Between wrapping up this job and starting another, I'm last minute Christmas girl. We were planning on getting some well-thought-out parental gifts (for our first holiday round of location pinball) this weekend, but something truly tragic came up. A friend of Scott's passed away completely suddenly so we dropped everything and drove down the 4.5 hours to the funeral and to offer any comfort we could.

We were already pretty run down from a long week, and then the night before we were to shove off, Jeff had bought us tickets to see Orny Adams (to prove me wrong as I said I didn't think he was very funny. I was. Way wrong. He's hysterical).

Saturday morning early, we drove down through the mountains and arrived just in time for the funeral. They had bagpipes. Bagpipes get me no matter what. Afterwards was a well-needed reception lasting all afternoon and evening, everyone looking tired and pretty drunk. Fighting a cold, I crashed early in our friend's bed with the super-HOT and dry heat. Cough. Sunday was more visiting and a long lunch.

Exausted, we piled into the car and started the trip back home. My husband was driving me bonkers. I drove while we had to listen to sports-radio. Staticky. He took his shoes off. He reached over and cranked the heat down everytime it would start to get comfortable. He fell asleep and growled at me when I tried to listen to Prarie Home Companion.

I woke him up, vengeful. What happened over the next, long several hours was downright hilarious. It became a battle of who could be more irritating.

Sugar riddled and punchy, I forced him to answer all my burning questions: "If you could only eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be?" or "Seriously, seriously now. If you had to wear only heavy wool tartan or polka dots every single day, which would it be?" and then always followed with my hysteria picturing him in scratchy wool shorts and scratchy wool matching shirt. Sitting down to the same dish for EVERY meal. All uncomfy and grouchy. Bwahahha.

Scott became Vague-guy.
Me: "You know, when it gets dark, I won't want to drive anymore. So, why don't we switch then?"
Him: "Uhm, yeah, we'll figure something out."
Silence.

I became Exasperation-Girl. This character has to use a lot of responses like this and sigh. A lot:
"I just don't know what to think anymore."
"For cryin' out loud."
"Now, that's the last thing I need."

We both fell in love with the exasperation person and it carried us through the last, long hour of travel. Its at the same time so funny and hateful. Of all the..

Breaking the silence, I just heard someone ask the following:

"Oooh. Did someone just try and scan fried chicken over here?"

Excellent. I had to run over to see.

It just came to a point that I couldn't take anymore.

Over the past year, memories were randomly triggered of other workplaces where we worked late and worked hard, but we had fun while we midnight-oiled.

The sun would pour in our loft-like windows in the late afternoon and my favorite account manager, Victor, would usually be back from meetings at his desk. Facing me about 10 feet away. My compact mirror was the perfect weapon: it could channel the sun rays into a retina-searing point. Ziiing! All was mostly harmless until he brought in a silver platter for combat. As I was on a call, or staring hard at a speadsheet, my world would go all white. Blinding white. Blinking, I could make out Victor's chattering teeth and could hear his loud belly laugh. Odd, the mirror-game, it never got old and it never stopped being annoying.

Rachael and I got a huge kick out of storyboards. Firstly, it is hard to believe that TV concepts are still sold in this fashion, but more than that, if you extract just one frame out of this sequence its downright hilarious. In hokey, obvious colors there is a cartoon man running from his house burning down. A lunatic driving a car into a lake. Always dramatic and exaggerated. A close-up of a cheery man with an ax in his hand.

In the middle of a crazy day, I got a call from the front desk telling me I had a package. Running behind, I raced to retreive it and ripped it open. All that was inside? One board of a dog swimming through a lake with sparkly teeth. That was it. Rachael had packaged it up for me from one side of the office to the other. That began a whole new slew of package-pranks that never, ever tired. Each frame seemed to get funnier and funnier.

Conway and I sat back to back for a long time. We got along famously, until my calendars, reports, scipts, etc. started to overflow from my desk, down our "shared" wall and into his neat, tidy space. The maticulous art director said nothing for a while. One day I walked in to find our white concrete floor covered in a thick dotted line-- a black electrical-tape dotted line separating "his" side from "my" side. He smiled up at me triumphantly. It traversed the length of the floor and up the shared cabinet and even up the wall. In an all-white space, it was shocking. I loved watching clients tour through, as would sit there hard at work with a huge BOUNDRY between us. No one ever told us to remove it, either. Nor did anyone tell us to take down our "gallery", a small table we used as a showcase for our art displays. I recall one exhibit involving a pair of white, pointy Italian shoes for some reason.

You see, I miss that. I do not have that at my current position. While I don't expect mirror-games and art installations, I do crave more human interaction. So, I have quit and am taking a new job!

I feel kind of sick. My palms are clammy.

In just a little while, I am going to do something that I need to. But I'm nervous. I feel like I am about to breakup with a completely unsuspecting boyfriend. "Movie tonight, sweets!?" "Well, no, actually..."

Ulllllp.

A friend was just airing tuxedo frustrations. Mmm. Tuxes. Cocktail dresses. Oh, the old days...

The other afternoon, realizing that I wasn't due for any sort of holiday bash this year, I snagged an invite sent to our office. An event hosted by the city's finest party planners. So the invite read. I threw the card in my bag, got in my car and called Scott, telling him to leave his jacket on. No home-dining that night. Dammit.

Naturally it was kind of hokey, some trio of identical-looking, moustached men rocked the house and there was a raffle that no one stuck around for. We meandered through, tasting and sipping along until we did run into a couple we know. I looked at Scott halfway through the party, as he went back for fourths at the oyster hut, and realized we were simply festively cashing in where we could this year. In a large hall surrounded by strangers, swaying to the Buffett hits. Hard to believe only a few years ago, I was collecting my Russian goody bag down at Pravda, bejeweled and beclevaged.

But alls well that ends well. Scott ate so many oysters they gave him an "Atlantic Catering" calculator.

Mwahaha. My day was just made. I raced by this woman's office and had to back up.

She is normally very poised and professional, never a hair out of place sort of thing. I just whizzed by and as usual she was sitting behind her desk, but not as usual she wasn't on the phone doing a dozen tasks at once.

Instead she sat in silence, staring straight ahead at nothing. As its already dark out, her small office light was on, illuminating both her head and then a large yellow explosion of Pringles crumbs scattered across her neatly stacked papers. In her left hand was the red cylindrical can, her right was feeding the chips into her mouth. It was poetry.

I've been noticing a trend amoung some of our friends. There are some who seem to delight in our soggy, monsoon-wedding story [entry 6/16/03].

We had dinner with a group of people last month. Scott introduced me to a woman I hadn't met yet who zoomed right over to my face, eyes wide open and stated breathily: "I HEARD." She touched my arm. I was perplexed. "You know...about your wedding".

She motioned for people to sit down and I was to regale everyone with the story. I was happy to, its an incredible story and not without humor and drama-- but all in all, a victory story. Yet my new friend listened as I carried on, shaking her head in sympathy. But, wait, its a victory story, remember? Happy ending!

We saw them again recently, and this time her boyfriend caught on. He had asked us how our wedding planning was coming. When I looked at him confusedly, he gasped and put his hand over his mouth, " I am so sorry. How COULD I FORGET?!" And he fixed a stare-- a sad, doughy, I-feel-your-pain sort of stare. I smiled back, I almost felt sorry for him. Pehaps he was really trying to be kind.

Last weekend we went to a holiday party. I got pulled into a wedding-planning conversation, and was directed to "tell my story". I started in and was interrupted: "No! No! Start with the rehearsal dinner!"

Its funny, no matter how clearly Scott and I try and explain that we loved our wedding--- its still boiled down to the juicy sympathy-nugget to some. People like that.

Perhaps next time I will embellish to see if anyone is truly listening and if so, to really pull the pity-strings. Make it a TV news event! I will introduce a volcano into the plot! Little kitties drowning in boiling lava! Scott's right foot turned to actual stone!

We had some guests arrive this weekend. Starring as new wifey [read: non-tidy], I scurried around cleaning and sprucing until things looked seemed holidayish and presentable.

Sunday morning I was up before the others. Heavily powdered in Aunt Jemima products, I heard someone softly pad up behind me. I turned around to see our male guest, standing in his boxers, tee shirt and socks, sheepishly asking if we had any toilet paper. His hairs were standing up.

The whole thing struck me so funny; being a polite guest held at the mercy of your hosts. Scott and I grew hysterical imagining the responses I could have given. They would have to be delivered chirpily with a smile, and then I would move onto something else, like, making a phonecall:

"Yeah, uhm, we don't believe in toilet paper."

"Ohhhh, yeah, you know, I think there may be some behind the toilet. But I'm not sure." I love imagining the befuddled guest heading back up the stairs worrying if he'd score-- or not.

"Hmmmm. Toilet paper. You know, I think there are some subway napkins there on the mantle. Hi, is Claire at home?"

That is so not-done.

A far-away friend just emailed me something powerful. Her adoring boyfriend who has instigated each step of their romance is now grappled with a fear of committment. I was impressed with how clearly (and humorously) she wrote and how very fearless she seems by contrast. She's got fear frustration!

Several years ago, I'd say about two hours into a New York happy hour, a designer I worked with shocked me. She leaned over our wobbly, candlelit table, and through all the smoke she asked me: "Can you imagine what life would be like without fear?" She was trying to encourage me to make a risky, yet exciting career move.

I remember looking at her and thinking how far-removed she was from reality. There were things like rent to worry about, and besides, I didn't have any background in what she was suggesting.

I pictured myself without fear: a gruesomely scarred woman, maybe missing a limb or many digits with a wild eye. Maybe I'd have dreadlocks. Maybe I'd be so fearless I'd have joined a cult, or started one. I shrugged it off and didn't give it another thought.

Until a few months ago, for some reason. It is an interesting concept. Sure, life is safe if you don't try anything new, but it gets so small. Your world becomes small. I don't like that.

This email today was full of many thought-provoking questions, but the underlying message was "why not?!" when it comes to letting down your guard, or whether to stop quivering and at least TRY something. You may fail; but don't you at least gain from that? Nothing wreckless, of course, but within reason, why not? I like to think about that. Its empowering.

Unrelated: a friend and I have Freak-Fridayed locations. He's just left Baltimore for NY. I asked him how his new job was and he replied positively, and added that his new firm handed him a sort of Terrorist Kit. In case of emergency. He mentioned it had band-aids in it. Band-aids? And a fruit roll-up.

Tucked away far in the Virginia Shenandoah mountains, we learned there was a deer farm nearby this summer while on vacation.

Some of our friend's kids were getting antsy, so Scott and I decided to take a group of them to check this place out. We all piled into the car and wound through the beautiful, lush rolling hills until we saw a modest wooden sign. We pulled in and were greeted first by large chickens, then by a silver-haired, Marlboro-smoking woman and a young girl sidekick. They raised these deer in this completely cruelty-free, natural ways. Purportedly.

I was expecting to see the sorts of deer that sadly line the east coast highways, the large, light tan ones. But instead, theses were small and more spotted. As it turns out, they were bred from a certain specie that only exists in Asia or something. OK, that's wierd in itself. Natural?

The kids were all excited about feeding the little deer corn, and would let the animals lick their hands with thier long, freaky toungues. I liked the fact that all of the deer had names, and they did seem happy. Mamed ones were welcome.

But then I didn't then understand the little "shop" they had inside the shack where all sorts of deer meats could be bought or ordered.

Growing inquisitive, I asked the younger spiri-hippy girl about it. She was dressed plainly, had a beautiful face and almost ethereal, non-earthly presence.

"I'm a vegetarian. I'm not sure that I believe humans need to eat meat anymore", I said, suprising myself.

She nodded calmly, and then stated that she probably would agree with me, except for the fact that every few months, a deer "presents itself" as a sacrifice.

"To be killed?" I asked.

She serenely smiled, and explained that yes, a deer would come forth and offer itself to fortify the rest of the herd. The meat could be sold for corn to feed them. She truly believed this. What? How does a deer understand commerce?

I was starting to feel that we'd entered a bizarro place, a bizarro place where these people had been too removed for too long. People have an amazing capacity to convince themselves of anything, I remember thinking as I stared at her.

Her eyes scanned the small acreage in front of us. She turned and looked at me straight in the eyes. "The slaughter is actually the most moving thing I've ever experienced. It is beautiful." The way she said "slaughter" had a peculiar resonance, it rolled off her tounge too easily.

It started to rain, so we ducked into the log cabin shop where my husband bought a peice of deer jerkey. The silver-haired woman stood next to a "contribution" jar and gave us a small pitch, something about living harmoniously with the deer, and so forth. We all shuffled about. It was hot in there. I looked at some deerskin hair barrettes.

Moments later, I noticed she had one of the little boys standing next to a large mini-fridge and she was explaining how each year they save the head of the stud. Some liquid in the stud-brain made it possible to make the deerskin. Yes.

"Would you like to see the head?" She asked.

We all gathered around. She slid back the door to the refridgerator, we all gasped. Sure enough, there was a HUGE head in a clear baggy. Furry still. Eyelashed. Bloody severed neck.

"He was a beauty, he was." And she closed it. I felt one of the little girls clutch my hand, and we stepped back.

The rain actually started to increase, but we thanked them for the charming display and all ran to the car with our hearts beating fast.

Does everyone in the continental United States have an eating disorder? I'm starting to think so.

I am not just talking about the young woman disorder I witnessed all through my college days at Abercrombie U., or by watching all the Manhattan X-Ray women hobble around Soho. No, it covers all generations and shapes.

Every single holiday for the past thirteen years I insulted some dear family host by refusing to eat the meat. And each year it was as if everyone had forgotten what had taken place the year prior, therefore making it a Holiday Groundhog Day: "Oh, my. You don't eat meat. Will you have enough to eat? What will you eat?! Oh my, I should have prepared something." From behind my heaping, steaming plate of delicious greens and stuffing and potatoes, I would explain that I had plenty to dine on.

Throughout the meal, relatives would ask all about my decision, and sort of say encouraging things about it. "Well, I tell you, I just don't know how you do it [living on dirt and rocks]". It would always be a point of discussion. An uncomfortable one to have in a candle-lit shadow of a shiny bird carcass that everyone else had been enjoying.

Well, thirteen years later, I've weakened. I admitted to sneaking a bite or two of steak, not avoiding soups with meat in them and so forth. Who would have thought that sharing this information would have caused a bigger raucous? "You what?!?!" That triggered even more questions. It reminded me of the Which Would You Rather game, but for food-crazed adults. "OK, if you were sitting in a restaurant and someone offered you a pile of corned beef hash, would you eat it?" No, no, assuredly not. But the haggis? Now we're talking!