Confuscious Say..."You're a B*@#&$!"

Some of the girls at work had Chinese delivered for lunch today. I stuck to my packed lunch (both nutritionally and fiscally responsible -- yay me!), but I did swipe a fortune cookie from the stash. I think I was hoping it would say something about Mike, but it didn't. What it did say was this: "Work on your diplomatic skills and avoid conflict at all costs." Hmmm...not exactly what I was hoping for, but I think we could all agree that it definitely speaks to me and my personality.

Oh, and my lucky numbers were 7, 32, 15, 29, 41, and 6. Feel free to use them yourself. Everyone knows that undiplomatic b*@#&$es like me don't hit the Powerball.

O-Ryan, the Mighty Hunter

Ryan shot his first buck the other day. His grandad (my SIL's father) talked him through it a little, but Ryan shot it himself. If you ask, he'll gladly tell you precisely how the bullet tracked through the lung and made the heart explode. Breakfast anyone?


His grandad is having the head mounted for him. I'm sure Cherie can't wait to add that to her home decor. I think it would look best in the basement. In a storage closet. That's rarely used. And isn't lit. Poor, dead deer head without a body.

You've Heard of Thing 1 and Thing 2...

...this is Thing 3. Ryan showed up for the UConn game with a newly acquired...um...hair piece. The crazy thing shed like a cat! He wore it through the whole game. I was kind of surprised because I'm sure it was hot, and it kept hanging down in his eyes. I think his mom will probably "accidentally" burn it the first chance she gets. It certainly is a look...


If any of you are "Bob & Tom" fans, you know that they have a character named "Donnie Baker" on the show. Donnie is a crass wannabe-ladies-man who seems to be stuck in the 80s and who has no respect for authority. This is sort of how I picture ol' Donnie...

Why Everyone Loves Mikey

In the midst of telling me the bad news, Mikey commented on how Ryan had just shot his first deer (an 8-point buck) and won his big soccer tournament. He gestured toward the field and said, "Now it looks like we're going to play for a national title. It just seems like God is making all this happen now so I can see it." Cherie said, "I think you're reading way too much into this." Mikey looked at her and said, "Well, we'll know for sure if we hit the lottery tonight." I couldn't help but smile through my tears. That's so typical Mike! He's a real wisenheimer!

The Big Game, Part II

As I've said before, Mountaineer Field is my happy place. It's my Disney World -- the happiest place on earth. Or it was anyway.

Saturday afternoon, when I got to the stadium, my brother and sister-in-law and nephew were already there. When I got in my seat and turned to say hi to Mikey, the first thing I noticed was that his eyeballs were yellow. At first, I thought I was just imagining it; but when I turned to look again, they were undeniably yellow. I immediately started wondering if Mikey had noticed it. I started trying to think of how to get Cherie alone to tell her that she should probably call Mikey's doctor and tell him about it. (Can you believe that? I actually thought that they might not have noticed!) I distracted myself with the game until I got a chance to steal Cherie away. In the meantime, Mikey talked about the plays and bad calls and bad spots and seemed to be doing pretty well.

It never once occurred to me to ask him how his latest PET scan had gone. I had asked Cherie earlier in the week if he had gotten the results, and she had told that they wouldn't be getting the results until after the holiday. I noticed a couple times, though, that he had his eyes closed and wondered briefly it was because of pain. But I figured he was probably just drowsy from the pain medications that he's been on, and I let it go. Really, I thought he looked pretty darn good -- better than he looked with that awful rash anyway.


At halftime, we were just talking about this and that and the other, when he leaned in and said, "The news from the scan wasn't good, by the way." He then gestured across his abdomen and toward his upper chest and said, "It's all over in here and in my chest." He was so matter-of-fact about it, and I instantly felt a lump coming up in my throat. He said that the doctor didn't seem to think there was any point in continuing with chemo because it clearly wasn't working. Mikey said that he was still fighting, though, and was going to talk to UPMC and Duke. Still, he said that he didn't want to continue with chemo if it wasn't going to change anything. He said, "I'm pretty much on borrowed time at this point." Cherie leaned in and said, "And did you notice his eyes? Do you know what that means?" I just tried to swallow back my tears because I didn't want to cry in front of him and because his 11-year-old son was sitting right next to me (did he even know yet?). I wanted to ask him to stop, but what was the point? Was anything going to be different just because he didn't actually say the words out loud?

All these thoughts started running through my head. This was his last football season. This was his last Christmas. Ryan and Tyler would lose their father when they were only 11 and 6. Cherie would be a widow at 40. In the not-so-distant future, we would have to adjust to a new life without my only brother and my parents' only son in it. It started to overwhelm me, and I had to get up and leave.

Once I composed myself, I returned to my seat and pretended as though we had never had the conversation, but grief hung over my head like a rain cloud.

I will be the first to admit that I am generally a very glass-half-empty sort of girl. Somehow, though, I never let myself believe for one minute that Mikey's battle would end so soon. I mean, I knew, realistically, that he would not live to see his boys get married or have children of their own. But I never thought he would have less than 10 years. Why I fixated on that number, I don't know, but that's what I focused on -- 10 years. Of course, not even 10 years was enough for me, so I was utterly devastated to know that we probably aren't even looking at 10 months.

I can't imagine any part of life without Mikey. Not WVU football games, not family dinners, not holidays or birthdays, not baptisms or weddings -- nothing. He is such a huge part of our family. He's the one we all sort of gravitate to; always quick with a witty jab and a big smile, the one who everyone loves. How can we possibly go on without him?

As I sit here, I'm already trying to hear his voice and picture his face. Even though I know I'll see him again this weekend, I'm trying to burn him into my memory, complaining about "that ridiculous nickel defense" and re-telling jokes from the guys at work. And I just wonder, How did we get to this place? Why did things turn out this way? I'm not angry, though, because I know Mikey isn't. I know he's at peace with it all because he told me two months ago that he was not afraid to die. Still, it hurts. It hurts more than I can even say.

The good news is that we were able to schedule a big family portrait for December 22. One day we won't have Mikey, but at least we'll have a reminder of how we were all together once.

The Big Game, Part I

Well, I sure as heck hope you were watching that game on Saturday! It was a blow-out for sure, but not the boring sort of blow-out. Pat White and the boys put on a show that left me saying, "WOW!" I mean, I knew my secret boyfriend (Pat White) was good, but I had no idea he could pull out a Heisman performance like that ...with a stomach bug no less! It was just sick! As one sports writer said, "he put the zig in zag, the wiggle in the waggle." My brother kept talking about racking up "style points." Well, WVU did that and more!

I have to admit I was a little distracted, though. Every time I looked toward the north endzone, I saw this:

OK, so I know you're distracted by that stylish little reflective strip, but that wasn't what caught my attention. It didn't glow like that except when my flash hit it. No, I was distracted by this:

Yes, that's right. Dude was wearing sweat pants over his jeans! Granted, it was cold. I was wearing 3 layers myself. However, my top layer was my pair of jeans. This is simply unacceptable. Go out and buy some long-johns! And then put them on under your pants!

Oh, and just to keep things interesting, every time WVU scored (which was a lot), he'd stick his hands down by his side and pull out his finger "pistols" and start pretending to fire off rounds. Ugh.

Let's Goooooo...Mountaineers!

Alright, Law Chick, I'm eating my words. I called WVU to lose the Louisville game after the USF loss (which I also called, by the way), and I was wrong. You didn't lose faith, and you were right. And now, with a little help from Darren McFadden and our friends at Arkansas, WVU is on the verge of greatness. If WVU wins these last two games, we are all but assured a spot in the national title game. I can hardly believe it! After an early and devastating loss in Florida, the team pulled together the rest of their season and won week after week. If they win again today, they will be rewarded with a Big East Championship. And if they win next week against Pitt, they will be rewarded with a trip to New Orleans!!!

On the other side of that football in New Orleans? Well, it's hard to say. There are a lot of "ifs" in that scenario. But because Ohio State seems to have this fluke-ish luck that always serves them well (except, of course, against Illinois two weeks ago), I'll lay odds that both Kansas and Missouri will lose in the next two weeks (one of them will certainly lose today as they play each other), and Ohio State will slide right into that #2 spot. Another crack at the national title for the team who couldn't get it done last year.

Big East v. Big 10. A chance for WVU and its underdog conference to show yet again that they're worthy of a little respect. Yes, destiny awaits Pat White, Steve Slaton, Owen Schmitt, and the rest of the boys WVU! This could be the year! They COULD...GO...ALL...THE...WAY!

Or not. Ohio State 38, WVU 24. Sorry, Law Chick. As Pioneer Woman says, "I'm just keepin' it real!"

Need a Good Laugh?

Then go directly to Kim's blog and read her latest entry. You have to love a girl who can laugh at herself, and I do love Kim! I'd never let her near my kitchen, but I love her and her crazy stories!

Drum Roll Please...

OK, so I've been going through a bunch of old pictures on my computer, trying to thin them out in preparation for saving them all to CD, and I found a particularly unflattering one of my ex, which I am dying to post. Still, I feel like I shouldn't, like it's some sort of violation to reveal his identity. But you know what? I'm going to do it anyway. I don't know why I've hung on to the pseudonym for so long either. I mean, I haven't said anything about him that is in any way untrue or defamatory. So here he is...this is Brian, the man I almost married:

BRRRRRRRR...


BRRRRRRRR...


BRRRRRRRR...




And because I really am a good person, I'll even show you a more flattering picture of him:


Hey, I said it was a "more flattering picture." I never said he was George Clooney.

Yep, that's him. Now, to answer your first question, he was only 38 in those pictures. Hand to Heaven, he's only 8 years older than me. To answer your second question, well...I don't know. I wasn't thinking. I mean, I was, but I was thinking, He looks good on paper. He'd be a good provider. He can be fun when he wants to be. He'll be a partner in 3 years. And I am too old not to be married. Look, the important thing is that we didn't get married, and I now realize the error of my ways.

So anyway, that's Brian, aka "Burt." Ahhhhhh...I feel so much better now.

And She's Humble, Too!

I just have to share this Lily story that Boo told me the other day. Lily and her mommy went shopping last week, and Boo found a little dress for Lily, so she said, "Come here and let's try this on." Lily, in her two-year-old way, said, "No, thanks!" Boo said, "No, come over here and let me put this on you." Lily said, "I think it's too big enough for me!" A lady standing nearby got tickled by that, and when Lily noticed that the lady was smiling at her, she said, "I'm so pretty! I'm so cute!" I think it's safe to say that self-esteem is not a problem for Miss Lily.

My Mother Would Be So Proud

I found this t-shirt a couple of years ago, and the moment I laid eyes on it, I knew I had to have it. I found it crass, but deliciously so. It's the sort of thing that makes you gasp, but with a grin on your face. I decided the perfect place to test it out was the YMCA. They have a "no offensive clothing" policy which, according to the sign, includes t-shirts with obscene or offensive language or graphics. Part of me wanted to get my membership revoked so I wouldn't feel obliged to drag myself out of bed for the Saturday morning torture sessions of weighted workout anymore. Part of me just wanted to shock the little old ladies who stand behind me in said torture session and talk all through the calls. Maybe my shirt would finally shut them up! I was giddy at the prospect of them saying, "Well, I never! I should march right downstairs and complain to Mr. Smailes!" But they didn't. In fact, they didn't get it. One lady said, "West Virginia is more to the west of Virginia than 'on top' of Virginia." *Sigh* My evil plan was foiled.

Anyway, I found it in my closet this morning and decided to dust it off for your viewing pleasure. Sorry about the picture quality. My camera battery is dying, so the focus is a little off.

Ouch.

When I first moved down here seven and a half years ago, I worked for a judge who loooooved to karaoke. So on Wednesday nights, we'd go to this place called Jake's so he could sing his signature song, "Piece of Shit Car" by Adam Sandler. Of course, his performances were legendary around the legal community, so the place would be filled with lawyers and police officers and other employees from the courthouse.

The first time I went to Jake's, the judge took me around and introduced me to everyone as his new law clerk. As we were making the rounds, he introduced me to two sheriff's deputies who were sitting at the bar. The judge said, "Now hopefully you won't ever need their help, but if you do, they're good guys." "Nice to meet you," I said, and off we went to meet someone else. As I was leaving later (much later) that night, one of the deputies, Dale, reached out and grabbed my arm. He said, "You know what? I'm going to make you my woman." OK, now I will grant you that that's a little...primitive. But it was also sort of charming in a beer-fog sort of way. I just laughed and said, "OK, then," and I left.

A week later, Deputy Dale came to my office and asked me to lunch. Of course I went. He was carrying a gun. Actually, I went willingly. I knew from the scuttlebutt around the office that it had taken him 5 days just to work up the courage to ask me out, which I found very sweet. We went out several times after that, and I always had a very good time. He was very much the gentleman -- opening car doors and walking me to the door. However, because he had just gotten out of a long-term relationship, we agreed that we would take things slow. He even went so far as to say that perhaps we should even leave it open to seeing other people. Well, that was fine with me because, at that point, I had already met "Burt" and we were beginning to date. Each knew that there was someone else in the picture, but both insisted that they didn't care.

Truth be told, I liked Deputy Dale much better than "Burt." He was much more attentive and fun. There was something about him that made me feel very safe and comfortable (perhaps the fact that he carried a gun). But -- and I hate to say this -- "Burt" looked better "on paper." We were both attorneys who shared a circle of friends, and it seemed like the more natural fit. Still, I had not chosen him over Deputy Dale. I was honestly torn. It was clear to me, though, that I would have to decide soon. "Burt" had become enraged at a Christmas party when he found out that "the other one" was there, too. (Neither had ever met the other, but a mutual friend told "Burt" that I suddenly had a double-date on my hands.) I asked "Burt" if we wanted me to stop seeing "the other one," but he said no. I knew that "no" really meant "yes," and soon I'd have to decide. But then the decision was made for me.

Deputy Dale asked me out to dinner for my birthday a few weeks after that Christmas party, and I happily went. After dinner, he wanted to go for drinks, but I couldn't go. I explained that I needed to get home to study for the bar exam, which was in 5 short weeks, and we parted ways. Then I made a tactical error. Knowing that "Burt" was at my happy hour hideout playing darts, I decided to stop by to say hello. Instead of just saying hi, though, I decided to go ahead and order a beer. As I raised the beer to my lips, I heard the door open...and then I felt a pair of arms wrap around my waist. It was Deputy Dale. He whispered in my ear, "I thought you had to get home, but I'm glad you decided not to." I froze. My eyes fixed on the bartender's. Beth Ann's eyes were as big as mine! She knew both "Burt" and Deputy Dale and knew that I was in a whole mess of trouble. As did "Burt's" darts partner, Scotty. Scotty, devil that he is, said, "Well, hey there Dale! Hey Dale, I don't think you've ever met my friend, Burt. Burt, Dale. Dale, Burt." I just stood there, stunned, while Scotty went on. "Well, hey Lara! I didn't see you over there," as he winked. "Burt" was intent on his game and barely looked over his shoulder as he said hi to Dale. Dale, though, looked back at me and saw the look on my face. Instantly, he knew. He said, "Oh, I get it. OK. I'm just going to get out of here. Happy birthday."

It was the worst feeling. I tried to run after him, but he didn't even turn around. I went back in to pay Beth Ann, and I left. I tried for days to call and apologize, but he wouldn't return my calls. I tried to ambush him at the courthouse, but he made easy sport of avoiding me. I felt terrible.

A few months later, though, we did run into each other unexpectedly. I grabbed his arm and apologized profusely. I explained that I had only stopped in to say hello that night and that "Burt" and I had not had a planned date that night. I told him that I knew I had done the wrong thing and begged for his forgiveness, if only so that we could be friends. He said, "I appreciate your apology, but I don't think so." Wow. I was crushed. Dale really was a wonderful, wonderful guy. It was like that scene from "My Best Friend's Wedding" where Jules admits to Michael all the devious things she did to break up his wedding. I felt like the "pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum." That was almost 7 years ago.

Well, last night, as I was walking down an aisle at Hell on a Stick (aka, Wal-Mart), who did I see walking toward me but Deputy Dale. My initial instinct was to duck down a side aisle, but I decided to keep walking. Feeling certain that he would at least smile at me, I decided that I would take the opportunity to say hi and ask him how we was doing. Surely he had forgiven me by now, and maybe we could at least be friendly again. As we passed each other, he looked right at me; but when I smiled, he didn't. He just kept walking. Ouch. Yep, I'm still the "pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum."

Who Me? No, I'm Her Aunt, but Thank You!

This is my beautiful niece, Alex:


OK, so in this picture she looks a little sweaty and bedraggled and a wee bit splotchy, but in her defense, she had just finished running in the state cross country meet, which is 5K.

Here she is before the meet, less sweaty and bedraggled:


I'd say that she usually has better fashion sense than that, but I'd be lying. Her "street clothes" are pretty goofy, too. But I digress. As we were all standing around Alex and her team after the race, a father of one of the other runners said, "So you used to run, too, right?" I said, "Me? No. I couldn't run a 5K if my very life depended on it." He looked confused and said, "Oh, I thought one of you ran." And then it hit me -- he thought I was Alex's sister! I was so pleased to be mistaken for a 15-year-old's sister that I could hardly contain my excitement! I said, "Oh, no. That's Erica. She's Alex's sister, and she did run at MHS. I'm Alex's aunt. But thank you for confusing me for her sister." It literally made my week. By the way, that's him in the gold jacket in the first picture. Thank you, man in the gold jacket! It's good to know that, at 27...ish, I could still pass for 20...ish.

Anway, here are a few other pictures from the meet...


Alex's equally beautiful sister, Lindsey, who is 17.









Linds and Erica, who is a sophomore at WVU and who runs on the WVU XC team.









The team came in 2nd. They won the title in the 3 previous years. Guess it's true that you can't win 'em all!

Dear Famous Equestrian Designer: Get Over Yourself!

So remember the other day when I was "pondering" why Ralph Lauren and Coach merchandise is never included in the extra 20% off coupons at Macy's, but they allow their stuff be sold at discount stores like Marshall's at far more than 20% off? Well, the absurdity of it all is far greater than I could ever have fathomed. Not only can you not walk into Macy's with your extra 20% off coupon and plunk it down to buy yourself a nice Ralph Lauren sweater, but Macy's cannot even advertise in its sale fliers that the Ralph Lauren sweater is on sale to begin with!

There I was, thumbing through my "one day sale" flier, when I noticed that it advertises things such as "Price break! Famous Equestrian Designer pima cotton sweaters. Orig. $98. Sale $69.99." The picture clearly shows a very good looking man (I'll have one of those, please!) wearing a navy blue sweater with a little red polo player on the left breast. Hmmm...I wonder who that "Famous Equestrian Designer" could be.

Are you kidding me?! Macy's can't freely advertise that it's over-priced $100 Ralph Lauren sweater is on sale at a still over-priced $70?! It's Macy's, for Pete's sake! Granted, Macy's is hardly Nordstrom, but it's not exactly Value City either. Why can't Ralph Lauren just admit that his stuff is hopelessly over-priced and that it has to be put on sale from time-to-time so that the stores who carry it can move the merchandise? And what -- pray, tell -- is the point of making Macy's disguise the designer name if they're allowed to feature a picture of the sweater which clearly displays the designer's very well-known logo?

Now, to be fair, it isn't just Ralph Lauren who needs to check his ego at the door. No, there are plenty of other offenders: The "Famous Flag Designer," otherwise known as Tommy Hilfiger; the "Famous Nautical Designer," otherwise known as Nautica (very clever pseudonym there); the "Famous Jeans Designer," otherwise known as Calvin Klein; and the "Famous Female New York Designer," otherwise known as Donna Karan New York, or DKNY. Here's the simple and brutal truth...You are all hacks who have sold out! You will never be Marc Jacobs or Michael Kors or Zac Posen again! It's over for you! It ended on the day you started mass-producing your clothes and producing breathy black-and-white commercials for your cologne. You make more than you can sell at your inflated prices, so the simple laws of supply and demand dictate that your stuff be put on sale now and then.

I mean, come on, Ralph. You produced this:


which you are currently selling at $265. Honey, really. Do you think anyone would actually pay $265 to dress up as a gay elf? The only way Macy's could sell this is if they deeply discount it. You've lost it, sweetie. The magic is gone. Get over yourself. Let Macy's put your name in their flier, and for the love of all that is good and holy, LET ME USE MY EXTRA 20% COUPON ON YOUR STUFF! (Because even though you're a sell-out hack, my brother-in-law loves your sweaters, and I kind of do, too.)

Of course, on the other hand, if I had made this woolen flap of crap, maybe I wouldn't want to attach my name to it either...

By the by, that "one day sale" runs from November 16 through November 17. You'd better hurry! "One day" only lasts 48 hours!

Who Steals 20' of Plastic Piping?!

When the plumbers left on that oh-so-expensive day three weeks ago, they took my $1200, but they left me 20 feet of plastic gas line. Wasn't that kind? It laid in my yard for days, loosely coiled and mocking me every time I drove up to the house. I fully intended to gather it up and stow it under the house with the lawnmower, but I just never got around to it. Nowadays, it's dark when I get home, and there's so little light out back...and there are spiders and who knows what else! And I've been out of town practically every weekend since then, so I just never had a chance to put it away. So there it sat, in my front yard. You know, mocking me and all.

Well last night, as I was laying in bed thinking about a million different things as I am wont to do at 10:00 at night, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen the yellow gas line when I'd pulled up to the house that evening...or the evening before for that matter. I sat up and peered out the window, and sure enough, the line was gone! Someone stole my friggin' yellow gas line! I felt so...so...violated!

OK, I know what you're thinking: It's a plastic yellow pipe, for Pete's sake. What's the big whoop? The "big whoop" is that it was my plastic yellow pipe, that I paid $1200 for and that I intended to keep. Moreover, it wasn't just laying on the edge of my property, where someone might have innocently thought that I intended to either leave it out for the garbage or for someone to take. It was in the middle of my yard! Someone had to come on to my property to scavenge it! And did I mention the part where it cost me $1200? OK, so that 20 feet didn't cost $1200; it cost $12. But shouldn't I have something to show for the other $1188 I spent that day?

It's just not right. I mean, who does that? Who comes on to someone else's property and steals a yellow plastic pipe that has virtually no value (except to me)? It's a violation, I tell you! A violation!

Speaking of the gas line, Mountaineer Gas called me today. I didn't have a chance to talk to the man, though, because I was driving. I wanted to be able to take notes of the conversation, so I explained that it wasn't a good time, and the man said that he would call me back after the holiday. I was hoping that they'd just cut me a check and put it in the mail, so I don't know what to think about the fact that they want to "talk" about it. I said all I had to say in my 3-page, single-spaced letter.

Quick Lobster Update

Robert's grandfather died last Wednesday, so, naturally, I went to the funeral home to pay my respects. When I first arrived, Robert wasn't there, and I was almost relieved. My first thought was to offer my sympathy to Robert's mom and sister and then bolt for the door because, frankly, I didn't know if he'd want me there, but I decided to stay a few minutes to wait for him. When he did come in, he didn't seem uncomfortable at all. I hugged him and told him how sorry I was, and we talked for several minutes before I left. (I couldn't stay for the funeral itself because I had a family obligation of my own that day.)

So everything is copacetic for now, I guess, but I kind of get the feeling that that's the last I'll see him for a while.

Like Chivalry, Customer Service is Dead

So my mom and I went Christmas shopping Friday afternoon. We really only went to 1 store, but she spent $200, and I spent $100 in one fell swoop. Anyway, the one store we went to was TJ Maxx in Morgantown. It didn't take me long to notice that there were lots of employees wandering the store, but no one seemed to be working. Mostly, they seemed to be "busy" griping to each other about what they had been asked to do for the day. At first, I didn't really care because I was sifting through racks and trying on shoes, and I didn't really need any help anyway.

But then I found something that I wanted to buy for a gift, but which did not have a price tag of any sort. I noticed that a store employee was standing just a few feet away, though, talking on a store phone located on a pillar. I figured it was a store-related call and she would be done shortly, so I just stood there and waited patiently. Let me correct that. I stood there and waited patiently for the first 3 minutes, when she was talking about work schedules. But then when she started talking about her son and his plans to go to medical school for another 10 minutes, I started to get a little impatient. I tapped my toe loudly and cleared my throat, trying to get her attention, but she just kept going on and on. Well, I just told him, "You're 23 now. You're going to have to pay for this yourself." I mean, I've already paid for 5 years of undergrad work. I can't support him forever, you know? So I pushed my cart closer and tried to position myself in her peripheral vision. I tapped my toe some more and let out at least 2 audible sighs. Still nothing.

Finally, a girl walked up to her and said, "I'm the new girl, I need to be trained." The lady on the phone said, "Look, I have to go, but I'll call you back later," and hung up. Before she could rush away with the new girl, I said, "Excuse me, I've been waiting to ask you -- do you happen to know the price of this? I can't find another one like it." She said, "I'll call Joanna, and she can help you." When Joanna came to help me, I asked if that woman -- the one on the phone -- was the manager. She said, "Well, she's not our general manager, but she's our manager for today." I told Joanna about the phone call and having to wait and said that I didn't think the woman was very professional. Of course, Joanna couldn't have cared less what I thought, but at least she said, "Sorry."

But the drought on customer service didn't end there. No, it only got worse at the check out. As I pulled my cart up at the next available register, I started to unload my things, all of which I had taken off the hangers and folded neatly with the price tags out so all the cashier would have to do was scan them and place them in the bag. Not only did I not get a "hello" or a "Did you find everything you were looking for?", the cashier pulled everything apart and literally stuffed it into the bags. At no point did he make eye contact with me. And as he mumbled the total, he wandered away to answer the phone. I swiped my card, but when it asked me my PIN number, I hit "cancel" because I didn't want to use my PIN. Instead of going to a signature screen as is the case in most stores I've been to, it went back to the beginning screen, so I assumed that it canceled the transaction altogether. When Grumpy, the angry gay dwarf, came back, I said, "When it asked for my PIN, I hit cancel because I didn't want to use my PIN." He mumbled, "It's a credit." I said, "Yeah, but do I need to swipe my card again?" He said, "IT'S A CREDIT!" with an annoyed tone. Then he hit some button and pulled off the tape and pushed it at me to sign. After I signed he didn't even so much as hand me my bag; he just left it there on the counter with my sales slip, slightly out of reach. As he started to walk away, I said, "I didn't get a 'hello.' Can I at least get a 'thank you?'" He mumbled, "Thanks," and then rolled his eyes as he walked away.

I would've asked to speak to the manager, but I think we've already established that there would have been no point in that.

Weekend Observations -- November 12th Edition

This past weekend was a holiday weekend, which I extended by an extra day because WVU played a home game against Louisville Thursday night. So I had 4 glorious days off to just rest and relax, more or less. Anyway, here are my thoughts on the weekend:

* A night game, the outcome of which comes down to the very last seconds on the clock, is all very fun and exciting...until you leave the stadium at midnight...and then sit on a shuttle bus in traffic for 45 minutes just trying to get back to your car...only to have to drive another 40 minutes home.

* When you visit a home with a 6-year-old in it, you should be prepared to "ooh" and "ahh" over every rock and dilapidated old toy that he has discovered (or re-discovered in the case of the old toys) since the last time you were there. And there will be lots of "oohing" and "ahhing."

* Buckwheat cakes are not as disgusting as I once thought.

* Four nights on a 40-year-old mattress will wreck your back.

* Apparently, there were only 6 articles of clothing manufactured for baby boys this year because my cousin got 2 of each outfit at her baby shower this weekend. (Seriously, why don't they make more clothes for little boys?)

* My parents own more luggage than Imelda Marcos owns shoes.

* Cable internet in Preston County is much slower than cable internet anywhere else in the free world.

* My mom is still enamored with JFK, and I'm not sure she wouldn't write him in in the next election, despite the fact that he's been dead for nearly 44 years.

Short and Sweet

Driving 100 miles round-trip to and from work everyday, I see lots of bumper stickers. Most are the "I [heart] my [dog silhouette]" variety, but some are pretty cute, like the one that says, "Bush Again?!" and features a picture of Edvard Munch's "The Scream." (Sorry if you're a Bushie, but my blog, my politics.) Today I saw a bumper sticker that really struck me. It said, "God Bless the Whole World. No Exceptions." Amen, brother.

Potty Mouth Update

I think I did fairly well today. I really tried to think about not cursing and using words like "dang" and "gosh." And you know what? It wasn't that difficult. I did let fly with a couple of "shits" and a few "asses," but only when they were appropriate -- sometimes they just are. I didn't drop the "f-bomb" at all, though. At all! Come on now, that's impressive, right?

Of course, the real test will come on game days. I have trouble controlling myself when I'm watching football. Well, when I'm watching on TV anyway. Not so much when I'm at the stadium with my family. These two keep me in check. But anyway, in the spirit of this new linguistic experiment, I say, "Luck Fouisville!" instead of...well...you know, the alternative. And "Eat Pit, Shitt!" Oh wait, that one doesn't really work...

The Lobster Speaks!

So I had just sent my friend, Christy, an e-mail griping that I still hadn't heard from Robert when what should appear in my mailbox but a message from the Lobster himself. RobLob (I'm tired and goofy, get over it) explained that he didn't "know how to process" what I had said (and what a certain friend, who shall remain nameless, said in her own e-mail about the situation) and that he just wasn't "sure what to say." As before, he explained that he values the relationship that we have right now so much that he would hate to ever risk it. He said that every other relationship he's had has ended badly, and he can't bear to think of that ever happening to us.

Of course, I think that's perfectly ridiculous. He's my lobster, and I'm his! Why would we ever fall apart? And, hello??? Have we met? I'm perfect and perfectly adorable (except when I'm tired and goofy)! Who would ever want to leave me once they had me in their life...well, except for my four ex-boyfriends, but they were all fools.

Alright, so I'm trying to cover my frustration and aching heart with humor, and, frankly, I'm mentally and emotionally drained at this point in our highly dysfunctional relationship. But what I really wanted to say was, "So??? What do a dozen other bad endings have to do with you and me? That's why we're different -- we already have a relationship that we'd be building from. We already like each other. We already care about each other. So how can it end badly? And why are you so sure that it would end at all?" But I didn't.

See, in the first part of the e-mail, RobLob (still tired, still goofy) explained that the recent radio silence was due, in part, to the fact that his grandfather is dying. (When I last saw Robert, they had called in Hospice.) Naturally, he's been spending as much time as possible with his grandfather. So, instead, I said, "You know what, it's not important right now. You have far more important things to think about, and it would be incredibly selfish of me to impose on that." I told him that he and his family and, especially, his grandfather were in my thoughts and prayers, and I left it at that.

Ponderisms (or What the Junk?)

My mind wanders...a lot. I think about random things all the time, and I often wonder if I've developed late-onset ADD. It's really bad in the mornings when I'm driving to work. I can't seem to concentrate on any one thing for more than 15 or 20 seconds. Anyway, here are some of the things I've been thinking about lately:

* Why is Sam Adams beer always listed with the imports?

* Why is it that Ralph Lauren and Coach and other designer brands are too good to let their merchandise be included in the 20% off Macy's coupon sale, but they let their stuff be sold at discount stores like Marshall's at far more than 20% off?

* Speaking of Macy's, why do they call it a One Day Sale when it runs from Friday through Sunday?

* Why do the same charities spend so much money sending me address labels and notepads every year when I don't ever send them any money back? Aren't they losing out?

* Why is it that GoMart disables the trigger locks at all of their gas pumps?

* How is it that Lou Holtz seems to know so little about football when he spent all of those years coaching at Notre Dame? (And that was back when they were good!)

* Why is half of Saturday Night Live's programming pre-recorded "video shorts"?

* When did it become acceptable to wear legwarmers with hot pants? (No, seriously. Two weekends ago, I saw a sales girl at the mall wearing yellow gold short-shorts and brown legwarmers with brown 4" stiletto pumps. What the junk?)

* How come Tom Cruise wouldn't let Nicole Kidman wear high heels, but Katie Holmes is allowed to wear them whenever she wants?

* After 8 years, how is it that George Bush still hasn't learned how to say "nuclear"? Noo-klee-er. Nuclear! Not, noo-kyoo-ler.

As you can see, I only think about the truly important things in life. I mean, why waste grey matter thinking about how to achieve world peace when I can focus on the bigger issues, like the Macy's One Day Sale?

Um...Thanks? Or Not.

Every time Lily sees a dark-haired man, she gets all excited and thinks it's her daddy. Every time she hears a lawnmower, she runs to the door to look out, thinking it's her Pa. Well, the other day, Boo was watching the "Ellen" show when who should come on the screen but Victoria Beckham. Lily said, "Look! It's La-wa!" Yeah, not so much. And somehow, that doesn't really seem like a compliment.

What the Junk?!

So I have a reeeeaaaally bad potty mouth. I'm not kidding -- I've made truckers blush. I'm not sure how it started. I didn't really cuss much at all in high school, except for the random "damn" or "hell" or "bitch." But then in college I added "shit" and "pissed" to my repertoire, and by the time I finished my first year at law school, I could barely utter a sentence without including "the f-word" in it. (The Socratic method will do that to you.) It literally just rolled off my tongue. Noun, verb, adverb, adjective -- it really is a multi-dimensional word.

Of course, I was never really proud of myself for using "the f-word." I would never, ever utter it to anyone in my family but Boo and Erin (they're the only other 2 who have ever used it with me). In fact, I don't cuss much in front of my parents at all. So it occurred to me one day that I could, in fact, speak without cursing. I do it all the time when I'm at home. So I've decided to make a concerted effort to stop...more or less. My goal is to eradicate "the f-word" and "the s-word" from my vocabulary altogether, except for those circumstances where it is absolutely appropriate, like if you cut off your big toe with the lawnmower or you look in your rear-view mirror to find some idiot is about to rear-end you. I'm going to try to lessen my use of the lesser curse words like "damn" and "hell," but come on people. Baby steps here!

The trick is finding substitutes -- words and phrases that will take the place of the curses while still expressing my frustration, anger, or utter confusion. Hence, "What the junk?!" My niece, Erica, apparently started it and passed it along to my niece, Alex, who spent all of last weekend saying, "What the junk?" and "Junk!" I quickly picked up on it and have uttered it a few times myself this week. It hardly sounds intelligent or dignified, but it's far better than the alternative, right?

"Shit" is a harder word to substitute. "Poop" and "doody" just don't have the impact to convey my real feelings. Lily talks about "poop" all the time. If a 2-year-old uses it, it can't be a substitute curse word. Perhaps "Shingles!" or "Spit!" (By the way, my mom says "Fit!" and "Bullbutter!" I love that, but could never use it. It's her trademark.) As for "bitch," I'll probably just revert back to "wench," except when I'm referring to the Wicked Bitch of the East (my former co-worker), but then I'll just refer to her as the WBE. "Damn" and "hell," well, I hate to say it, but I just can't worry about those two. Monsignor says "damn" and "hell" from the pulpit nearly every week, and I ain't talking in the Biblical sense either. If it's good enough for him...

The Cancer Curse

I've talked about my brother's cancer, but I don't think that I've mentioned that both my brother's best childhood friend, Andy, and my cousin's husband, Richard, are battling cancer as well. Andy, who grew up next door to us, is battling testicular cancer. Richard, who is married to my cousin, Kelly, who grew up in the house on the other side of us, is battling lymphoma.

I really can't believe that these three men -- young men -- are all battling cancer. It's just...it's unreal. Each one was healthy one minute and sick the next. Each one has children. Each one had everything in the palm of their hand. And now they're all struggling to survive. How can that be? Please keep them all in your prayers.

Hahahahaha...Now THAT'S a Good One!

So my friend, Christy, is an Air Force JAG. If you knew Christy at all, you'd know that Christy in the military, in and of itself, is laughable; but that's not what I'm laughing about presently. No, I'm laughing at a suggestion she made today. See, Christy has decided to join a running club and start running 10-milers and marathons. She did the Army 10-miler last month and managed to finish before the "drop dead bus" caught up with her, so now she's really energized and has decided to do the Marines half-marathon. She forwarded the entry information on to me along with some of her other friends. I just laughed and wrote back:

Um, if you're somehow trying to suggest that some of us should sign up, too, you can just move on to the other people on this e-mail list. A half-marathon is still 10+ miles, isn't it? Yeeeeaaaaah, I've never even run 1 mile, so I'm going to have to pass. But thanks. And good luck. And God speed. (Am I in your will, by the way?)

Christy: 1/2 marathon is 13 miles....it really isn't that bad. You can do intervals (walk/run)...that's how I did the Army 10-miler. Do it!!! It will give you a goal. I thought you were going to start running. Plus...there are lots o'hot men that run.....with good endurance. 'Nuff said.

Yeah, I am going to start running. Every evening I get home and say, "I should go for a run. Well, not tonight. Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow." EVERY EVENING. See how this running thing is working out for me? How 'bout I stand along the route and pass out water and butt-pats (but only for the men)?

She called me a wimp.

I would love to be a runner. I would. Have you seen Drew Barrymore lately? She slimmed down by running. And my friend, Kristen? She stays trim by running, and girlfriend loves her some Baskin-Robbins! But running seems so...hard. And dangerous. I mean, what if you slip on some gravel or something? No big deal if you're walking, but if you're running...roadkill! And what if I look like a spaz when I run? You know, like in that episode of "Friends" where Rachel doesn't want to run with Phoebe because she looks like a whirling dervish flailing through the park. I mean, how embarrassing is that? Guys don't dig chicks who look like spazoids when they run.

Still, I should do it. It is good for your heart, after all. Yeah, no, I'm totally going to do it -- I'm going to start running. But not this evening. Tomorrow.