Saintly

Mel says he can't live without my photos.

Perhaps I exaggerate.


[One of the bridges near the Market Street Brewery in St. Louis, which I didn't need to cross to get to my hotel room, fortunately. The tricky part will be to submit my expense report to the corporate office to explain the quantity of "brew" taken there. They should be more specific regarding sustenance]

Groundhog Day with Elvis

It occurs to me, as I sit here wrapped in a towel in a hotel room in Memphis, with my clothes hanging over the bathtub, that I should have had more foresight to choose clothes (or deodorant or a comb), instead of books, when informed that my suitcase was 3 lbs. overweight during check in. That suitcase is probably now in Montgomery, Alabama, while I, alas, am not. 

Flights were grounded, cancelled and delayed due to the tropical storm in the Southeast. I've never been afraid to fly, though I'm starting to dread hours spent at gates and definitely see a pattern with routes through Memphis.

I was in St. Louis last week for a drinking/work conference (bonus: discovering an amazing brewery with my friend Mel), which I parlayed into a weekend visit to Wisconsin to see my friend Holly. I couldn't ask for more fun or better friends, but after ten days out of town, I wanna go home...

Reinstate Hank

NORTH-let-us-cancel-your-flights-WEST

I am so incredibly irked at Northwest Airlines and their malfunctioning air carriers right now! Rage-filled, am I!

Last week, we (somehow) arrived at the airport in Montgomery on time, only to discover that Northwest had cancelled our flights and rebooked the next day at dawn's early light. We spontaneously decided to drive two hours further, to Atlanta, because we are nothing, if not a family bonded together by spontaneous road trips. Two of our rescheduled tickets were upgraded to first class, which made the extra travel more tolerable. Free drinks and extra-large leather seats go a long way.

Quin-la-palooza was fantastic, and Patrick stayed an extra week in Michigan bonding with my parents. I was driving up to Montgomery to pick him up tonight, when he called to tell me his flight had been cancelled. I'm all for adventure and spending quality time apart, but stranding my 18-year old son in Memphis, Tennessee? Irreprehensible.

When they say "it's not the destination, but the journey",  I'm guessing they never flew Northwest Airlines.

Zen and the Art of Graduation

Patrick's graduation took place without incident, mostly because I was the perfect pseudo-adult when interacting with Ed and his father as we stood outside on my driveway for fifteen minutes discussing auto maintenance. I had told him that he could bring his live-in girlfriend if he wanted, that's how much I was over him, but he wisely chose not to.

Three-day BamaJam is headed to my small Alabama town for three days. Included in the line-up are Hank Williams Jr., ZZ Topp, Lynrd Skynrd and a crapload of other country music stars. I'm not sure, but I don't think I could care less.

There's No Place Like...High School

This sign, which is pocked and marked from flying debris, is the only physical reminder Patrick has from his high school, which was destroyed when an F5 tornado hit it in March 2007. Eight students were killed, crushed from the collapsed roof and walls of the Science Wing.

Truthfully, I wondered how he'd get through Elementary School with all his stubborness and disruptive antics, regularly being kicked off the bus and spending so much time in the Principal's office, but tonight's graduation ceremony marks the official end of his public school career. Commencement speaker, First Lady Laura Bush, will be on hand, attempting to impart some wisdom to the EHS Class of 2008.

Will I feel sad watching him walk across that stage? Or will the joy of getting his crap out of my house, taking his key and changing the locks, completely overshadow any empty-nest thoughts I might be inclined to have? Woo hoo! [I'm kidding!]

Click It or Ticket

A case of Bud Light must weigh the same as a small child because my car's annoying, beeping reminder every thirty seconds to insert the passenger's seat belt won't stop until I buckle up that beer. Safety First.

Is That Tat Taken?

Sadly, Tiffany and I did not get matching day-after-Cinco-de-Mayo sister ankh tattoos on our wrists because the 'artist' was giving off such a negative vibe. Truth be told, it was more of an asshole vibe.

Since we already have the same Q family crest tattoos on our shoulders, we thought it would be a hysterical grand finale if I were to also get the same sun on my ankle that she has because really, how many matching tattoos can two sisters have?

Drama Catalyst

Last fall, I stopped dating Crazy Dan when his long distance girlfriend, Lise, contacted me about their relationship. We hatched all sorts of devious plans to officially bust him, but after she forwarded all our emails to him, I just eased my way out of any dealings with both of them. Until yesterday.

Dan and Lise were recently engaged, so she's been hoping to strike up some sort of friendship with me since she'll be moving to town. They invited me over for drinks, and I can safely say I harbor no ill feelings great enough to pass up free alcohol.

It was awkward for about 6 minutes. After that, we sat out on the patio and laughed, had great conversation and genuine fun. Lise and I are very similar in looks and interests - I could see how Dan would be torn between us.

Around 11:00 pm, Team Drama took over.

Dan (to Lise): I KNEW you were still a lesbian...!
Lise (to Dan): And I knew you were still in love with her...!
Me (to myself, rather awkwardly as they started fighting and throwing stuff): Uh...I'll just take this beer and let myself out. You guys have a good night...

Lise called today to apologize, told me they had broken up, and asked if I wanted to go to the beach sometime.

How I Love My Job, part 32,500

It's been ten years since the E.P.A. (Environmental Protection Agency) visited my military base, so they've descended en masse for the week, unannounced, to make our lives hell. It's a multimedia event, which means they're looking at every aspect of our environmental program.

I normally work 10-12 hour days, but this week I'm having to neglect my work load so I can traipse around in heels, answering questions and hoping they don't find any violations worthy of a $32,500 fine per day.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; and the ability to bowl inspectors over with bullshit...

Call It.

I've been playing a game with my dentist for over ten years. He prescribes antibiotics, which I'm supposed to take before cleanings twice a year because of my heart, but don't, of course (turns out I prefer to stockpile pills to wash down all at one time with beer. Not funny, I know), but lie when he asks and request another script as a cover. Oh, the rebellious little things I do to amuse myself.

Now, however, the party's over: the dental powers that be have decided antibiotics are no longer required for people like me. To top it all off, a lifetime of nachos and popcorn has cracked another tooth, requiring crown #2.

Pass the applesauce and geritol.

Insult + Injury

It's not enough that I fed my grubby little face continuously for five days out of town and my pants are a little snug? Do I really need Delta calling me out?

St. Francis in Tucson

After my week-long social frenzy in Tucson, otherwise known as a work conference, I've come to the conclusion that people in my field must all be crazy, gambling alcoholics...or we naturally gravitate towards one other like beer-seeking missiles. No matter.

I told Patrick before I left that if he fed the cats (as opposed to locking them outside the entire week I'm gone, as he's prone to do), took care of the mail and other minor cleaning chores, AND I won at the casino, I'd give him $50. If, on the other hand, I lost? He'd get nothing. I have a good feeling about this year's Mother of the Year committee visit.

As I was standing in line at the hotel registration to get directions to the casino, four other conference attendees told me to come along with them - they had a designated driver! We must've talked about work a little bit - I have scribbles on bar napkins to prove it - then drank and threw down $100 bets with reckless abandon.

Once home, I gave Patrick some money so he could join his buddies at the beach for this final weekend of Spring Break, then found a styrofoam bucket full of fish in the office (?). I bought a glass aquarium, some plastic landscaping and fish food, only to find out they're bait for Patrick's new fishing hobby.

I also found out from Tiffany that my new pseudo-fiancé was out with another woman Friday night - thank goodness my impulsive self didn't jump on that wagon!

Poor Little White Boy

Apparently, Audi's* have an automatic-lock safety feature, so if you're at the gas station early in the morning, you have to call your cranky teenager at home on Spring Break seventeen times so he can bring your extra set of car keys. I knew I should have paid more attention in German class so I could understand the manual.

*YES! I have a new car! My personal auto sales manager, Mitch, called me up last week when a woman traded in her 2006 Audi A4 (turbo!). I wasn't interested, until I broke the console in my old car and the door leaked (again!), so he gave me a deal I couldn't pass up. Payments are $2 less/month, and all I have to do is have a beer with him. I'm hoping he'll agree to pay my next speeding ticket, but we're still negotiating.

I was planning on spending the morning doing taxes and packing for my trip to Tucson, but I had to go into work first because the shady, misogynistic, money-grubbing 32 year old white male supervisor I demoted last week has filed an EO complaint behind my back. Really? Is that the best you've got?

Get back!

I had to demote one of my supervisors for consistently being the world's biggest greedy-ass hippie, who completely bypasses me in all things important. He covers his mistakes with miles of saccharin-coated bullshit, but fortunately my managers told me to correct the situation as I see fit. Bonus points for arbitrary rules. Monthly reports must now be submitted in Times New Roman, 10 pt. font, single-spaced and bulletted and brown shoes must only be worn on Tuesdays. Get back, Loretta.

Tying the NOT!

I met Steve when my sister Tiffany invited me up to a redneck bar in Troy, where she lives, for St. Patrick's green beer. He's a youngish fifty year old, who danced and bought plenty of rounds of green pucker and melon shots (how did we imagine these were tasty?) for us. Needless to say, he ended up with my phone number. I should probably just start handing out business cards to strange men.

When we went out again this past weekend, I was telling him about Tiffany's new job as a bartender at the country club, so he suggested we go there for dinner. He's a member, so we sat with the mayor, while Tiffany waited on us. Unfortunately, Steve's a Miller beer distributor, and I can't help but think I'm drinking swamp water off a sweaty teenager* when I drink Miller products.

*When I was sixteen, my friends drilled a hole in the bottom of a can of Miller Lite, drained it, then replaced the beer with water from the river. They sealed the hole with a bead of adhesive, so that the container still went "pffft" when I pulled the top, then took a giant swig. This was obviously traumatic.

On Saturday, Steve proposed to me, but I had to decline the offer since I had nothing to wear. I've come to the conclusion that older men must be desperate - afraid of dying alone with no one to take off their boots.

Darby O'Gill

"Then you can forget the tears an' troubles of the world outside. There's nothin' but fun and diversion here!"

There's no such thing as a free lunch...

...oh, wait a minute: yes, there is!

I frequent a Mexican restaurant outside the gates of Ft. Rucker, where the nachos are smothered under six pounds of cheese and the Coronas never end. When possible, I schedule work lunches there, and occasionally meet dates (one week, I met three different men there for lunch - it was a fluke, seriously).

Today, as I was waiting in line to pay, the owner came over and told me how grateful he was for all the business I brought - and told me lunch was on him. Next step? Bar tab...

Extra Sensory Breakup

I tend to assume everyone else is on the same page I am, yet that rarely seems to be the case. Christian has called three times, leaving messages about wanting to see me this weekend.

My break-up skills, obviously, need a little work.

November Spawned a Monster

Apparently, my maximum tolerance for a man is three months - it's officially over with Christian (though I should say "unofficially" because he's been waiting for ME to call HIM and I have no intention of breaking the silence with a dumping). There were no major problems - just a series of cumulative pet peeves and I'd rather be stoned to death with popcorn than deal with them another day:

I have no problem dating a poor (monetary-challenged) man, but a tightwad, cheap boyfriend who makes more than I do, and hasn't taken me out in three months, but still manages to come over and drink all my beer? Thanks, but no.

This might be irrational, but I don't like people who sleep more than 6 hours/night.

He doesn't believe in evolution, fossils, or carbon dating. Seriously. Gravity is also a theory, and I may not understand the complexities of it, but that doesn't mean I won't land on the floor if my drunken self falls off a bar stool.

He'd complain about my Netflix movie choices. She who pays, chooses!

Chewing tobacco. Just...ew!

How endearing that he has no cell phone or internet? Nope. He's too cheap and was hoping I could add him to my family plan.

He watches competitive fishing shows. Day and night.

Tell me, again, about all the fish in the sea??

Single White Leo

How come I'm always dating someone on their birthday, dropping hard-earned cash on dinner and a gift, but when my birthday rolls around, I'm alone? Starving and giftless.

I'm guessing this is the real reason singles ask one another their signs before dating.

The Theory Debunker is IN

24 years driving. 13 speeding tickets.
[Is that as bad as it sounds? Oy]

As a self-proclaimed speeding expert, I've had this theory: if you overpay your speeding ticket by $1, the books never get closed because the city clerk will never send a rebate check for the difference, so your insurance company never finds out. Ignorance is bliss, you know, and I delusionally hoped my rates wouldn't reflect my "I need to see your license and registration, ma'am" status.

Perfect in theory, not-so-perfect in reality.

After my most recent "68 in a 55" (on New Year's DAY! Apparently, I need a designated driver to get places while I'm sober), I procrastinated* too long and had to make the payment in person.

*which comes first: the procrastinator or the speeder?

I handed the city clerk a money order for $121, so she attempted to give me $1 change. I said, "Oh, no, that's a tip. I don't want it."

We argued back and forth for a while, and as I was pocketing the change (those city clerks are badasses, I tell ya'), I asked her about my theory. She informed me that if I had mailed in too much money, they simply would have raised the fine to the amount sent, so the ticket would be closed.

What's a poor lead foot to do?

Adult-ish

I might be twisted. My sister TQ showed up at my house last night, suffering from her freshly broken heart and weighing about 88 pounds - I'm so envious! She tends to get sad and anxious, which prevents her from eating - and also makes her a cheap date at the bar. When I saw her, I realized I needed a strong bout of depression, myself, because I've been happy for 3 months and happy equals fat in my food-is-tied to everything world.

Sorta-boyfriend Christian is out of town in a week-long fishing tournament in Georgia so TQ and I headed to the bar and met up with some of my ex-coworkers.

This morning, as I was wandering around in last night's wet clothes, with my hair sticking out at right angles, looking frantically for my work cell phone (my personal cell phone died recently and I still haven't been able to find that one, which is somewhere in the house, I'm sure of it!), my 17 year old son passed me in the hallway and said, "You know you're an adult, right?"

Louie Louie

I'm living large* this week in the 17th largest city in the United States at a conference with 1632 other attendees. Louisville, in case the brochure tagline wasn't an obvious reference.

*not so much large as FAT. There's something about having my company pick up expenses that causes me to eat several large meals per day, including Crab Ravioli with pesto and snacks from Starbuck's. I might possibly need an intervention.

As I was walking through the hallway in the Conference Center this afternoon, I passed by a familiar face (conveniently attached to a body) that I knew from somewhere. I turned around to stare, as he did the same. My first sergant from Ft. Lewis, Washingon in 1988 (!), here from Ft. Bening, Georgia. He asked if I kept in touch with anyone else from our unit, but other than awkward, accidental yearly visits with my ex-husband, sadly, I did not.

The husband of one of my friends/co-workers is a contestant on this season's "Biggest Loser", so we all gathered (and dare I say bonded) together last night while watching the episode with with beer, pizza, and chips. Ironic, no?

Thought for the week: do not, under any circumstances, attempt to shave your legs in the bathtub, while talking on your cell phone. It will end badly.

Festival of...beer and midriffs

You know it's a crazy, mixed-up world when I am given the corporate credit card and the responsibility of planning the company Christmas party.

Some supervisors might take the $40/person budget and go to a nice restaurant for an hour or two. This particular party planner decided to have a bonfire, get a bushel of raw oysters (?), and spend the rest on alcohol. Oh, plus one Olive Garden gift certificate for the winner of the poker tournament. Who knew my co-workers and their dates could be so much fun?*

*I'm having second thoughts regarding the installation of a stripper pole in my living room, though. Hopefully, that was just holiday beer banter.

We took one group photo at the beginning of the evening, which was smart, because the rest of the shots look something like this:

I certainly hope there's something in the corporate budget for President's Day...

Colonel Mustard in the Kitchen

Every year, my mother, eternal optimist extraordinaire, buys me kitchen-related gifts, which I love because it's like she's keeping that glimmer of hope alive that someday I might become a great chef...er, not burn down the kitchen. (Nope, that was not a run-on sentence).

Observation of the day: why do spice racks come with unalphabetized bottles of spices? Who can cook under such chaotic conditions?

Post-baking-script: every try making "pecan ball" cookies while getting sloshed on white wine and listening to Clancy Brothers? No? Let me save you the trouble, 'cause you'll just wind up with chunky pecan oblong-ish shapes with wayyyyy too much sugar.

Stumbling across my religion

Martha Stewart's herb-roasted turkey recipe calls for rosemary, thyme and lemon zest, so I managed to scrounge up some chives and oregano, then stuffed orange wedges down the headless neck. And? It was the best turkey I have ever tasted (which is a relief since there are only two of us eating 12.23 pounds of meat, translating to approximately eight pounds per each of us). And, no holdiay oven fire - score!

I had a dinner date last night with Christian*, a younger guy I know from work. I felt an instant connection when I met him last May, but assumed he was in a relationship since he never asked me out (oh, the ego!).

*My cell phone automatically corrected his name to "Christianity" when I entered the text into my address book. I find it amusing, in an Are you there, God, it's me, Margaret kind of way.

Turns out he was taking a time out (a year) from women because when he tried to take the knife away from his last girlfriend, who was trying to slice her wrist, she stabbed him. Sounds like the perfect training camp for a relationship with me. He also owns a coke machine, but rigged it to dispense Bud Light. Be still, my lush heart.

Beach Mahal

Tonight for dinner I had a Twinkie, a chocolate donut, 4 marshmallow cookies and an orange. My body is so obviously a temple.

And beach season is officially over [Destin, Florida].

Double, double, toil/drink and trouble

"Before a mad scientist goes mad, there's probably a time when he's only partially mad. And this is the time when he's going to throw his best parties."
-- Jack Handey

I managed to interview for and fill all four of our new contractor positions last week and came to the conclusion that there are a SHITLOAD of unemployed biologists out there (and that I really, I mean really, hate being called "ma'am"). It probably doesn't help that this progressive state won't hire biology teachers who believe in evolution, by God/Darwin, either.

My ex-boss also managed to find someone to take my old job, which will be a huge relief for me. He's an intelligent, funny, adorable smartass - perfect, right? The twist is he met my sister and me in a bar in February, while he was home from Iraq for a couple of weeks, and has a bit of a crush on her. He called eight times, and isn't ready to give up yet. The universe really does revolve around that girl - the rest of us should probably be paying rent.

I'm taking an 8-hour online OSHA supervisor course with a virtual minute-ticking, internet clock. Normally, I jump straight to the final exam, but this time I'm forced to drink beer, watch tv and kill time for 7.5 hours first. At least I'll get a day off from work.

You say you want to be a supervisor?

After what I like to refer to as my "Crazy June Melt Down" (June - the month of Gemini's. Coincidence?), I came up with the ingenious plan of working in Iraq for one year starting next summer. Patrick would be in college, or hanging out in my carport building speaker boxes, or out in the world somewhere and I could take a year, working nonstop in the miserable heat (12 hours on, 12 hours off x 7 days/week), which would probably lead to massive weight loss, waiting for an "honorable" death. Life insurance doesn't pay if you kill yourself, you see, and I wouldn't want Patrick and my cats to lose their home.

Yes, I'm slightly twisted and always thoughtful, but apparently not transparent, because just about everyone, including my therapist*, thought it was good to have a plan. Something to shoot for. A reason to live.

*during our first of two sessions, he told me I was too intelligent for therapy. He asked me what the plan was...did I want medication? Someone to talk to? What did I have in mind? He also pointed out that I would be a hot little commodity in Iraq, given the male:female ratio. Eventhough we hit it off immediately, I didn't get much out of our gabfest, though I did follow his suggestion to try Michelob Ultra as a tasty low-carb beer.

However.

I've been at my current job for one year (which means my replacement had been at her job for one year, until she was fired on Monday for selling crack cocaine!). Our office is located in Baton Rouge, six hours away, which was okay when there were four of us, but now that our staff has been doubled to eight, some powers-that-be decided it might be a good idea if we had supervision and guidance of some sort. Enter my new promotion: onsite supervisor, pay raise 25%, then another cost of living raise in January.

It's more than the money...it's the power and future asskissings I look forward to the most. Just kidding. It's really about the money.