Superpowers

I was just thinking the other day of how cool superpowers are and how useful it would be to have one. But then, upon further reflection, I realized that there are a couple of superpowers out there which I actually wouldn't want. Here are some of them:

1. Wonder Twins' superpowers

Please tell me some of you remember these two clowns? Twin boy and girl, boy can turn into any form of water (yes, that says water) and the girl can turn into any form of animal. The only way they can activate their powers is by touching hands and announcing together "Twin Powers activate!" Then separately they each state "Form of...." and they say what they are turning into. I think we can all agree that once you announce what you are going to do, it instantly makes it less cool. It would be like Superman stating "I am going to fly now." every time he flew. It would get awkward and people would be annoyed. And seriously, I want to meet the genius who thought that turning into a form of water was a good idea. Someone was paid to come up with that crap. "Oh, well, you better watch out, or I'll ah, make a puddle at your feet. And then whatcha gonna do punk? Huh? HUH? Oh wait, where's my sister?" I remember getting hives watching these two because I was embarrassed for them. I was 8. If you know something is not cool when you are 8, it's clearly not cool.

2. Aquaman's superpowers

Did anyone really care about him? I just remember all these superheroes doing all these cool things, flying on their own or in their invisible jet, running at the speed of light and making large explosions and then this dude dashing to the nearest waterbody. "I'll warn the fish!" Ah. Gee thanks Aquaman, that's really awesome. Honestly, I don't even think the other superheroes cared about him. They just felt bad for him because they knew he had a lame superpower. Did Aquaman ever really save the day? I don't think so. They would show some crazy fight or chase scene and then pan back to Aquaman, still swimming real fast like with weird sound waves coming off of him. Thanks Aquaman.

3. Robin's superpowers

Enough said.

4. The Incredible Hulk's superpowers

If my super power was that I got big and green every time I was angry, I would be so pissed (and then I'd get big and green). Seriously though, what a horrible super power that would be. Imagine talking to your boss with Hulk superpowers:

You: "No, I'm not upset that I didn't get a bigger raise."
Boss: "Really? Are you sure? I just hope you understand the position our company is in."
You: "Yes. I am totally fine, I completely understand. What kind of jerk would I be if I was upset about not getting a larger raise when you have had to fire forty percent of the company? You know me, I'm just not that person."
Boss: "OH thank you for understanding! I'm so glad to hear...."

You start to turn green.

Boss: "Oh. I see."

Awkward silence.

You: "Ok, maybe I'm a little upset."

Your shirt starts to tear off because you are growing huge.

You: "I'm pissed."
Boss: "Clearly."

I'm sure there are others, for example, I can't even think of one positive result of being able to hear other people's thoughts like Matt Parker in Heroes can. Oh, and anyone named "Elastic Man'', can't possibly have cool superpowers. Yes, this is the way in which I make myself feel better about not being born with any sort of power....well...except for the power of being AWESOME.

The Ins and Outs of Buffing and Polishing

I’ve had many an unpleasant job as I’m sure you all have. However, looking back I can now see that they have taught me a valuable lesson: marry someone rich. Just kidding there folks….sort of…but not really. Sorry Connor, we are done, consider this my two week’s notice. Unless you become rich in the next two weeks in which case, I love you, I always have, I want to marry you.

So, one of my favorite horrible jobs was buffing and polishing jewelry for the home shopping network at a local factory in Keene, NH while attending college. I started there as seasonal help before Christmas one year so I could make some extra cash and buy my family gifts. Why? Because I’m pretty much da’ bomb, also, I’m clearly in my mid-thirties because I just said ‘da bomb’. You got a problem?

The first day on the job I was told several things from my supervisor:

1. Always wear your safety glasses lest some Dimondique (just a little something I learned on the job, no big deal) stud comes flying out of your hand and stabs your eye.

2. Never over buff or polish hollow jewelry or you will put a hole in it.

3. Always put a wad of medical tape around your thumb as to not buff or polish the skin off your finger.

4. Lastly, never, under any circumstance wear loose clothing. The issue with loose clothing is that your sleeve can get caught in the steel rod (which sticks out at the end of your machine and spins your buffing and polishing wheels).

“If your sleeve gets caught on the metal rod then it will twirl up and break your arm off. “

That’s what my supervisor said but I was pretty sure she added the breaking of the arm piece to make our job seem more dangerous, sort of like being a Navy Seal. And since being a Navy Seal and buffing and polishing jewelry are pretty much interchangeable they have also become interchangeable on my resume as well. Moving on.

The things that my supervisor didn’t tell me yet I learned relatively quickly on the job:

1. There are approximately ten buffing and polishing machines which are attached to one central ‘blower’. The blower suctions all of the buffing and polishing debris from your machine into a central bucket so you don’t inhale any harmful substances. Well, the closer you are to the ‘blower’ the better this works. Conversely, if you are on one of the machines that are the farthest from the blower, you can pretty much go f’ yourself because you spend eight hours inhaling crap. As a new person, you don’t know this and may wonder why your coworkers always stick you at the end machines. You also may wonder why at the end of every shift your face is totally covered in gray dust and everyone else’s seems just fine. Lastly you may wonder why people point and laugh at you. I actually still wonder that.

2. People don’t want you to work too fast. This is simply to create job security. As a veteran buffer said to my friend Amy when she too decided to take a job as a jewelry buffer and polisher, “Girl, you better slow down. You’re going to put us all out of work. This aint no damn race.”

3. Lastly, the people who do this line of work are a tight knit bunch. It takes a lot for them to warm up to new people. They pretty much assume when you walk through that door, that you will not be able to adhere to the instructions which were laid out to you on the first day. What were they thinking? Did they think I couldn’t handle this job? Pffffft, apparently they never met the likes of me.

Day two, buffing and polishing 12K gold cat pins. Hollow. Must be careful and not make any holes. Wearing my safety glasses. Sitting at the end machine with dust flying all over the place. Solid concentration. Nobody, I say nobody, will out buff and polish me today. I’m focused. I’m in the zone. I’m showing these people what’s what. I’m feeling a small tug on my men’s extra large J Crew cable knit sweater sleeve? Hmmm…what could that…? F.

I realized that the cuff of my sweater had gotten caught on the spinning rod at the end of my machine and within a fraction of a second I pulled my arm out of my sweater sleeve. The sleeve spun around the metal rod all the way up to my shoulder and I was stuck against my buffer and polisher. The wheels could not turn anymore and the whole contraption made a loud noise sort of like a fog horn which turned everyone’s attention in the factory to me. I could not reach the on and off switch with my other hand so I did what I always do when I’m at a loss. I smiled. Yes, I sat there smiling like an idiot while the machine that I was attached to was letting off large plumes of smoke and making sounds that probably woke up the neighborhood.

I locked eyes with my supervisor who was pushing chairs and open mouthed coworkers out of her way to get to my machine. There was a smell of burning and I committed to going down with my buffer and polisher. We had a good run of it. We shared some moments. We had some laughs. But fate had other plans for me. My supervisor turned the switch to ‘off’. The noise slowly ceased and silence filled the factory. I stood there for a few more seconds; smile still plastered on my face. It took a bit of time to finally muster up enough courage to move. I unrolled my sweater from the machine and put my arm back into my sleeve which was so stretched out that it hung to the floor. I looked at my supervisor and thanked her ‘for saving my life’. Yes, I actually said that.

With a couple of quiet laughs and murmurs everyone went back to their work. I did the same, after a brief second rundown of rules 1-4 with my supervisor, and spent the next three hours of my shift contemplating coming home empty handed for Christmas.

Food, Folly and Work

So I did the most embarrassing thing yesterday. When people have extra food at work that they dont' want, they leave it on the counter in the kitchen. I went in there at two pm and saw a sandwich sitting on a paper plate. I was so excited because I was starving and hadn't eaten anything since eight in the morning. I was also exited because it looked like corned beef and it was Saint Patrick's day, much better then the salad I was planning on eating. So, I took half of the sandwich (I didn't want to be the office a-hole and not leave some for others) and brought it to my desk. With in two minutes I had inhaled the meat off the sandwich and threw out the bread. I have a hard time digesting white flour, yes, apparently I'm 80.

Approximately five minutes after I had finished the sandwich, I hear my boss yelling from the kitchen, "Someone ate half my sandwich?!". There was a moment of silence and I could feel the blood start to rush to my face. Another coworker yelled, "What? No!" then I heard their speculation "Maybe it was one of the auditors. Jack, you should confront them!" and another, "Who would just take a sandwich? That's so strange." Then my boss again: "I can't leave my food on the counter for five minutes without someone taking it?"

Oh. My. God. What to do? I contemplated my dilemma and options for the next 5 seconds or so. Maybe I should just not say anything. But then I remembered that the bread was still in my trashcan. Maybe I should smuggle the bread into the bathroom and flush it down the toilette piece by piece. No, it will never work, the walk to the bathroom is too long and I would surely pass someone on the way. Damn that bread. Stop staring at me bread. Maybe I should eat the bread from the trashcan. I looked in, picked up the bread and held it in my hand for a second. I peered back into the trash and saw old candy wrappers (they are mine, no big deal), pieces of paper (whatever, paper is pretty clean) and old tissues from my daily allergy attacks (It's my own snot...No. Pull yourself together woman!). Oh god. I sat listening to my coworkers plotting their confrontation of the auditors. They were getting more and more incensed. The poor auditors, I can't let one of them take my fall. I put the bread back in the trash can and executed my plan.

Taking a deep breath I walked over the circle of coworkers which had formed pretending like I hadn't heard them talking. One said, "Did you hear? Someone stole half of Jack's sandwich". My boss adding, "Preposterous!". I feigned letting the information sink in and then allowed shock to register on my face and stated, 'OH MY GOD! It was me! I ate your sandwich, I'm so sorry. I just saw it sitting there, and thought..someone was giving it away". The first part of my sentence was loud due to a sort of false confidence I had from having not eaten out of my trashcan, this girl has standards, yes. But by the end of my statement I had trailed off to being almost completely inaudible and ended with a strange cough noise to punctuate that I was finished speaking. I sat there with a stupid grin on my face as if to say "Silly me!". They all looked at me with deep confusion as I shifted from one shocked coworkers face to another trying to find someone to meet my gaze. However, each coworker would avoid my sandwich stealing eyes and look at the floor or the wall or at each other. I finally locked at one coworker who appeared to be on the verge of something. Yelling? Crying? Screaming 'Oh the humanity'? Then it came out, a deep loud from the pit of the stomach laugh as she stated, "That is the funniest thing I've heard in a long time. Seriously, hysterical." My boss, whose sandwich I ate, looked wounded at first (I mean, I had almost quite literally taken the food out of his mouth). But then his face turned red (I think he was so embarrassed for me that it made him embarrassed) and he too gave a good laugh. I offered to buy him another sandwich to which he graciously declined and walked to his office with the non eaten half of his sandwich.

So now, I'm that girl. I'm the girl that eats other people's office food. Sweet.

My Family (Not a funny post...sorry!)

There are very few things that are so important in my life that I dare not speak of them. As if my thoughts alone could break the fragile glass bubble that holds those very things together. My family is sustained there.

It’s strange to think about the bond between my mother and father and what it grew from and what grew from it. A young sales man in New York City meeting a youthful nurse in a hospital cafeteria and such is how the idea of my life began. I often try to picture them, so novel to each other and the journey that lay before them. I imagine my father in a derby hat with his cleft chin and laughing eyes, introducing himself to my mother. My mother with her infinite style, sensitivity and fire which I’m sure claimed many hearts but my father was the last to lay claim on hers. It has been said that my mother innately has the kind of style that people try all their lives to have but never quite achieve. Above all, my parents laugh. They share a bond that makes it hard not to believe in the kind of love that can endure a lifetime. Sometimes I wonder if my fear of marriage is that of seeing in their relationship a mythical perfection.

My parents love brought them to marry and my father’s job brought them to Chicago where my sister was born. My protector. My sister came out of the womb with a maturity which took me decades to understand and even longer to reach. She has always taken care of me so subconsciously but entirely that I have found it hard to find a specific occasion to thank her. She has a laugh that fills a room and a kindness that sooths. There is understanding of me in my sister that I myself do not possess and that has guided me to answers which questions I hadn’t even thought to ask. Growing up we shared a room and being only eleven months apart shared a disparity of personalities. I made sure I was everything that she did not wish to be. That is how I found myself, by looking up to someone and trying to find the differences to live inside of.

My father's job relocated them to Canada after my sister was born. I can't grasp the task at hand for my mother, having a one month old baby girl, being newly pregnant and moving to another country. So far away from her home and her family with her husband traveling for weeks on end, I am amazed at the strength she must encompass to have gotten herself over the border to create another home thousands of miles away. There must have been lonely nights when she realized, as she put her head to the pillow, that she hadn't spoken one adult word throughout the entire day. My mother may breakdown now and then but she is unbreakable. Ten months later, I came into this world, into a foreign country that is so similar to ours yet a bit tilted. I still believe that this somehow explains at least a portion of my oddness.

Two years after I was born my family made its last voyage to central Massachusetts where my father’s past of moving from school to school decided for him that he would not move his children again until they graduated high school. Regardless of the offers that surely would come in, we would stay.

Three years later my brother entered our lives with weak lungs, a sensitive heart and his own way of doing things. He was my biggest fan and shadowed me for the following seven years of our lives giving me a sense of worth that I had lacked in being only a younger sister. I found reasons to teach and guide, to boss around and to be in charge. But the three years between us was an eternity of difference and through the eyes of my adolescence he was stuck at the same age and would never grow up. Until, that is, I graduated from college. I remember a party in New Hampshire that my brother had invited my boyfriend and me to. We stopped by for a few beers and I met my brother again as well as for the first time. Out from the depths of the boyish façade that I had created for him emerged the confident, secure, mature young man who could make even the most severe crumble to the ground with laughter. I saw the lightness and the wisdom of my father. It was apparent that his friends had known this man for a long time.

And these are the things that stir in the quiet of my mind. I know that family, like all things in life, are fleeting. For humans are born to this earth with only one piece of certainty, knowing that they too will die. But on this day, I speak to the now and I am indebted for it. For this has been by no choice or will of my own that I should have been placed in the hands of those whom I not only love but who I like. And when we sit together at a table sometimes the laughter builds to a level that makes those around us uncomfortable. I try and make a photograph in my mind. I hold my breath. I try to not disturb the balance and I think to myself, remember this. Remember always what was your family.

THINGS THAT USED TO NOT HAPPEN:

I have really been noticing some drastic changes in me as I get older. I often wonder if these changes are things that only I go through or if it’s something commonly shared by others. I decided to make a list of the top three changes I’ve noticed over the years.

FEELING GUILTY
I was raised catholic, went to church every Sunday, attended CCD and was confirmed yet the term ‘Catholic Guilt’ perplexed me even though I had plenty to feel guilty about. I was the girl who:

1) Had a friend drive my dad’s car and total it when I was 15, penniless and unable to repay my father
2) Broke into my brother’s piggy bank and stole five dollars in change which took him over a month to save so I could go to Friendly’s with my friends
3) Convinced my brother that he had to clean up the house after I threw a party or else I’d tell my parents he was the one who made the mess (he was in the fifth grade)
4) Gladly accepted a chance to break up with my friend’s boyfriend for her because I thought it would be fun. He was devastated. I was satisfied. And Guiltless.

That is, until I got older. It seems I’ve decided to make up for all of the times I never felt remorse, and then some. I feel guilty about everything. I feel guilty if I don’t walk my dog for at least 45 minutes a day because I’m certain he gets extremely depressed and finds it hard to go on when he hasn’t been on a walk. I feel guilty about throwing away a shirt I haven’t worn in years because I feel sad for the shirt…for the memories we’ve shared and the good times we’ve had. I feel guilty when I don’t go to see my parent’s for dinner at least twice a week, even when I’m not invited. In reality they have only made enough supper for the two of them, they are toasting their Scotch Old Fashion’s and are enjoying the rarity of being Deidre-less for an evening. In my head they sit at their little table in silence, staring at a empty third place setting and wondering why I have forsaken them. I sometimes feel so guilty about things that I cry. This leads me to number two…

I CRY
I have no idea when it happened but it seems I woke up one morning as a bonafide pussy. I used to cry once or twice a year…TOPS. And now I cry at least once a day. I do everything I can to be alone when I am having my strange fits of emotion. Things that now make me cry? I’ll just brush the surface here. Hallmark commercials throw me into the depths of despair. Pre-game football shows when they do ‘personal stories’ of the players are pretty bad. “His Father passed away eight years and five months ago on THIS DAY. HE has heartburn that has plagued him for the past two months. Can HE OVERCOME his grief about the loss of his father? Can he overcome the crippling heartburn that has plagued him for the past two months? Can he be the champion that HE always knew he could be? That his DAD always knew he could be. That his heartburn DOCTOR always knew he could be?” Nobody is paying much attention to these dramas unfolding on their TV screen. They are focused on eating wings and chili or they are checking their stats on the computer. As for me? I’m in the bathroom with tears streaming down my face, staring up at the sky whispering “Why God? Why does he have agida?” Whate else? Oh yes, any song reminding me of anything from my past, I cried the other day when I heard Janet Jackson’s “Control”. Don't ask. Weddings. I was running on the treadmill at my gym yesterday and watching an episode of Bridezilla. The bride was a total douche and spent the whole episode screaming at everyone. At one point she was howling because one curl was not ‘flowing the right way’. I was thinking about how the women on these shows define every terrible stereotype about my gender, about how phony they are. I couldn’t even imagine why anyone was AT these weddings never mind marrying these women. My thoughts were interrupted by the crazy bride walking down the isle. A familiar tingling sensation happens in my nose, I get the notion that maybe I'm going to sneeze. No, it wasn’t a sneeze coming to surface, it was tears. I was crying. On the treadmill. At my gym. Because of Bridezilla. Speaking of the gym…

MY BODY
If I used to want to shed some unwanted weight, I would go to the gym or outside and run for 3 to 3 ½ miles three times a week. One month later I would be ten pounds lighter. Everything would be tightened up and all would be well. Now? Now I run for 4-5 miles four to five times a week, I’m careful about what I eat and yet…nothing. Now, I don't have to excercise because I want to shed some inches, instead I have to exercise in order to not become the size of a house. The whole idea of ‘tighter’ is a very fond but very distant memory. And, every inch of my body has decided that it wants to be on the ground. It is moving a little closer to it every day. It’s as if one day gravity decided to reassert its control all over my body and face. Oh, and my arms. What’s strange about my arms is that each arm has two different entities now. The ‘Upper Arm’ (from the elbow up) and ‘Lower Arm’ (from the elbow down). “Lower Arm” has been a stoic member of my body which has been impervious to change. “Upper Arm” however, well, seems to have given up all hope. It grows larger from day to day. I woke up in the middle of the night recently because my ‘Upper Arm” was being restricted by my ten year old men's large T-shirt sleve. All circulation was being cut off from my "Upper Arm" to my "Lower arm". I'm pretty sure "Upper Arm" was trying to take its own life.

Well, that’s all I have time for folks. Not that I am done with the list, I could go on for days. Fortunately for you though I won't, I have to get back to work and get to the gym. I haven’t done either today…which is making me feel bloated, guilty and like crying. I can't wait to get even older.

The Comeback Kid

The Comeback Kid

I am the queen of delayed comebacks. I typically let people release their anger by verbally beating me and I just take it. It’s not because I am a wimp, I mean, on the rare occasion when I can think of something to say, I say it, but mostly I just sit there, mouth open and stare. I believe this is why I make a good administrator in high stress corporations. When I am asked at interviews “How do you handle people when they are highly stressed and volatile” my response always includes such adjectives as “laid back” and “very patient", however, if I were being one hundred percent truthful, those two adjectives would be replaced by “slow” and “thick witted”. Don’t get me wrong, when I am amongst friends and people I am comfortable with I often enjoy witty banter but in situations where I am truly upset, I just sit there and drool on myself. This is something which has plagued me ever since I was young.

The earliest memory I have on my path to becoming the “No Comeback Kid” was in the third grade at soccer practice. Our soccer team was in a line doing a shooting drill. I loved shooting drills because for such a short person I had quite the foot. I was four people away from taking my turn when Jack Cranston took a shot ran in a circle and then cut in front of me. I had decided during the prior school year that Jack Cranston was somewhat of my nemesis. The reason being, he looked like me. He and I had the exact same bowl cut (thanks mom), we were the same height, we dressed the same and we had almost the same Huffy dirt bike. However, let the record show that my dirt bike had pegs and his didn’t. That’s right Jack, STICKEN IT! Of course I wanted to be a boy so looking like Jack was mostly my fault, but still my third grade mind had decided that he needed to die. So when he cut in front of me, I was enraged. I grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him around. “Who said you could cut?” I asked crossing my arms and widening my stance. You know, just in case he wanted to fight. Seriously, this is how my young brain worked. “I did” he replied. Maybe he didn’t notice my fighting stance, because if he had, I am sure he would have been afraid. I sat there in silence squinted my eyes and turned red. I had no comeback. ‘I did’? “I did’? Genius. That may have been the best comeback I had ever heard. I was completely befuddled. I brewed about it for the next half hour. Jack’s “I did” ran through my head during the rest of the shooting drills, the corner kick drills and it wasn’t until we started moving to the end of the field to do sprints that it came to me…that’s right… a mere 30 minutes later.

I tenaciously walked towards Jack, going over the glory that was about to befall me when everyone heard my masterminded comeback. This moment was going to be that epic moment that the third grade talked about for years, maybe even until we graduated to middle school. I walked up to Jack and his friends, stood directly in front of him raising my voice just a little so his friends could hear and stated “Of course you did because who else would?” Jack looked at me dumbfounded. That’s right Mr. Cranston, take that. I saw a fellow team mate, Tom Jordan, shift from one foot to the other and thought he was going to shake my hand. I started to bring my hand towards him when I realized that he was just shifting his feet so I diverted my hand to my hair and tucked one side of my bowl cut behind my ear. Oh that was close. I wasn’t going to ruin a heroic comeback with a mistaken handshake. I was smarter than that. After a couple of seconds Jack looked me dead in the eyes and said “Huh? What are you talking about?” All of Jack’s friends started laughing. At this point most people, even third graders, would know enough to let it go, drop it, move on to the sprints and save whatever pride they could. But I wasn’t most people; I was Deidre Daly with a bowl cut, boys clothes and a dirt bike with pegs who had the comeback of the year. I decided to just repeat it louder, “OF COURSE YOU DID BECAUSE WHO ELSE WOULD?” Everyone turned towards me. I shook my head and smiled. Nobody knew what in the name of all that was holy I was talking about. The silence that followed could ruin a person and was broken by a random voice, “Gaylord.” What's worse is I would have repeated my statement a third time and possibly added an explanation had my coach not saved me. He walked over turned me around to face the field and blew his whistle. We all started sprinting.

Of course throughout the rest of the year I retold the story and added the necessary changes. These changes involved a quick retort which flew out of my mouth not seconds after Jack cut me, with teammates picking me up onto their shoulders and cheering and a hand shake from Tom Jordan. I would have added to my tale a trophy for “Best on the Field Comeback” at the town soccer awards ceremony had I been able to get my hand on one. But the reality, as I said before, comes down to two adjectives: "Slow" and "Thick Witted"

"Taxi!"

It was a Thursday during the spring and I had been living in San Francisco for well over a year. My friends Tim and Alex had asked me to join them at a bar in the Upper Height to meet Alex's girlfriend, Ann, whom had just moved to San Francisco from Boston. I gladly obliged. I had heard a lot about Ann and was excited to meet her. Tim asked me to stop by his place after work first because he lived a couple of blocks from the bar. I went over and he made us some drinks and then we headed out to the bar.

We were at the bar for approximately one hour, or three drinks, when Alex and Ann showed up. We went through the typical introductions and I asked if they'd excuse me while I went outside to the back patio to smoke a cigarette. When I went outside there was a large group of approximately 10 or 15 people. I stood on the out skirts and lit up my cigarette. After some time I realized they were passing a joint around and when it came to the person closest to me she turned around and asked me if I wanted some. In my head: "No I really shouldn't, but thank you." Out my mouth: "Sure, thank you!". If you have read my 'Wine, Weed and Rebecca' post you know this is a bad idea. If you haven't read my "Wine, Weed and Rebecca' post well then I'm going to let you in on a bit of a secret: This is a bad idea. I smoked a couple of hits off the joint and proceded to do what I always feel it necessary to do when in such a situation which is to power smoke 5 to 20 cigarettes.

I smoke a lot of cigarettes when feeling messed up for several reasons.
A) I like to buy as much time as possible in hopes that in just a few short minutes I'll feel less…well, just less, period. This has never worked yet I tell myself it does.
B) I like to be fucked up amongst strangers because I don't worry about acting weird. Strangers have no frame of reference.
C) I like cigarettes. A lot. It's rare now a days that I smoke them (not as rare as I tell people...MITCH, but still rare) but that doesn't make me any less fond of them.

So I'm boiled as an owl as the kids say these days…and chain smoking like Courtney Love in the 80's…and 90's…and now? and one of the group members who had left the patio comes back with a Bacardi Limon visor. Two things which should have been obvious to me but weren't at this moment:

1. The visor is obviously a free promotional gift being given out at the bar with little mini shots. You know, the free shots that are called 'lemon twists' or 'lemons drops' but are really just vodka in a plastic mini cup served by not so mini boobs?
2. Free promotional visor = terrible.

"OH MY GOD, I LOVE THAT VISOR!" What? What kind of a foolhardy person loves that visor? Well apparently when I am drunk and stoned and chain smoking on a patio in the Upper Height, I do. The guy wearing the visor looked at me with great pride as if finally someone else understood just how special his new head wear was.

"Really? They are giving them out free inside,I'll go get you one!" he turned to run inside with my voice trailing after him, "Oh. My. God!!! That is so awe-some!" Was it Deidre? Was it really awesome? The boy returned with the visor, which I placed directly on my head. Sideways. And upside down. This said something...and what it said was:"Deidre Daly, you are distressing".

I decided I had had enough 'outside time' and was fine to go back in… with my new hat. It was safe to say that I left my friends as Deidre and came back as…well, a crazy lady.

"Um, what happened to you?" Tim asked, as he pushed a new drink in my direction.
"I was just smoking outside". I replied not knowing if he was asking why I took so long or if he was commenting on my general appearance.
"Weed?" Anne asked.
"Yeeees…weeeeed." I answered. How did she know?
"Oh man, I would love to smoke."

I grabbed her hand and headed straight out back telling her my tales of the visor and my 'new friends' outside and how they were 'a great group of people' and how 'they'd LOOOVE to share their weed with her'. I opened the door and everyone turned around. It was dark out there and the only light was pouring out from behind me. They saw me as a shadow. My silhouetted visor which was sideways..and upside down. Have I mentioned that? My frantic ponytails were flying out the top. Standing next to me the unknown figure of Ann. There was silence.

"Hey Everyone! It's me! Deidre Daly!" Yes I said my full name, even though I hadn't even told them my first name.
"HEY!" They all yelled back. I was with my people once again. I introduced Anne to everyone. She shared a smoke and a laugh and we returned back together. We had one more drink and Tim suggested we four go back to his place. I thought that was a splendid idea. I Took one step outside and realized I was in a bit more of a state then I had thought I was in. I let them get a couple of steps ahead of me, stuck out my hand and yelled "TAXI!". I got in and when they looked back, I was gone.

"Hello Miss, where to?" Asked the cab driver.
"The mission please, I live off of 16th". I responded while pushing into the middle seat and leaning forward to talk to the cabbie. I do this, ask Sue. The cab driver's name was Abdul, he was middle aged, overweight and middle eastern. Maybe Pakistani?
"How has your night been? Busy?" I asked.
"I just started my shift an hour ago" He replied while looking at me through his rear view mirror. "You are very beautiful" he added.
"Oh stop". But really, I WAS wearing my new head piece. The cabbie knew hot when he saw it.
"No really. You are beautiful and have a beautiful smile. What is your name?"
"Deidre Daly." Again, with the full name. "Turn Left please" I said while smiling largely and tilting my head to the side. The Pakistani cab driver made me feel like a woman. After two more directional instructions and raised eyebrows through the rearview mirror, we pulled onto my street.
"Here we are." I said as I dug into my bag for my money. I went to hand him the fare and tip. He reached back, there was no glass/plastic divider in this car, took the money...and my hand. He pulled me towards him slowly and started leaning in. Is he going to fix my visor? No. He wasn't. He was getting closer to my face and past the bubble of strangers, then past the personal bubble of a coworker, then past the bubble of a good friend, parent, boyfriend and gynocoligist. There was no denying it, he was going in for the kiss. And that was when I, Deidre Daly, paid my middle aged, overweight, middle eastern cab driver named Abdul, tipped him AND then proceeded to make out with him. He didn't even give me my money back.

Cargo Boats:

Assorted Observations regarding taking a cargo boat from Pulacallpa, Peru to Leticia, Colombia.

The travel books said that each cargo boat would have the day it was leaving written on the chalkboard on the side. This particular boat's chalkboard said "Martes", and luckily for us it was "Martes" (Tuesday). Therefore, we tied our hammocks on the boat. We sat on the boat all day. We waited all night on the boat, fell asleep on the boat. Got up on Miercoles (Wednesday), got drunk on the boat with our new friend Aryeh by eleven AM and the boat finally departed by three PM on Miercoles (Wednesday).

First observation...don't trust the chalkboards on the side of cargo boats leaving from Pullcalpa Peru. And when you try and verify the departure day with the captain and he says "Si Vaya Hoy" what he means is, "No vaya Hoy".

Second observation: You don't sleep in room's on cargo boats, you sleep on a hammock which you tie to the rebar of the boat.

Third observation: You can fit three hundred people in hammocks, 25-30 chickens, 3-4 monkeys in boxes, 10 pigs, 4 cows, assorted luggage, 200-300 cargo boxes, food stuffs, six toilette's two small 'stores' (which is a cooler of beer) all on one boat.

Forth Observation: Three hundred people in hammocks, 25-30 chickens, 3-4 monkeys in boxes, 10 pigs, 4 cows, assorted luggage, 200-300 cargo boxes, food stuffs, six toilette's two small 'stores' which is a cooler of beer all on one boat smells bad. And by bad, I mean a mixture of hot trash, Doritos and old diapers would smell better than the boat did. Balls.

Fifth Observation: When you ask someone if there is a 'basura' on the boat don't be alarmed when they say 'Si' and then proceeded to take the trash out of your hands and throw it over their shoulder into the river.

Sixth Observation: Breakfast looks like murky water and milk combined. It's hot and may come with two pieces of stale bread...and by stale i mean less like the 'day old' bagels that you can get in the states and more like the bread you find in the back of your cupboard that was from last year..if you shellacked it and then encased it in iron. When you get to the bottom of your bowl, you may see something...or two somethings. They are OATS. Two oats. This is oatmeal.

Seventh Observation: Lunch is the best meal on any cargo boat. Unidentified meat, rice and boiled Yucca.

Eighth Observation: Dinner on the cargo boat is soup. With chunks of meat. And by meat I mean random feet of chickens and hearts and such.

Ninth Observation: Monkeys like chicken hearts. But they do not like girls named Deidre and they scream and try and claw her when she walks by.

Tenth Observation: Pigs are gross animals. I would give up eating them all together...if bacon didn't taste so damn good. Bacon's the winner. Bacon wins.

Eleventh Observation: You can have the woman who sells the beer put in your "Ready to Die" CD on her boom box. Then you can listen to it in front of little kids and say "bitch, fuck, shit, and punk ass nigga" along to the lyrics and the kids smile at you because they don't know what in gods name you are talking about.

Twelfth Observation: Yes, I am obviously still immature and get a kick out of observation eleven. Madds can probably attest to this seeing as how pleased Emma was with "Do the Jane Fonda".

Thirteenth Observation: I'm pretty sure there were more babies sucking on their mother's teat at any given moment on this boat than you would find on a cow farm.

Fourteenth Observation: It is not uncommon to see the child finish up sucking on said 'teat' and then look up to their mom and say "That was great, thanks mom" and then walk away. OK, they didn't really say that...because they spoke SPANISH, silly readers.

Fifteenth Observation: Much of the serious business on Cargo boats goes down at two o'clock in the morning. Like paying your agreed fare to your destination point, drug checks and passport checks.

Sixteenth Observation: I am functionally retarded on cargo boats at two in the morning. There was a passport check once and the dude sleeping next to me woke me up and told me (in Spanish) that there was a passport check. What I heard was "Meal time". I proceeded to get out my meal ticket and my food bowl and stood up to get in line. Connor looked at me with a grin, shook his head and held up his passport. The two men standing there with machine guns were not amused.

Seventeenth Observation: I have an unhealthy relationship with food.

Eighteenth Observation: Most of the cooks on cargo boats are ginormous and gay. They can sometimes be seen rocking lip stick and heavy eye make up.

Nineteenth Observation: No one is shocked by observation eighteen and so act like this is old hat. Who says 'old hat' that is under ninety years of age? ME!

Twentieth Observation: If you get the chance to do this. Do it. It was one of the most unique experiences I've ever had to date.

DEIDRE COOKS

Pork Chops:

i was cooking pork chops the other night for connor and i. that in itself is humorous enough i'm sure but it gets better. i wasn't sure how long to cook them. i sat scratching my head wondering what to do. does anyone REALLY scratch their head or is it more figurative? sometimes i actually scratch my head just for effect. i digress, i remembered that we had one of those meat thermometer thingy-ma-jiggs (warning, all this technical jargon may throw you off, but try and keep up with me here). it was rumored that the thermometers come w/ instructions telling you what temperature certain kinds of meat are supposed to reach before you can safely consume them. the rumor was right, there were instructions and they said that the pork chops were supposed to reach 165 degrees. they had been in the oven for approximately twenty-five minutes. yes, it took me twenty-five minutes to figure out the intricacies of the meat thermometer...it's a complex tool. i stuck the meat thermometer into the pork almost bursting a blood vessel in my eye from having to push it in so hard. i was unsold on whoever designed this thing, i mean, c'mon why not make the end sharper? to top off my discontent it took the thermometer longer to register the temperature of the meat than it taks for my eighty-seven year old grandmother to get to the store...and she doesn't drive. i watched the thermometer, mouth open, waiting, it finally stopped moving at one hundred degrees. apparently these suckers took a long time to cook. so i kept waiting five minutes and then reinserting the thermometer back into the pork which now resembled swiss cheese because of all the holes i'd poked in them. the porkchops were registering at one hundred and fifteen degrees after they had been in the oven for fifty-five minutes. i hated pork chops. connor walked in and said that it smelled awesome. yes it did. i told him that i'd had two chops in the oven for over fifty minutes but they weren't even close to done yet. he looked perplexed by this piece of information. how did i know they weren't even close to done? well, because i'd been using the 'meat thermometer'. i went to show him the temperature of the meat and when i opened the oven and pulled out the rack exposing the pork chops connor doubled back. 'why do they have so many holes in them?' i explained that it was because of the 'meat thermometer'. which i said with a slight tone of arrogance. that's right, who was domestic? deidre was domestic. deidre's the winner..deidre wins. tee hee. I grabbed my new found tool off the counter and proceeded to search for an untainted spot on the meat. this must be what a heroin addict felt like trying to find a working vein. these are the things i tell myself from time to time to make my life seem a little more exciting. from my peripheral vision i could see connor slowly shaking his head. i turned to him and noticed a grin spreading across his face. he started reaching for my tool, "what are you doing?" he asked as he snagged the thermometer out of my hand. he proceeded to pull the thermometer OUT of it's round large plastic case. check please! "have you been sticking the thermometer inside it's case into the meat?" pause. more pause. "PFFFTT...no." And by 'no' i meant 'yes'. he proceeded to stick the sharp metal point into the pork chop (show off) and we watched the red line shoot up so fast and high that we both ducked a little as if it was going to explode in his hand. The temperature was over 180 degrees. i'm pretty sure I could have roasted an entire pig on a spit in the back yard and it would have been done at that point.

Drooling

I have grown up with allergies and asthma. So, most of the time my nose is stuffed up and I have to breath through my mouth. Because of this I have a habit of leaving my mouth open for no reason. I don’t realize I’m doing this until someone says to me, “Close your mouth” and by ‘someone’ I mean my Dad. Thanks Dad. Due to the open mouth issue, which is due to the allergy issue, I also have developed a drooling issue. I know, I’m so cute, wicked cute, you want me. I’m not quite sure when it started but my sister assured me the other day that I’ve always had this issue. So I thought I may recap some of my drooling experiences.

I was coloring in a map with four other people in the second grade. I was delegated to coloring North America. It was allergy season (which for me is January 1st through December 15th) and I was having a particularly difficult day. Michael George was sitting next to me. I wanted to marry Michael George, which I would profess to him several times a week by trying to cause him physical harm or by telling him he was short. He was indeed short but then again we were seven. As I was coloring in the southern hemisphere of North America, mouth agape, I heard Jill Whitecross make a noise that was a cross between a high-pitched scream and a gasp from across the desks. I looked at her and noticed that she was pointing at something. I took a closer look to find that there lay a pool of drool somewhere in the vicinity of New Jersey (well, if a state MUST go …just kidding…seriously Daen, kidding). Michael George took one look at the pool, looked at me and then to the boy to his left calmly stating “cootie spray” at which point the boy next to him held up the invisible can of aerosol cootie spray and sprayed him. Jill ran over and held out her arms, closing her eyes (smart girl, I mean who knows what happens when cootie spray gets into an open orifice) waiting to be sprayed. Several kids next to our desks witnessed this and also ran over. This caused a classroom cooties epidemic. Kids were spraying other kids from across the room, panicked and visibly shaken. There were so many questions, I mean, where did the cooties start? What kind of cooties were we talking about here? Person to person cooties, floor to person cooties or just visual cooties? By the time the teacher got control of the classroom everyone had been informed that the source of the cooties was Deidre, her open mouth and the pool of drool.

The second drool episode happened during the summer before my senior year in college. Because I was taking my English seminar class during the summer, I had to do a lot of reading. Therefore; my friend Amy (who also was taking the seminar class) and I had taken a job at a local jewelry factory because we knew it would be mindless work and leave a lot of brainpower for the reading. Our job was to buff and polish jewelry, fascinating, no? THAT is a story unto itself. I digress; during that summer I was also going through a huge feminism phase and had decided it was not fair that women had to shave their legs and armpits. Again, I know, I’m cute, wicked cute…you know the rest. Any-friggen-way, there I am with my legs unshorn, armpits bushy, buffing and polishing thousands of pieces of jewelry with my mouth wide open. From my peripheral vision it appeared that the guy who sat next to me, Larry, had turned in his seat and was staring at me. I slightly tilted my head in his direction as if to say ‘yes?’ and discovered that he was indeed staring at me. He wasn’t just looking at me; however, he was glaring with disapproval and shaking his head from side to side. I went to ask him why he was staring at me and noticed that I had a line of drool that hung from my lip to my knee gently swaying from side to side. However, the motion of going to talk dislodged the drool and it fell to the floor. I sat and stared at the small pool on the floor. “You know, you need to pull yourself together woman. You’re shaggy, generally unkempt and now you are drooling all over the place. Have some respect for yourself”. Larry was right. I shaved that night.

The last episode that I am going to share with you is also one of the more recent. I work at the Portland Symphony Orchestra, and we just recently hired a new Executive Director, Ari, in August whom I work for directly. He is twenty-six, intelligent and reserved. On his second day here I was in the kitchen area putting the Brita pitcher, which I had just refilled, back into the refrigerator when Ari came around the corner. I went to say “Hey”! But just as I went to say something I felt the familiar weightiness that one feels when they have drool attached to their lip. Yes, there is weightiness. Yes, I am gross. Ari looked at me there was a brief expression of inquisition, then of recognition, disgust and lastly denial. He shot his eyes down to the ground after a brief smile and I just started at the ground and made a strange sound that was neither talking or mumbling and walked to my desk.

I am not sure how to cure myself of this affliction. But I do need some serious help.

Weed, Rebecca and Wine.

It was a Saturday night, and my friend's Mary, Ira and Jeff were throwing a party at their house in the Oakland, CA. For some reason, whenever these three friends threw a party it was always a great time. I felt at home there. After being there for an hour or so, Mary turned to me and asked if I wanted to go smoke some weed in the bedroom and I gladly accepted. Let me interject that when I was in college I was a habitual pot smoker. Although I was a functioning pothead and would never smoke until I was done with classes and finished with my homework, I smoked every day for over four years. After I graduated, I moved to Surrey England for a small period of time and didn't know where to get weed so I took a break. When I came back home and started smoking again it had a completely different effect on me. I’d get paranoid and think that everyone wanted to stab me and whatnot. So, unless I felt completely comfortable and safe I wouldn’t smoke. However, this was one of those times that I felt completely comfortable. So I went into the room and a group of us smoked a joint. I felt good and walked out onto the large deck and garden area to have a cigarette and then I headed to the kitchen to grab a Mojito refill (the signature drink of the evening LA TE DA!).

As I was approaching the kitchen I noticed a group of girls I had met before at a prior party standing near the table. One of the girls was Rebecca Stein. My unspoken hero. I had met her a couple months after moving to San Francisco and liked her immediately. Her attributes included but were not limited to:

1) Ballsy
2) Walking into a room and instantly raising the energy.
3) Extremely outgoing without being obnoxious
4) Having strong opinions but being far from judgmental
5) Being friends with all kinds of different people.
6) Having no qualms making a move on a man she was interested in.

I have to admit, it was quality number six that bumped her from someone
I would like to become friends with to someone whose picture I put candles around and chanted to at night. No, not really. I found quality number six so astounding because I myself had a bit to be desired in the category of men. Hitting on a guy in my world consisted of two strategies. The first was a strategy where I would ignore the man I was interested in. This strategy was used on those whom had no idea I existed. Right. Strategy number two was for those men whom I was convinced knew I liked them and therefore would be downright mean to. Brilliant. O.K., enough of my dating advice to all the single readers out there and back to Rebecca. The issue with Rebecca Stein was that she just didn't seem to like me. At all. This turned my general interest in this girl to a bit of an obsession where I was dead set on making her like me. Hey, easy, this blog is called “I Have Issues” for a reason.

On the way to refill my Mojioto the weed started to kick in. There were two people standing in front of the ‘Mojito station’ if you will, so I decided to just have wine because it was easily accessible. I poured myself a glass of red and some guy I had never met started talking to me about the intricacies of wine. This was pre-‘Sideways’ where most people still didn’t say much about wine or scream "I aint drinking any fucking Merlot". I found what he had to say quite interesting. He then asked if I liked white wines. Pause. There were a number of things I thought of discussing. I started to think about how most of my friends from home drank white Zinfandel from a box. I thought about how I had spent many nights over a year ago draining box after box sobbing about a recent breakup which had briefly made me insane. (HEY, I’m much more sane now...well...no I'm not.) In fact, the smell of any white wine alone took me back to those days and made me want to curl up in a fetal position and sob like a small child. What good friends I had to listen to me night after night. Wow, I can’t believe that was a year ago...

“Okaaaay, cheers!” said the guy who had asked me about the white wine. Then he promptly walked briskly away. I just smiled and watched his back and wondered how long he had been standing there waiting for my reply before throwing in the towel. Great, apparently another fun filled side effect that weed had on me post England was daydreaming, in public, in the middle of conversations. I was trying to figure out if I was the most embarrassing person I know when I spotted Mary, thank god.

I walked over and stood beside her facing the room. "I'm all sorts of high", I said. "Yeah! Me too", said Mary and smiled at someone to my left. I looked over to see Rebecca Stein walking towards us. She was staring directly at me and a grin wrapped around her face. Everything was moving in slow motion. If I had a soundtrack to my life the song "You Light Up My Life" would have been playing.

"Hey, Dee. Hey Mary" she said.
"Steiny!" yelled Mary.

The two embrased. I stood and watched. I am many things; however, a premature hugger I am not. I know when I have reached that point in a relationship and Rebecca and I were not there yet. She looked at me and could see that I was trying to say something. I had noticed she too was drinking red wine. Should I say something about the guy from before or might it be better to say something about the Mojitos? They were quite refreshing really. The longer I waited the more panicked I became. I couldn’t have this huge pause only to come out with "hello" and I certainly could not play the part of mute girl twice in a matter of minutes. I had to say something witty, funny or at the very least something original. Between my confusion of which alcoholic beverage to comment on, the weed I had smoked and my excitement of Rebecca’s full on acknowledgement of me I was completely flummoxed. After what seemed to be an entire minute of silence I broke out and yelled "Mojitos!" loudly enough for everyone in the kitchen area to look over at me. My right arm had thought I was going for the story about the random guy asking me about white wines and so it pointed towards the kitchen counter and bottles of wine. My left arm, being all too forward, went to wrap itself around the poor and confused Rebbecca who was still visually stunned by my boisterous scream. However, as my arm was going towards her I twitched (side effect number 8,587,252 that weed now gave me) and knocked into her glass of red wine. The glass shattered all over the ground but not before it managed to spill it’s entire contents all over her shirt. Somehow in the mix I cut my elbow and was bleeding. Fabulous. I stood with my mouth open and drooled, which as you know, is my personal deviation from the typical fight or flight response and caught a glimpse of Rebecca heading in the direction of the bathroom. After a little bit of time I managed to help Mary pick up the pieces of the broken glass on the floor. It was official I was the most embarrassing person I know.

Shopping

It's official. I am old. I went to go shopping for clothes the other day and all the pants are now so low that they barely reach the top of my pelvic bone. Um..I feel three ways about this:

a) NO.
b) HELL no.
C) All of the above.

My shopping experiences over the past four years have all merged together in my brain to form one awful hellish experience that goes something like this.

I walk into the store and tell myself that I absolutely must, above all else, keep a positive frame of mind. I then proceed to go around the store and never have a problem finding a dozen or so articles of clothing that I like. I pick out all the things I'm going to try on in a size twelve. Which will most likely be too big but too big is more assuring than not getting it past my wide, flat, two dimensional ass. Seriously, it's like my body is stuck in a two dimensional world. When I gain weight I grow out the sides but my profile always looks the same. I'm like a wall. Strange.

I take said articles of clothing into the dressing room leaving the extras with the female employee that always seems miffed by my presence. In fact, these dressing room employees seem so annoyed that I usually say 'Hello', hand them my clothes and say "I'm sorry" right before I enter the dressing room. Once I get into the dressing room the same warning sentence scrolls through my head over and over, like the severe weather warnings on tv. "WARNING, FOR THE NEXT TEN SECONDS OF TIME WHILE YOU ARE NAKED IN THIS DRESSING ROOM, DO NOT..I REPEAT DO NOT.. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, LOOK IN THE MIRROR' Right. Yet, at some point between getting off my clothes and putting on the new ones I always manage to get a quick glimpse in the mirror of something, could be my calf, my elbow, and then suddenly, I can't look away. It's like road kill, I know it will be bad, I know it will be shocking, but I must see it. The next thing I know I am standing directly in front of the mirror, mouth open, staring at my pasty naked body in the dressing room mirror with fluorescent lights spraying over me. Oh. My. God. I didn't realize it was possible to have cellulite on your big toe, huh, that's nice. The seeing myself in the dressing room mirror naked part of the experience usually traumatizes me for about a year or so. When I manage to pry myself away from the mirror I put on the first pair of jeans. Too big. I end up exchanging all articles for sizes that are a wee bit smaller. Past angry dressing room lady and back into the horror story.

Now I put on a pair of jeans that are more my size. They pull up to my mid thigh without incident. Then they squeeze over the thigh and by the time they are at mid buttocks I am more than positive that they are not 'quite right for my build', as most people put it. By the time I finally pull them all the way up and the jeans reach the widest part of my hips and sit barely above my pelvic bone. The fly and button are wide open in such a manner that allows my lower stomach to hang out. Sweet. Needless to say that I will not be able to zipper these. I turn to look at my arse in the mirror and the top of my underwear is hanging out all over the place. It's less Jessica Simpson and more chick with plumber crack (Yes, I've tried the thong but I feel that I spend my entire life trying to get my underwear out of my ass, therefore, the last thing I want to do is shove it in). I take a deep breath and pull the pants off, my underwear usually come off right along with them because of the 'snug fit', and there I am again, naked in the dressing room mirror. This is right about when the worker girl comes over, knocks on the door and says 'Do you need another size?' What I want to say: "No, I need a therapist and a friggen pair of jeans that fit a woman and not a prepubescent girl". What I do say: "No thank you. Sorry". Yes, I am still apologizing.

I put my clothes back on, don't bother to try on the other five articles. I tell myself that these pants aren't made for ANYONE and that it's not just me. I leave the dressing room just in time to catch some 18-23 year old girl jumping out of the room next to mine in the 'cute jeans' I just tried on, with her 'cute ass' and she's bouncing all around saying to her friend "Aren't these cute?" To which her friend and I simultaneously reply "Yes". DOH! I finally get the remaining articles from hostile girl. Put the clothes back on the rack, leave the store. Go home, telling myself the entire way that I need to start exercising more. I run that evening for five minutes, get tired, get depressed and eat buffalo chicken. I refuse to return back to the stores for another six months or so. Am I the only one who experiences this nightmare? I have come to many conclusions and one of them is that it's official. I am old.

Puppet Porn and Grandma

Recently I was reminiscing about all of my past fourth of July's. Every year since I can remember, I go to my parent's cabin on Lake Bomoseen in Vermont. It's the one time of year that I get to see most of my relatives on my mother's side of the family. Beer, family, friends, fireworks, celebrating our freedom from the tyranny of the English Crown while creating our own tyranny by slaughtering the natives of this land and taking over by trading Montana for a bottle of whisky and so on and so forth until, America! Yay!

Last year, my cousin Craig and his wife Mary had brought the movie "Team America" with them. I hadn't heard much about the movie other than the fact that it was a movie written, produced and directed by Trey Parker. It was late on Saturday night, Sunday morning and I sat in front of the fire with the rest of the stragglers who were still awake. Mary came out and announced that she was going to put in 'Team America' for those who wanted to watch. I went in to watch the movie and the rest of the people went to bed.

I sat down on the couch with Craig and Mary and started the movie when my grandmother came over from the kitchen and asked if she could watch with us. "Sure Gram", answered my cousin's simultaneously. How sweet. A half an hour went by when my cousin Craig looked at me and said "Well, we're beat. Enjoy the rest of the movie". My grandmother and I said good night and I watched Mary and Craig get into their air mattress directly behind the TV. They were intensely whispering about something. I thought maybe they were fighting and, because I'm nosy, I strained to make out what they were saying. I heard a sudden gasp from my grandmother which averted my attention back to the screen. Two of the puppets were in bed. Naked. Having sex in the missionary position. The alarm sounded off in my head. This was that fight or flight moment that everyone talks about. You supposedly have one or the other. I myself often experience option three which nobody talks about. That's the one where you stay exactly where you are, mouth agape, and drool on yourself. I excel at this option. The puppets moved into the 'dog style' position. I slowly picked the pillow up from my lap and held it up between the TV screen and myself as to block my view, yet I was peaking over the pillow anyways because I couldn't stop watching. I glanced at my grandmother and realized that she too was experiencing option three of the fight or flight response. I slowly pivoted the pillow between my grandmother and I as to block my view of her. I directed my attention back to the movie, the puppets were against a bureau and watching themselves in the mirror. Inner voice: "Get up. Turn it off. TURN IT OFF". Puppets in the 69 position. "Run Deidre, Run". Female puppet on top of male puppet backwards. "Bad Puppets". Then they started doing things that I'd never even heard of. "God I hate these puppets". I hear a noise somewhere in the vicinity of the air mattress. Was someone crying I wondered? No, quite the contrary, I was hearing giggles. The bastards had set me up. "Sweet Mary mother of..." My grandmother's voice pulled me back to the screen. What could be worse than what we've already seen? I can't go into full detail but I will say this, sometimes seeing public urination isn't as shocking as seeing private urination. With Puppets. And Poo. I dropped the pillow and jumped up to my feet. The remote hit the floor which pulled my grandmother back to reality and away from the shock and awe of puppet porn. I smiled. She didn't. I stretched and said "Well, I'm going to bed Gram". "Can I shut this off?" She asked, barely able to make out the question. "Ya, sure. You know, that's a...Bad...Movie. Bad movie. Good night." Well said. I walked behind the TV and could make out Mary and Craig's faces which were glistening with tears of laughter.

Stick Shift So I've been learning over the past three days how to drive a stick shift. My boyfriend, Connor, is in Germany to see a couple of World Cup soccer games. Bastard. He left his car for me to drive and it is standard. So needless to say I've been bucking all around Portland. Today I had a lot of things I needed to accomplish before getting to work at nine. I needed to take a bath (I take baths instead of showers, get over it), let the dog out, get ready, get my dog's stuff together, get myself and the dog into the car, drop off a movie, bring the dog over to my parent's place in Scarborough, get gas, go to the post office and then finally go to work. If I had an automatic car I would have left my house at 7:45. This morning, to be safe, I left at 6:45. Side bar comment. We normally have a hell of a time getting Duke to sit once he is in the car; however, since I've been driving stick, he gets in and lies down immediately. Thanks Duke. Everything went fine, dropped off the movie, got gas, dropped off the dog, went to the post office and then headed to work without incident. Well maybe the woman I almost ran over, because I didn't want to have to deal with first gear, could be considered an 'incident'. She was j-walking. I blame her. The only thing left to do on my list was get to work and park the car. I was going up a hill next to my building when I saw a spot. Good. But in order to park there I needed to parallel park...on a hill...on a busy street. Bad. First I had a wave of panic engross me, then the hives suffice it to say I started sweating like a 500-pound man in a chicken suit. I knew the first attempt was crucial. If I could back into the space close enough to the curb the first time then there wouldn't be inevitably superfluous maneuvering. I lined up my car with the car in front of the spot; put it in neutral and coasted back. Not bad, I ended up about three feet from the curb, ok, maybe three and half. I was thinking maybe I could leave it there. Three feet wasn't that far. I mean, if you stand three feet tall you are a midget or a dwarf, a midget or a dwarf is, well, little. Therefore, three feet to the curb times a midget or a dwarf equals I have no idea what I'm talking about. Right. I got out to get a better angle. To be honest, if no one was there, I would have left it. However, due to the fact that I was blocking a lane of traffic and people were yelling obscenities in my general direction I decided it best to move my car closer. Note to self; don't block a lane of traffic in the center of town in rush hour. Second note to self; when someone asks you if you are retarded they most likely mean that as a rhetorical question and answering them may cause them to become more escalated. I got back in my car...quickly. Put her into first, bucked a couple inches and stalled. First again, buck, stall. I revved the engine to about 3,500 and shot forward then slammed on the breaks just in time to avoid slamming into the car in front of me. I put it in reverse. Bucked. Stalled. You get the point, no? I finally managed to park and by managed I mean I ended up one and a half feet away from the curb and more diagonal than parallel. My tally: it took fifteen minutes, four to ten stalls, fifteen mini breakdowns, three angry commuters who were verbally expressive, two angry commuters who were more visually expressive, and a group of 17 year old (give or take) boys asking me if I needed help in order to park the car. Not bad. I think this whole driving a standard thing is going swimmingly. You?

Duke and the Chuck It

There were certain things I absolutely refused to do when we got our dog. The first is buy our dog 'doggie pastries'. The day I go into a fru fru dog store and pick out a frosted pink doughnut for my dog is the day that I've apparently lost my friggen mind. The second thing I refuse to do is make out with my dog. I mean, that seems completely self explanitory, no? Yet, on several occasions I've had people's dogs come up and lick my face and mouth. My natural reaction is to push the dog away from me. Nine times out of ten in that situation I've had the dog owner actually give me the stink eye for not allowing their dog to slobber all over me. What's that all about? Thirdly, I refuse to put any kind of clothing on my dog. If you want to put a sweater on your little puffball Kiwi you go right ahead. However, when Kiwi can't take her sweater off due to her lack of opposable thumbs and is being laughed at during playtime, well, shame on you. Hey, here's something, dogs have fur. Fourthly, I will never use a poop bag with a heart on it. Yes, there are poop bags with hearts on them. If it were a poop bag with someone giving the finger on the side of it then maybe I'd consider. I mean, what does a heart on a poop bag even mean? Poop equals Love? I love to pick up my dogs poop? Whatever. NO. Lastly, I refuse to buy a Chuck It. These were my words exactly, "I will never buy a Chuck It." A Chuck It, for those of you who don't know, is one of those devises that supposedly makes it easier to throw a ball to your dog, cat or goat. It looks like a long plastic arm with a claw at the end of it and can grip a tennis ball. They cost $15.00 and come with a Chuck It tennis ball. If you ask me, the Chuck It was designed for those who are either; too lazy to bend down, don't know how to throw a ball further than two feet or think that picking up a used tennis ball with their hand is too 'icky'. I decided I didn't like those people nor did I like the Chuck It. Maybe this is somehow connected to the gearhead issue I explained in my Geocaching post.

To this day Duke (our dog) has never had a pastry, never worn clothes (OK, once I put a sock on his paw b/c he was chewing it. Apparently to a dog that is the equivalent of making their paw disappear. Duke lost all ability to walk on that paw and would hold the socked leg up somewhere in the vicinity of his ear using only his other three legs. I must say I've socked many paws since then for sheer entertainment value. I'm going to hell.) and I have never used a poop bag with a heart on the side. However, two weeks ago, and to my dismay and other's chagrin, I had to buy a Chuck It. You can't hurt me. I hate myself more than you possibly ever could. How could I do it? Well...

About a month ago Duke and I went to the beach. I noticed off in the distance that there was a guy throwing tennis balls into the water for his two dogs. He was using a Chuck It. Sweet. Duke was behind me eating a clump of seaweed which he threw up an hour later. I myself was too involved in disliking the man and his Chuck It to be fully engaged with the seaweed issue and therefore I blame myself for Duke getting sick. As I pondered the complete lack of effort that anyone in our society wants to put into things anymore I noticed a third dog running up to the Chuck It man that bore a striking resemblance to Duke. It was quite amazing really...I mean the way he ran, his coloring and height was exactly the same. Although he certainly was not as well behaved as Duke. He was jumping all over the poor man, whom I disliked, running in circles around him and barking. Wow, bag dog. I was wondering what kind of owner would let their dog act that way when I turned around and noticed that Duke was gone. I'd like to say that it immediately occurred to me that the ill mannered dog jumping all over this man was Duke, but I didn't. Instead I panicked. I thought I'd lost my dog. The only other person I had seen on the beach was the man w/ the Chuck It so I started running towards him. I wondered what I could possibly say to him that wouldn't make me sound completely irresponsible. I could skip the details of how I lost my dog. No need to get overly detailed. I'd just explain to the man that Duke looks so similar to the dog jumping all over him that if I didn't know better I'd think it WAS Duke...aaaaannnd...stop. Deidre clocks in at just under five minutes to realize something that would take most other's only ten seconds. Suck it. By the time I actually got to man, Chuck It and two dogs, Duke was in quite the state. He spotted me just as I went to grab his collar and dodged my hand. He ran to the other side of Mr. Chuck It.
"Duke, come" I said in my happy, 'come here and I'll give you something good' voice.
He took a deep breath and didn't move.
"DUKE" I said in a sharp whisper, "COME!" That's right dog, I'm in COMPLETE control.
He ignored me. He refused to take his eyes off of the target. He barked. I went to go around the man and made another frivolous attempt to grab my dog. He dodged me, again. That's when Duke dug in and gave it one last college try. He took ten or so steps back, sat, stamped his front paws on the sand several times, stood up and proceeded to run full speed towards the man. He propelled himself, head down like a bull, into the Chuck It. Which did..absolutely nothing. He gave up. I grabbed Duke's collar and put him on the leash. I apologized profusely to the dislikeable man, who owned a Chuck It and walked away.

After that, Duke was never quite the same. He had become obsessed with the Chuck it. It was like crack. He wasn't sleeping well, he was cranky and was losing weight. OK, now I'm being dramatic. I tried everything but I couldn't keep him away. I tried avoidance but it was impossible. Chuck It's are everywhere. This bastard devise had shown up on every dog scene there was; the beach, the dog park, every open field or school playground. I tried reprimand. If Duke went after the chuck it and behaved like psycho dog from hell, I'd put him on the leash and we'd go home. That didn't last long, however. Duke is a high energy dog that needs to run around at least once a day or else he drives me to drink. I tried praise. I'd jump up and down and cheer like a lunatic every time he 'behaved properly' around the Chuck It. But he'd get so OCD around it that he didn't even notice me, unlike the other dog owners who would slowly back step away from me with their dogs. There was only one thing left to do. Train him on the damn thing. The only way to train him on the damn thing was to own the damn thing.

So that's it. I have lines that I have drawn when it comes to my dog. I have stuck to most. But in the case of Deidre Daly vs. the Chuck It, the verdict is in. I am guilty as charged. I have become a self loathing Chuck It owner.

Temping

Have you ever had one of those moments where you stop and think, "I officially can't believe that this is my life?" If not, let me share with you what one of those moments might feel like.

It was St Patrick's day. I was under the impression that I wouldn't have to work that day as none of the employment agencies I was registered with had called me the night before. However, I woke up at seven AM to my phone ringing, they had work, I was selling my CD's for money, I had to go. I had to be in the downtown, Quincy Market area by nine.

What I remember of that morning: not enough hot water to fill the bathtub, a good coffee at the local cafe, an Asian gentleman on the T that looked like he was either fourteen or forty (how does that happen?) and a smellier than normal ride from Lechemere to Park Street. As for the smell, it was a toss up. It was certainly emanating from the man in front of me, however, I wasn't sure if he had skipped his weekly shower or eaten an Italian grinder in his recent past. Body odor and Italian grinders smell alarmingly alike causing my brain to channel this message to me, 'mmmm, do you smell that? What is that? Source identified by nose. You are smelling an Italian grinder. Inserting image of Italian grinder. Maybe for lunch you should get a...oh... one minute....sorry to interrupt but we're getting something here from the eyes. Um..what? What's that? I see. Eyes over riding nose. Source of smell has been identified, replace inner head image of Italian grinder to outside image of sweaty man walking by.' Three. Two. One. Gag reflex.

I arrived an hour early. I am obsessed about being early to work and airports. The rest of it is up for debate. I also get lost so often that I figure in an extra hour to get anywhere I've never been before. Although I'd been to the Quincy Market area plenty of times, I had never been to that specific building. It took me twenty minutes to get there. Door to door. So I did what any reasonable human being would do and paced in front of the building for a half an hour in the cold rain while the doorman watched me from inside. He finally came out of the building and asked me if I wanted to wait inside. He seemed a bit perplexed when I said 'Sure, I'd love to come inside. Thank you.' and proceeded to walk past him and into the elevator.

When I stepped into the office there was a man sitting at a desk in the center of an empty room. Seriously. Why in the center? The room was papered in a yellow that I suspect was once white. The man at the desk was probably forty years old, short and balding. He had an inntertube shaped body that is typical of middle aged women. He stared at me. I stared at him. I smiled. He stared at me. I said "Hello". He said nothing. I said "I'm the temp". He stared at me. I put out my hand towards him,
"Deidre Daly".
"Hello Ms. Daly. Bill Weiss. I don't need a temp."
"I'm sorry?"
"I don't need a temp. I didn't CALL for a temp".
"Um, is this the forth floor?"
"Yes."
"Is this the Michael and Michael law office?"
"Yes."
More silence. Inner monologue of panic 'Deidre say something to the man. Don't just stand there. Close your mouth, how long have you had that open? Call the agency. CALL THE AGENCY'.
"Sorry, I'll call the agency and see what is happening".
My representative, Paulie, answered her extension.
"Hi Deidre. How is it going over there?"
"Fine Paulie, thank you, well, except that Mr. Wise.."
"WEISS" says the man in the center of the room who is now back to his papers.
"..Sorry, Weiss, doesn't need a temp."
"Yes he most certainly does".
"Ah....."
"He needs a temp."
"Okaaaay, well he didn't call for one."
"I spoke with him. He can't pull out now!"
O.K., Paulie wanna...calm the hell down?
"Let me talk to Mr. Wise."
"Weiss"
"You said Wise."
"I know, but it's Weiss. Here he is".

I took a couple of steps towards the man in the center of the room and held the phone out towards him. He jumped. He had already forgotten that I was there. Tremendous for the confidence. He slowly reached for the phone and never took his eyes off me as if to say 'I'm watching you, don't try any funny business missy.' I can only hear his end of the conversation which goes something like this,

"Hello."... "Um. No we don't need a temp and I think maybe Tom called you by mistake... WHAT? I should not have to pay for... that is absurd." He brings his voice to a sharp whisper "I have nothing for her to DO!...FINE! She might as well stay if we have to pay her anyways."

He handed the phone back to me. I smiled. He shook his head at me in disappointment.

"Hello?"
"OK Deidre, all set." Paulie had composed herself to her typical neuroticly chipper self. "Remember that you have to get your time card signed before you leave or else we can't pay you. Keep in mind, if you do a good job maybe they'll ask for you to come again tomorrow!"

That seemed like as good a time as any to hang up on her. I figured that she would make 10 dollars per every one of my twelve on top of what she was getting paid hourly and for what? To send me to jobs that never called, to make sure I know better than to wear ripped jeans to my assignments and above else to make sure I know to fill out my time card. She was quite the asset.

Mr. Weiss took me into another room off to the left. This room had the same yellow that used to be white wallpaper, no windows and one desk which faced the wall in the corner. There was no computer on the desk, just a phone. He sat me down and gave me my instructions which were as follows. 'Your job is to answer the phones.' Right. There were three lines and two transfer buttons. He explained that the top transfer button didn't work so if I tried to transfer a call using that button I would hang up on the caller. It seemed so easy. Yet, that top transfer button was plaguing me. I mean, it was the bad button, I knew to stay away, yet I couldn't stop thinking about how much I hated that button.

Within the next three hours four other employees walked in, including Tom, the individual who allegedly called for a temp. Yet he had said nothing to me nor did any of the others. So, there it was. Three lines that rang approximately once every hour, six people including myself, a desk that faced a wall in an empty room with no computer, and a broken transfer line. I answered three calls in my first four hours there. I transferred them all with the ease and confidence of a receptionist that had been answering phones for years. Then, the fourth call came in.

"Hello, Law offices of Michael and Michael how can I help you?"
"Hello. Can I speak with Tom please."
"Sure can I ask whose calling?"
"Yes, this is Mr. Gary Smith".
"Sure Mr. Smith, let me transfer you"
I pushed the top transfer button without even noticing, I then entered Tom's extension.
"Tom?"
No answer.
"Tom?"
No answer.
"Hello? Tom?"
"Who is on line one?" I heard Mr. Weiss call from the other room. I didn't answer him, I had a job to do and that job was to transfer this call to Tom.
"Tom?"
No answer. At this point I had three frantic employees standing over me. I could make out certain statments and questions.
'Who's she trying to transfer? Why does she keep saying 'Tom'? Who is she? I didn't even know she was back here. Where did she come from? Is she a Temp? Did we call for a temp?'
"NO!" answered Mr. Weiss from the other room and added "But we have to pay for one anyways! She doesn't understand phones. Could someone show her how to use the phone?"
My focus was unparalleled. I wasn't hired to just answer three phone lines for this law office, nay, I was also responsible for transferring that call to the appropriate persons. I was a college graduate. This was a temp job. For god sakes I could handle this! I phased them all out and went back to the task at hand.
"Tom?"
No answer
"Tom?"
No answer. Then I saw a finger press down on the hangup button. Dial tone. I looked up, it was Tom.
"Hi Tom, Mr. Smith on line one".
Mr. Weiss was standing next to Tom shaking his head at me in disappointment for the second time that morning. He turned to Tom and instructed him to "please show this temp how to use the phone as she is obviously confused." Tom re-instructed me on the intricacies of a three lined phone system with a broken transfer button. Then he left the room.

I was alone again facing the wall. I stared at the phone and pondered many things like, why hadn't anyone just pulled that damn broken transfer button off the phone, why one's nose runs in the cold when it seems like everything should freeze up, why the smallest state in the US has longest name, why teachers make middle schoolers read the most depressing books (A Day No Pigs Would Die?). Lastly I pondered my life, that moment, how the frig I got to that moment. This statement is what resonated: "I officially can not believe that this is my life."

That my friends is what one of those moments feels like.