Playing Dumb

I read an article a few years back in the NYT by a journalist who lived for a few months in a flat with Paris Hilton and her cousin. This was back before Paris became the red carpet party queen and apparently she was a rather clever, charming young woman. It wasn't until Paris saw the promise in the "blonde bombshell" market that she started to shorten her words and play down her apparent savvy choice of books. She got a stylish haircut, some great clothes and soon
became the girl we all love to pretend we don't know anything about.

There is something a little smart in playing dumb. Certainly Paris' persona is well crafted and that is no small feat in the media world today. I've yet to run into another piece about the heiress that was so favorable. The woman must have people running round the clock to make sure no one knows about the secret, smart girl who is running her own multi-million dollar business branded solely on herself.

I wonder how much time she spent in trying to find just the right amount of dumb that would keep people interested and not thoroughly disgusted. Where did the idea to dumb it down and bleach it up come from? And how difficult does she find it to be dumb? Does she plan her "off-the-cuff" quotes? Does she study old "dumb dora's" for inspiration? Does she sometimes slip and say things that show off her incredible insight into the business of Hollywood?

I wonder these things because I, like Paris, have played dumb from time to time. I used to be quite proud of my smarts. As a child growing quickly into a young woman I spent much more time attempting to impress the people around me with my intelligence than with my looks. I had it a little easier being the youngest child in a family full of people too smart for their own good. People expected me to be smart. And I didn't disappoint. First as the girl who always had the
answer and always had her hand in the air, then as the girl who always had to challenge ideas. I loved to debate. Even when I agreed with my opponent I enjoyed coming from a new angle and wrangling a topic to death. It served two purposes. It gave me a chance to stretch an under-utilized intelligence and it allowed me to find new avenues of knowledge.

But even though I was recognized as the "smart girl" it was always tainted with those small comments girls, smart or not, always hear. "How insightful for such a pretty girl." "You're very clever for someone so sweet." "Beauty and brains…don't see that every day." Of course when people say these things they mean them as compliments. But they damaged. I realized that often people saw me first as the pretty girl and that's what drew them to me. I could have been dumb as a post and gotten the same amount of attention. It was a strange thing to know I could bat my big brown eyes and win a debate without even touching my stored away arguments. But at the same time I couldn't keep anyone from looking at my brown eyes, batted or not. My
naturally shy disposition made me hate the attention more and more. And so like the girl who developed too fast I would hunch my shoulders and try to look as plain, and as a dumb, as possible.

So, slowly, like Paris, I started to play it up. Once I even dyed my hair blonde. That was one in a string of mistakes. The latest of which came last week when I realized I may have been playing my intelligence cards too close to my chest.

I am sure that Paris did not orchestrate her trip to jail. I doubt that in her grand scheme to win the dumb game she planned to get pulled over for driving on a suspended license. Perhaps Paris, this time like me, had played her smart cards too close. Perhaps there are disadvantages to playing dumb for too long.

Last week I was speaking with someone who I rather like talking to. In an effort to not be too presumptuous, or overbearing, I often pull out my dumb card in our quick conversations. I often will ask questions, sweetly, in order simply to hear his answer. Sometimes often when I actually know quite a bit about the subject. I often wait for him to explain things I already know. It's a shameless manipulation and I am sure he's well aware of it. He, unlike me, does not play dumb. Girls use this tactic everyday. I use it simply because I like hearing people talk and lately have been enjoying hearing stories float around me.

The conversation in question though had something to do with crocodiles. In an effort to be chipper and cheery I deferred calling the crocodiles killer move a "death roll", since death is neither chipper nor cheery. I think I referred to it as a puppy roll or something equally absurd.

"It's called a death roll." He responded. I'm sure he was trying to be helpful.

"Yes. I know what it's called." I snapped back. Less helpfully and probably with a little bit of a "well duh" thrown in for good measure. I'm smart, I didn't say I was mature.

"You know what it is?" He asked. You could almost smell his incredulousness. It seemed to me that I had caught him by surprise, not by my rude response, but by the fact that I knew something. Knew anything.

I was mad. My brain took his small little sentence and inflated it into something far more dire. How could he possibly think that I was so dumb as to not know something so basic? Hello, general knowledge question for $100, Alex. Perhaps if I had suddenly come out with the
mathematical formula for a water buffalo to escape a death roll I could have forgiven his surprise. But did he really think I was so stupid as to not remember a name? Did he think my head was all curls and no gray matter? I mean if I was that stupid how did I possible survive to the ripe old age of 25? For gods sakes, why even waste his breath trying to tutor such a moron. Why even take the time to instruct me on the term for a crocodile rolling over in the water. I
was obviously too stupid to be able to grasp such a complex concept.

What a freaking jerk!

Of course all that came in the first 5 seconds and I didn't mean any of it. The second 5 seconds was me angry at myself. (If truth be told so was the first five minutes...I am kind of a jerk.) How could I have played so dumb as to let it get to this point? Was I so afraid that he'd be frightened away by some form of knowledge that I allowed him to think me completely
trivia free? What had I done? What had we discussed previously? Had I ever let him know I was smart or did I play the humble card? How many times had I asserted my intelligence? How about my shyness? Obviously there was a big gap.

"I'm smarter than I let on." I said. "I play dumb a lot."

"Why would you do that?"

Good question. I've never felt more dumb.

Nap

It is one of my favorite places to be. This state of drowsy unwakefulness. This precipice between real unconscious and conscious. It's where my body sinks, slipping into the comfortable curl that I learned in infant hood. It's safe here, my body is safe here. The sounds of life float past my ears, the mumble of the newscasters, the roar of a lawnmower.

In a little while I will slip into real nap mode. My cat curled inside my curl, purring till she can't purr anymore. Soon we'll both be oblivious to the world, unaware of what is happening around our head and in our heads. Victims to dreams that will be instantly forgotten. In a little while I'll fall away from my body, not to return till someone takes my ankle in his hand and shakes me back.

But now I am aware. And not. Now my mind is open to the world, taking in all the stimuli it can give. I can smell the earth drying in the sun. I can hear the trees rustling against the wind. My house settles into it's foundations. I settle with it. Here I receive all information without processing. Here, between wide-eyed and relaxed I am filled without prejudice or thought. Receiving and sending. I pour forth my thoughts, my ideas. They fly past my eyes in jets of light. Potential bubbling to the surface without restraint. I can feel my mind, taste it, hear it, see it. There is something in here. Without my instant editing, questioning. Without the filter of speech or self-consciousness I see there are things inside me. I am not empty.

And my heart beats to my minds rhythm. My mind mends to my hearts desires. There is the future the past and the present flashing past me. My body is limp and willing. It is my favorite places to be...everywhere and nowhere. Where it is all possible and only possible because it is impossible to realize.

That's why it's Never-never Land. My favorite places to be.

Anyone want my job?

Recently some one got sick in our office, in a bad way, and it was blocking a major path way. Normally that wouldn't mean much, but when you got forklifts filled with food that have to go places in a certain way you need the streets clear. As our Exec. Admin came over to charge me with building a new traffic pattern she held up her latex gloved hands dripping in god knows what and asked cheerily: “Anybody want my job?”

While everyone else balked and laughed I could hear my devil self urging me to answer. I had the wicked idea of squaring my eyes with hers and saying in all earnest seriousness: “Yes, yes I do want your job.”

Because the only thing worse than being her is being her under paid backup.

There is some confusion where I work as to what department I work for and what I actually am charged to do. There is also some confusion as to how my name is spelled. There's actually a lot of confusion as to how my name is spelled. I never knew how much drama four little letters could cause. Well...four little non-curse-like letters.

Regardless, for almost a year now I’ve been straddling between three (or more) departments. My official badge labels me Marketing. My official paycheck labels me Purchasing. My official title labels me Procurement and finally my unofficial name in the office labels me as “report girl”. This is partly my fault. When I see something that needs doing I simply go off and do it. I suppose one could call me a swing. Because I am not really assigned to anywhere specific I haven’t been “formally” trained in anything. Usually I’m thrown some sticky problem randomly and I puzzle it out myself until the solution presents itself. Never has anyone sat me down and showed me what I was working with or why I was doing it. Often I simply play a game of guess and check until I have discovered the secret.

That kind of attitude gets you noticed around departments that normally lock themselves away in some obscure corner. I have a feeling that this is the reason why when the higher-ups start looking for cover for vacations and leave my name comes to their lips. This is fine. I have no problem taking over for people who are about to go on their honeymoon. It’s the least I can do. The problem is though, people tend to leave our company for vacation and never come back. That leaves me not as the “cover” for a desk but as the actual desk itself. And my desk is getting very cluttered with a backlog of work.

Which is why I am now giddy with the idea of my own upcoming trip out-of-town.

Or I was until yesterday, when I began to scope out people to take over my basic responsibilities. I felt like I had suddenly morphed into Andrew Speaker. Though, instead of a deadly tuberculi cough I carried product expiration reports. And no one was interested. Once I found one person to cover me, they’d realize they had to use a program they’d never played with before and they’d beg off. When I found someone who wasn’t afraid of the programs they’d be afraid of the math involved in the calculations, and again I was stuck. If one liked the math, they’d be loath to work with DP. If they actually worked in DP they’d be loath to do anything for purchasing.

It’s not as though I was going to leave them blind. I have this recurring nightmare that someday I will wake up with full blown amnesia, forget my name, my age, who I am related too…yet I’ll still know how to drive and I’ll still be expected to knock out a tax category void report. (I never said it was a rational nightmare). Because of this fear I write out lengthy, detailed specific “how-to’s” for each and everything I do. They are mostly guides for me to get my bearings on bad days, but they come in handy when I am trying to show people how to do whatever it is that I do.

And I have come to learn that I am the only person that does what I do. At least here. Yesterday, as I went to my boss for the hundredth time pleading “How badly do you need this report?” I realized that I would never find someone to cover for me, nor were there enough people for me to spread out the love work. Yesterday I not only realized I’m the only one who does what I do, I’m doing what normally takes a team of four people. For the price of one.

So bring on the vomit and blood baby, I’ll take it!

Anyone want my job? (Seriously? For like a week…four days? Four hours? How about my lunch break….? You wouldn’t have to do any of the filing…)

Quarter Century

That's right: 25.

I'm another year older and none the wiser.

But for the first time ever I'm okay with not having it all figured out and planned. I like not knowing where I'm going to be at 25.5, 26, 27. This limbo is feeling pretty good right now. I am getting used to confusion and fear.

I like this place...and will willingly waste my time in it.

Eggshells

I'm standing in my hallway. The first step feels just as before. My heel clicks down on the floor, that reassuring sound of a step. Then my foot descends and I can hear the small cracks and groans of shell breaking. The ball of my foot swivels, grinding the egg shells into the floor, turning them slowly to dust.

And gingerly I step again. The floor is covered with them, my home is filled with them. Eggshells. Delicate white homes long since abandoned. They lay there open, empty, sad and lonely. A path of sharp jags and smooth surfaces. My steps are timid amongst them. I try to fit my steps between them, tread carefully, be silent. Still, they groan under my shoe and crack. Dissolving under my soles, coloring the black with telltale white. They threaten to cut me, then shatter under me. They threaten to bar my way, and break under my need.

The sound is unbearable. Disturbing, disgusting. Each snap makes the skin stand up on my arms. My pulse races. I can hear each little wall crumble and fall, dying a second death. The once comforting home for a baby. The small precious gift. So lovingly warmed, so gently moved. Then so violently destroyed.

I wish I was weightless. Made of air so I could silently pass through my home, escape out the door. Instead every move closer is a move louder. The shells splice open to more jagged edges, more razor sharp obstacles. The tiny sounds of soft shell breaking apart may as well be thunder. Every word is a crack, every idea I voice, every breath I make is the sky opening up and splitting my little peace in two.

And still I'm walking, leaving a trail of fine white power in my wake.

Bad Phone

A girls' best friend is her mother.

A girl's worst enemy...yeah...it's her mother.

My mom and I can be really close. When we're together it's just non-stop jabber. Attached at the hip (and now, as she gets less and less “mobile” we're attached at the elbow) we fall into the comfortable give and take of our relationship. I'm lucky that, as the baby of a family much older than I, I got to be raised much like a single child. I had Mama all to myself for a good portion of my life. We got to be girlfriends as well as parent and child, and that makes us incredibly close.

Too close. While we feed off of each other's joy in being close to one another we also feed off each others depression. It's a genetic thing, I'm sure of it. Like my long legs and my proclivity towards the creative my mother handed me her nearly debilitating depression. She got it from her Mother, who in turn received it from my Great-Grandmother. I'm sure if I went back a few more generations I'd find more women carrying this little demon in their hearts.

And it is a demon. It eats at you. For no reason at all it will surface and you can feel its tiny toes and sharp claws pricking at you. It loves company...and a phone call with my Mother is another chance to connect with it's demon brethren. You can almost hear their voices taking over through our own conversations. My Mother's need to guilt me into going home is almost as strong and my need to keep the demons at bay. I can't let them take over, she can't let me let go.

“Hi...it's me!”

“Hi! How are you doing.”

“Oh I'm okay...can we talk?”

“I'm not okay.”

“What's wrong?”

“I'm sick.”

“You've been sick my whole life.”

“I'm dying.”

“You've been dying as long as I can remember.”

“It hurts.”

“I can't make it better Mama, I can't fix it.”

“I'll never see you again.”

“I hurt too.”

“You're not here.”

“Next summer...next Christmas.”

“It'll be too late.”

And it might be. I can remember years ago when my siblings were planning their weddings my Mother would lament “I need my Mom.” Then I would point out that she was the Mommy, and why did we need more Mommies. She'd shake her head and cry. Grandma wasn't gone, she just wasn't coming.

Apparently keeping each other at bay is also a genetic trait.

But now that I'm older and am facing big grown-up decisions I feel myself start to lament too. I need my Mom. I have things in my head and my heart that I don't think I can decide on without her. I'm not sure if I need her to disapproval so I can, as a teenager, go off and do exactly the opposite. Or if I need her blessing, her “I told you so.” But I know I need something and I can't imagine it coming from anyone but her.

Either to let lose my inner demon and allow havoc and chaos to run rampant, or to swallow it down and make a peace. All I know now is that I'm lost.

And I really need my Mommy.

Brush Up Your..Staging

It took me awhile to notice. For a good long time I figured we were just getting poorer. But now...has anyone noticed that theaters are getting smaller?

Really small.

And it's a problem.

It's not a problem for the audience. Black box theaters (usually called so because they are black and often shaped like boxes) make for amazing theater. There really isn't anything quite as engaging as watching King Lear so close you can feel his tears on your shoes. The kind of give and take you find in intimate theater is palpable. Audience and actor as one. Those black walls have a habit of keeping all the nuance and emotion in tight, you can't help but be engaged with each and every character.

So intimate theater is a good thing.

But it's also a problem...for actors.

There are a few “first rules” of stage presence. Everyone is more important than the one that was most important, but just like with any art form, you internalize them into your “golden rules” and keep them close to your heart.

• Don't turn your back to the audience.

• Project, Project, Project.

• Always cheat. (Cheating meaning to angle yourself only slightly towards the person you are “talking to” on stage. It's probably best not to cheat at cards though...especially when playing with the riggers.)

• Your script is your bible. Read it, love it. Lose it and die.

The rise of more intimate theater has made these little nuggets less important. (Except the script thing.) In a smaller theater you can play small and still make a huge impact. Ironically you probably make a larger impact than you would on a large stage with an audience at least 50 feet away from you. I can remember playing an extremely small theater (a converted flower shop) and having to re-train myself not to do a ¾ turn out towards the audience just to keep my face forward. I was flipping all over like a freaking ballerina till someone pointed out that the audience was literally two feet away from me and would be forgiving of a normal ¼ turn in the proper direction.

In other words...forget the rules and move naturally. Which I did, and apparently so did most other actors.

At a recent audition in a large outdoor, arena based theater I noticed a lot of very well-heeled actors making some very amateur mistakes. Perhaps I noticed these because I myself was panicked for days before the audition that I would forget them. I had no idea if I could project anymore. And if I could would I just sound like I was yelling my lines with no inflection or feeling? Would I turn into the actor I was when I was five and just beginning. That tiny kid who stood on those big stages and was told to “sell it to the man in Russia?” I was scared. Which made the fact that all these other actors were making the same mistakes seem that much more shocking. I literally felt like taking each and every one of them and turning their hips forward. “Look out! Look out!” I heard my theater instructor yell. “Cheat! Cheat! Don't let him upstage you!!!”

When I finally got on that stage it came flooding back. My body stood right where it needed to be and did just what it was supposed too. I felt those words bubble up from my stomach and boom out past the trees. That man in Russia spilled his tea. It was a testament to all those years and years of training and tears that I could easily slip into “big theater mode.” You just need to rely on your knowledge to get you through.

And I did. And I got through. And I got the part.

But I realize that a lot of the other actors, far more experienced in work than I, probably did not train in a big theater at all. How many proscenium arches have you seen in college lately? When was the last time you saw a raked stage? Have you ever seen a raked stage?

Probably not.

And that's okay. Intimate theater is good. It's challenging and hard. It puts the strain on actors and audience alike. There's a lot of work to be done to keep your character real and tangible in a small theater.

But it just doesn't prepare you to learn stage technique. There is no point to those big gestures and large movements. And it's really to the detriment of actors. If you're not training these little tricks of the trade into your body now you'll waste a lot of time re-learning later.

And unfortunately, actors who waste time learning to cheat will cheat an audience out of a well-rehearsed play.

PEZ

For Easter I thought it would be cute to get the husband a PEZ Dispenser with a cute green racing helmet. I was lured by all those happy childhood memories of PEZ Dispensers in my stockings and baskets. Promising long happy hours (okay minutes) pulling pressed sugar goodness from out of Snoopy's mangled neck.

I love PEZ.

Or I thought I did. Perhaps my parents filled them all up before doling them out. Or perhaps my child-sized fingers simply had an easier time holding onto those tiny nuggets. Whatever it is, I find that now, when I have come to trust and rely on my excellent hand-eye coordination and digital motor skills, I cannot - for the life of me - fill the damn PEZ head.

Surely this was not some simple oversight of my memory. Surely my young mind was not so easily swayed by that delicious sugar powder to so quickly forget the fight involved in getting the candy into that little stapler-esque toy. I hate to admit that I may have simply forgotten all this pain just for that simple reward of a little piece of stale, substandard confection.

Because now, oh now, now the candy doesn't even make it in. I need to finish off at least a sleeve before I can find the patience to make those little purple dominoes sit right.

Oh PEZ, you've done me wrong.

How NOT to celebrate Admin Professionals Day

The first time a "Manager" who is a "Very Important Person" (it says so on his t-shirt) comes up and complains that his little report doesn't print right - it's cute.

It's cute that a man 20 years older than me who has been working in this business for over a decade can't figure out how to hit the landscape button in Excel. There is a bit of adorable in a big strong man needing a woman to come and click his buttons. It contains a sense of ironic, a sense of humanity. It's a little funny. It gives you a giggle.

The second time he does it, after a twenty minute tutorial of the print function in Microsoft applications, while I'm trying to finish reports for people who actually -are- important (and sign my paychecks), when he's waited two days so that I have already forgotten about his dorky, dinky little report and am in the throes of preparing inventory for an entire division while fielding 2 calls a minute from two bosses:

Not so freaking cute.

More than a color

My sister and I never really got along. With the age difference and me being the surprise (and I suspect - unwanted) baby we never connected well.

My earliest memories are being kicked out of our shared bedroom and spending most of my nights on the couch in the living room. I always did like sleeping on couches though...

But this weekend I was surprised by how much we have in common. Like:

"So I was hoping you could figure out how it works," she said to my brother, handing him a pretty spiffy new mp3 player.

"This is my new one" I said, pulling out the new shuffle I was recently surprised with.

"It's pink!"

"I know, I have everything in pink now. I just started it all of a sudden."

"Me too. I think I had this mental block and then just like that..."

And then just like that I realized:

Hey yeah, we really are sisters. And we like pink.

Blogs on Blogs

I haven't been very bloggy lately. Well if lately means an entire season. I'd like to say that it's actually the season that has sapped my bloggishness. Like a bear I prefer to snuggle down in my cave of blankets for the winter and nap. Or in my case watch really bad TV like “Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders: Boot Camp.”

Unfortunately, my laziness comes from more than just needing to see that blonde fall on her ass. I've noticed that blogging makes me more aware. I'm always alert, ready for that next post, the next thing to jabber on about. I was always like that, long before “web logs” came into being. But the blog kept me sharp. I was getting good at pulling long introspective ideas out of short encounters with the grocer.

And then I realized – I really didn't want to do that. Not because I don't want to think, or because I don't like being introspective, but because the grocer is an asshole.

Okay, he's not. I don't actually have a real “grocer” and I'm sure if I did he wouldn't be an asshole. Maybe a little weird, but not an asshole. No, what I've been noticing lately is that the world really does suck more than it doesn't. And it's filled with some really awful people.

I hate seeing that. I hate admitting it. Of course C., smart man that he is, has been drilling that idea into my head. And of course I already knew. I knew there were bad people out there. I knew there were sad people, and cruel people, and people who were so desperately trapped in their own heads that they trampled over everyone in their path. I knew that.

I just didn't want to know that. I've been trying really hard to keep myself from admitting it. I held onto my self-imposed naiveté so long and so hard that now I'd rather not think than admit it was all a ruse.

I live a charmed life. It really is the best life. Life does not get much better than the one I get to live. And even so – I want it bigger. I want my little patch of happy to stretch out farther, further, to more places, to more people. I don't want the bad parts, the bad people, to interfere with my rose-colored world.

And they are. So I'm feeling a little un-bloggish lately.

Signs...

...that you're being a tad over-emotional:

When you see this "commercial" and burst into tears.

Signs you're hormonally over-emotional:

When you think about this commercial after watching a re-run of X-files and burst into tears. Then of course when your man asks "What's wrong" you get mad because he just doesn't get it.

Computer Free

I started my day today at 5AM and ended it near 9PM.

I spent my entire day without once touching a computer. No web surfing. No Excel Spreadsheets. No pulling reports from the mainframe. Nothing.

Not even email.

The last time this happened was when I was locked up with my husband in a small cabin in the wild woods of the Adirondacks.

A completely computer free day.

Well...until I had to chronicle the computer-free day on my blog.

Whatever.

God

I know where it started. I was thirteen, alone, on a Sunday morning. I tied my white tennis shoes at the top of our stairs outside and looked around. Nothing but sun - warm, sky - cool and green. Green for miles. Maalaea Bay to the south, Kahului Harbor to the north. Behind me Haleakala crowned in white clouds around it's majestic summit. In front the West Maui Mountains - Mauna Kahalawai - and it's lush valleys, cool rainforests and the towering Iao Needle. That needle covered in green, soft and inviting. Unattainable and intimidating.

All around me was beauty, perfection, life and the living. Maui pulled it from the sea with his hook, Pele built it to the sky with her fire, Kane made the forests and Lono fed it with the wind and the rain - his peace and prosperity.

And inside I felt it. I felt the green seep into my bones. For the first time in my thirteen years of life I felt happy. Alive. Surrounded and inundated with joy. I felt the beauty of being me, of being a woman alive in the world. I felt the miracle of the beat of my heart and the feel of my skin. Warm sun against my body, cooled by the gentle wind. I could taste the growing things.

That heady smell of flowers that hits you hard. Invades your senses and fills your chest. The prickle in your skin when you can feel the grass grow up, stretching towards the sun. Hear the birds talk, the tree rustle.

Feel the very earth spinning beneath you.

That was God.

I've been chasing it ever since.

Cold

The other day I watched my cat move sleepily from her napping chair towards her napping bed. As she walked past me and my desk she stepped into a long patch of sun shooting warm patterns on the floor. Her hind legs froze, her front legs kept going, but eventually she moved her little body into a contented cat stretch then plopped down to soak up the sunshine and nap right there on the floor.

I envy her. Lately my body has been bent and bowed not just with exhaustion but cold. I’m freezing. All the time. I wake up shivering under piles of blankets in a cold bedroom. I shake through my shower, growling at the two minutes of hot water tease before the pipes fun cold.

I shiver in my clothes. I chatter in my coat. My large house, with it’s white cavernous rooms sucks the heat away. My office pumps cold air onto my cube and I struggle to type emails with gloved hands. Math class finds me trying to curl into a ball under my desk.

I’m cold. And I can’t warm up. It exhausts me. It drains me. I long for that small patch of sun to curl up in. Just a little bit, just to be warm for a few minutes. That’s all I want.

This morning as I was moving myself from my sleeping bed to my cold car, I found my own patch of sunshine. A large, warm , inviting ray of light shining through our front door window. Standing at the foot the stairs I was transfixed. I leaned forwards, watching the streaks of bright yellow light shoot out over the snow covered lawn, through bare trees, over the whole world outside. It called to me. It begged me to stop, to look, to listen. I wanted to touch the light, to lie inside it and soak it up the same as my cat. I wanted to be naked in the light, to feel it's warm arms wrap around me and straight into me. No more bundles, no more artificial fleeting patches of warm, just pure heat. Inside and out.

In my quest to get closer I moved towards the door. Closer and closer I got, my skin tingling to feel that hot touch, those rays of sun scorching my skin, breathing heat and life and energy back into my lungs. Close I got to warm, to light, to wakefulness. Until I hit the door. Cold, hard, uninviting glass. The suns rays refracted in it, splashing colors across my face, but no heat. I turned my head and pressed my cheek against the smooth surface. Light broke through it, painfully bright, it burned into my eyes. But I was cold. The glass was cold, my cheek was cold, my body was shaking with cold. The door held me up, but inside I was frozen, still, and lifeless.

And outside, in that patch of sunshine the snow was frozen and the air was windy.

It was bright, but it was cold. And I just can’t get warm.

Forgetfulness - Billy Collins Animated Poetry

Fun with Text Messages

Somewhere between the beers and the hard stuff our friend got a text message on her cellphone.

“Oh! Oh! I got a message?! How do I open it?”

Despite being somewhat technologically up to date (meaning I have an ipod and knew how to use a mac before they came in five fruity flavors) I'm not a big text-ing girl. The last one I sent was documented on my blog with a picture of the supposed dead body on my porch sometime in October of '06. The last one I received was a few months after that and had to do with the sex of the newest anticipated addition to my familial clan. (He's not here yet, but he's coming soon...) Anyway, I don't do the text thing much. So it was my guy who swooped in and showed her how to open the message.

Both of us were sure it was a text from her daughter – her daughter really likes text messages – to the tune of a thousand dollar cellphone bills – I was sure it was her daughter.

In fact it was some unknown man who had left some semi-inappropriate message about her work attire and the way she used her “desk”. It was cute, she blushed. We giggled. We drank.

The someone in our group suggested we text back.

And boy did we. Between the three of us (and mostly between me and my guy, vicariously living through our unsuspecting 40-something, catholic, suburbanite companion) we got this man to “apparently” lie down on his bed, get naked, and talk about that thing that most women don't really care to talk about and most men can't seem to stop talking about.

In other words, we got dimensions and measure, in detail. And we really didn't need to work hard to get it either. He was pretty forth coming with his -er- desires.

Finally, once we had finished off a few more drinks, and clearly had worked the guy into a lather hot enough to have him suggest “meeting”, we decided that this little cyber-sex encounter (all of which had taken place in a bar, between dances and alcohol) needed to be cut off. But because we were in a bar, there were drinks and we all had our cellphones out we decided to do it in probably the 1) worst and 2) most cliché way available.

We sent him a picture of the two of us women making out with the tag

“No thanks hon, I got all the company I can handle here.”

That brought the end of the messaging and the beginning of a phone call where we discovered we knew the guy. From the office.

I'd like to say that now, sober, well-rested and in the harsh light of day I regret our little cyber-foursome in the middle of the bar. I'd like to say I regret a heavy flirtation with someone I work with in a professional capacity (though really he was flirting with her, he didn't know there were three people on the other end, but most of what was said came from me). However, I'm don't regret it.

Actually, I feel pretty good about it. Was it cruel? Probably. Was it inappropriate? Only because he made it so. Did he have it coming? You bet. Last night was payback for all the times our managers have ever stared at our breasts instead of our face. Last night was payback for all those little nicknames they use for women, regardless of rank. Last night and that quick little put down was a culmination of years – years – YEARS – of putting up with the gropes, glances and comments behind my back. Behind her back. Behind the back of any woman who has the guts to put on a skirt and a little lipstick and brave going to an office full of men who clearly haven't progressed past the 1970's.

Oh hell – the 50's.

Last night our text-companion did what it feels like ever man out there is dying to do everyday at the office: Whip it out, show it off, and gloat.

And last night we said what I feel like every woman wants to do everyday at the office, or at least I do:

“Put it away. It's not that interesting and you still don't know how to use it.”

Guilty Blood

Every time I go to give blood (or platelets), they of course test me for anemia. And every time they do, they take out that horrid little needle and jab my small little finger with it.

It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't always make it a point to say "This is the worst part of the whole thing."

Excuse me, I beg to differ. I think the worst part is that big, horse size needle they then attempt to crush into my un-horse-size arm. Seriously, the thing is huge, they might as well just slice me open and let me drip into a bowl.

And I wouldn't be complaining so much if it wasn't for the fact that I have a little vein that apparently is terribly difficult to find. Oh they know where it is...somewhere in my arm, but usually I get a great big stick, then a few searching pokes through my skin while they circle the needle around and around and around my vein - but never in my vein.

I'm a group effort. Today at the apheresis donation I had no less than three woman come and look at my vein. And prod at my vein. And move the needle around and around my vein.

But not in it.

They're determined though. Determined to suck my blood and plasma and platelets right out. And I'm determined to give it. But what I don't understand is why they have to move the needle all around. After a few tries couldn't we just re-stick? I'd rather have a bunch of holes in my arm than a bunch of scratches inside it.

Today we failed to get the vein. Not for lack of trying. I sat on the chair with a great big bag of ice over my newly bruised arm and felt like crying. Not because it hurt that bad, it didn't, but because I felt like I had failed. Me and my veins had failed. We had the best of intentions. My heart, both the pumping one and the metaphorical one, was ready to give whatever I had away. I have plenty of clotting stuff, and bloody stuff, and liquid stuff. I'm ready, I'm willing, if you need it, you should have it.

And I couldn't do it. I kept saying sorry to the nurses. In my head I kept saying sorry to all those people with leukemia. To all those people who are getting ready for surgery and all those people who need their loved ones to get better, to be there for their families.

Stupid thick needle. Stupid thin arm. Stupid vein. Stupid me. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.

Every time I go to give blood they take out that horrid little needle and jab my small little finger with it.

It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't always make it a point to say "This is the worst part of the whole thing."

No really, the worst part is going through it all, and then failing to give what's needed. Failing all those people who are counting on that blood. That's the worst part.

Engaged!

I'm piling in the car, me and all my stuff. The bag with my lunch, my books, a magazine incase I don't feel like studying, my purse, gloves I haven't put on yet, my hat that fell out of my pocket, water bottle...basically I come with a lot of baggage. And once I'm belted in he turns around and drops a little box, wrapped in a white bow, into my lap.

"Happy Valentines Day!"

I'm already flustered and floored and I haven't even opened it yet. I gush, and fiddle with the bow, wondering if I should wait till we're at my office before I open it. But no, I'm urged, and inside is the most beautiful ring ever. Sparkly and colorful, classic and natural, in other words perfect.

And fancy.

I can't stop looking at it. I'm a girl. I put it on, then I take it off, then I put it on again. It's too pretty. When I wear it, it really is the most beautiful thing about me. It makes my hands look worked, used, plain. But I love it.

I couldn't say thank you enough. I couldn't say it right. My husband bought me a ring. It was such a surprise.

I wear it to the office. Constantly slipping it up and down and around my finger. Giving my right hand preference. I find myself watch my hand more than the computer screen. The gems sparkle just enough to catch your eye everytime. I want to show it off, but I keep my mouth shut, till someone notices. And they do. And then they point it out to everyone and suddenly I'm surrounded by a bunch of women, all oohing and ahhing appreciatively at the beautiful ring. The ring my husband got just for me.

My engagement was short, two days short actually. And it started with a phone conversation.

"I was wondering if you wanted to elope?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really"

"Okay."

And then we did. There were no rings or gowns. No bridesmaids, no rubber chicken, no flowers. Just us and the vows.

But as my friends and coworkers start to get engaged around me I've noticed the little rituals I missed during my engagement. Getting to show off the ring, tell the story over and over, relive that giddy little turn of the stomach that you feel at the moment, and feel the giddy little vibes from your friends. I didn't get that. I didn't think I needed that.

But I'm a girl and I admit, it was fun. It was fun to tell my story over and over. It was fun to hear them coo over the ring. It was fun to pretend I was marrying the man of my dreams.

Call it vain and materialistic. It is. But I don't care. I loved being the center of attention for a minute. I would have teared up the same and been just as giddy over snow tires, but no one would have been as excited. Our office "Mom" wouldn't have called the girls over to coo over my tires. Instead I needed something flashy, something pretty, something special in order to get their attention.

And when I did I loved every second of it. Not just the ring, or the attention on myself. I more liked the fact that I was special for a moment because he is special all the time.

And, I think, I'm the girl he decided to love.

What it's really like to be me

Asking the wrong questions at the wrong time:

During naptime when it is clear that he's juuuuuust about to fall asleep.

"Kitty's nose is cold and wet. Are all furry little animals noses cold and wet?"

"I don't know."

"Is a bunnies nose cold and wet?"

"I don't know"

"What about ferrets? Are their noses cold and wet?"

"I don't know."

"Do guiena pigs have cold wet noses?"

"I don't know."

"Do hamsters have wet noses?"

"I don't know."

"What about mice? Does mouse have a wet nose?"

"I don't know."

"Are mouse hamsters wet?"

Silence.

"Oops. Oh, I suppose only when is rains in mouse hamster land..."

"ARGH!"

Yeah, I know. I don't know how people deal with me either.