a new appreciation for the fleeting nature of a healthy body. If I ruined it, I wasn’t getting a do-over. Lose your teeth? Stuck with fake choppers and mouth glue forever. Accidentally wax off your eyebrows? You’ll be lucky if you don’t spend the next five years looking like Powder in a bad wig. Charbroil your lungs with a nice coating of sticky black tar? You wind up leaving behind a lot of people who should not have had to say goodbye so soon. This I knew from experience.

So I quit, for the fourth and final time. It was different this time from the get-go. I didn’t make an announcement, stage a New Age-y cleansing ceremony, or count off the number of days I’d been ‘smoke free’. In my head I simply checked off the box marked, “Non Smoker” and went on with my life. There was no question about it, so the struggle inside was largely ignored much the way a mother ignores the senseless bickering in the backseat of the minivan.

It was the sensuality of smoking I loved. I never depended on the nicotine; in the course of a busy day I would sometimes find several hours had passed without a craving on the horizon. I did like having something to do while waiting around, which we military types do a lot of. It was also a bonding experience. If I found myself in new surroundings, I could depend on the smoke pit to yield at least some conversation, if not a kindred spirit. And it was so good for curbing hunger pangs. I could easily forego the Twinkies if I had pack of smokes and fifteen minutes to spare.

I don’t know why, but I still occasionally torture myself with the richly detailed recollection of exactly how it felt to light one up. I’ll imagine the feel of a new pack in my hands, the crinkle of cellophane as I peeled it open to reveal twenty perfect white cylinders of mint-scented tobacco ready to burn. Tap one out, raise it to my mouth where it would either perch jauntily between my teeth while I fished for a lighter, or if a light was offered, would be placed gently between my lips, soft as a kiss and every bit as comforting. Carefully breathing out through my nose, I would watch it catch fire and sizzle ever so softly. My eyelids would flutter closed for that first deep draw as I sucked gently at the pure white filter, tasting for the incongruous mix of menthol and burning tar. Removing the cigarette from my mouth, I would part my lips and inhale deeply, drawing the smoke deeper to satisfy my need. And I relished the reward; first the gentle punch to the lungs, then the slow, sensuous spread of poison into the blood rushing headlong for my arms, my hands, my thighs. I could even feel it in my knees. This is what I loved. This is what I craved. This is the lover that would murder me in due time.

This thing, this addiction -- I don’t think I will ever get over it. Although I am and will forevermore be a non-smoker in deed, my mind still registers the loss like the end of a love affair. The ache fades, but the need remains forever.

Next Up, the Accidental Alcoholic

My broccoli is mangy. Or musty. Or whatever that exact word is that means it has little yellow spots on it and smells vaguely like a damp sneaker. Goes well with the leftover birthday champagne and frozen Szechuan vegetable dinner that represent the last of the edibles in the kitchen. Unless you count Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch (there’s no milk) and SupRGain protein bars (eighty-thousand calories each).

I don’t normally punish myself like this, but I returned from my two weeks’ vacation to find my roommate on his way out and the refrigerator empty, the sink full and my car still not running. I cannot believe I am stranded this four day weekend with no groceries and no car. By Monday night I’ll be picking over the carpet for stray popcorn kernels and licking condensation off the window panes.

Sure, there’s food (and I use that term loosely) in the fridge but A) it stinks like whatever garlicky thing he spilled in there and didn’t clean up, B) it’s suspiciously gray looking, and C) it’s loaded with fat, calories and probably red meat.

My roommate and I have very different food kept in very different places in the kitchen because we have very, very different diets. I generally eat fresh, organic fruits and vegetables, weird pastas, and lots of fish, in addition to dairy and meat substitutes only Tibetan monks and people from California have ever heard of. He eats….well, pretty much everything else. He is a human receptacle for trans fats, saturated fats, additives, preservatives, refined sugar, processed cheese product, WonderBread® and anything made of meat, especially cow. Rarely do our culinary paths cross, and when they do, it’s usually because he’s eaten (defiled!) my entire four-dollar bag of organic blue corn chips with a big-ass bowl of Hot Mama’s Salsa-N-Cheez dip.

Our grocery arrangement usually works pretty well. I have one side of the fridge/freezer and he has the other (sometimes when I’m putting my groceries away, I imagine the hummus and veggies and almond milk on my side sticking their organic tongues out and taunting the chunks of meat, jars of jelly, and god-only-knows-what-else on his, then they get into a big rumble and…never mind. I do let my imagination get away sometimes). I also have custody of a small cupboard while he claims the top of the fridge. We share one small cabinet for cereal and pasta and not much else.

Thing is, he can’t seem to understand that his incredibly offensive lack of kitchen hygiene affects more than just him. He threw a big loaf of nasty preservative-loaded bread into my cupboard, knocking open a bag of multi-grain English muffins that subsequently went stale. He ate all the lettuce and the good salad dressing, and did I mention the stench in the fridge that has seeped into every container not vacuum sealed and packed in stainless steel?

When I got home Thursday, I found one ice-cream cone, three frozen fruit juice bars, two cups of yogurt and a slosh of almond milk at the bottom of the last carton. That’s all gone, in addition to two bags of popcorn, half a sleeve of saltines and a pack of gum I found in my purse. So now I’m down to a frozen dinner garnished with mangy broccoli and old champagne.

Which is, I guess, a long shot better than no champagne at all.

Cheers!

Come Fly With Us; We Own Your Ass Anyway.

I hate to fly anymore. Freaking airlines know road trips are a thing of the past now and have given up all pretense of competing for our financial affection. I remember a time when I used to love it -- the anticipation of new adventures, the adorable miniaturized food, the solicitous flight attendants. Now it's just a contest to see who can navigate the excruciating gauntlet of rude skycaps, finely printed surcharges and ever-shrinking legroom without the aid of a Valium and legal representation.

My flight there was accompanied by the shrieking of a two year old who was just flat out pissed Mom wasn't going to defy the FAA, the flight attendant and airport security to hold her on her lap throughout our descent and on the taxiway. Dad bitched at Mom to shut the kid up, Mom bitched at the flight attendant that the rules were stupid, and the kid howled until her snot-covered face turned eight shades of eggplant. Six babies on this flight, and every one an angel except for the one in closest proximity to me. Don't tell me Murphy wasn't involved in this somehow.

On the flight back, I was informed one of my bags was 1 pound over the new 50-pound limit and I'd have to take something out and repack it. I told them no muther-effing way -- it took me 2 hours to pack that bag, so go ahead and charge me the overage. The girl laughed at me and asked if I was really going to pay $25 for one pound. I glared at her and said, "That depends. Are you really going to charge me $25 for one pound?" They let it go, whether because they saw the idiocy of their ways or they just weren't in the mood to deal with my pissiness, who knows.

When I got on the plane I was informed my carry-on would have to be moved from the bin over my head to one roughly eight rows back. I asked why. He said it was policy that us coach class peons can't have our luggage mucking up the snooty first class bins, even when coach is full and first class is empty. Or something along those lines. I gave him my longest, sharpest, "Do you actually have a brain in there or do you just use it to hold your earrings?" look. I asked him how exactly I was going to get it back, since Lord knows no one goes to the back of the plane once the stampede for the door starts. He shrugged and apologized, mumbling something about a senior flight attendant with a bullwhip. He eventually relented, bringing my bag back from Siberia with a creepy wink and sneaky sideways look at the senior flight attendant. Like we were in cahoots or something. Jeezis, somebody needs to either grow a set or learn how to use 'em.

Lucky for me, no babies on this flight. Just a little old lady with the world's sharpest elbows who kept poking me in the side. She was nice and I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but she had zero concept of The Armrest Marks Your Personal Space Rule. The tenth time she jabbed those bony wings into my ribs I wanted to yell, "For love of God will you tuck those things IN already!"
I didn't. Mercy, compassion and Stolichnaya prevailed. All is well.