Collections

Working with Napoleon is oftentimes amusing. He is, by nature, a rather hi-strung guy, but he goes into overdrive every end of the month.

Every end of month we are forced to kindly remind the deadbeats that have still not made their payment for the month to come in and pay so that their accounts will not go over 30 days late and cause our numbers to look like shit on the end of month reports. (Napoleon does not like shitty numbers at the end of the month, not only because of the money aspect, but because if he has shitty numbers he does not get to gloat or remind all the other departments that his department pays 1/2 their salary and floats the Bank).

These deadbeats are usually the same ones every month, the fools who think that the statement “Payment due on the 1st” doesn’t apply to them. Our collection department finds itself buried in trying to get their payments in during the last week of the month every month. When collections has exhausted their means and threats to collect the past dues, each loan officer has to get personally involved and then if that doesn’t work Napoleon gets to make his “trademark” phone calls. Those are funny- the first 108 times you’re forced to hear them, as part of “training” you know. He prefers to have an audience when placing these calls, although he takes great pride in calling these idiots at home from home over the weekends. His favorite line is “Your ______ wasn’t ____ on the first of the month when you knew your payment was due.”

These conversations usually happen on the very last day of the month. For example:

Random Deadbeat: “C’mon Napoleon, let me work thru this. Someone just ran into my truck today.”

Napoleon: “Your truck was working fine on the first of the month when you knew your payment was due.”

Random Deadbeat: “Someone just ran into my truck on the highway……. And killed himself!”

Napoleon: Hangs up the phone. “Guess he won’t be paying, asshole. Who’s next?”

Or another instance:

Random Deadbeat #2: “I’m out of the country, my mother died. I’m at her funeral.”

Napoleon: “Well, you mother wasn’t dead last week when you knew your payment was due.”

And on, and on, and on these exchanges go.

Although the collections is the most exhausting/repetitive part of it all, I think it is his favorite because it allows him to “put out fires,” or to “be on point,” or to continually show us all “how it’s done.” Not that any of us here will ever need that knowledge ‘cause he’ll never ever retire. He’ll probably get rolled in here on a hospice bed with his oxygen tank attachments, jars of geriatric feed, tubs of VapoRub and whatever else old people need to stay alive. Long Live Napoleon!

Patina

“The shiny wears off,” said Gay Husband.

“Yeah, but I like the patina,” I quickly responded.

That was the end of a conversation we recently had while sitting at Six Feet Under. A conversation about my latest unrequited love and the possible reasons as to the why’s. He was trying to make me feel better, saying that I don’t need anyone, that the shiny wears off anyway, as if people were cars, or new toaster ovens or something.

He is unreservedly convinced that people overall settle, that there is no true love or anything remotely akin to it. What?!? Did he not read Cinderella? Did he not watch Pretty Woman? Did he not watch Serendipity- or any other John Cusak movie for that matter? His saying this is just a front. He says people like him were not made to be in relationships. And while he may have a point there, I still think that if he did find someone to put up with his bottomless cup of bitterness, his intense desire to salsa-dance to any type of music when drunk, his incorrigible way of making out with my dog when I’m not in the room, his scooter-riding-beeping trips thru the cleaned-up hood and his occasional good deeds he would take him in a heartbeat.

Recently found a website that puts into words a lot of what has happened to me lately. It's rather uncanny and corny me saying this: all this time thinking I’m so unique and shit, apparently this kinda stuff happens to everybody. The ongoing midlife crisis, the falling for someone so hard you can’t see straight, the feeling out of control and then the realization that, though there were moments that were indeed good, the whole of the experience wasn’t after all what you thought it was. Except at the time it was all you could see. Oh well, at least now I know I’m not quite as crazy as I thought I was. But the problem there is……I like to be crazy. I prefer different. I don’t particularly care to be referred to as “special” as it implies I rode the short bus to school back in the day. Not that there’s a problem with that, just clarifying that I did not, in fact, ride the short bus- anywhere. Ok, I did ride it once. But it was only ‘cause we got caught skipping school and were sent to inschool detention, where we were made to spend three days helping (read: keeping sometimes grown people securely tied to child-sized desks to prevent them from self-inflicted injuries, finding couples hiding behind trees in the throes of serious passion, continually wiping drool of nonexistent chins, feeding numerous hungry mouths and the ocassional hiding in the bathroom swearing that skipping was not in my future plans) with the physically and mentally disabled children housed in the trailer classrooms of our junior high school.

I wonder what this guy thinks of when he reads his old stuff, the stuff I read is about 2 ½ years old or more at this point. I wonder if he smiles or simply shrinks from it. Who knows? I haven’t always written, I haven’t always kept a journal and it seems that only when I’m extremely sad is when I attempt my hand at poetry*, so you can imagine how tragic, dramatic and just plain ridiculous most of it is. Of the stuff I’ve kept over the years, some of it I can’t read with a straight face. I cringe. I shudder. I laugh and inevitably tuck it back under piles of stuff in a junk drawer where no one will find it. Ever.

I really need to get a move on with my planned “Burning Ceremony.” I’ve only been talking about it for years it seems. This ceremony is supposed to cleanse me of all my old attachments that keep bringing me down. I’ll let you know if it works. It seems like a good idea though; to watch mementos of past events I should no longer hold onto burning in the hungry, lapping flames. Not ever having to “run” into these items while cleaning or rearranging, surprised every time, surprised at how a note, a card, an old doll can take me back instantly to those darkened corners of my mind I’d rather not visit.

I guess it’s my affinity to patina that causes me to hold on to all these items or maybe my pathological need for constant irritants in my Life, don’t really know. I do like patina though, a lot. I mean old stuff. Old furniture, old cars, old relics, old dishes- just old stuff. So I know what I’m talking about when I speak of patina. You should see my house.

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*
In an attempt to better illustrate here's one I'm specially fond of:

I do other things

Fill my time with sort of escapades.

Try to fill my mind to stay afloat

But still I make the time to think of you.

Of where we've been

And where we'd be if you were here

And why exactly you're not near.

There is no answer in my reality

Then I see I'm this duality.

This hardened core I bring on first ocassions

Seems to evaporate with unknown trepidation

Upon examining that which in you laments

As if your broken heart to mend I could attempt.

Tah-Dah!!!!

You're not skinny

So there we are crammed into the executive level’s tiny kitchen, gorging on birthday cake and ice cream for D’s birthday when the new HR girl walks in looks at the three of us and disgustedly shakes her head and proceeds to kindly inform us that that cake and ice cream’s caloric cost is like taking the stairs from the 11th floor to the lobby and back, “all that sugar.”

Obviously nobody cares, but she takes our continued interest in the cake as an invitation to keep on babbling her crap:

“For my birthday we’re gonna have……. A fruit tray”

Ok. We don’t even know you. You’ve been here 10 days or something and other than walking around handing people their check receipt on payday and your occasional stroll to place that stupid “Birthday Tree” on people’s desks nobody really cares about you. Go back into the office and keep counting and verifying the hours of the non-exempt employees you HR nimwad. We don’t know you. I’ll probably be on the phone talking to the dial tone on your birthday.

“No one’s gonna show up -you have to have cake and ice cream,” the actual skinny girl on her second serving says.

“Yeah, you have to have cake and ice cream, or I won’t be there,” the crazy Jesus lady from the 10th floor mumbles between cake bites. “The only skinny thing on me is my elbow…. And my wrist.”

“Well, it’s better than having flabby upper arms,” says the idiot from HR. “But it’s a family trait, I used to work and work on it and I could never get ‘em skinny.”

“Maybe you’re not hitting the right muscle,” says skinny.

“I know how to work out, I worked out at Bally’s for like a year.”

I had to leave at this point, shoveling cake and ice cream into my mouth wasn’t drowning out her idiocy- that and I was making faces with my back turned to her and the other two in there and I were about to lose it with laughter.

Why is it that people that do not possess the gift of whatever it is they’re lecturing you about are so adamant about lecturing anyone within hearing range about it? I mean the actual skinny, skinny girl in there wasn’t talking about how if you eat ice cubes and tic-tacs for most meals, you can stay a size 0.5 forever. And the Jesus lady wasn’t talking about how not to keep your womanly face features hair free or nothing. Yet, here was this person who wouldn’t fit the in-shape-enough-to-be-giving-advice-mold going on and on about cake and the sugar and the fat and how we all need to walk down to the lobby and back. Shut the fuck up, really. Newsflash HR idiot #2, you’re not skinny.

Witches and such

Vindictive. The word alone brings forth images of witches -warts and all- bent over large kettles filled with venom potions, of conniving souls seeking to inflict harm, of soulless beings with vacuous stares in search of that which will cause injury of whatever sort to those unfortunate enough to cross their path. And this is what lives on the other side of the building. A withered soul whose only pleasure lies in scheming ways of somehow wreaking havoc in and around her sphere.

Blah

Remember I was supposed to post reviews on places and all last weekend? Well, with the exception of two things -the weekend was very blah. Had dinner with a good friend at a place that makes you eat whether you want to or not, meaning the food was SO good we couldn't help but overeat. It's good to do every once in a while; ignore the bell that goes off when your stomach is telling your brain it is at full capacity.

We actually had a prime location table, able to observe the waiting patrons, the dining patrons and the staff. The place is in an intown location with a frufru clientele. Don't ask me why I was there, they don't even carry PBR, my friend likes that place. The clientele was almost entirely made up of a mid, to late twenties crowd. The girls all dressed in the latest frilly, colorful tops, "flirty" skirts and designer jeans, while the guys were mostly in striped shirts, khaki shorts or jeans and flip-flops. We were wondering why these girls, who obviously spend lots of time preparing to go out, think it's ok to go out with guys who obviously don't dress for the occasion like they do. But wait- I forget the guys actually did spend time studying their latest copies of the Abercrombie&Fitch catalog before stepping out their front door.

Stomach: "Ding, ding. Stop eating, I am full."

Brain: Ignore mode.

Stomach: "Ding, ding, ding. Please stop eating. I am at absolute full capacity and cannot intake anymore."

Brain: Ignore mode.

Stomach: "DINGDINGDINGDING. For the love of preventing ruptures, STOP eating."

Brain: "Um, did you say something?" (Hands still taking forkfulls up to mouth).

Stomach: "PUT THE $*&%@ FORK DOWN. NOW. THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES."

I stopped eating somewhere along those lines. My friend didn't. We went for a walk but that didn't help either and the rain kept threatening to return too. He could not function properly or even think he said, his stomach was showing him consequences. So off to bed he went.

I tried to hang out around my neighborhood but it was under invasion by a combination of rednecks and assorted suburbanites that insisted on just being themselves thus not particularly fun. I was forced to go home early. I need sleep once in a while anyway- that and maybe next weekend will be replete with good stories to tell. I took pictures on my way home. I also took a picture of the one place I stopped at on my way home- the most exciting place in the whole joint was- yes the bathroom.

Reality is Real

That line above holds a special place in Napoleon’s overall vocabulary and heart. He likes it so much it often leaps out of his mouth regardless of what is being discussed. He even used it on the training manual he developed for his division. It is proudly displayed on the intro pages of chapters between quotation marks attributing it to him. I don’t know that he’ll make it to the Quotation Thesaurus though- he's no Groucho or Teddy or Bettie Davis.

Reality holds a variety of definitions- it all depends on who you ask. A friend recently commented that she cannot understand the blogging phenomenon. She says she’s had a journal since junior high school but can’t fathom sharing it with anyone let alone placing any part of it on the world wide web. While most blogs contain a lot of personal information (or so you would think) it is still an open writing format that’s most likely nonfactual in nature. I mean, stories might contain some facts, postings might actually be based on events experienced by the writer and/or friends but a lot of it is probably exaggerated, blown out of proportion, or invented to make it more readable. That’s the case with anything you read anyway- be it news, books and such.

It’s funny to me that I am even blogging- but it actually serves a variety of purposes.

1)It is therapeutic, mentally and psychologically, without the obscene price tag than say a shrink.

2)It is great practice for my quickly disappearing typing skills.

3)It is a venting place when I have exhausted friends’ ears by repeating my paltry stories to no end (all three of them).

4)It provides yet another opportunity to mismanage my time at work yet allowing me to look super-busy.

5)But most of all it allows me to be a closet narcissist as this friend pointed out. And I say closet because there’s still some level of anonymity when you blog right? (I hope so, or I may be standing in the bread line soon).

She read the Narcissist post (http://tinyurl.com/9smbm) and actually agreed with Gay Husband. WTF? She’s supposed to be my friend and she’s siding with him? Didn’t I tell her he’s a mortician not a psychologist? Just because he can fill a body full of formaldehyde while simultaneously siphoning the blood out doesn’t mean he can diagnose mental issues- all his “patients” are D-E-D, dead! Always. But I digress here. The friend I speak of is Law involved anyway- she’s also not qualified to make mental-issues diagnostical prognoses. This I know, I learned it in some pre-law/med course I never took back in college at some point.

Let’s get back to the funniness about this whole entire blogging thing though. You already know I think I’m better than some people right? Ok, good. I often brag about the fact that I don’t waste my time watching television, on account of my being better and all. Ever since I decided that paying for satellite service that’s nonfunctional 50% of the time and realized I had watched every HGTV decorating show along with every Food Network cooking show (though the Food 911 guy is still hot, ‘cept last I saw him he was cooking with that blond nimwit- I hope that was an act; she can’t possibly be that stoopid) I cancelled the service and congratulated myself on that most brilliant move. I brag because I am not some couch potato allowing my brain to rot while mindlessly looking into a 27” box. Yes, many moons ago- before I knew any better- I used to watch too much Latin music videos in the hopes of finding out how these girls keep the few pieces of clothing they choose to wear on after dancing the way they do, and yes, I used to watch Law & Order and NYPD Blue reruns- but at least I wasn’t one of those suckers who watched all the mindlessly stupid “Reality Shows.” My choice of shows was constructive; they made you think and provided useful information that might come in handy sometime in the near future. You never know, I may need to be my own legal counsel at some point. And if ever I’m confronted by cops threatening to do me bodily harm if I don’t confess my guilt I’ll tell them I know they’re full of shit. I know how they operate, I know their tactics- they got nothing on me.

How do people get hooked on “Reality Shows” anyhow? It’s so…… DUMB. Yet here I sit adding to the piles of reality seeking fools out there. Not only do I read blogs -detailing, leaking, showing other people’s “reality-” on a regular basis, I also type my own reality and put it out there for all to see (again, all 5 of you). And it occurred to me that blogs are the world wide web’s equivalent of "Reality Shows" on television. Perhaps I’m not as brilliant as I thought I was. Wait! Scratch that, I am brilliant damn it, you can tell, right?

Unnecessary Drama

Drama, while at times an acceptable form of entertainment, has a way of almost always overstaying its welcome.

“Don’t feed the crazies” I first heard from gay husband. It was in reference to our lovely neighbors at the fabulous condos where we currently live. Although a relatively small complex, Drama is never absent there. It may express itself in the form of underhanded acts by some of the residents towards other residents and/or their guests, or the passive-aggressive method of attacking neighbors thru anonymous complaints to the management agency by residents, or through the grunting responses articulated by particular residents when addressed in any form- greeting or question. Drama is always roaming, waiting to cause an eruption of some sort, waiting there like a bad case of the flu even after you overpay for an innefective flu shot.

This complex, formerly a dilapidated, semi-abandoned, borded-up crackhouse, parttime whorehouse*, belies its current true nature. Its renovated interiors, its new facade along with the natural setting on which it sits- lake, trees, seasonal geese breeding and all don’t, at first glance, reveal the turmoil behind some of the doors. Because of the stacking order of apartment planning and building, each unit is extremely close to the next, so are the neighbors. It is nearly impossible to go undetected there. Even the most private of individuals finds that at some point a lot of his or her private daily happenings are common knowledge amongst the neighbors. This is mainly true for those residents who are by nature "screamers" and refuse to either permanently affix their headboards to the wall or move said headboard away from the wall- the usual culprits for these offenses are not, how shall we say, the particular kind most people would like to hear cavorting in bed much less have to imagine what they're doing within the confines of their danky condos.

There are also several Gladys Kravitzes in the complex, they know of most walks of shames- whether they be made at noon or at ungodly wee hours of the morning, of random hook-ups between neighbors, of new computers or other costly accessories purchases, of recent break-ups within each condo’s wall, of bouts between roommates even when police presence wasn’t necessary, of impromptu parties that end in debauchery and of many other things that shall remain, for now, unnamed. Of course there's a positive side to all this, since everyone is forever minding everyone else's business and "watching," several car robberies have been stopped while in progress and I'm sure many a break-ins have been prevented as well.

We have a community Yahoo web board meant to be a communication tool for everything relating to these particular condos and the surrounding neighborhood. It usually serves as a place to remind people of meetings, upcoming events and other rather mundane things. Over the course of the last 2-3 years though several “fights” have erupted on that board, these usually culminating in very ugly postings from offended or wronged residents. These online “post fights” escalate until someone gets mad enough to post things they probably shouldn’t and then everyone backing off or someone posting something cheesely soothing to try to diffuse the situation. The usual complaints range from decorating lights placed on common elements by individual residents without proper approval, to dog shit not properly disposed of by pet owners, to leash laws not being adhered to by pet owners with beasts for pets, to unacceptable furniture being placed on common elements, to zillion Big Lots’ resin angel figurines shrines erected for a Bonnie Sue -the dead cat- by individual residents thus scaring off potential buyers, to too many cars parked on the lot by one resident, to yet many other life altering situations that are of the utmost importance to correct right away without delay.

While amusing at first glance, all these complaints, their reporting and the ensuing bullshit can become quite frustrating. Rather than adding extraflammable gasoline to the fires that be, I have started refraining from posting in response to these posts fights- unless something grabs me in such a way that my fingers do the talking before my brain can process the possible outcomes of getting involved in such heart wrenching affairs that is. So while I like to repeat “Don’t Feed the Crazies” it is true I don’t always subscribe to its true message, for what would Life be without the crazies letting loose and creating spectacles for the rest of us to chuckle at every once in a while?

Drama does have its place, however, for how would anyone express his or her overwhelming feelings waiting to burst out of their otherwise empty and sad little hearts if Drama was not part of it all? Drama has its purpose in Life- some of us know that better than others- but just like other volatile-situation-causing substances, all have to watch the amounts of drama they allow into their Life and the amounts of drama they create during their Life- lest they become the drama queens everyone else eventually learns to expertly avoid.

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*Note: Some condos are still believed to be whorehouses due to the flurry of activity in and around said condos and the copiousness of unfamiliar faces entering and exiting the buildings and who knows what else while inside the building.

Atlanta Coming

In an attempt to get the great readership harnessed thus far (all 5 of you) more at ease with Atlanta and everything it is and isn’t, I will periodically post facts and reviews of places I frequent as well as of places I don’t frequent but grace with my presence every once in a while. These posting may be seen as a guide of what to do, or what not to do, if ever you are in or around Atlanta. Some of the recommendations will surely be a repeat of what you’ve read in travel brochures or other publications- but I assure you the reviews here will be much better; do trust me -I know what I’m talking about and I know how to find a good time. At least that’s what the voices in my head say after a few PBR’s. The reviews start this weekend from all the places and peoples I am planning on seeing so stay tuned.

This weekend I have a rather hectic schedule as I am trying to cram all the fun stuff, the stuff I actually want to do and the stuff I have to do in order to appease my conscience and trick myself into believing that I am in fact a well-adjusted, productive member of society. That and I have to fit time to consume some good mood altering liquids in preparation for my impending stint at the local detox clinic. I have been thinking a lot about the amount of drinking I do- ever since that drinking problem post, I wonder what that really means. (http://tinyurl.com/b8byt) Moving on to move though. It’s Friday and it is moving at the speed of Life, today’s speed is fast, very fast- already I have accomplished tons of stuff and I didn’t even stop for coffee on the way in. I have managed already to piss someone off here at work, but that’s ok though I don’t think it had anything to do with me; her wig’s on too tight and she's wearing glittery eyeshadow- she never wears glittery eyeshadow, I pointed it out to her about the eyeshadow and she almost threw her shoe at me in the conference room- that and she knows Napoleon’s (http://tinyurl.com/dglcu) coming back on Monday so her week of freedom is coming to an abrupt end.

I’ve pointed out before that I live vicariously thru my imagination and that that entails getting stories from other folk and those are sometimes really funny things. Fridays are “stay-in for lunch” days around here on account that Napoleon wants to foster a team spirit type thing and seems to think that forcing his crew to sit and eat California Pizza Kitchen every Friday in the conference room will do just that. Go Team! So today I am stuck in, even though Napoleon is somewhere in France (he really is in France- but it’s ok ‘cause he took his international phone with him so he’s only a ring away). The other few funny freaks that work here are going to lunch sans moi. But I still got a laugh and a tidbit of whatever they’ll end up discussing out there, as I’ve said; lunch dates are nothing but a riot of fun, making fun of the fools here and telling the going-ons of the silly-ass dating world out there.

Young guy, he’s only 22, just told about his date this week. We were talking about ironic t-shirts (read: stupid t-shirts) and I told them about my shameful internet purchase of not long ago. I wasn’t even drinking when I ordered these t-shirts- it just seemed like a good idea then. One reads: More Cowbell and has a picture of a cowbell on it. I think I bought it because I thought I was in some sort of love with a percussionist guy who for some reason does not love me back. (That t-shirt’s now toast, not because of him but because I have now seen the error of my ways). The other t-shirt has a picture of your typical pirate –eye patch, hat and knife between the teeth and all. It reads: Arrrgh you free Saturday Night? Don’t ask. Please. What’s worse though: I’ve worn it. Twice.

So young guy said that he went on a date with this girl on Wednesday and she showed up wearing a t-shirt that read: Jesus Rocks. He said that he made sure he had his way with her. They have another date scheduled. He says he can’t wait to tell her he’s Jewish. I’m glad his moves worked even if Jesus is her homeboy, my cheap neighbor once told me that Jesus is the ultimate cockblocker on account of his not being able to get any from the girl he was “working on” at the time. He said that they’d been dating and right when the time was almost there for the anticipated copulation she told him that she had let Jesus into her life and was no longer interested in living her old life- that included the promised sex, so the cheap neighbor got none. While his story had the one good element I had never heard, I hadn’t up ‘till that point heard anyone refer to Jesus as a cockblocker (I've heard him called a carpenter, the good shepperd, the light of the world, the Jew who thought he could but never the ultimate cockblocker), I didn’t have the heart to tell him the real meaning- she didn’t really like him and she really didn’t want to sleep with him. At all.

The moral of this story is: Don’t fall victim to the stupid t-shirt cult. Please. I wish someone had been watching over me as I surfed the internet and came across that dumb website with the idiot t-shirts. Oh, well- I told you you’d learn something.

Clueless

On any given day I talk to several people who are either gathering information regarding hardmoney loans or trying to grasp the concept of said type of loans. While it is sometimes difficult to explain the simple process to some people the message usually gets through- that or they pretend to understand how it works ‘cause their two functioning brain cells give up on them after they hear the words interest, terms, points and such.

Maybe you’re doing a bad job explaining you say? Hardly. The concept is extremely simple. You want to invest by purchasing a dilapidated structure, usually a single-family residence. You want to fix it up to make a profit off of your investment either by selling after repairs are complete, for much more than you bought it and spent on it, or by becoming a landlord making a profit of the leasing and selling later at a profit. Bottom line you want to make money. Problem is a conventional lending institution will not lend you money on an uninhabitable structure so you have to look for funds elsewhere.

The options are limited- your rich uncle who will trust you with unlimited sources of cash, private lenders who will promise to loan you enough for the purchase and the repairs and may or may not have all the funds available, or a banking institution that does partake in the hardmoney deals. Hardmoney simply means that the lender is charging much more than the conventional guys because they are assuming a much higher risk when lending on a house that needs repairs, that and the process is not quite as involved in acquiring these type of loans- there’s no extensive underwriting process which also equals higher risk.

That’s all fine that people don’t grasp the concept quickly, I’m willing to repeat it several times. Really, I like to hear myself talk. What kills me though is the existing borrowers. They call with the stupidest questions all the time. How is it possible that you have been in this business for a while and yet have no clue as to what you signed when you closed your last loan let alone what the documents really mean or said? Don’t answer that. I specially like the calls from the guys that insist that we owe them money after they pay off their loans.

“Yeah, I’m (so ‘n so) and I just closed on a loan on (such ‘n such street) and I wanted to know why my payoff was so high?”

“Hold on Mr. (So n’ so) let me look at your account. Ok, your initial loan was for $n, there’s interest for the current month accruing up until today when you paid-off of $n and you were late 5x so there’s a late fee of $n. There’s also a payoff fee of $n, that comes to your payoff amount of $N.”

“I was late? When was I late?”

“You were late on month x,, y, and z.”

“I thought there was a grace period.”

“There is, but your payments were received on x, y and z dates, past the grace period each month.”

“Ok, but how come I’m paying for an extra month?”

“Extra month sir? Which extra month?”

“Well if I bought the house on January 10th and it’s only June the 2nd and I paid my May payment why am I still paying a full payment when it’s only the 2nd June?”

“Your May payment was actually for April. Your interest accrues in arrears.”

“What?”

“Well, when you closed on January 10th you prepaid your interest until the end of that month. Then if you remember, you got to skip one month- February, and when you made your first payment in March that payment was applied to February. You pay in arrears, for interest accrued the previous month.”

“I still think you’re overcharging me, there should be a refund or something.”

“I can send you a breakdown with all the dates, checks received and all that so you can see it all together if you’d like.”

“Yeah, send me that. My girlfriend is a real estate agent, she said something wasn’t right with it. I’ll call you back.”

“Where would you like me to fax you this breakdown?”

“I’m gonna come up there and get it, I’m gonna let my girl friend look at it, she’s a real estate agent.”

“Ok, I’ll leave a package with your name on it at the front desk, if you need to speak with me have the receptionist find me.”

So then I go thru the trouble of getting a printed version of the account from operations- all broken down in an excel format anyone’s dumb, inbred puppy can understand and the fool who’s so sure of his accounting skills doesn’t show up with his real estate girlfriend.

And real estate agents in this particular business? Don’t even get me started with those dimwits. I guess it is true what I heard about them, 10% of the real estate agents handle 90% percent of the closings, while 90% of the real estate agents handle the remaining 10% of closings- fools, how do they eat?

Separate Checks Please

I learned the importance of that phrase after being around cheap skates for a while. There are frugal, budget-minded people worthy of admiration and then there are abusive serial cheapskates. Surely there are more descriptive words to use when it comes to these kinds of peoples but for now we’ll just use serial cheapskate.

My first encounter with a serial cheapskate happened pretty early on in Life, but I wasn’t yet equipped to recognize his overwhelming symptoms. To date he still holds the super-serial cheapskate title. That would be an uncle by marriage. He married my aunt when they were both pretty young. They proceeded to mate and produced 5 boys, one was stillborn, but the 4 that did make it past toddlerism were like all boys: loud and hungry all the time.

Given those statistics I understand their need for conservation and the like, but this particular uncle pushed it to the limit. I spent a lot of time at their house growing up- that explains my affinity for guy vs. girl friends, excessive drinking and a ton of other pluses and minuses, but that’s not the point here. I remember my aunt used to torture us by cooking the most horrendous meal of all: fish head soup. Days when the soup was the only thing to eat around the house were hell on earth and no amount of prayer ever fixed it for me. She would not allow us to eat anything else on those days, we used to have to wait for them both to go to bed and sneak into the kitchen to make ham sandwiches with lots of mustard to erase the nasty invasion of fish head taste from our tongues. The reason for the soup was always punishment I'm sure. They said it was “saving money” as the heads were almost free at the grocery store’s fish counter. The fish guy should’ve been paying them to take those away not the other way around.

Their idea of frivolous spending was to take us to Burger King. Burger King in those days had the all-you-can-eat salad bar, so this uncle being the “saver” he was used to buy one salad plate and proceed to eat to his heart’s content (which usually took a long while) and then let each waiting kid take turns using the plate. What a sight; a fast food family outing and a row of 5 kids waiting to use the disintegrating Styrofoam oval plate to partake of the Jell-O and whatever else a 10 year old finds appetizing from a Burger King salad bar. This aunt and uncle also used to sneak out of the house way early on Saturday mornings so they wouldn’t have to take the whole brood and spend too much money on breakfast. A couple of us figured it out and made various attempts at being up at the crack of dawn on the Saturdays we thought they’d make it out to breakfast, but it became increasingly difficult to track them and tack onto them as their times and exit points always varied. We once thought of spending the night in the backseat of the car, but that didn’t work out either- their ’71 Toyota Corolla always smelled of rank gasoline and stale grease.

Other cheapskates included a roommate who would, without fail, swipe the tip money every time we’d eat out. She’d pretend to go to the bathroom and wait ‘till everyone exited the restaurant, usually an IHOP after work, and then swing back by the table and pocket the tip. She also used to “miscalculate” her own tab; she’d forget to add the 6% tax and the tip for her portion of the bill. She also forgot that she used to eat a sizable portion of whatever appetizer was ordered. We stopped going out with her. The worst part about the whole thing was that she herself was also a waitress.

Then there’re two of my neighbors. I’d meet them out for drinks at the neighborhood joint and usually buy a round of beers or two- they never once bought me a beer. They’d gorge on .25c wings and $1.50 black labels, all the while complaining of being broke, and never see it fit to at least offer a beer. I later became friends with the girl who bartends there and figured they were using my tip money to cover most of their tabs- cheap bastards. That’s beyond cheap though. If you don’t have money to go “waste” money on a beer at the local bar then stay home or get a second job or cut out other stuff so you can afford the beer, but don’t jip the bartender or take your neighbor’s money to cover your own tab.

It’s always separate checks unless the group is entirely comprised of people who are aware of what they consume, can add and have no problem leaving the appropriate compensation for the bartender or server. And if you don’t think you have any cheap friends then you’re probably the cheap bastard everyone complains about in your group. And if you think you’re entitled to underpay because you think your friends are better off than you are then not only are you the cheap bastard, you are also a complete asshole as that is not your decision to make.

A Narcissist

"Narcissism, in human psychology is the pattern of thinking and behaving which involves infatuation and obsession with one's self to the exclusion of others. It may be seen manifest in the chronic pursuit of personal gratification and public attention, in social dominance and personal ambition, braggadocio, insensitivity to others (lack of empathy) and/or excessive dependence on others to meet his/her responsibilities in daily living and thinking. For the narcissist, self-worth is the belief that he/she is superior to his/her fellow humans."



So according to Gay Husband, didn’t I tell you already that we spend entirely TOO much time together, I am a bonafide Narcissist. His theory is comprised of several facts that he, in his twisted mind, has decided to, well- twist. His diagnose of my accute narcissism is based on the most innocuous things about me.

Example 1) my car. He swears that the only reason I bought the car is in fact because I am a Narcissist, nevermind the fact that I have wanted that particular type of car ever since I can remember. I am not really a car person. I have owned my share of jalopies because it was all I could afford at the time and because I figured they’d take me where I needed to go. One of these jalopies was an ’81 or ’70 something Honda hatchback that had the bad habit of exuding massive amounts of white smoke upon start-up. My favorite thing to do with that one was to pull up to a ritzy restaurant and get it parked up front with all the other priceless vehicles (ok, I only did that one time, but it was the funniest thing to watch as the patrons and the valet guy seemed to think that neither I nor my jalopy belonged anywhere near their establishment). But anyway, the car I speak of is a side project of mine and I only get to drive it once in a while as it needs work still, but it is an awesome car. It’s a convertible 1968 Skylark that’s in pretty good shape bodywise and needs some love in restoring it to its original grandeur. Still, it is such a good looking car that people can’t help themselves- they have to look. So he swears that the only reason I bought it is because I want people to look at me, because I am in fact a Narcissist. Pretty silly diagnosis if you ask me.

Example 2) this blog. Gay Husband swears that the only reason I started blogging is because I am a Narcissist- that and a drama queen as he puts it. The only queen around here is him though. That’s what I should’ve said, instead all I said was:

“I’m such NOT a narcissist.”

He claims this blog is yet another pathetic attempt of mine to get people to look at me. See how wrong he is? He’s a mortician not a psychologist anyway. I don’t think he has taken the time to really understand the word either. Furthermore, the implications of the word itself are in no way a direct or accurate depiction of why I do what I do or how I do it or when. I think sometimes in our attempt to understand people we get caught up in the words and carelessly choose words that don’t necessarily apply- but such is Life, for what would it be without all the opinions we’re so ready to offer whether asked to or not.

To be a true Narcissist, in my opinion, you have to be absolutely obsessed with yourself- that alone is a task I cannot commit to as my malady resides in my inability to not obsess about other people. I am constantly obsessing, that’s true, but rarely do I obsess about myself. Sure I am a bit self-absorbed at times, but aren’t we all? Sure I look at the mirror, a lot, but don’t we all? And I do have to keep presentable for the throngs of people that will inevitably be looking at me as soon as I step out of my front door. Sure I seek instant gratification at times- but that I know we all do. Besides I am not “chronic”about it, I only seek instant gratification ocassionally. That's not to imply that my behaviour is simply okay because "everyone does it" I was merely pointing the finger in another direction to show that I am not in fact a Narcissist.

Sure I think I’m better than some people some time. But c’mon, look around! I used to get into interminable discussions about this particular subject with a roomate of mine. She firmly believed that no one person is better than another- but I strongly disagreed. Who was she kidding I used to ask her, really? I used to compare people’s growth and thus their status of better-than in Life using a ladder metaphor, saying some people are closer to the bottom and others at the top when it comes to worthwhile individuals thus better-than people. She did not support that theory at all and refused to even consider it. So one day I said that maybe she should look at it as different levels, as in when you throw a rock into still waters. The rock causes a disturbance that manifests itself in concentric ripples and, I argued, some people are on the inside circles and some are on the outer circles and are therefore better-than others. To this she agreed, I have no idea why as it is the same metaphor only one’s linear and the other circular. Maybe she just likes circles. It doesn’t make any sense even now but you get the drift. Some people are better than others- that’s all there’s to it. And while I understand the power and importance of positive outlook on Life I am also extremely aware of the fact that mere wishing and positive thinking aren’t going to deposit 1M into my personal bank account.

Sure I go thru my share of infatuations, but it isn’t self-infatuation, rather I find people fascinating and tend to become quite infatuated with individuals Life has sent my way. Infatuation isn’t always a bad thing- there’s a certain magic to it and it is usually shortlived so it’s pretty harmless. Infatuation is a daily occurrence- with cars, with jobs, with food, with appearances, with cats, with shoes- you name it it’s out there. My infatuations tend to involve humans; a clear violation of the Narcissist’s code. I am so NOT a Narcissist.

Sure I like public attention but; ok, that one I can’t refute. Public attention and adoration are welcome in my book, take it while you can- we are all destined to become decrepit shadows of our former glorious selves so enjoy the ride while you can I say.

Open Relationships

As a rule of thumb, people in general should not discuss the nature of their sexual relationships in a public setting, like say in a coffeehouse. I was sitting at my local coffeehouse- which is now making a fortune off of me even though I downgraded to regular coffee rather than the lattés I used to drink- yesterday and heard a most amusing conversation. (I have to clarify though, that it wasn't really a conversation, as one of the would-be participants was blankly staring at the other person who was intent on giving directions). So there I was, minding my own business- not really- on my usual Thursday mode, getting ready to go on the road like I do every Thursday; getting my papers in order and my day planned when these guys walk in, purchase iced frappuccinos or something, sit at the table directly behind me and start the following:
---------------------------
Participants: 1)Older,Xbody builder looking guy who still thinks he looks marvelously delish in very fitted, shiny shirt tucked into very fitted jeans.

2)Youngish looking, Asian guy with overgrown, disheveled, I-don't-care hairdo.

“We have an open relationship.”

“Do you understand?”

“Do you know what that is?”

“Do you understand? It means you and I sleep together. You can have sex with anyone you want and I can have sex with anyone I want. If you find somebody else you want to have sex with us you bring him to me.”

“Do you understand?”

As Xbody builder old man received no audible response to his clear explanation, he must have decided Asian guy was hard of hearing because he then turned up the volume- a lot.

“Do you understand?”

“Do you understand? It means you don't lie. It means you don't sneak. There's books about it. Maybe you should read a book about it.”

“Do you like picking up hot men? Do you like picking up hot men? Do you like sexy men? You like ugly men? You only like ugly men?”

-------------------------------------

So old man must not own a mirror after all. Interesting.

These conversations, I think, should be kept private, or at least at a low enough decibel level as to not announce them to the entire contents of whatever public place you happen to be tainting at the time. Then again, maybe old man is an exhibitionist and in lieu of what he usually does in public he decided to regale us instead with detailed instructions aimed for/at his new sextoy. I learned something new though, apparently,

open relationship = you don't lie.

Hmmm, I always thought it meant you were too bored with your life and were desperately seeking self-destructive means to "liven it up," or it meant you were quadrupling your chances at acquiring those really en-vogue STD's everyone talks about, or maybe you were on the fast lane to ending whatever realtionship was there to begin with. It seems to me that the very "openness," people engaging in this behaviour praise, is in fact the opposite, because it is in and of itself a lie. Then again, what do I know. Everybody's doing it. People everywhere are feeling the pressure of boredom within their sexual relationships and feel the need to bring in extra participants. I often wonder, if we, as a society are in fact in a downward spiral, but I quickly realize that people like this have existed always. Perhaps history decided not to record them properly or more openly, perhaps they were just better at keeping their mouths shut and hid all these things really well.

'"----Natural variation
Dr Ruth Norman, a behavioural psychologist with an interest in polygamy, has an unorthodox view on the subject. "Monogamous or polygamous behaviour is an intrinsic part of our sexuality in the same way that homosexuality or heterosexuality is. Some people are naturally inclined to polygamy in the same way that some people are naturally attracted to members of their own sex. It's just that society in general is prejudiced towards those sexual types."'

A friend told me that he and his wife usually had a third party in their bed throughout their 20 something year marriage, until inevitably he would fall for the person, then wife would get infuriated and the arrangement would be terminated. Until the next one came along that is. They are now divorced, not because of those particular incidents but because he decided to explore third parties on his own, but only after she became frigid and was no longer interested in him sexually or otherwise and he could no longer cope it- or something like that.

Then there was the tell-all book by Jane Fonda in which she admits to having had third parties in her and Ted's matrimonial bed quite regularly. I guess you can say that didn't work out either. I didn't read the book, but CNN and other local news outlets honed in on that particular tidbit from the book, seems like that was the most interesting part of the book and all. And then there's everyday proof of the open relationship thing, people talking about it like it's no big deal and making talk that those who do not partake are some sort of prudish, assbackwards, closeminded, uncosmopolitan asses- oh, ok that convinced me. You had me at prudish!

Granted, we are all different. We all have different drives for everything- working, saving money, speeding, cursing, eating well, drinking, sleeping, sex drives; but shouldn't the commitment you make to someone override the drive to seek additional partners in bed? That's assuming there is any type of commitment to begin with of course. It just seems that "open" invites way too many issues no matter how "ok" with it both people say they are with the arrangement. From reading about this and looking around though, there is a large portion of the population that seems to be taking the alternative to this: cheating, so maybe this arrangement works for some people although not that I've yet seen.

Seriously though, I hereby decree that if I'm not enough for you in our bed then we don't need to be together like that- so don't ask. I mean, really what kind of person finds it perfectly natural and acceptable to make a mockery of the beautiful art that is lovemaking? Oh right, everybody doesn't make sweet love out there; the extremely bored, suicidal, next-big-thing-seeking bunch subscribe to the more the merrier theory while in bed. Then again, maybe people are watching too much porn out there, there's lots of free porn on the internet they say. Most men don't even know what to do with one person in bed. And I'm not implying women would perform better at having a third party involved either- it just seems, to me, that one body should require enough of your attention and time and available resources when you do find yourself in a sexual situation to not need a third body as well is all. Look at the picture though- they indeed look very happy and they look like just about anyone out there..... maybe they do know something I don't.

Allowable Breast Display in a Banking Institution

How much breast baring is allowable in a banking institution? This question came up upon our last “Temp” placement here at the bank. A particularly great, and modest, administrative assistant had to leave us for a few months due to her wanting to add to her yet small family. She delivered a daughter and now it seems she has to stay home for a while to bond with the kid, breast-feed her, change her soiled diapers and do other similar fun stuff. So knowing our great assistant was to be gone for a few months and also knowing that the current workload is only going to increase during the coming third quarter, a temp was arranged for thru HR.

Temps come in all shapes and sizes and as that in no way dictates the outcome of the hiring process we didn’t know what we were gonna get until we got it. Our new Temp came in the form of a tall, attractive, very buxom black lady. While I personally have no trouble with breasts at all, I still have both of mine, the others on the executive floor did in fact have issues. And plenty of them. Most were your standard issues men seem to always have when it comes to breastses. They were distracted, extremely distracted and then later even offended.

Please.

Not only did both breasts cause a bit of commotion, but they quickly became a topic of daily conversation among the older executives on the floor as well. I lost count of the times Napoleon came into my office, closed the door and asked me whether I thought that much breast overflow was really necessary. What do I know, I thought- I keep mine covered for this very reason- I don’t need you fools looking at me that way. Ewww does not begin to cover the feeling that creates, if I want you to look at me that way I’ll let you know.

“She’s been married 10 years. Don’tcha think after all that time you should stop..…. advertising?”

Said Napoleon while excitedly motioning with his hands towards his lack of exposed breasts.

“I don’t know but you asked me that yesterday too,”

I said.

“Maybe we should change the business, we have enough product for other ventures,”

he said.

While her choice of clothing was not “Banking Institution” approved it’s not my place nor concern really how much fabric she chooses to place upon her breasts. I really don’t care and I really didn’t want to discuss the issue either, but as it is her desk is immediately in front of my office and every time she happened to be missing her jacket and Napoleon walked by I had to endure yet another long-winded commentary on the number of years since her nuptials, the number of children born and their correlation to acceptable amount of breast coverage. This went on for almost two weeks, two of those days I happened to be on the road thankfully and today I come to work to start the third week of that only to find that buxom lady has been replaced. I don’t know if the breast exposure level reached stage enough to warrant her replacement but I won’t be finding out anytime soon. I’ll keep mine covered while at the office and do what I want with them on my own time outside of here.

Buxom lady was replaced by an older, not-attractive, suit-and-pearl-wearing lady. I guess coverage does pay off in the banking industry. All these years I’ve been thinking that all I had to do to get a decent payraise around here was grow a penis and don a yarmulke, but alas perhaps all I have to concentrate on now is high-necked blouses and bulky, breast-hiding sweaters.

In all fairness, buxom lady did try. Although the first couple of days she did have on spaghetti strap, low-cut shirts and she insisted on removing her jacket upon arrival, she did wear a tucked-in, button-down shirt with a tie the last time I saw her here. She tried, but it looks like she was a day late and several inches of breast-hiding fabric too short.

Drinking Problem

So I jokingly said to my gay husband and later to my brother that I thought I might have a drinking problem. Gay husband said that I was probably just having “a week” and that he really didn’t think I had a drinking problem at all. Even when we got into the car and my hands were visibly shaking and my vision was doing funny stuff, we decided it was probably the diabetes or sugar levels or something and went on to the park downtown to meet my brother’s family and watch the fireworks and stuff. Of course, gay husband is simply trying to keep me in the dark about my true condition because in the end he needs an in-denial alcoholic to partake in beverage consumption whenever time, money and plans permit. He is clearly biased and thus not to be trusted with an opinion on my self-diagnosis on this particular “problem.”

I repeated my suspicion to my brother at lunch yesterday and he said that if I was even talking about it then I did in fact have a drinking problem- at which point I quickly retracted my comment. I mean, one thing’s to joke about it but quite another for someone to call you on it. And who admits to these things anyway?

I once read that book, “Alcoholism for Dummies,” and according to all their definitions I am an Alcoholic- so is pretty much everyone I know. Now, I can take that one of two ways: decide that I’m hanging with a pretty questionable bunch of peoples or decide that that book was full of shit. So which is it you ask? Well, I’ll let you be the judge.

According to the book, you are an alcoholic if anyone in your close family tree was an alcoholic; it is because then you are predisposed to drink from seeing your grandpa or your dad drink and thus you have a ready and willing alcoholic inside of you just waiting to jump out. The book also says that if you “binge drink” during the weekend, or week, then you are an alcoholic. “Binge drinking” is referred to as drinking more than three drinks in one sitting at one time- three 12 oz. beers or three drinks containing 1 oz. of liquor each. The book goes on to say many more nonsensical things of that nature. It also tells you how to curtail your alcoholic predisposition and goes on to say that you can never be cured; that once you are an alcoholic you will never not be one. So why fight it? Be who you are, stand proud- or lay down when you can no longer stand on your own two feet. Isn’t that what they taught you in kindergarten or somewhere, to be proud of who you are- they didn’t say you got to choose what part of your life you had to be proud of did they?

I happen to know a few “recovering alcoholics.” The term is used quite differently by each one of them. To one, who happens to be a bartender, it means that he doesn’t drink himself into a stupor EVERY night, it means he actually attends meetings and it also means that somedays he says: “Fuck it, I miss the old feeling and I’m drinking tonight.” And he does and then he talks about it and you’re left wondering- wait, I thought you said you were going to AA.

Then there’s a neighbor who happens to be dating someone I know, and what it means to him is going to drunken fests, watching all the revelers, eating a funnel cake and then going home. (We suspect he may have a mini-bar hidden somewhere in his house as he also hides his smoking and if you are hiding that then chances are….. But wait, I’m being too judgmental here, he seems to make it to work on a daily basis and is usually in a very chipper mood and his little dog gets fed every day). To him, it also has meant having a “relapse” less than a year ago and then having to start the count all over again from “1” when he was at well over “370” or something like that. That must suck.

For yet another person it means finding new addictions or distractions. His happen to be running and Opera, meaning that he runs incessantly and he is constantly trying to find someone to accompany him to every show the local Opera company puts on during any given season. We always offer him shots of jagger when we’re out to dinner, but he politely refuses and refers us to the latest La Bohemme showing or the upcoming Don Giovanni at The Fabulous Fox. And it seems to be working for him as there have been no reports of a speeding, swerving Mercedes down any highway leading to his home in a long while. He has instructed all his close friends, and anyone else who'll listen, to play the theme song from La Boheme on a loop during his entire funeral service. And I wonder, did he really change? I bet before he started going to AA meetings and denouncing liquor for the foul substance it really is, he had asked someone, somewhere to place a bottle of his favorite drink in his casket. But then, haven't we all done that at some point?

While I have never been to an AA meeting, sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to go to one. It would serve two purposes I guess- one: to get me over my slight discomfort of public speaking and two: to see REAL alcoholics, ‘cause most definitely I am not an alcoholic. I am a lot of things, that I will admit, and have already admitted thru this here blog, but an alcoholic? No. It doesn’t matter if my mom insists I’m just like dad. Even if I sometimes wake up fully clothed in bed or next to my bed on the comfort of the gleaming hardwood floor shoes and all- that probably just means I was too tired to change into proper pajamas and actually make it onto bed; from work and all you know. Even if I sometimes find I cooked an entire meal the night before and the entire kitchen is covered in spills, that probably just means I was early in getting ready for the next dinner party I'd planned for the following month is all. And even if I call long-lost relatives and long-gone relations in other states and then thry to pretend I'm Aunt Pittypat from "Gone with the Wind," that just means I was rehearsing for my next movie role in the upcoming remake of "Gone with the Wind: Real World Atlanta Style."

Go ahead, ask my gay husband if I'm an alcoholic, just don't ask my little brother- he's a little disinformed at the moment.

Holidays

What is it about Holidays that brings out the silly folk in droves? Maybe they’re always there- just more noticeable when they’re in packs. Monday felt like Sunday- a combination of the bank being closed, the bars open and my liver desperately trying to replenish itself amid waves and waves of PBR. But that’s all over now and I’m back into the full swing of things for the rest of the week and already we’ve met w/ Napoleon for the day. And already there’s a big story, as one of my customers was arrested and now I guess his deal is “DEAD,” as we say around here. I guess that deal will go into the ‘uncloseable deals’ file collecting in one of my bottom drawers at work.

He’s an idiot- that I knew from two phone conversations with the guy- I guess his law degree didn’t prevent his case of the stupids from growing big enough to cause him to be facing felony charges for attempted mortgage fraud.

“Hmm, let’s see, we do business in a county that’s continually ranked in the top-five counties in mortgage fraud volume in the country, so let’s do a deal and rip-off another uniformed lender and make some quick bucks off it- no one will notice. Seriously. It happens all the time and I’m a real estate attorney, I know these things.”

“That sounds like a risk-proof-get-rich-easily-no-one’s-gonna-get-busted plan, I’m in!”

Or so it went for the six idiots that got arrested I suppose. What happens to these people, can greed be that blinding? Don’t answer that. Can the need for money make you that dumb?

Of course, it is just alleged at this point and everyone is innocent until proven guilty and perhaps this man will be cleared of any wrong doing and the GBI agents that posed as power of attorney’s for the sellers will be shown as the incompetent investigators they really are. And we’ll have other Holidays to celebrate and this smart lawyer guy won’t be disbarred and on a long Holiday of his own any time soon.

Pathetic Suckers We All must Be

There once was a girl who, sometimes, was overly concerned with things and people surrounding her; partly from self imposed notions of what she thought she should be and partly because of what she saw around her- or what she thought she saw anyway. She was, sometimes, easily confused or coerced into believing things. The thing with this girl though, was that on the one hand she didn’t really care what others thought she was supposed to be, but sometimes it seemed she let herself be possessed by outside forces that told her to follow certain paths, whether they be a certain dress code or a certain number on the weight scale she let herself be fooled into believing them. And fooled she felt when she regained her consciousness, because foolish is what she had allowed herself to be. Determined one day to be her own person she vowed to not cave in to these “outside” pressures.

She was healthy. She was happy for the most part, and she liked Life for it had a lot to offer- perhaps even more she dared hope for at times. She lived in-between worlds most of the time and it was rather difficult to concentrate at work of late. The work got done, the deals closed but the interest- the genuine interest she would have liked to have had for the job- wasn’t there and it was becoming more and more difficult to find reasons to stay.

There were reasons enough though, everybody needs a paycheck, ‘cause everyone needs a roof and a stove and a bed and clothes and stupid t-shirts that had seemed funny on the internet. Everyone needs peanut butter in his or her fridge for the dog and uneaten melons and browning bananas hanging on the wall. Everyone needs a TV with no cable or satellite connection, books thrice read, body creams never opened, foot lotions once used, too small underwear that had never been comfortable. Everyone needs see-thru curtains to let the light in and the breeze billow thru, feather filled comforters that leave nothing but piles of useless feathers, feathers leaking like infectious liquids oozing from a wound filling every orifice in the room. Everyone needs useless and ridiculously tall shoes, ‘cause everyone needs corns and deformed feet in old age.

So the job had to stay because of all the needs and leaving wasn’t an option -there were truly many other problems to consider in addition to the onvious ones anyway. So she stayed and worked and tried to exceed expectations but always with the questions hanging dangerously close by:

"Is there more?"

"Is this really it?"

And people told her the questions came to her because she was getting older, but she knew that wasn’t true. These questions, in one form or another, had always been her companions, her mentors, her nannies of sorts. And even when she fancied them answered still they lingered in the shadows; bidding their time to resurface in complete triumph once more. Was love going to be enough to finally squash them? She wondered. What if love wasn’t enough? What then? Clearly then, the solution was never to love for then she would not have to find out the awful truth she knew was hidden in plain light. But could it be? Surely love could overcome it all. Love could defeat it all, especially if you did the things for love that you would not do for anything else. Isn’t that what that song said? But she figured it couldn’t be that simple- nothing ever was. Questions about life were simply not answered thru a single song- it was just not possible.

But stopping life was not an option either; as it was not an option to sit still and let her visions roll on by. It was difficult enough to let her imagined lives roll thru without wanting to join in somehow. Sometimes in the early waking moments, in those moments between vivid dreaming and faint glimpses of her now familiar bedroom, she lived entire lives: from meeting him and living side by side with him and birthing their own offspring and showing them there was indeed more to life, to dying and leaving behind new things to dream of, new traditions to enjoy- newness like a soft green leaf in May. And into those faint glimpses of what really wasn’t there she tried to tunnel into. But the red numbers on her bedside clock kept too close a watch and beckoned her out of the idyllic farce that was the dream and warned her that the job was waiting as was the boss and all the things that came with the paycheck she collected twice a month. So up she had to get and wash she had to the sleep from every hair, wash she had to the thought of him out of her erratic heart, lose she had to in the water coming down in streams, the notion that he had ever cared, for it was clear that the days spent by his side must have somehow leaked out of her mind into what she had believed to be a real thing, real days, filled with the real him.

He couldn’t have been there, because if he had he would certainly still be there. Or wasn’t that what he had earnestly whispered into the phone line she had closely held to ear and heart? Perhaps these too, these words she thought she’d heard him speak had been simply uttered in between worlds and couldn’t be expected to hold substance or meaning or weight or hope of any kind. Perhaps the mounting years were tricking her into letting the faint glimpses of the nothingness that wasn’t there to pose as real in her life.

And what is real in the end? The whispered words between two lovers? A mother’s tenderness towards her children? A father’s care for those he loves? What exactly stands the test of time, the test of realness, fakeness, emptiness and more?

She painted herself pathetic sometimes and realized the ugliness the word possessed; still pathetic she felt when she thought she'd almost languish at the thought of losing him. Then she heard other accounts from friends who told their battles with pathetic and with sucker too and she found comfort in the fact that numbness hadn't claimed enough of her heart to make it just the mechanical device she feared in her chest.

Songs and Dance

Music is an amazing thing- it’s as if I realize that anew each time I am introduced to something “new.” I think my self-induced bipolarism is greatly affected by music, meaning that sometimes a silly little song has the power to make me scream out loud in extreme pleasure- no sex involved either.

Anyway, I wish I came from a more “musically inclined” family but as it was, my dear grandmother got grandnapped by aliens when I was very young. (Ok, she didn’t really get taken away on a rocket ship, but she might as well have, she converted to Pentecostalism/Evangelism and proceeded to tell the entire family that if they did not change their ways to the “only” acceptable way they’d all burn in hell. So here I sit waiting my turn to burn in hell). These cults have a way of doing away with people’s own thoughts, once they become part of the communal thought process there is no rescuing them or restoring them to their former beings. For some that might be a good thing, for my grandmother it has not. She insists on leading a “pious” life devoid of any fun. Who said following Jesus had to be so, so damn depressing anyway?

There is no dancing permitted, as that allows the Devil access to our very souls which he will promptly carry off into the ruined and darkened pits of Hades. There is no music allowed, unless it involves Jesus, the Father or the Holy Ghost, and these three don’t believe in “getting down” nor playing any “funky music” nor permitting any song that might lead to body movements akin to anything sexual- oh no! God forbid! So the only music I was left with was stuff like “This little light of mine…” What fucking light? The crushing depression alone, brought about by the lack of real music was enough to darken the souls of all kingdom come and their offspring’s offspring.

I remember going to places with my Mom, she was never one to “change” to acceptable ways in Grandma’s eyes, and sitting there and though roughly enjoying the local restaurant’s cover band’s rendition of “Ay viene la Plaga” (roughly translated: Here comes the plague- about a girl so riotous and crazy fun that when you saw her rock ‘n rolling you knew she was the queen of the place). I wanted to be her, the plague. I wanted to break into uncontrollable fits of dancing so tantric in nature that the movement itself would transport me beyond the limited things I was allowed to see. But, I couldn’t- lest I risk eternal damnation for a short moment of ill conceived pleasure. See what I mean? Who comes up with this nonsense?

There were other times when we’d be watching dances at festivals and little random celebrations intown and some dancers would break into a “Palo de Mayo”* rendition. Now that was glory itself! I watched and wanted to run over and become them but I just stood there and watched for I knew I’d be irretrievably soiled if I partook of the dance. And then the guilt of having sinned by wishing for it kicked in. What a redundant and empty existence. Who in their right mind wants to live like that? Ever? To this day I have to literally talk myself into dancing -and that usually only happens after a few social lubricants have been duly imbibed. Not to say that I only dance when I drink, but I mostly only dance when I drink. Although, I’ve noticed that if I dance with someone who can lead well I end up doing quite well myself.

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*http://www.radiorabel.com/ritmosybailes/palodemayo.htm

Local Celebrities

Went to a book release party for a local “celebrity”* the other day and I thought, “that could be me.” Minus the boring/lame-ass commentary she did when her friends introduced her and she went up on stage to “read” a portion of her new book of course. She didn’t really read but rather told a story based on one of the vignettes in the new book. And did she ever tank.

Maybe she was nervous, maybe she really doesn’t like crowds like her buddies do, who knows- whatever it was though, she probably knows herself well enough to have known how to keep herself from floundering on stage. I know what my cousin -the one that’s just like me, ‘cept he has a penis- would be saying right now: “Quit judging people!” But why? That’s what I was put here for. Not really, I’ve always wanted to say that though. I really envy those fools who utter things like that with true conviction: “I was put here to (insert any random verb or thing- dance, write, sing, play an instrument).” Damn them! At least they don’t have to spend their time searching or their money drinking to see if in their intoxicated state things will “become clearer” and they’ll somehow ‘know.’ Oh well, we all can’t have it that easy, and besides all this learning is so exhilarating most of the time. All these phone calls, how can I blog with all these people calling me all the time wanting reports and updates- Damn it!

So there I was trying to get as much dinner as possible, seeing as how one of the local breweries provided all the beer and the bartender said “a suggested donation of $2” was suggested. OK! Great- that’s my kinda event. I donated the first three times and from there forward it was maybe a buck for two beers every other time or something like that. I was also getting my gay husband beer so we were saving money by getting them at the same time, and I had his wallet- a rarity since he seems to think I’m made of money.

The best part of the whole thing was the entertainment, the Dames A Flame** were there and it looks like they’ve been working out ‘cause they all looked GOOD! It takes balls to get up there on stage and flash your almost bare ass to the crowd without thinking much about it- wow! As we cheered their act I overheard two guys behind me discussing the intricacies of burlesque, they kept saying things like, “That’s what Burlesque is all about, “ and since I always want to find out what things are all about I kept waiting for them to say but I guess that the Dames are so good they don’t need any actual explanation. The first time I saw the Dames at an “Elvis Death Day” event I was convinced I needed to become one of them, it made perfect sense then; of course I was on my 6th or 7th PBR by then but it made sense. I could see myself up there shamelessly shaking my ass to old Elvis tunes to the sound of drunken fools woohooing below me- yeah! That must be the life. Then I saw their pasties and tried to figure out if the pasties thing would work for me- well their pasties worked for them. But then again they seem to work best on smaller breasts, and those I do not have. As I dissected my serious thought of becoming a Dame further, it became apparent that my breasts weren’t built for pasties and so I thought I better move on to other things to do with my time. Besides, I heard they have to travel to NY and other places for Burlesque Conventions and stuff and how would I explain that at the bank anyway. “Oh, excuse me Napoleon, I need a week off to go perform in pasties and hot thigh highs and frilly underwear, I’ll call you guys when I get back.” I don’t know if that would fly around here.

Did I tell you that I live vicariously through my imagination? ‘Cause I do you know, and although that affords me things/events/people I wouldn’t otherwise have access to, it also stinks as there are times when I really would like to pursue these further and well, it’s not like I really have a backdoor to my armoire and I can step right into it. Such is life though and the mix of real vs. imagination seems to have carried me this far.

I think the Dames thought we were stalking them at one point. I say we, ‘cause most every time I’ve been to see them my gay husband has been there. And he’s a rather memorable guy, with his thinning blond hairs, his dark-rimmed glasses, permanent scowl and really cool guayaberas I make him wear- they have to remember him. I’ve seen a little hint of fear flash across Big Mike’s (that’s the lead singer, eukelele player, funny front-man the Dames always perform with) eyes when he recognizes us wildly waving and grinning at him from the audience. Mind you, Big Mike is BIG, but I think he’s a lover not a fighter, else why does he insist on wearing his Geisha costume all the time? What do I know though; I’m not even locally famous yet. And yes, like most of you I’m a legend in my own mind but beyond that- who knows.

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*Local Writer- Hollis Gillespie

**www.damesaflame.com