Conversation over a spicy dinner with friends:

"She can't call anyone by their own name, she has nicknames for everybody."
"What's yours then?"
"Well, [eyeroll.. circuitous tale is told].. and that is why my name is no longer Scott, and its Remomo."
"So, Eric, I guess 'Hank' is sounding better to you now, eh?"
"Sure, I like Hank. Hank's cool."
"At least its a name."
"Right, not named after a mall chain restaurant."

Sad state of affairs: the most relaxed I have been in a long time occured today. In the dentist chair.

I joked with the nice women who worked up front. I was escorted back to my 'room' and another dental person put a bib on me, told me when to spit, shifted the chair up and down accordingly. I was lying down. I had to make no decisions. I didnt even mind the poking with medieval wire-tools. Sigh.

Ratio of the day. Stress: Crazy = 3 : 4.

Along the lines of my direct-relation-to-Annette-Funicello Engwiscchh teacher, I had a life-science teacher who was equally noteable. Her hair went in a sensible red whip and she also had a very unique, stern manner speaking-- she was heavy into the R's. It was subtle, but apparent, namely when she would say "go", it was "ger". Class, we are gering to mate fruit flies now.

That was in 8th grade and it stuck, it seems. Whitney came to visit me a while back in California. I remember coasting through the hills of wine country, watching the sun set and for some reason out of nowhere we began singing that HORRIFIC beach boys song , but with strong emphasis on the last part of the chorus: That's where we wanna ger, Way down to Kerkermer. Peels of laughter. Ridiculous, I know.

Since then, its gotten out of hand. Every word prounced with the "er" as any vowel, which is perfectly indecipherable, as all the words sound alike. When having a minute free, I can send a quiz: What is Cerker? Her reply: Cookie? Cracker? Car key? The answer was cookie. I just stumped her with Nergert: nougat.

Its most prominant usage is in the form of greeting. "Herler!" for hello. "Well herr-ler!" We got to laughing, its so goofy sounding, like, it seems like that should be the name of some sort of club. The Herler Club! Kind of a welcome wagon committee, maybe when there is a new person in the neighborhood, its sort of up to the Herler bunch to greet them. Lots of meetings, always with pages of minutes and a snack. We meet in basements and sit on fold out chairs. The club is very time consuming, and kind of gets in the way of relationships. "Look! I can;t meet your client tonight, I told you I have the Herler club tonight!", you would say, grabbing your bag and notebooks, "I'm stressed out too, you know."

I have the bad brainz. My brains are like the insides of a Gala apple out of season.

At a party last Saturday amoungst peoples I was meeting for the first time, I asked this one poor fellow -- who had taken the time to painstakingly outline, in thick southern accent, a house robbery tale -- to tell me about the robbery. Everyone had seen me listen and gasp and make eye contact all along. Someone piped up: "Uhm, he just told us that story." It got really quiet and hot.

Yesterday I secretly vanished early from work so I wouldn't be late to a hair appointment. What normally takes 40 minutes took 2 hours. Gridlock traffic in the pouring rain. Knowing I'd never reschedule, I got completely worked up. I missed my exit. Worse traffic. I kept calling the receptionist at the hair joint and apologizing, and gave her my cell phone number to call and cancel if it got too late, but I gave her my bosses cell number. Neat. She called it.

Distracted? Yezzz.

Everyone makes a big stink about being punctual. I think this rule should apply for departures. While its rude to keep your friends waiting for an arrival, its equally rude to keep them waiting for a departure.

Now, dont get me wrong: I love socializing. Often I need to be gagged and handcuffed to leave a group of family or friends. But not when I think a departure is immenant. I like to wrap things up quickly & kiss goodbye. I think that is polite. In other words: I cannot stand extended farewells. They truly make me crazy.

For several years, we'd spend Christmas dinner with some cheery & wonderful relatives that lived an hour away. I would fly all the way across the continent from San Francisco in time for Aunt Ronnie's wing-wang party, then we'd pack ourselves tightly into cars and head north for the main event: dinner.

These relatives were mainly my brother's new in-laws, therefore aside from the general discomfort of being the only single woman at the long dinner table (and therefore at the receiving end of many meant-to-be-kind questions and then generalizations, i.e. "it must be so exciting.." and some truly remarkable set-ups), there was this goodbye problem. Every year. After a long, fun meal, long past coffee, everyone would rise, exclaim how full they were and how delicious the meal was. It would have been a delightful night, but just as I would get my coat, I'd hear someone suggest another drink. I knew that meant another hour. Then a game by the fire. Then old photos. These farewells were epic in proportion.

One post red-eye, holiday night, I kept giving mom imploring, baggy-eyed looks. To no avail. I snagged my father in the hall, and he empathized. He tried. The group conversation would dwindle down to nothing, and I would thinkat last! then someone would pull out a broad topic out of the clear blue sky to discuss. I couldn't believe it. It seemed cruel to me. I had to physically remove myself from all the fun, I found their wooly dog, threw my arms around his neck and collpased on the stairs. I heard the chatter continue, with no end in sight, and I wanted to go home so badly I burst into tears. Tired. Uncomfortable. And I thought we were leaving!

More recently, I was down at my future-in-laws this past weekend. It was a wonderfully full house with tots and doggies and new people for me to meet. Sunday afternoon people began to leave, so Scott and I assembled our belongings also. I put my bag by the door and returned to the remaining peoples.

Now, it isnt that I don't truly enjoy everyone, I just had thought we were leaving. An hour passed. Another hour. I grew hungry and even a little dizzy. In an effort to make me feel more included, people started asking me questions about the wedding, and this and that, which normally I would love to review. But I thought we were leaving? That goodbye took 3 hours.

Its no ones fault, its a good thing when people don't like to part. The real problem is that there are no standards in place. I think a policy should be established somewhere in the Etiquette Rulebook. Or wherever these manners are outlined. A chapter titled "Managing Farewell Expectations". I think that ideally, when it seems time to depart, goodbyes should be swift and loving. However, if peoples cannot control the length of farewells, then in advance that should be made clear. No one is going anywhere for a few more hours. That way, no one is standing around awkwardly, or simply tired of putting their coat on and off. This way, one can grab a book, or grab a coffee, something to eat & enjoy the remaining many hours. Everyone's happy. --Fin.

A person can only use the word jejune twice a year, according to this fellow. OK, that is hilarious.

I feel the same way about the term sublime.

How is that?
Sub-lime!

Sublime person deserves a swift kick to the kneecaps.

On jejune. I had a 7th grade english teacher that did not like people. He just seemed miserable around them. Additionally, he was arrogant, as he claimed he was related to Annette Funicello. He was not one to use deoderant. He was grouchy and mean and gave everyone Cs. Nonetheless, he was my teacher and he taught us English.

[I'm too embarassed to admit the pranks that Whit & I played on him, so I will omit. Similarly, we filmed a movie based on him. Complete with scripts and props and making my dad film us in crowded public places, costumed.]

But what was truly remarkable about this man was the way he spoke. He had an upstate New Yawk accent coupled with a sort of mumble situation. He'd trail off about something and have to sort of catch himself and get back on track. Kind of sounded like: "Well, I don' kno, I just sorta (getting lower)... rrrrrururururhhrhruh..(inaudible)...ANYWAYS.." (yes, plural).

The way he formed his mouth when he spoke resulted in a lot of consonants shrouded in w's and ch's. Example: gregarious = gwegawiousch.

To increase our diction, he started a "word of the day" excersize, mainly involving a special section of the blackboard designated to a new word. We would have to use it in class that day. I can still remember clear as day what they were- so beautifully and aptly selected: Bestial. Eschew. And of course, jejune. Somehow pronouced gegoon.

Rain threatened this morning and I was up early, so I headed to the gym. Nice and quiet there. I was enjoying my workout until I realized I was staring at a rodeo on the tv. Ro-de-o. I tried instead to tune into the neighboring Katie Couric tube, but the animal action was far too distracting. Then came the calf roping. CALF roping. Calf ROPING. How in the hell, in a world of recycling pickups and soy products and protests and advancement, is there still a sport called calf roping? Out of the corner of my eye I saw some asshole in a hat toss a rope out and snag the baby cow, kicking and horrified. I could see the whites of the calf's eyes as he was then thrown to the ground. What a cowboy hero!

I dismounted from my workout and went over and freaked out on the acne-riddled guy wiping down equipment. He turned the channel. Then I felt badly, as it probably wasn't his fault, and overly apologized and I think scared him a little with my sweaty red face. Still, that rodeo shit is for people with Bad Brainz.

Oh, fizzy, cold Coke beverage, take me away from this hideous place called My Current Mood. I'm going to sip, and close my eyes...

People with the bad brainz. Everywhere.

I was just reading this and I got to thinking. People are so ignorant. I have been asked if this is my second marriage when some hear that I am engaged. Granted, it comes from an older, more jaded set, but jaysus! I know I am not super young, but I am not old, either? Bad. Bad brainz.

My beautiful sister-in-law is in her mid-thirties, who is already self-conscious since she just had a baby, was asked recently all sorts of details about the Kennedy assassination. As if she were alive then, and moreover, alive enough to remember it? That would be putting her way up there in terms of the 40's mark. Again, bad brainz. Crushing.

A few things strike me as humorous currently. GH was so spectacular last night, we thought we'd give Port Charles a try. Here is what we found: a broody long-haired guy and a perky blond were stuck in a "cave" which was maybe the worst set I've ever seen. And all the rest of the cast were somehow vampires. There's ridiculous and then there is Port Charles. Secondly, a friend in NY just quit smoking, and has decided that if he can't smoke, no one can. He was out at an old fave last night and Kate Moss entered with entorage. Smoking, which is not only now unacceptable to my friend, but is now illegal in NYC, although she was being allowed. It bothered him so much he complained enough, so that if she ever wanted a cigarette, she would have to go smoke in her limo. Excellent.

The other night, out in the alley, I heard two cats mating. They screamed like young girls throughout the early morning hours. Scott and I both woke up in the blue light, and I couldn't fall back asleep.

I recalled hearing this when I was little, and being so confused. The girl cat screaming out seemingly in pain, and the male occasionally wailing along in an eerie duet. It was as if they were drugged or hypnotized. I didn't understand.

It made me think, too, of the occasional spats between my parents when I was growing up. I recalled hearing agitated tones and raised voices, strong words. A problem. Disagreement. Big. Then silence. And slowly a strange apology duet would rise between them. As if my parents had been at once torpedoed with drugged arrows and were similarly hypnotized. I didn't understand. Eventually there were surrenders, aquiesences, coos. I was confused by it, while I wanted them to stop disagreeing, I couldn't understand the sudden turn in tone, the giving up what had been previously worth fighting for. That duet made me pull up my covers up around neck and ponder, uneasily.

Major pet peeve: dry hands. And my compulsive hand-washing doesn't help that. Therefore, I am forever pumping out large dollops of lotions and balms into my hands, usually on my way to and fro. Which makes it super hard to open doorknobs. Like, impossible.

The best happened the other night. I was getting ready for bed, flipped on the tube, and covered my hands with goo. Right then a guest star came on The Late Night Show that I happened to have recently met (super nice), and yelled "Oh my god!", and almost tripped excitedly over a heap of clothes to fling my door open to share with Whit. The entire brass knob was instantly covered in grease, I could NOT get it to turn.

From her perspective, all she heard was me exclaim something, almost fall down, then hear a feeble rattle-rattle of the doorknob, and dammit! She threw open the door, Are you OKAY? as she had thought someone had perhaps broken & entered my room through my balcony. I stood there with white hands pointing at the knob, and we laughed so hard we missed the interview.

Last night after an acutely tense day, I collapsed on the floor watching Orange County on cable. Again. So good.

A series of jingly ads aired, and for no reason, I thought about what it would be like if I wanted to open a start-up of my own. Strictly jingles, but I'd advertise myself as a very high-tech "music facility". Whit & I started belting out all the jingles we knew. No instruments of course.

Being in advertising, I could probably scare up a few presentations to potential clients. In a large conference room. Big snack trays.

"So, Whit, would you agree that now is a good time to give them a sampling of our work?"
"Sure is!"

We'd dim the lights then press play on the boom box. Lots of scratchy silence, then you'd hear us breathe in, really close to the mic:

"MOMMA keeps her whites ba ba bddat da da ta, MOMMA'S got the magic of Clo-rox Bleach!"
Next door dog barks. Scratchy silence.
"Celebrate! Celebrex!"
Throat cleared. Pause.
"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta T J Maxx!"
"The joy of pepsiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii." (a little too loud & close at the end, drowning each other out.)

And so on.

We'd smile and wink at our prospects confidently, joke with them about how good talent isnt cheap, cut the small talk short and show them the door too hastily and arrogantly. "There ya go Thompson, don't forget your bag. Bye!"

We're in the process of moving our offices. I must say, I can't wait. One, because we are moving to Fells Point, right on the water. Secondly, and more importantly, because it stinks.

My desk is about 10 yards from the poorly ventilated bathrooms. Poop Pl. Stank St. Ka Ka Korner. Sweet jaysus. I almost gagged today-- I took a bite of my sandwich just as a central-air breeze whafted the odor right into my mouth. I felt like I was taking a bite of a Poop Po' Boy. Disguzting.

Its interesting living in an "up and coming" city neighborhood. Old buildings are replaced with new-old buildings, Fairmonts are replaced by Hondas, Cap'm Larrys is now to be a Bistro. Its sad to see the older residents get overtaken, packing up their less-shiny belongings and heading out. But I will admit to enjoying looking out my window and seeing not dingy formstone fronts with ratty curtains drawn closed. Which is what is happening on my block currently, its upgrading for sure.

Except for this one family. They ain't goin nowhere. It appears they are multiplying, they all are unmistakingly related and have many generations of each other living together. They fight, they are loud. There is a married couple who like to drive around in a Buick that appears to have no backseat. A lot. They do sort of own the street. They slam their front door loud, they proudly keep their noisy, huge window-a/c cranked all the time. The women are large and tough, all pale, unhealthy looking skin and badly beached hair up in a messy sort of pony-tail on the top of their heads. They rule the roost.

Its would seem that as the value of the area increases, they decrease defiantly. I was thinking it was kind of awesome, really, a signal saying, lest we forget, this is who was here first, hon.

Until yesterday. The sun came out, the trees arched over the street and the blossoms were blowing in the breeze. Ah. Spring. All the neighbors sprouted out of their houses to wash their snappy cars, get out the baby strollers or plant some windowboxes. Children ran excitedly up and down the sidewalks.

All at once, in front of this smurfy little colony, the noisy family's door flew open. One of the young women was screaming at a friend who was screaming back. Screaming like bloody murder, there was serious rage. F-bombs were exchanged, scary mentions of cops and witnesses, and expletive after expletive, blood vessels bulged, saliva flew, vocal chords were stretched, arms flying. It was scary. People sort of whisked their kids inside, I gingerly tiptoed to my door and locked it. I was sure someone would start swinging.

The door at last slammed, and the fiercely angered friend slowly walked away, cussing and screaming still all the way down the block. Behind the closed door, the same thing happened but with occasional crashing indoor explosions. Aside from that, the street was completely quiet. It was as if someone abruptly scratched a record needle off a soft rock, like, Phil Collins song vrrrrrrrrrrrrt! and at once blasted Iron Maiden at an ear-splitting decible. Then switched if off. Strange.

Starbucks had better wait a while before they move in.

Its gone from being rainy and cold to muggy and hot. Which means of course that I am wearing my snappy spring clothes and sandals with ass white limbs. Which normally wouldn't bother me much, but I keep reading about a natural alternative-- the new spray-tan rage. It takes less than a minute and you receive a harmless, natural tan. For $10, I thought, why not?

Oddly, I couldn't find a local place offering this magic tan, so I had to drive out of the city about 20 minutes. Hm. I got there and was surrounded by super-tan peoples, signing in for their tanning booth sessions. People still do that? Mostly chubby high school girls and a few boys. Then the raisined older women, so tan they were purple. Tanorexia is a wierd phenomenon.

I watched an instructional video of what I was to go through, and it dawned on me there was a lot to remember within that 1 minute of spraying. "Buffering" cream go on your hands and feet to block them from getting abnormally tan, shower cap on like this. While being sprayed: arms up, leg out, other leg out. Close eyes, hold breath here. The fake-boobed models went through this elaborate routine fluidly. You have to turn, four times, like a hot dog! Like a cookie in the Keebler factory! I was getting caramel-iced, on all sides.

A perfectly tanned fifteen year old girl walked me back to the "room", all the while giving me crucial information and tips very seriously but quickly. Turn when? She made loads of eye contact to emphasize importance and I think to reassure me of how legitamate this contraption is. I thought she was going to hold my hand. This is getting wierd, I thought. I followed her into the room, like a large bathroom where she showed me again the importance of turning 4 times, this way, this way and that way, when to raise my arms up, when the close my eyes and mouth, what to do when finished. She left.

Even with the silicone video and the "reenactment" provided for me, my mind kind of went blank. I stood there, buck naked except for the shower cap (nice look, mind you), pale, in front of a full length mirror staring at the big button I was to push, then duck into this clear shower-stall and close the door behind me for the SESSION.

I felt kind of panicky standing in there, legs akimbo (is that not one of the best terms, ever?) with eyes and mouth scrunched closed. Or were they supposed to be open now? Nothing happened. All at once, down at my ankles, these jets sprayed out with great force this fragranced spray at high speed. It instantly filled the stall with stinky mist. But what if I have to breathe, now? I wasn't prepared for the force and the loud noise: PSHHHHHHHHHT! And very quickly it began to move north, which made me totally want OUT, like something picking up speed and there was no stopping it. I almost did jump out. But within seconds the first "side" was done, and it paused in time for me to turn and put my arms and legs out, in a sort of "running man" pose. Hilarious. It got easier, but still somewhat alarming.

Under a minute, I'd been sprayed down on all sides, and emerged. I stood on a towel in front of the same full-length mirror completely TAN. Amazing. Its not perfect, however, my ankles and completely dark tan, and the inside of my nose is too. Ehm, I think its safe to say they may still be working the kinks out on this one. Heh. But its a whole lot better than getting sunburnt with the cocoa butter.