Build-A-Boo Workshop

"Hi, welcome to Build-A-Boo Workshop, where boos are made. My name is Katrina, how can I help you today?"

"Oh, hey, Katrina! Listen. I'm wondering if you could help me out with something. Well, I obviously need to build a boo..."

"Of course! That's why you're here, right?" *light, uncomfortable laugh*

"Mm hm, yeah. So. This is what I need. I need... well... about my height, maybe a little taller..."

"Okay, go on."

"I need him to look me right into my eyes in a moment of passion, whether its a laugh or a cry."

"Oh, we have those! What else?"

"I want him to have a little meat on his bones, you know, so when I hug him I feel like I can fall into his arms and be safe and warm."

"Oh! Gotcha!"

"I... I want every orb of his soul so connected to mine, that when he smiles, I smile too, even if I dont know what he's smiling about. When he feels heartache, I feel it too-- when he's happy, I'm overjoyed and when he sleeps I feel at rest. I want his hands to be strong and willful, like a sun-drenched ocean tide carrying me safely home. I want his arms and legs to be made for work as well as play, and can you put little electric diodes in there so whenever I touch him my fingertips tingle?"

"Yes, we most certainly can do that for you, no problem."

"Thanks, Katrina."

"Any color preference?"

"No, none at all."

"Okay. *jots that down* Would you like the default brown eye color?"

"Sure. Sign me up for that."

"Okay, okay. Great. What about his heart? Any special parameters for that?"

"He must love, with all his heart, soul, mind and body, the Lord God Almighty. I want to make sure that he puts Him first, even before me."

"Oh? Okay..."

"Now lets be clear: I want him to love me for every inch of me too-- my good traits as well as my bad, my idiosyncrasies, habits, so on and so forth. Accept me, my family, my friends, all of me for who I am, nothing more, nothing less."

"Good, good! Okay. Anything else?"

"Actually Katrina, there is."

"Go on..."

*leans in closer* "Can you make him, you know, passionate?"

"Um... *looks wide-eyed* I think we may have that available..."

"I mean, completely passionate. Please, check to see if you have available the ability to make me feel like the most beautiful woman alive, just with a glint in his eye-- or give me a look across the room that will make me weak in the knees. Can you, will you, see if its possible for him to have the capability to kiss me without his lips ever touching my skin, and even feeling his breath against the back of my hand makes the world melt away?"

"Wow... you know what you want, don't you, ma'am?"

"*chuckle* Well, Katrina. Lets just say I might have some idea already what doesn't work for me. And an even greater revelation of what does."

Yonder

Some things I take for granted. My freedom. My ability to go to college. My special heritage. My luck with that extra chicken nugget in my little cardboard box to go. But today, I had the opportunity to soak in and relish in my privilege to travel.

I got on the plane, not expecting much as usual, to get crammed next to, "Randy." Randy, the ultimate business jet-setter, pecked away at his laptop keyboard and made numerous phone calls back-to-back without ever hitting the end button. He elbowed me in the side as he was reaching for ink pens, business cards, an extra stylus, whatever. He spoke loudly but fluently as people on the other end of the phone seemed to respect whatever wish he spoke.

However, behind me was, I'll call them Barb and John. Barb fidgeted and tittered with her husband, asking this and wondering that. Once the flight took off, Barb burst into a ball of happiness as she blurted out "Oh my goodness! Isn't this exciting? This is my first time leaving Atlanta...!"

I looked out the window as the sun, barely breaking the horizon line, adorned with a rich, sultry red. The clouds, one solid mass wisping and gathering to the west, started in a rich honey yellow and spectrumed out to a deep, sultry violet. Stars sprinkled about, twinkled and glistened as they seemed to play a game of hide and seek; and the city lights in the distance flickered as if to decide if to ask "Is it dark enough, yet?"

Drinking in the beauty of the skies above, I closed my book and stared wistfully out the window. I wondered how many times have I seen this scene and not taken it in? Was I this aware when I flew to New York? Minneapolis? St. Louis? Chicago? Is there possibly a way to bottle this euphoria up and put it on a shelf for a day where I'm feeling selfish and doubtful?

I wonder if "Randy" ever saw things the way I saw them today. Granted he probably didn't because I know my big head was in the way. But I'd hope to remain wide-eyed and hopeful like "Barb" was; unawares to the hum-drum normalcy of on again/off again flight patterns, meeting requests and endless conference calls. Things such as this, make you jaded and bitter. And I'd rather go up yonder before I turn into that.

Don't Touch My Bra Fat.

Ladies, ladies, ladies.

Each one of us knows what its like to tug, pull, rotate an tuck some orb of fat into a bra. Some of us are none the wiser that our backs look like a smashed can of biscuits, while others, are so aware that they cut eyes at the women who's bra straps look more like pulled shoestrings. I can't lie. I've mastered the art of cutting my eyes and sucking my teeth in one smooth move.

Being an experienced toter of the bra fat, I know what its like to have someone pat me on the back and they touch that soft, tender spot right in the center of your back or that space right under your shoulder blades. You can just imagine that if there was a camera affixed to your back recording the back-patting assault, if you played it in slow motion it would jiggle, bounce and flabber for at least six minutes. You're instantly pissed at who ever touched the alleged "No Zone," straighten your spine and clear your throat.

Now lets be clear, touching that area isn't just limited to a pat on the back. It comes with a one armed hug, cuddling, even a grappling fest during a first kiss. And I guarantee you. It kills the mood every. Single. Time. Its almost in tuned with poking a girl in the belly, from the side. Now, fellas, I wouldn't recommend you do that, either seriously nor playfully. Its a very expedient way to get knocked the hell out.

Unwanted Visitor

After a great workout at the gym, I get back to the house, take a long, hot shower and have a little dinner. The greatest way to wind down after a treacherous Monday.

Finally, time to hit the sheets, I put my sleep timer on my TV and curl up on the couch. My bed's still got clothes all over it. And they're not about to get put up tonight. Dozing, I finally turn my back to the TV to reach that place called heaven.

Dreaming, I'm walking through a meadow with the tall wildgrass grazing against my naked arms. I welcomed the warm sun and the cool breeze from the east. I stopped for a second to brush some seedlings off my arm when I was quickly averted to consciousness. I looked down at my arm to see a two-inch waterbug looking at me in the face, perched atop my elbow.

I jolted out of my fetal position, threw my covers in one direction and reached for the nearest light switch. I can't BELIEVE this bug, BLEH!!!!, walked across my naked arm! And the NERVE to wake me up!

I shook out my blanket to see if the freeloader had found its way amidst the soft fabric. No avail. I quickly realized if I do shake this little f*cker out, I am going to want to stomp on it. Repeatedly. I put on my sh*t-kicker Timberland boots and began stomping around my nesting place.

First the blanket, then my pillows-- no such luck. Then I began to rip the couch cushions off, checking all six sides for the assailant's little body. I look at the bottom of the couch, but the way its made there are no cracks between the springs and the frame. Thank God. I get down on all fours to see if I see the little bugger looking back at me, but seeing how it was dark, I grunt with frustration and almost threw my coffee table across the room as I reached for the back of the couch. I paused for a moment and slid the couch out and BADA-BING! The little bugger saw me and scurried back under the couch. Still ramped, I took the couch and tipped it over, bottom-out to try and unveil the six-legged creature. But I didn't see it.

Where'd he go? Did he weasel his little body under my couch somewhere? I began to kick the bottom of the couch, hoping the little violator would lose its footing and come sprawling out amongst the ruckus. But I saw nothing. I began kicking again, now even more agitated but still no avail. Hair now all over the place and out of breath I assessed the damage to my living room. Couch cushions thrown, coffee table in the dining room. Piles of pillows and blankets everywhere, lamp shade leaning and my couch teetering on a prostrate position. Look at the clock. 3:11 AM.

I began to calm down and realize that I needed to go back to sleep, for christ sake. As I began to reassemble my living room, I kept a vicious eye open for the unwanted visitor. Carefully still shaking out things as I put them back together, you know, just in case I didn't get him the first (or second) time. I finally drift back off to sleep close to 4 AM, a frown smeared across my face. And blanket pulled to the top of my head. I kept on one boot just in case the little bugger decided to strike. Again.

Morning Constitution

If you have sort of a habit in the mornings when you get to work, you can relate. If you don't have a habit, pick one up at your local Walmart.

My habit is tea. I'm not much of a coffee drinker-- I just don't like the stuff. I tried and tried to like it when I turned 25, because hey, that's an offical grown 'n sexy drink. I've tried it iced, frappe'd, cappicino'ed, mocha'ed, whipped, blended, shaken not stirred, all of it. I just can't get with it.

Anywho, I drink tea in the morning for my pick-me-up: a firm combination of two packs of Splenda (three if I'm feeling frisky), one bag of green tea and a bag of cranberry apple. See, the green tea doesn't have much of a taste to it, but I drink it because "they say" its good for you. Whatev. The cran apple has this sweet, robust tingle that just generally makes me happy every time I take a sip. Healthy and tingly. Just how I like most things in my life.

But have you ever noticed, that there is a pattern of people that are around you when you're trying to fix your morning brew in the mornings? You play double dutch in reaching over, around, behind and in front of people to successfully concoct your small caldron of drink without getting overtly frustrated or pissed off that someone is standing in your way between you and happiness. Eventually, it becomes a routine-- sort of a coreographed dance, if you will, of arms and necks working harmoniously together to acheieve the same goal: The Caffine Fix.

And then, here they come. THE VISITORS. They aren't necessarily people who are coming to visit the job, per se, but its the lady who's running late, had an early meeting and missed her "brew group," or just felt like pissing you off and decided to become the remedial stick in your wheel of progression today. She throws everyone COMPLETELY off, stopping the processes, not standing on the correct side of the coffee maker, reaching down when she should be reaching up or any wild combination of the aforementioned crimes. She smiles and says "Oh, sorry!" alot when all you're thinking in the back of your mind is "If this stringy-haired winch doesn't get out of my way..."

So, friends, know and remember your "brew group" and when your shift is. If you walk into the common area to get your morning brew and you don't recognize the locals, it may be best to hold off until a shift change. Or better yet, to prevent decapitation, the next morning.

Advertising INTERPOL

Okay.

I am COMPLETELY convinced of something.

You may thing this is contrived, but for those who know, KNOW.

For those of you who are in advertising, you know how close-knit everyone and eveything is. You know someone who knows someone who knows someone... its a vicious circle. I GUARANTEE you if we played a 14-hour game of six degrees of separation, we could find a way to link EVERYONE in advertising, all the way down to the 1st quarter student at The Circus.

Anywho, I'm convinced that there is an undisclosed INTERPOL for advertising. Once you fill out your information at a portfolio school or internship, your name is inserted into a secretive database that's kept in a private cave in upstate New York. Satellite offices? North-west Chicagoland area, Bay Area outside San Fran and a new one opening up in the west suburb of Miami.

Information is shipped off and entered... and when a person is looking for a job, they check out the agency and send off their book. The PR person goes downstairs in a stale, dark, secured room, entering only with a retnal scan and tissue sample. She has to take off her shoes and put her hair in a cap to prevent any static...she enters the room and types in your name, direction and current phone number. Then a green and black grid of the world pops up on the screen while the computer beeps LOADING. The screen scrambles for a second and pulls up your name, SSN, logo identity, website, Dan Balser and Norm Grey's comments from EVERY class you took, your grades all the way back to Sylvia's class and a video clip of your graduation speech. A few swift keystrokes and the mystery woman sees every agency that you've submitted your .pdf too, emailed, stopped by, and met with at a portfolio review.

A few more keystrokes and she can see every comment about you every agency has said behind your back after they told you "We're in a holding pattern at the moment..." She reaches for the mouse to her right, and scrolls down and briefly nods to herself as she reads the comments. As she reaches the bottom of the page, a computer prompt pops up. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO ADD YOUR OWN COMMENT?" A tap of "OK" and off she goes, typing in what each ECD, CD, PR and whatever person had something to say about you, said. She hits what I assume to be Apple+S and "SAVING..." flashes across the screen. A few seconds later, she clicks "OK" and exits the program. She smiles slightly to herself as she swivels out of the cold, backless, metal chair, presses her palm against the access pad and shuffles back to her desk to throw you, your hard spent education money AND your book into a pile of faceless numbers and codes.

And THAT friends, is my theory.

Any objectors?