Female Etiquette

Let me highlight ANOTHER facet of how women are so different from men.

I hear horror stories from guys ABOUT guys in the bathrooms at the office. The non-washing of hands, the phone conversations while on the toilet and so on. I listen with a combination of shock and awe: shock only because, well, us ladies, we do things a bit differently.

Of course, the number one concern is the no-flush. A woman goes in, does her thing and apparently gets so involved in putting her clothes back on that she forgets to flush the toilet OR doesn't allow the check-back look because she's so involved in her Blackberry. Of course, that situation was alleviated with self-flushing toilets, thank the gods.

Now, taking a trip to the ladies room, I was self-involved in Twittering about some nonsense and checking my email for some items. In sitting there, another lady walked in and slipped into the stall next to me. The only reason why she knew I was in there was because she tried the handle and found it locked. Great. Now that I've been discovered, the timer starts to when I need to evacuate before she thinks that I'm doing something... fiendish.  But, this time, to prove a quick theory, I stayed around to see what would happen.

I noticed that she didn't perform her duties immediately. She sat patiently and waited for the bathroom to clear before she could move forward. Two other ladies came in, jostling my stall handle, then hers and landing finally in the handicap stall at the end. She came in and noisily did what she had to do-- what sounded like adjusting the straps on a papertowel dress with one arm tied behind her back, while hopping on one leg and mouthing the words of the star spangled banner. While performing her one-man-band show, another lady came in and fell right into the first stall. She quickly, and quietly performed her master duties, washed her hands and left.

My legs began to go numb as I wanted to spice things up a bit-- as The Last Staller emerged from her lair and The First Staller had just left, I opened and closed my stall door to see if The Second Staller was going to hear and make her move. I quietly put down my cell phone and waited. Just a few seconds after The Last Staller leaves, there was finally movement in the next stall. Two minutes later she was done, washed and left.

So, therefore I concluded, that women do not like to perform in any sort of public, seen or unseen. Men, on the other hand, are not ashamed of their performances. Even to the point of having reviews and writeups of the episodes experienced where so many co-workers meet.

True Resolution Ministries

My husband and his business partner are opening a transitional home for homeless men in recovery called "True Resolution Ministries".

This organization exists to assist homeless men recovering from substance abuse issues in learning the skills that they will need to have a full life. The owners of this facility are educated/trained in the areas of addiction counseling, anger management, and life skill coaching.

If you would like to help this organization in this endeavor by donating any furniture or other household items that you have been wanting to get rid of, we'd be happy to pick up any donations you have. Please contact me if you would like to donate.

Items needed:

• Sofa and chairs
• Kitchen table and chairs
• Beds
• Mattresses
• Pots and pans
• Utensils
• Glasses
• Toiletries and miscellaneous household items

Your generosity is most appreciated by True Resolution Ministries AND the men they serve.

Rhonda Martin
404-841-1892

The Voices Sing

I had the opportunity, moreso, privilege to experience the choral stylings of the William Baker Festival Singers last night. The concert was held at Peachtree Christian Church-- a building that has seen so much history, so many families and friends come and go throughout its numerous years of standing there. You can feel the heaviness in the air of all the laughter, tears and hugs that were once exchanged within its walls.

Getting off of the elevator, there was a straight-shot view between myself and the woman taking the tickets. Behind her the choir was getting ready to go on stage. There was a faint cloud of titters and laughter, pats on the back and hand motions while they went over lyrics at the last minute. My eyes shifted to the choir and then fell back on her, and I had to remember to smile as I approached. I can feel the ache in my shoulders from the day's stresses tense up and relax a little bit as I silently agreed to leave work, at work.

Taking my ticket with a smile and a thank you, she pointed me in the direction of the back of the sanctuary. "Don't want you to have to step over any of the choir members to find a seat," she mused. I obliged with a smile and an assured "Oh! Thank you!" and rounded the corner to the side cooridor.

As I turned the corner from the corridor to the main hall in the back of the sanctuary, my steps were padded by the deep, velvety carpet that softened the area. Though it seemed to add a sense of commandment to the space, my eye was immediately drawn upward to the paintings of past leaders of this said church. Old, dead white guys adorned in robes and holding a bible in a half smile. I hesitated for a moment to walk over and look at the dates of their sovereignty in this church, only to be interrupted by an alter boy in a black suit and no smile to hand me a program. I flash him an oh-you-caught-me-off-guard smile and he turned and opened the door for me.

The inside of the sanctuary is what I had imagined, and more. A cool breeze glided past me as my eyes shifted upward to the massively tall ceilings, adorned with paintings and beautifully carved wood trimmings. There was a deep-red runner that lead from the door straight to the pulpit where the choir stood. I walked one, two, three, rows from the back and sat down, not realizing how old the pew must have been: as I sat down it made an uncomfortable creaking noise that resonated throughout the room. I had decided, then, that whatever position I settled in, that would have to be it for the next hour. No exceptions.

Stained glass surrounded the sanctuary: a different set of stories for each facade the space offered. The evening light coolly illuminated each feature, allowing the rich colors and textures of each piece of broken and mended glass to glow. It was hard to focus on the choir at first, especially with the largest piece directly above them: a comforting picture of Jesus Christ calling forth His lost and showing them pathway to irreplaceable love.

The conductor approached his stand immediately after I sat down and began to give his introductions of the group that stood in formulaic unison behind him. He spoke with a very easy, consistent tone while surprisingly keeping his hands very still. After the introduction he turned to the choir with a boldness and confidence I haven't seen in a while-- and with one raise and fall of his hand, they began to sing.

As the tenors started singing the first verse of the song my eyes immediately slid closed. The unison of their voices was as warm as a genuine embrace on a cold day. As they effortlessly chanted, my heart slowed to the rhythm of the song. I was surprised at the power that these voices had over my body: the security and safeness that I felt by just listening to them sing the beginnings of this German Requiem.

The sopranos and altos blended in with the tenors like cream and sugar into a rich cup of coffee and I enjoyed drinking in every last sip. They sang from the texts of William Shakespeare, renditions of Bach and Mozart and intricately written pieces from the British and German cultures. The female soloists offered an enthralling and piercing sense of settlement and peace with their voices, causing me to sit up just to see who (and how) such a person could sound so effortlessly angelic.

The ensemble rounded out their concert by singing folklore songs from the times of slavery-- clearly enjoying every crescendo and sharp each song mandated. I unconsciously nodded my head and tapped my foot as the choir did, but was just thrilled that I could actually recognize the words.

At the end of the concert, the conductor turned and bowed joyfully to the audience, quite assuredly smiling inside. He had done it again and there was a group of people that could completely agree and appreciate him for it. I stood and clapped, allowing myself a few seconds to give my offering of hand praise to the group. After a short while, I grabbed my things and tip-toed out the back before the room had completely settled after the final applause. As I emerged from the church, I took a deep, alighting breath to realize that this was truly, indeed, a very wonderful, wonderful experience.

In It For a Day

Odd (and predictable) as it sounds, I was actually smitten for a day. Complete head-over-heels, deep-sighing, pillow-hugging smitten for about a day. What a long day that was.

I can't definitively say that it was love. I can't. I won't. Because I've only been in "it" once, and that took almost a year of campaigning on his part to persuade me that the nagging, aching feeling that I was so desperately trying to drown with studying and exercise was actually love in the flesh.

So, in seeing how I had something very similar to that nagging feeling, I present my blog.

He walked in the house and I was shocked at how my insides responded to him. It was sort of this leaping/gasping/flounderin

g type deal that I was NOT accustomed to. My friends egged me on face to face and from afar, dubbing him "my boo," which over time settled my spirit more into liking him. It was a constant battle of checking and re-checking to assure fresh breath, good eye contact and no sweaty palms the entire day. I have to say that by the end of the day, I was EXHAUSTED.

I saw him again the following day, though back and forth about what I was going to wear when I saw him, I opted out for casual and did what I felt was comfortable. The complete misery that was rushing through my body when I talked to him, when I wasn't talking to him, when I was avoiding eye contact and smiling nervously at him, was unavoidable torture. I didn't eat the entire time he was there and when he finally left I was so worked up that I could still barely choke down my own dinner that I had (so lovingly) prepared. Somewhere between closing the door behind him and breathing a sigh of relief, I turn around to see my friends eyeballing me and almost tossing my carcass out into the night for me to go and chase after him and give him what they dub as "the boob hug." Apparently what I gather, through explicit illustrations, its when a girl firmly presses her boobs against a guy's chest, to remind (and assure) him that she does indeed, without a doubt, own breasts. Let him take it from there.

Exhausting.

All the while, a wild ride for many, I need a day off to recuperate and replenish my way of thinking. "Love" can wait. I think I'll stick with the cool, refreshing breeze of the single life a while longer.

This Little Towne Named St. Louis

Not to think I'm bohemian by any means, I bid thee a new perspective on my home towne.

Born, bred and hailing from St. Louis, MO, you don't realize how you lived until you leave the life you once, well, lived. Here's my story.

Flying in from Atlanta one late afternoon, I breeze off the plane. I slide my D&G shades up from over my deprived eyes and gaze around the gate's waiting area. The dimly lit arena of awating people gazed at or around me, wondering when it would be time to board the plane. I stride past them, up the ramp, down the ramp, around the corner and to the baggage claim. I slip my shades back on and plug in the left headphone from my iPod into my ear. Trying to look as physically unavailable as possible, I shot short glances around me, not turning my head at all but shifting my eyes left to right. I caught confused gazes of people around me, mostly wearing grey, bright orange or some sort of Disney cartoon character adorned on their shirts. I look down at my attire, wearing a crisp button-down blouse with pearl earrings, fitted jeans and stiletto boots. Somehow I felt a bit out of place.

Fast forward to the next morning. I had to awaken early before my junket to Chicago to go to the DMV to get my new tags for my (still) Missouri license plates. I walk in to the place where I've been so many times before-- where my friends co-oped during high school, where I got my permit papers; how about where I picked up my first set of personalized plates and even where I submitted the paperwork to get my car registered in the first place. I walk in and take a number from the little red dispenser that always looks like its sticking its tounge out at you. Moderately crowded, I walk over to the far side of the space and find a seat next to an old man. I look down at the chairs first to make sure I didn't get anything on my soft white-linen capris, or anything to wrinkle my crisp button down shirt. I glance over my shoulder and catch people staring at me-- and again feeling awkward, I slink down a little in my chair and await until my number is called.

Looking around the DMV brought back and showed me so many things that I had forgotten. The little things like a person's name carved out of a block of wood, clearly laqured and on display for all to see. How about the faded poster of some movie that came out ten years ago, and never have I seen so many different forms of an eagle in all my life. The section of the wall dedicated to the offspring of the employees, the offspring of the offspring of the employees, sisters, cousins, neighbors: all with cute little callouts and cheesy grins of proud mamas and sleeping paw-paws in the lazyboy. The section where awards given out by the local high schools for a collaboration on a Co-Op program mandated in 1998 and before, the angel figurines, the orange carpet, the imitation wood paneling, the dingy white paint and every employee with a horizontal stripped t-shirt, denimn Lee Jeans shorts and a pair of off-white Reeboks to set the mood.This, right here ladies and gentlemen, used to be MY world. The khaki pants, the K-Swiss tennis shoes, no makeup, no heels, no problem. I'm from St. Louis. This is what we look like. What we wear. What we represent. Isn't it? Right?

In all my times in being back in this city, never have I EVER felt so out of place. So now the question is, what do I now call "Home"?

How I learned to make soup.

I remember as a little girl: short, stocky and chunky as I was, the numerous times I tried (and failed) to make a good bowl of soup. I wasn't aware what the word "condensed" meant-- I would dump the can into a bowl, a solid and gelatinous mess of goo and microwave the living daylights out of it until it was some form of a hot mass of edibleness. Thinking that was the way to partake of "condensed" soup, I went on, time and time again preparing my soup the same way.

One evening, I was sitting in the family room with my mother watching television. She mentions the philosophy of making some tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. Excited, and thinking I knew what the heck I was doing, I jump up and "make" some tomato soup. Can. Bowl. Dump. Microwave. Done. Lumpy and hard to cruise through, I present to my mom my accomplishment. She puts her hands on her hips, shakes her head and says "If you would have just waited..."

She takes a small saucepan out of the cabinet, opens a can of soup and puts it into the pot. Turning on the stove and adjusting it to medium, she takes the milk from the refrigerator and pours a little into the pot. A pinch of pepper and a pinch of something else and mixes it together. I sat and watched as she carefully took out two slices of bread, buttered both sides and put them under the broiler, carefully watching and waiting for them to brown. She took her two slices of cheese, placed them on the bread, toasted a little more and then took it out of the oven. Her soup made faint bubbling noises as her cheese hissed and crackled on the hot buttery bread. She stirred her soup a bit more, and put her hand on her hip as she looked over at me and smirked. I sat there, elbows on the table, looking at her in sheer disappointment that I didn't wait for her in the first place. I looked down at the solid goo that was my soup and the mass of burnt bread and room-temperature cheese that was supposed to be my sandwich. I heard the click of the stove as she turned it off. She got a big bowl from the top shelf and ladled her soup into the bowl. She manufactured the rest of her grilled cheese sandwich, cut it in half and placed it on a folded paper towel. As she made her way back to the living room, she paused as she was about to walk past me, looked into my bowl, and poured some of her warm, smooth, creamy soup over my solid goo. She smiled at me and hummed a little diddy on her way back to the big cozy chair in front of the TV.

I looked down into my bowl and compared mental notes. My soup, dark, clumpy and needs to be spread with a knife, started to absorb the smooth, consistent soup she cared to make. I picked up my spoon and scooped just enough of her soup to taste. It was hot, but so much more palatable-- she was right. If only I had waited.

From then on, I know that making soup takes a little more time and energy than most people are willing to make. Just because its in a can for our convenience, doesn't mean that the right preparation won't take precious time.

See, sometimes we are at times of our lives where we are in a hurry to get to the end result. We see what we want, we take short cuts and take-- and more often than not we do get what we're aiming for, but it won't nearly be as awesome as it would be if we just took our cotton-pickin' time.

Ladies and gentlemen-- God has a big plan for us. That's no secret. If you find yourself getting rather impatient and contrite with Him because what you desire hasn't manifested yet, please, don't try to do it your own way. I can guarantee you, you can still get what you want. But it will be a solid, gooey mess compared to what He really wants to prepare for you.

If I Knew Then...

With more than a quarter of my life under my belt, I’d like to think that I am not just older, but wiser as well. See, deep down, I feel as though we are always craving for new relationships. New friends, a new boo, an undiscovered dentist, whatever. It keeps us on our toes, it makes us dress a little better and care more about the potential of what tomorrow will bring.

However. What if we had the opportunity to know what was going to happen in a relationship before it even happened? Would you walk up to your future ex-boyfriend and go, "Hi. My name is blah blah blah, and I’m going to be your ex one day. We’re going to get along just fine in the beginning, of course, and as time goes on, I’ll get tired of you. I’ll begin to question your motives and accuse you of cheating on me-- you’ll be frustrated at me for going through your things when you’re not looking. We’ll have a rocky, horrible breakup that will last for months, and all the while have soul-shaking, amazing sex in between. You down?"

Would we avoid certain people, knowing what kind of heartache they would bring to our lives? Dodge persons of the same sex who have the potential to be really good friends, but in the end leave us feeling alone, wasted and spent?

Now, before you all stampede the stage with your "Heck no I wouldn’t do it!!" or "I’d kill him before he even met me!!", think about this. What would you learn if you didn’t? Would you, could you, appreciate yourself a little more if you didn’t meet that person? Would you, could you, still be able to take away a life experience that will help you in the future? Things that you learn from? Would you want to take away the ability to nod your head in agreement with someone who is going through the same thing, and tell your story to help them through?

So, the next time you let someone in your life go, just remember that you always had the chance in the beginning to never start the relationship in the first place. But would you be as awesome as you are now if you didn’t take the chance?

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?

Holy Christmas!!

Alright. So this story may not be as funny as my "Hotter than hell" day I had in NY, but I definitely feel as though I had to write up a quick blog about this.

The Dinklemobile is sick. She's been acting funny since before I got back-- but moreso now that its gotten colder. Shaking, sputtering, loss of power during acceleration: an all out inconvenience in a city that requires EVERYONE to have a car. I called AAA and asked them to point me in the direction of the closest diagnostic center; a automobile's doctor's office.

The place wasn't far, just about a half-mile down Ponce from my house. I dropped it off this morning, checked her in, and waited around for another twenty minutes for the Courtesy Shuttle to pick me up and take me to the Marta.

For some reason, I DON'T miss riding the train.

The shuttle dropped me off at the North Ave. station and I grabbed my baggage and headed for the ticketing machine. I stood there in blind stupor trying to figure out what meant who and what the heck a "Breeze Card" is. (Note: Breeze Card = Metro Card). The local cop came up and stood behind me, asking me if I needed any help. Trying to sound as uncertain as I could, I said "Um... no... I...uh... think... I..." trailing my voice off to sound more convincing. Before I can turn around, my so-called shirpa bounded off to help another person. Jerk.

So, looking as tourist-y as possible, I finger the railway map, making sure I needed to go northbound instead of southbound. I take the stairs down, and wait for a few minutes for The Silver Bullet to approach.

Getting on the train, I felt like I was stepping back onto the 4, to casually find my spot standing holding the pole at the opposite door. I quickly realized that everyone was sitting, and that there were actually a few available seats. I quickly decided to remain standing: I look cute today. Everyone's just going to have to stare at me. I find my Gazing Spot... you know, that spot you find on the train to stare at to avoid eye contact from everyone around you. Remember: I'm standing. I don't have a whole lot of places I can look. I see something flicker out of the corner of my eye and see a small television embedded into the panel. Praise Moses! Entertainment Bliss! I've found my Gazing Spot!

Four stops later and I get off the train, and THOUGHT I'd end up one place but ended up someplace completely different. CRAP. Instead of walking one-and-a-half blocks north and one block west, I ended up having to walk an entire six blocks west.

Ladies and Gents: its KUHOLD outside today. I'm talking Des Moines Winter quality cold. Its 19 degrees with a windchill of 2, and the wind is blowing NNW at 21 MPH. I wouldn't even lock enemies outside in this.

I start the journey (uphill, mind you) to work. The icy wind hitting my face, my eyes begin to water, nose starts to run and I have nowhere to turn to hide. A gym bag and a bookbag strapped to my back, I mentally kicked myself for actually WANTING to work out today.

Two blocks down... four more to go.

My legs begin to tingle and itch from my blood trying to circulate under freezing skin. The wind whipps past my butt to remind me how open and vulnerable I am. I shift my gym bag backwards to help cover the cold cheeks. Although it did help a little, a small shock of wind would find its way between me and the bag whenever I took a step. Friggin' hips.

Four blocks down... two to go.

This is at the very busy (and WIDE) intersection of Lenox and Peachtree. The opposite cross light isn't functioning properly-- of course I didn't realize this until four rounds of straight north-south, straight east-west, turn, turn cycles were executed. I decided to take a chance: I'd officially lost all feeling in my hands and the tears from my eyes were officially frozen to my face.

I double-dutched my way across the street, avoiding delivery trucks and angry cab drivers. Making it safely across, I gazed back at my accomplishment of safely passing through the most dangerous intersection in Atlanta.

I can see the office building in the horizon and my legs are really starting to complain. The itching and tingling intensified, it took everything in me to keep from clawing my jeans off and scratching right then and there. But since I was in public and still outside, I refrained. But the idea made me smile a little.

I rounded the final curve and entered the office building. The security guard looked at me in shock as I came in sniffing and wide-eyed... not even so much as a good morning. I passed by a reflective spot on the elevator doors and finally saw what he was so agape about. My bangs had flown straight up despite the excessive application of hairspray, my ponytail looked like a cat got a hold of it. My eye makeup had mosey'd its way up near my forehead and I'd actually lost an earring. The tears were still frozen to my face and now starting to melt and my entire face and hands were as red as a newly-spanked butt. I blinked, wiped my nose and got on the next elevator.

Ahh... its good to be warm.

Country Boys

This past Thanksgiving weekend I had the wonderful opportunity to go home and visit with the honey's family. Such a good time. If you've ever been anywhere outside of Atlanta, GA you will know and realize that it is all country.

Sandersville, GA is a small town (more like community) about two hours south east of Atlanta. After driving down, we pulled up to this tiny little house that was packed full with so many memories... and so much love.

Friday night, Washington County High had a game against their arch-rivals and The Watts Brothers would have to be in attendance. We rolled in about six-deep (of course to meet others there) and casually strolled up and around the stands to find our seats on the Home side of the field. People shouted their hellos and exchanged glances as we walked by-- seeming in slow motion the entire time.

Sitting on the clad metal seat I looked out at the field, watching the black and gold boys of WaCo High plan out their next play. The hot steam from their breath hit the cold night hair with rhythmic pumps as they stood there, paced, strolled and spoke to each other in hushed voices.

As I looked out at them I thought back to what it was like for me when I was decked in black and gold, with HCHS emblazoned across my chest, down my leg and across my forehead. Forgetting and not knowing what lies outside these gates but everything in me focusing on what's happening right now. Watching your fellow classmates and the guy you have a crush on squat down into formation with the goal of making another mark on the turf where so many others had played before-- hoping, wanting and willing to make it.

Time slowed as the quarterback caught the ball and took two giant glides back, and I thought of the flourescent lights in the halls at HCHS. As the cracking sound of helments hitting pads and bodies thudding into one another, I thought of running to class after getting a note from a friend... waiting for that bell to go to lunch... and scrambling to get homework done on the bus before school.

The Touchdown Cannon blasted and the sound reverberated in my chilled bones. These boys just don't know what life has in store for them today, tomorrow or next week. All they know is now. And they dwell and cherish every single minute of it.

Maybe I need to take a note from these boys.

Double-Click

Sometimes when you get older in not necessarily age but more so maturity, its really weird to look back on something that just happened a few weeks or a few months back. Its kind of strange that we are so zealous in living in NOW that we oftentimes completely disregard the possibility of the future.

Forgive my vagueness, please, and consider this: the mind is a machine. A computer, to be more specific. See, if you look at your desktop on your PC or MAC, doesn't matter, there are files and directories that are the gateways to numerous other files and directories. Ever consider, that when you look up from your book and across the room you see a set of eyes and a smile you can't resist, or when you extend your hand in a fellow greeting, and right when your palms touch in magnetic desire that person creates a folder in your mind? Its almost as if by the time you complete the sentence "Nice to meet you," and looking at an object of desire through dilated pupils, your mind makes a directory of this person in your head that stores information, news, events, happenings and general misc. items about them.

So, say, you develop a genuine crush on this person. The file is marked red-hot and it gets more clicks than myspace in your mind. You think about them, constantly reviewing their information on why they are just so fucking wonderful. You scan documents of previous conversations, browse picture files of memories of what they were wearing and how great their smile was.

But what happens when you have to delete the file? When they've pissed you off for the last time, or finally reveal to you that they don't feel the same way you do? What then? As you hang up, storm off, slam the door or drive off, you clutch your fingers to white knuckles and try desperately to drag their file over to the trash can. "Are you sure you want to delete file?" flashes across your mind and depending on how angry you are determines how long you hesitate to click "HELL YEAH". You click and you sit in angst as you watch the files slowly melt away to the trash, trying to repeatedly convince yourself that you did the right thing.

The file is never deleted.

Its stored on your hard drive as long as your hard drive remains in tact. Even though its deleted from your immediate desktop, it still looms around in your system, creeping up on you in the recent documents menu and default settings. You try to dig and search to find the originals to erase them but you'll never find them. Your search gets prioritized with other hot jobs, of course, and more often than not, its forgotten, but not lost.

And sometimes a familiar smell, a random phone call or an over-heard conversation can double-click on the file and open it again. Thing is, its your decision whether you browse through it or not.

The New Accessory

I really didn't notice it so much in other cities than I have here.

Instead of a foppish handbag, over rated strands of beads from the distant shores of Lake Titikaka or a belt made from the skin of the rare Nepos Ardvark, the newest accessory for Atlanta women is none other than...

Fruit.

I've seen so many women toting around in their plastic containers (clear, flip-top, mind you) chunks of fresh, pre-cut fruit. More often than not, its a cornicopia of red grapes, apple chunks, unsweeted honeydew or skin-tone cantelope and if she's feeling REALLY saucy, a crooked morsel of pineapple.

Why do these women do it? Are they trying to portray this doting, wholesome facade that they are healthy eaters? And with that aura, are they secretly shunning the rest of us who eat entire meals that consist of nothing but the color brown?

Normally, I can see such a situation in/on/around an eating area or cafe. But in parking garages, bathrooms, hell, even walking their dogs? Did I miss that column in Cosmo or am I just more partial to the Vegetable party?

Go get 'em, broccoli florets!