Gleee! That is the name of this all-natural chewing gum I am chewing. I had to buy it because the name is Glee! and because its made with Rainforest "Chicle". I thought maybe I would end up chewing cocoa leaves or roots. Pronounced co-co-ah. Glee! No.

The cynicism is taking over today. Its warm out, I work in advertising and I have a scarf tied around my neck. Glee!

3 terms I detest:

1) hueristic
2) paradigm
3) vanguard

Its not that I can't be serious. I can be. I spent 12 hours of my Thursday being so serious, it wasn't quite right. Too serious.

But I chemically have to keep the balance of serious and non-serious in check. Its a built-in mechanism that I almost have no control over; aside from where and when it happens.

After being serious and slightly tense all day, I need some humor. Is that irresponsible? Hm. Work, paychecks, insurance, this war, contagious diseases, my silly work-worries, hurt feelings, and so on and so on. But I tell you, not always, but usually, come evening, by gum, I will be doing mental handstands and dancing in my 1000/14s.

There are a few quick-fixes which always effectively snap me out of it. Of course they change frequently, but currently, here are the top three:

The first I'd like to call the "who am I talking about" game.

The idea was launched one night at the Owl Bar. Whitney and I were standing at the old, dark bar and she recognized someone. Which happens a lot, she knows everyone down here. It is more than often that she spins around and says "Look at that person in the blue shirt, ok, right behind me...". I scan a sea of blue shirts and look at her perplexedly. This time however, she leaned in, and said: "At 2:00." I hate the clock-hint, it never makes sense to me: who's two o'clock? Mine? Yours? Still determined, she stated matter-of-factly: "Ok. If someone took a gun and shot me right through here", she pointed smack in the middle of her forehead, "and it went through the back of my head, it would definately hit her." She calmly sipped her wine looking in the direction the bullet would need to exit her head, and waited for me to make the connection.

I stared back at her in awe. That is fantastic. It escallated from there, "OK, if there was a wrecking ball suspended from the ceiling, and it came at my head at a speed of 40 mph..". Cannonballs. Blow-torches. "If someone stapled my eyes and lips shut, rolled me up in an old carpet, pushed me across the room, I would definately not be looking at her. Got it?" I think 3 straight hours over a table in New Orleans was spent on this very "game". I could barely stand up afterwards.

Second: Imagining the 100,000 things I could do in a business setting such as this that would just be so-- well, confusing. And imagining the reactions. Right here, right now. Chicken costume. Smoke a corncob pipe. Dance. Poop under my desk. Oh god, its working now.

Lastly, going here. While it sort of makes me glad I am not in New York any longer (I may have had my share of groovy bars and crowded parties) I absolutely love what the author/photographer and his friends get into. Namely Grant. He is the perfect photographic specimen. These guys do it right. Brian captures DLR kick-splits (thats David Lee Roth) in various public settings. He shoots everyone, everything, and Grant seems fearless.

Amoung my favorites include a black woman passing them on her cell phone, and releasing a colossal fart. Laughing and embarassed, she exclaimed into the phone what she just let slip. They chased her down and got her to pose for a picture with them. She's clearly laughing. Awesome. Another all time favorite is a series of late-night drunk photos around a dark bar booth. Shots of their freind getting hit on. Or so they thought. The (usually kind) caption stated: "..actually, this woman, whom none of us had ever met, got so drunk she passed out on him! (But not before she managed to have 10 drunken, pretend conversations on her cell phone.)" Pretend conversations? 10? Dancing with 65 year old women. Its all there.

Yes. Its too heavy to live without splits, imaginary cannonballs, pictures with smiling gassy strangers and some kickin 1000/14s.

I'm just not very good at picking things out for other people. Some people thrive on that sort of thing. Not me. Personal gifts are different, but when it comes to this...

Over and over, Wedding reminded me that the bridemaids need shoes. Again, another critical, CRITICAL decision that needed attention... when, Wedding? Yesterday.

I was excited, I had an idea of something that would go with the vibrant color of the dresses I boldly selected, but my vision didn't really work in reality. And coupled with the fact that it will be outside in the grass, skinny, pointy heels would just be cruel. But not unhumorous.

I had some time the other afternoon for some online shoe shopping-- soon to get exasperated. Pricey stillettos or Buster Browns. All signs pointed me here. I sent the link to the crew, asking their opinions. The responses were hilarious; Stuart picked a foxy, super-high silver platform, good for cranking up the dress and grinding in a flower garden, we all agreed.

The topper was Rachael's statement; she stated that she was fine with any of them, as long as it wasn't this. Wow. As you see here, this shoe is displayed between the proud Iliana and the festive Wedding Belles, but the 1000/14 doesn't even get a name!

I mean, if you wore the 1000/14, you would have to be a real do-er, a busy-body. You'd have to scurry about, rosy-cheeked and pushy; always lending a helping hand, but really just getting in the way. Having to join in on all conversations, invited or not, and laugh too loud. You'd get real excited quick. Probably by the end of the night the 1000/14s would have quite a few grass stains.

Rachael said if she were to wear the 1000/14, she would have to orchestrate a little dance. A sort of updaed, "sexier" robot. And handstands. When the song was right, she'd leap up in her 1000/14s and ask my father to dance; but break fully into her impressive routine, leaving my dad to sort of stand there and clap.

Now I'm laughing. 5 minutes ago I could not make a customer service operator say something I wanted her to.

Me: Hi, I need access to the online version of your magazine.
Operator: Your subscription expires in July, so you have to renew to gain that access. You owe $69.
Me: But its only April! We paid for a year subscription. I just want to get on the website.
Operator: You have to renew. It is $69.
Me: (giving up) Ok, so I will tell my accounting department that. So, the magazine subscription is $69?
Op: No, the combo package is $69.
Me: Oh, ok, so how much does the mag cost?
Op: $49.
Me: So the website is $20?
Op: No, that is the COMBO package.
Me: But if the magazine is $49, and you're telling me i have to pay $69, that means the website is $20.
Op: No it does not.
Me: But yes it does!
Op: NO Ma'am! that is the com-bo package!
Me: Look, just tell me what I am paying for.
Op: Combo package is $69.
Me: Breaking down to the annual $49 magazine, and the $20 web fee.
Op: You cannot say that.
Me: How can I not say it? 69 minus 49 = 20.
Op: You see, with the combo package--
Me: Stop. Stop now. Thank you so much for the sweet combo steal.

My moods are nearly as fickle as the weather. Which probably are not unrelated. However, yesterday was somewhat epic in terms of being crummy.

After a harried and deflating work day, I had to slink off quick-like to a dermo appointment in the afternoon. I needed a teensy biopsy done (its fine) that I had put off doing in NYC, as I was told it was a sort of costly and involved procedure. And also, being fair and growing up on a beach, its good to have a skin doc. Naturally, my phone was ringing off the hook until I had to leave, so I left my burning desk and forced my way through traffic, late for my first appointment with the guy I found through my healthcare network.

Everything seemed normal, I filled out papers, waited and was escorted back to an office. Moments later, a man in a 3 peice suit threw the door open. He was old with whispy white hairs and a white handlebar mustache. It turned way up on the sides. He was laughing, and in thick Indian accent asked me why New York let a pretty girl like me go. More jolly laughter.

He leaned in and with wrinkled, watery eyes took a hard look at my face, told me that I needed laser surgery to get rid of all the "freckles.. you know, 'da junk". Ba! That's a first. Correctly, he told me to never go in the sun again (without mondo-block, of course). We then had a good chat about the state of things in our world. We saw completely eye to eye on that one. Dear man. I decided I liked him.

Within seconds, I was on the table. I was about to have a mini-surgery. I was expecting assistants and needles and things. No. The old man sort of waltzed over to a drawer, removed some sterile tools and leaned over me, chuckled and through his long mustache said "See? 'Dis ees what you git wit an old man like me!" Holy smokes. Who was this quack? No anesthetic? Topical anything? Ack! Had I mistakenly taken the Bombay express? I pleaded, he told me the shots would hurt more. From dozens of dental visits, I know that can be true. I almost asked for a shot of whiskey and a stick to bite on, but poof! it was over, and barely hurt. Until later, and even that wasn't too awful.

All is well that ends well, Scott, Jeff and I sat around (me feeling sorry for myself from the M*A*S*H tent surgery, heh) and watched SNL reruns: Jim Breuer as the heavy metal news anchor was about the funniest thing ever. Collin Quinn could barely hold it together.

Last night I sat on the floor of the basement, surrounded by fluffy packages writing thank you cards. Happily, I had a list of gifts & givers that Rachael had jotted down at the shower. I spead it out on the carpet and began scribbling away. Scott came down shortly after, and curious, he picked up the last page of the list which apparently went a little something like this:

Aunt Carrie: Saucepan.
Mrs. Bass: White towels.
Lisa Pincus: $4.
Carolyn Esposito: Salad Shooter.


He busted out laughing, "Who's Carolyn?? A Salad Shooter? Four dollars??" I grabbed the list. We both fell over laughing. Carolyn and Lisa are people that I worked with at least 6 years ago. I didn't really know them that well...Rachael had added them for kicks. Funny. Plus, there is something so incredible about the salad 'shooter'. I picture cucumbers and tomatoes flying out of a long shoot, kind of unweildy and a little too fast. "Turn the damn thing off! Unplug it!!" And all alone: $4.

On advice:

There are people who seek to help others by offering their suggestions from their personal experiences. I like that. There are also people who like to tell you the way they approach things in an effort to ensure that you do just the same. I don't always like that.

Perhaps both forms of advice originate in helpfulness. But those who take the above latter approach: my way is perfect, don't question, no seriously, listen.. freak me out. What is that? Why? Perhaps due to the fact that I've moved and my life is changing dramatically, I get it all the time.

I mean, for example, say, why would you care how someone took care of their pet or wrote in their journal or dressed in the morning-- and moreover, why would you want them to do things just like you? How boring the world would be if we all did things the same? Gack.

It bewilders me. Hm.

Last night at 7:30 I went to the neighborhood tax preparer. April 14, right on cue. Everyone was calm and friendly and there was no wait! Unheard of.

This morning at work, I looked out on the expansive deck off the top floor kitchen and there sat two super nice creatives, a guy and a girl, reclining calmly and enjoying the sun and the view of the city. It was nice and quiet.

My street is lined with blossoms.

You know how some seasons are super memorable, and others aren't? This spring is super-crazy-memorable.

Once a year I get a craving for scallops. Nothing else will suffice.

It hit me late yesterday, looking out at the bay from Ft. McHenry. I shared this with Whit, and an few hours later we were leaving Whole Foods with a good quantity of the large, expensive scallops and delicious accompaniments. Once home, I jumped behind the stove and whipped up an impressive Sunday night supper.

About 4 scallops through my dinner, I had to pause. I looked at Whit's plate. Several huge, seared flesh pockets stared back up at her, just like mine. All the salad had been finished, but its odd with the scallops; you really hit the wall. They go from utterly delectible to downright discuzting in moments. We both ate one more in an attempt to not waste them. But that did it.

We both fell silent and watched the rest of a movie. I was trying desperately to quell my near-nausea from the sea-feast. I broke the silence by asking Whit if she wanted me to get her a scallop dipped in chocolate for desert? From there, it spiraled, which almost became a competition to see who could make the other barf. It went a little something like this...just after the spongy scallop memory had vanished from one's mind, one of us would try and trick the other by pretending to start a conversation, but then slipping it in quickly:

"Oh, you know what? The other day I had the best pie... oh, what was it-- right! It was a flaky crust filled with scallops, all stacked up in their own liquer. Mmmm."
"Would you like a Scallop gimlet? It soaks up all the alcohol then you can eat it."
"Did you read about the latest beauty treatment? If your eyes are puffy, lie down and put two chilled sea scallops right on there. Works like a charm."
"Sometimes when I drink cocoa its hard to find that silly scallop bobbing around."
"Oh, my new pillows are as soft as scallops."

Whew. I still shudder.

Did I say something about a back seat? Pah ha ha haa.

Saturday morning Wedding got me out of bed early for my shower, thrown by two of my mom's best friends. Many guests I hadn't seen in a decade. To be honest, this was more for her than me. Which is of course just fine, mom deserves it.

I knew what Wedding was thinking, so off I went in my perky Ann Taylor number and combed hairs. The sun was out, we sat in a solarium-type room with lovely flowers and munched on salads. I was later motioned to sit in a large chair in front of the dozens of women, and one by one open each generous gift and Ooo and Ahh gushingly. I think I made Wedding proud.

I was reluctant to drag my girlfriends to this event, as I knew this would be more of a gentile crew. Alas, some bridesmaids insisted and boy was I thrilled. Just having them there made it great. I was proud.

We emerged many, many hours later into the beautiful afternoon, the first one in a long, long time. Heavenly! The more senior set whisked off, leaving me and my gang standing, smiling, in the country club parking lot. We had all made Wedding happy. But it was time to drop her off.

After some long laughs, we said goodbye and I drove Rachael back to Baltimore, to show her my new town for the first time. Whitney followed us. After some sightseeing and erranding, we retired to Whit's back porch, kicked off our heels and caught up. We watched the sun set, drinking cool adult beverages.

I'm not sure what happened, but what transpired for the next 3 hours was maybe one of the funniest things ever. With Whit's digital TV hook-up, she parked us on the "Dance" channel. Or something. Spontaneously, all three of us hit her living room floor like it was Studio 54. Holy smokes, its Cameo! Dance moves I have never seen were displayed by my two honky friends. Complex Saturday Night Fever foot-hand coordinations. I saw Whit on her back, spinning an impressive move. I saw the worm! All in our shower outfits. I could barely contain my laughter. Lacking the smoove moves, I entertained myself repeatedly with the Spartan exit with scissors-kick, which worked very nicely with my full sundress. Oh my gosh, its Nu Shooz! The best? I returned from the other room to find Whitney and Rachael doing handstands. Handstands! When was that ever a dance move? Fantastic.

The dance party ended, like it always should, with a loud Heart air guitar and kareoke duet.

I was introduced over a year ago to a friend who I'd heard so much about. In many circles, she is somewhat of a celebrity. I was nervous to meet her, but honored nonetheless.

Upon our meeting, she was beautiful, lilting, almost dreamy-- and very proper and kind. Wherever she was, people all around would smile worshipfully. She had a profound effect on everyone of all ages. I felt unworthy of her acquaintence.

As the months passed, she and I were brought closer together. She was beginning to show me an actual personality, instead of an intimidatingly near-holy presence. I started actually feeling very strongly for her. She could actually have fun-- a very special friendship was born. I started seeing why everyone was so especially fond of her. The spell was cast, I felt great whenever we were together.

I started thinking of her in my spare time. During lunch breaks we'd meet and run errands. At night, I'd chat with friends about her, and bore my fiance to tears with lengthly details of our exploits. Weekends were nearly completely booked up with things she likes to do. Everyone in my family was happy to see me so involved with her, she was so good. It was right to make her a prioirty in my life. I'd nearly forgotten about much else. Scott had fallen under the spell, and he became very involved with her also.

But no matter how much I would try, or how many hours a week we would share, it began to appear that nothing would please her. She was a perfectionist. She became increasingly insatiable with my time; the more I would give, the more she would demand. I couldn't understand it. I put more effort in. She instead enforced deadlines of deadlines. My work began to suffer, my friendships were disintegrating, I was cranky and tense.

Which brings me to present. Scott and I are too tired now to do the fun things we used to, or even cook dinner when we finally see one another. We are just happy for the silence and to put our feet up.

This new friend in my life is named Wedding. Whatever this white, spangled entity wants, it gets. Its got two entire families and casts of supportive friends involved. Its unbelieveable.

Last night for example, Wedding wanted to go to yet another mall. Wedding likes Things. Scott and I wanted to relax, or maybe treat ourselves to a nice dinner together, but Wedding didn't want that. Instead, we looked at lamps and color swatches and then ate at a P.F. Changs, after the mall closed at 9:30.

Wedding may mean well, but Wedding is now going to take less priority. That's right, Wedding, you can hop in the back seat now.

We've been diligent with our soap opera crusade. Whenever possible, we cook dinner and really tuck into the GH. Its an incredible hour. And an hour is just about enough, as brilliant the acting is. Usually by the time the sax belts out the theme, we get to chatting and before long we are halfway through the most inspid talk show EVER created. Which is a shame, cuz a talk show about soaps could be fantastic. But this is so bad, it causes conversations to halt. Its so bad, its good.

Look at the hosts! That's Ty and Lisa. They love each other. They are not married to each other, but they hug and flirt. Its now become a crucial part of the soap ritual: we have to watch the whole show. Last night was particularly painful, we actually started championing Ty. Even though he seems gay and talks endlessly about his straight-life, at least he pays attention to the topics. Its amazing! Lisa cannot. She interjects with irrelevant cutesy comments, then does something odd with her enormously odd lips, rearranges herself in the directors chair and looks to the audience for applause. And they do. A crack house Kelly. "Am I right?! Men are stupid!" While she sips her cold coffee in a mug. Its dizzying with ludicrousness. I highly recommend.

Ah! Finally! I figured out a clever title for today. It goes a little something like this: Everyone is crazy!

Yesterday I learned some very good news: through work I am able to sit in the fancy section of Camden Yards to watch 'dem O's. Fantastic. I rallied Scott and Whit, my two peeps down here, and off we went on a balmy Ballmer eve.

Scott was getting some concessions, so we scooted on down, wayy on down, to our seats in the AAA row. We were busy raving under the bright lights when whack! a lefty hit a line drive right behind third base-- translated: right towards our two sets of smilin' teeth. At the speed of light. I immediately kicked over my beer and I used Whit as a human shield as she was sort of closer. Exciting! Scary! This happened a few more times throughout the game. We were spared (not so lucky was the camera man, however).

A few beers later the game ended, and the three of us idley and merrily sauntered home through the cobbley streets, swinging our free tee shirts. It was nice out. We saw some action. I was chewing a peice of spearmint gum and sort of playfully tossed it over my head, a sort of sporty gum layup to dispose of it. But something went awry and suddenly in slow motion, I saw the white glob head not to my far left as planned, but sort of diagonally right toward Whitney's brown haired crown. Yep. What started out slow motion then sped up to blurry-speed, and I lost sight of it. Not more than a split second later, it was as if she stung by a hornet, I saw jerk around, her hands whip up to her hair and she exclaimed: "Was that your gum?"

I wasnt sure whether to laugh or not, or to even admit such a thing. It was done. By the time I got over to her, she was already rabidly trying to extract it, greatly worsening the situation. I dove in to assess the damage. Bad. The gum had completely taken over a huge hunk of her hair, and speading fast. "Its not that bad!", I said, and reminded her just not to touch it. I could hardly contain my laughter. Scott was beside himself. It was decided we would head home and attempt the good ol' peanut-butter treatment that we all dimly recalled. The entire walk home, I'd fall back a little and watch her, carrying on normal coversations with a huge gum-horn sticking out the side of her head. I had to muffle my hysteria.

3 PB-treatments later involving great PB fingerfuls, working it in, having it set, rinsing out in sink, (and more somewhat serious coversations talking with a now-peanutty-horn) I assured myself it was all under control, but an email this morning told me that there was morning PB and probably some PB this evening. Oh my.

My brother and I used to try and brainstorm good Coversation Stoppers, you know, something that could bring a group conversation to a screetching halt. Really obnoxious one-liners that would leave everyone standing around in silence. Again, emphasize obnoxious.

Clearly, I can't get enough of mouth-horning this catchy tune (which to me never, ever gets old, in fact, here at my new post, I've noticed a few people catching on). Its a great skill I've outlined before: you sort of use the side of your mouth, filling your cheek with air while lips remain loose but mostly closed, except to omit the necessary "buuhhhrrdt" notes. A sort of muffled tuba sound.

The second we got off the plane in New Orleans, we were met with a full-on Dixie band in the airport. They were playing this. Priceless. We shuffled to our next destination, and shortly after, another band broke out in that fantastic number. Repeat several times.

Needless to say, the saints-ditty became ingrained in my head. And talk about a perfect tune to add to the 1-song repertoire? Love it. Any lull in conversation would then prompt a sudden "Brrrhhp, burrhp, burrhp, BURHP!" We'd all laugh. We all caught on and actually got pretty good at it, you could almost make out the assorted brass instuments and slide trombone.

Now, talk about a conversation stopper!

"Did I tell you about what my mom did?"
"No!"
"OK, so we are all at this market and --"
"Bddddddddrrrp, bhhrrp, bhhhrrp, BHHHHHURPP!"

Its a sure thing.

The Comeback Kid, I am not.

Walking the dogs this morning, a middle aged woman with a frizzy reddish ponytail crossed in front of me. There was nothing noteworthy about her, her drab ensemble, or that she was walking to her car at 8:00 am.

Once she'd crossed the street, I heard her mumble something and quickly realized it was directed to me and ten-year-old Foster, with her wild wolf-like fur shedding in large, funny-looking chunks (on leash); and ten-year-old Bo with his white muzzle mildly sniffing shrubs (not on leash). Mind you, Federal Hill is the Doggy Capital of the United States. Everyone has a dog, picks up poop, walks to the park with leash or not.

I looked up in her direction and realized she was saying something about a leash law. "Excuse me?" I said, as Bo and Foster circled my legs closely. Pant, pant. Her face grew red and she uncontrollably yelled something again about the law. "Are you serious?" I asked. All at once, she turned to me and yelled over, "YES, I AM! I HATE DOGS!" She stared at me and I stared at her, with the dogs at that time already tired, and practically laying down at my feet.

My heart pounded in my pre-coffee chest, and I blinked hard. Who hates dogs? Especially, gray and harmless ones? They just want to pee and sniff fresh grasses, and could care less about freaky frizz lady. I was enraged. She was still yammering at me and all I could muster back was "You...you are crazy!" and pried the dogs off the sidewalk. I walked away feeling most unsatisfied with my comeback. Its like having the luxury of time to run up, gain speed and accuracy to kick the hell out of a soccer ball and missing. But really, hate dogs? Alien.

This is the last I will mention of it, but holy smokes: the cabby not only tracked me down (wasn't that easy), but fedexed my phone to me from many states away, from the money in his pocket. I'm floored.