Dressing for the Occasion or How Gay Men Set Better Standards

I’ve noticed over the past several years that the standards for attire for “straight” people at special occasions, such as weddings, has become suspiciously akin to dressing for work, the dog races or any other day that calls for casual, comfortable, and whatever springs forth first out of the closet.

A friend of mine was married in a late afternoon wedding. Nowhere on the invitation did it say “come as you are”, or “casual work clothing” required. Unfortunately, her circle of friends came from the high tech software industry. It has become very clear to me that the bright and independent minds of high tech are independently stubborn when it comes to dressing “up”. There is no “up”. I heard one fellow remark that he did not own any dress clothes or dress shoes. He said it proudly in a tone of deeply religious clothing beliefs. I glanced down at his Birkenstock sandals and noticed his wife was wearing a matching pair. They were a well-suited couple. I was surprised he didn’t go all out and wear shorts. I’ll bet he thought about it though.

At a wedding for my husband’s nephew, I saw a man (fortunately on the bride’s side of the aisle) in a light green polyester leisure suit, a plaid cowboy shirt, and a stick of beef jerky poking up out of his pocket. You don’t often see such a sight sitting in a church pew. I think the suit spoke to the man’s belief in never giving up on a good garment with a hard-to-find color (not found in nature) and the food was simply good planning in case it was a long ceremony whereupon he could grab a quick bite if he started feeling a might peckish.

I found it difficult to take my eyes off the man. It was just such a fascinating concept to find a person in church with a roll of beef jerky at the ready that…well, I just had to keep looking to make sure that’s what I was actually seeing.

As an aside to this particular wedding, the bride demanded that the minister change the wording in the vows as she did not like saying “obey” or maybe it was “honor”. Probably both. I don’t recall what she had him use as substitute words. Apparently after a short stint in this marriage, any words were not to her liking and they divorced.

A woman I worked with was married at a beautiful little church in San Francisco. It was an early afternoon ceremony with the reception at the yacht club. Off the top of my head, I considered that to be a dressy affair. It should have been don’t you think? Aside from the bride, groom, and wedding party who had to dress up for the wedding, my husband and I and two other men were the only ones who had obviously spent some time analyzing the degree of formality required for a wedding. The other two men were gay. And funny. And one was the most drop-dead-gorgeous-hunk I have ever seen in my life! Just thought I’d throw that in because I’ve never forgotten that man’s face. Woo-wee. I stuck to them like Spanx on fat legs just so I could ogle that man’s well-dressed body. No harm in looking. We all discussed the sad departure from dressing correctly for weddings. I love gay men. They know what style is all about by golly.

It’s no wonder the middle class is sinking. We don’t know how to dress up anymore.

Before leaving the house to go to a wedding in your Birkenstocks, untucked shirt, shorts, or casual work clothes, call a gay man…if not for advice, then just to give him some amusing anecdote for the day.

Alexina and The Young Man

Alexina is a woman who fits in everywhere and with everyone and always has something interesting to say because she does interesting things. Men love her because she’s beautiful in an exotic mysterious way with long auburn hair, sky blue eyes, and a figure toned by 24-hr Fitness. She also cooks like a Cordon Bleu graduate. The combination is deadly.

She calls herself an ex-serial marry’er. She’s 30 and has been married twice, which she considers more than enough for any woman. She’s taking time out to reassess her criteria for serious relationships.

She had a date last week-end with a 22 year old college student who works part-time in a restaurant she frequents. The young fellow is tall with the wiry muscular build of a long-time surfer. He has sandy hair and a cute lop-sided smile that brings out a dimple in one cheek that makes our feminine fingers itch to reach out and tweek that cheek. And more.

Alexina decided to approach dating in a more scientific manner by developing a working laundry list of good and bad attributes in men so that she can control her impulse to “help” every downtrodden, weak, needy, fool she meets. I told her that the instant she even thinks the “H” word, she should run screaming to the nearest phone and call me. Or suggest he call a professional who can “H”elp him.

She said when the young man showed up at her door, she had second thoughts. He had a beat up van--as in paint missing in several spots with the base metal showing through, and several dents on both sides. He was wearing orange baggy swim trunks and a wrinkled shirt that said “Ride the Wave to Freedom”. She thought his mother should have educated him on the value of an iron.

She asked him into her livingroom so she could get her things, whereupon he apparently mistook the polite gesture for an invitation to grab her for a kiss. She figures that youth disobeys any laws of formality, manners or timing. She also figured it was going to be a very long day.

They spent the afternoon at the beach, which considering the beautiful weather we had over the week-end should have been quite nice. Except the young man spent the whole time surfing. She thinks he planned it so she could admire his expertise in the sport, or surfing is his life and everything else comes second. Not a good sign for a sharing relationship.

Alexina spent the afternoon feigning interest, searching for seashells, and talking with the older couples on the beach. Her laundry list on the negative side had reached the end of the first page. She tried to come up with some emergency illness that would cut his water time short and get her back home, but gave up and took a nap in the shade. The thrill of dating a younger man was waning.

At the end of the day, the dear fellow took her to his apartment so he could change clothes. Which he did. He changed into another set of wrinkled attire. As a matter of fact, Alexina thought his whole apartment looked wrinkled.

He cleared the sofa so they could sit down and watch some TV. He clicked on the set to the sports channel where, to her surprise, was a tractor pulling competition. Did people actually watch this stuff? Apparently people do.

Oh, look at the time. Early appointment tomorrow. But it’s Sunday tomorrow. Right. Early church service.

I asked her if she had anything in the positive column of her new list. She said she’d have to give it some thought and get back to me.

Children and Business Don’t Mix

I have a serious complaint about allowing teenagers to run a restaurant, or any business that requires some speed and customer service. Like metaphors, you just shouldn’t mix the two. And if a restaurant hires such youthful folk, they should always have an adult ever-present and ever-watchful to actually run the business and supervise the children.

My son and I took my husband to his favorite restaurant for breakfast on Father’s Day. Despite the dusty plastic fern things hanging stiffly from the ceiling, the cracked linoleum, and other dubious cleanly issues--he loves it. The restaurant has been there for several decades (hence the layers of dust on the plastic fern things). I think the place reminds Sid of his younger days when he and his friends met for breakfast before heading out for fishing and other manly pursuits.

The décor and dust aside, when I first went to the restaurant many years ago, the waitresses were superb. There were two older ladies that were the epitome of what a good waitress should be…quick, efficient, and watchful for empty cups that need refilling.

Sadly, they have retired and were replaced by four teenage girls and one teenage boy.

On Sunday, it took two of these girls to work the front reservation area. They stood, they chatted, and did double duty as a waitress. For the lines of us waiting…and waiting…for a table, this did not bode well.

Everyone was told “30 minutes” for the wait. I began to get a bit suspicious of this answer when, after 45 minutes we were still waiting for a table, and the new response was “at least” 30 minutes because “people weren’t leaving as soon as they thought they would be”. The crowd was getting ugly at this point.

I watched the bus boy cleaning and resetting the tables. He reminded me of a bottle of ketsup—tall, long necked, and needed a couple of good thumps to make him work faster. He had that teenage look that we all know…and really hate. The one that says, “I’m so bored doing this stupid job. I should be home playing my video games.”

About an hour after checking in, we were finally seated by one of the reservation girls. She came back with our cups for the coffee, and then went to get the coffee pot. We didn’t get water. The people next to us got water. I guess we didn’t look like water types. She took our order and left. Forgot to bring sugar or cream for the coffee.

15 minutes later, we still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of our order, and we sure didn’t see any refills on our coffee.

I have a motto for waiters. Don’t ever make me get up to find you or the coffee pot. The tip will get smaller and smaller.

Bus boy stood in the back scanning the room. Same bored look on his face. Apparently his job, his only job, was to take dirty dishes off tables, wipe the table, and reset with silverware. As slowly as possible. Because he sure didn’t make any attempt to wander around with a coffee pot in his hand. No sirree. That wasn’t in the list of his job duties when he hired on to this miserable job.

We finally got our breakfast after 30 minutes of tiresome waiting. I should have ordered lunch.

My husband was a little embarrassed that I only left a $2 tip. I thought it was a bit excessive for the level of service.

Children. Only yours and mine are great. The rest need serious guidance.

A Night of Romance

Tell me your best romantic story. Here’s mine….

One evening several years ago, my husband and I were sitting around talking about the “good old days”. High school to be exact. I told him I’d never gone to a prom. Junior or Senior. I was never asked. He was astounded as he thinks I’m a pretty cute thing that would charm any boy into asking her to the prom.

I have developed my wily feminine skill set over the years.

In junior high, I was so shy that when we had school dances, I would sit stiffly in the metal folding chair and stare at the wood bleacher floor all the while watching as sneaker-clad boy’s feet walked to the girls on the left and right of me, but never ever stopping in front of me. I was a great watcher of feet and ever hopeful that a set of them would eventually walk my way. Never happened. I have a theory. Boys don’t pick girls who stare at the floor and don’t smile. It’s just plain freaky and shows no signs of being an interesting person who knows how to dance or talk and it’s hard enough for a boy to dance and talk to a girl in junior high.

Same problem in high school. I went to the dances with my girlfriends, but stood in the corner as they were whisked away for a fast twirl. I think I was still into staring at the floor.

It wasn’t until my senior year, and later half of the year, that I gained some insight into attracting boys. French, and a little black cocktail dress borrowed from my older sister did the trick.

I had joined the French Club and we came up with a skit for the whole school during some rally thing. The skit had various French characters. The club members picked me to be the French can-can girl. I was astounded. Either they saw some French floozy-skirt-tossing attributes which eluded me, or no one else wanted the job.

So, there I was swinging my hips and walking out on the football field wearing my sister’s little black cocktail dress and a feather plume in my hair. Whistles and ya-hoos were called out from the boys in the crowd.

Oh, so this is all it takes? Several of the boys in my history class took on a new light in their eye when they discovered I was the can-can girl. Eat your hearts out boys.

I just realized as I’m writing this that the French Incident was the moment I discovered the power of womanhood. A little black cocktail dress, a swing of the hips, and a smile. So that’s the key to popularity with the boys.

As I said, my husband felt badly that I missed out on the fun of a prom. He went to the prom. He was on the football team. Those guys went to everything. Jock.

He left the room, got several of our “oldie” cd’s, put them in the player, and came over to my chair. “Can I have this dance?”

Makes me get tears in my eyes just thinking about that night.

We danced and talked about our teachers and the football game coming up. In short, for a brief time he took me back to being a high school girl with nothing more to worry about than the guy I was dancing with and whether or not he might ask me out again. It was magical and sweet and romantic beyond anything I’ve ever done in my life.

At the end of the evening, he left me for a minute and when he came back he had his high school letter-sweater. He asked me if I would be his girl.

Yes. Now and forever.

Confessions of a Massage Junkie

I love a good massage. I love the feeling of complete relaxation as someone else works out the knots and tangles of my stressed muscles. I love it so much that I usually don’t say anything when the masseuse muscles an elbow a little too hard into my back. I have a high tolerance to pain that battles with my love of massage.

I used to go to a hair salon that touted a neck massage as one of their services after the shampoo. Sheer bliss. The man that I saw had those wonderfully strong fingers that slowly rubbed out all the tension. One time as his fingers were working their magic, he inadvertently put me in a strangling headlock with his other arm. I didn’t say a word to make sure he would continue massaging my neck. The preposterous notion of a grown woman sitting there being choked to death just for a 2 minute neck massage finally got the better of me and I started laughing…between sucking breathes of air in as he lightened his hold on my neck.

I came to work today with a “hitch in my giddyup”, as my Mom used to say. My job for the last 100 years (it feels that way) has been sitting at a desk working on the computer. The only thing that moves in this job is my lower half, which is spreading like butter on toast due to the fact that I don’t get up enough so my body parts are conforming to the chair seat. At least that’s how it feels. I think I’ll probably die in an atrophied position at my keyboard. I hope someone notices my sad demise.

I did some yard work Saturday, which as we all know, is a killer to muscles that only know white collar exercise…which would be typing fast. What was I thinking hoisting those bags of dirt and flinging gallon pots of hydrangeas? My Midwest farmer roots came out and took hold I guess. The smell of dirt is spiritual and puts me in some out-of-body (or out of my mind) condition that overrides any doubt about my physical ability to stoop, reach, hoist, and dig for 8 hours.

I also planted lots of seeds in little pots, which I realized after the fact that I had not labeled. My farmer ancestors are shaking their collective planting almanac heads wondering where the fruit of their loins got her brains. I guess I’ll have a “mystery” garden where the carrots will just have to grow along side the delphiniums. Or maybe they’re sweet peas.

There is a grocery store across the street from my work that has a small room with a chair massage service. That’s California for you. If you don’t live in a neighborhood with a grocery store that provides such a service, you are probably rolling your eyes at the very thought of a massage along side the fruits and vegetable department.

Now you know I went there at lunch. The masseuse elbowed and ground his fingers into my tense muscles. “How’s the pressure?” he asked. “Oh, you can ease up on the lower back,” I replied, hoping the dent he was putting into my hip wouldn’t last very long.

Although my back felt moderately better after the massage, I’ve noticed that since I haven’t moved out of my chair for the past 3 hours, my legs do not work as well as they used to. I guess sitting in one position for hours at a time tends to stiffen things up a bit. Maybe I should go back to the grocery store for a good massage and some spinach.

The thing about a kink in your back is that you can limp in the door making sad moaning sounds and your husband will suggest either he cook, or he goes to get take-out food. Score. If you look really pathetic, with a touch of silent suffering (because you’d never want him to know the full extent of your pain because you’re a caring cookie who sure wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone) you might even get him to rub your achy spots and give you a kiss for good measure. Double Score! Hey…whatever it takes for another massage!

Too Happy

This is a cautionary tale, so pay extremely close attention.

Several years ago I worked for a start up company as an Executive Assistant to the CEO. The VP of Engineering was one of the founders of the company and was, in my humble and accurate opinion, an egotistical vengeful jerk that ruined the company out of spite. I kissed my stock options goodbye because of him.

He also seemed to have a soft spot for the receptionist who worked for another company in our building. I found this out after having my sister come in for an interview with him for a job as his admin. He was apprised of the interview. Knew the time she would be there. Saw her come in, and promptly left for lunch without ever shaking her hand or acknowledging that she was sitting there waiting to speak with him. Odd and rude don’t you think? Two very apt words to describe him. Odd and rude.

Unbeknownst to our HR department, Mr. VP had already hired someone to be his admin and chose not to divulge this information to anyone, including the person who set up the interview with my sister. Yes, you guessed it. He had hired the receptionist from the other company.

Apparently, he felt sorry for the woman, primarily because of her single mother status and sad story of limited funds to raise her son. I guess Mr. VP had some white-knight-syndrome going for himself and thought to save her from a life of poverty and boredom as a receptionist. Interestingly enough, she always had enough money to go out to the hot spots at night with one of our single girls.

Disregard the fact that the girl couldn’t type and had never been anyone’s secretary, let alone a VP with a group of engineers. But she could and did clean up after the engineers like a good mommy, and she served them food artfully displayed on a plate during her breakfast rounds in the morning and again in the afternoon. They liked that and the frilly apron she donned to serve the food. Oh, maybe I forgot to tell you that she had been a waitress before her receptionist position. HR asked that she refrain from wearing the apron at her desk. She wasn’t pleased about that. It was a display of her core competence.

The CEO asked me to buy her a typing program, which I did. I don’t think she ever opened the box. Mr. VP had business cards printed for her with the title, Administrative Assistant. It seems that people in the company believed that with that particular title, the ability to type was assumed to be one of the skills. Ahhh…the plot thickens.

One day, the girl ran up to my desk in a panic and all ajitter with nerves over the fact that someone had asked her to complete a job, which crazily enough, included typing some information in an Excel chart and a Powerpoint slide. Oh, well, if you can’t type then you certainly don’t know how to use Microsoft Word and if you can’t use Word you most definitely won’t know anything about Excel or Powerpoint. She was one skill level short of incompetent.

I told her to tell the requestor that she didn’t know how to do the job. She looked at me in horror. “I can’t tell them that. They’d think I don’t know how to do it.” My little brain mulled over this statement. “But,” I said with what I thought was reason and patience, “you DON’T know how to do it.” My husband has a saying: Don’t argue with an idiot. I’ll add another one: Don’t use logic on an idiot. Neither work.

After setting her wet glass of soda down on top of the papers on my desk so that she could use two hands to plead her insane case to me, she realized she had just sat the glass on top of the important papers I was working on. She knew this, smartly enough, because there was a wet ring of moisture soaking its way to the bottom of the stack. She grabbed the glass, which now had papers stuck to it, and spilled brown fizzy liquid over my desk in her haste to rectify her error. Stupid is as stupid does, Forrest Gump said.

“I’ll just leave this work with you and let you finish it for me. You’re SO good, I know you could get this done so much faster than I could,” she proclaimed, ready to make a hasty retreat back to the safety of her apron and the kitchen.

Now you might think that faced with a wet desk, statements that made no sense to a sensible gal such as me, and a request cloaked with juvenile accolades that I might have sat there with brain freeze unable to think of an appropriate response. However, before her behind could make it all the way out of the chair, I requested that she sit down. I gave her the choice of having me show her how to do the work, or telling the requestor she didn’t know how to do the work, but in any case, I wasn’t doing her work for her. Sly stupidity might work on Mr. VP, but it doesn’t cut ice in my world.

Given that this was only one of many…many stories, you can imagine that the admin staff (okay, me and the sales admin) was a tad unhinged with the antics of this fool. She was one of those perky people who blither on in front of you about how great they think you are and how much they want to learn from you and what suggestions do you have for me…and then they go and do the exact opposite of what you just advised them to do, because they actually never intended to do anything you recommended since they had their own agenda and plan in mind all along. Sort of like a delinquent teenager trying to con their way into using your car even though they don’t have a driver’s license or experience driving a stick shift.

So, our CEO thought she would outwit Mr. VP by bringing in a psychologist to give us a psychology test. One of those nouveau work things that show a person’s shortcoming and strengths. We knew how hers would come out, and could take said paper and wave it under the nose of Mr. VP at which time we could suggest moving her to another job. Probably in another company. The test, of course, was completely optional. Take it or not. Naturally I took it. I’m very well grounded and know myself right down to every good and bad trait. I had nothing to fear. So sayeth the ego of a fool who thinks a psychologist is just another average Joe.

I took the test, which turned out had a lot of questions about games. I hate board games as I’m not very patient with the rules and strategy of the play. Candyland is about my limit. I like Candyland. I don’t like Monopoly. It takes too long and I get bored fairly easily and want to move on to something more interesting. Like writing.

And I’m not very good at sports, and have never had a driving need to play sports, but do love to watch a good athlete. I’ve dabbled in jumping horses and NATRC (cross country competitive trail riding), but that was for fun and not serious competition. Don’t get me wrong, I like to win as much as the next person, but board games, volleyball and ping pong don’t get my bloodlust thumping all that much.

I knew I was in trouble…big trouble when I met the psychologist. We were talking a bit before he went over the test with me. I was relaxed and not worried at all about anything. My first mistake. But why should I worry? I’m a sane, normal, average woman. No great revelations were forthcoming. Apparently, that's what all lunatics say on the way to the mental hospital.

As I recall, I was telling him a story about my morning and happened to mention that I think in pictures. I see things as stories. You probably figured that out already. He looked up at me with an intellectual squint of pensive educated concern and said, “You’ll have to tell me about that sometime.” A shiver of worry skittered down my back. I was pretty sure he didn’t see this as a creative or positive trait to have. Maybe something a lab should study while I was locked safely behind bars. That sort of look.

You’ll be interested to know that the test showed that I am the sort of person who likes to be at the top of the triangle with no care or concern for those beneath me and only demands the complete allegiance of the peons down below. I’m paraphrasing here, but that was the gist of it. He found that odd, as he didn’t really see me that way, but oh well, his Test (I'm capitalizing it as he was very fond of his Test) was not wrong. No? I argued. Carefully. You have to be very careful with psychologists who already see you as a strange person with egomaniac traits. He said that I obviously didn’t understand myself, but if I had a good friend or family member (which I think he probably doubted that I had either) to talk with about the test, they could give me a true and accurate picture which would, in fact, coincide with his assessment. Because his Test wasn’t wrong.

There was that look again. I’m the bug and he’s the lab technician and I don’t even know I’m a bug. I started to get a bit creeped out. I know for sure I’m not a bug, and I don’t care what his idiot test (lower case...nee ner nee ner) says. I was in the uncomfortable position of trying to convince the wacho psychologist that I’m sane and his test is totally bogus. Yeah, like that works. You poor bug.

Then he said that I was not a competitive person at all to which I responded that indeed I was given the right circumstances (hence my top sales status when I was in a home sales business), but given that his test dealt only with games, which I disliked and sports which I don’t play, it was incorrectly skewed to chess club members or Olympic dynamos. I’m paraphrasing again. He admitted that his test was overly slanted with questions on sports and games, which at some point he would rectify, but it wasn’t wrong. And he was aghast that I didn’t like board games and wondered what on earth I thought was wrong with them, and in particular Monopoly, as anyone thinking there was something not fun about board games couldn’t be completely normal and human. I’m once again paraphrasing, but I think I captured the essence of his concern and disgust with my ilk of bug.

The kicker to his test was that…I hope you’re sitting down with a good stiff drink in your hand…I’m too happy. Too happy. I’ll bet you’ve never known anyone too happy. Now you do. Too happy...as in completely unrealistic about life and pretending the bad stuff doesn’t exist, or if it does, it doesn’t exist for you…la la la. See me floating on this nice cloud?

I wanted to tell him where to put his Too Happy Test, but thought he might write up a very nasty report on me and give it to the CEO where it would magically duplicate itself and get out to the world somehow preventing me from working in an office ever again. Drat, I could have saved myself years of boredom behind the short walls of cubicle life. I'm such a stupid bug.

I told him that he and his test had no idea where I was or had been in life, what I had been through, and how I had coped with it. He had no idea if I was on the other end of a divorce and happy to be happy once again or any other life-altering circumstance that makes you happy to be you today. He said I really should find someone who knew me and who would tell me the truth about my “real” traits. Poor bug.

See what I mean about arguing with an idiot? It's such a waste of time.

The sales admin, a staunch Morman woman, was told that she had “dishonest” traits. She was mortified and shocked that anyone would consider her to be less than honest or truthful. Ahhh, The Test found another bug. I believe this was due to the fact that some of the questions were about covering for your boss under certain circumstances. She, being a loyal bug, answered that she probably would. Oh, what a fool was she.

Oh, the little lady for whom we cleverly, sneakily, took this test? Her boss told her not to take it as it was a waste of time and something he wasn’t going to look at anyway.

A Tribute to Agnes Imregh

I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts lately. If you looked at my budget, you’d feel out of sorts as well. I hate the word budget. It’s all good and well if you’re a company and have a cubicle-world of finance people to create, monitor, and refine budgets. But personally, when I typed the name of my Excel file, “Budget 2007”, I knew I was in trouble. Add the word “Limited” before Budget and you’ll find you start to hyperventilate. You mean no Pete’s coffee in the morning and change from the San Francisco hairdresser to a $20 Quick Cut by some woman in the local mall named Doris?

And why is it that the only people who say “money isn’t everything” are the people WITH money? I know it’s not everything…but try being on a Limited Budget! Yeah, yeah, boo hoo.

So there I was thinking about my column under “Clothing” in my budget, which now has $0 allotted budget attached to it, when I got a call from a man I worked with at a couple of previous companies. He gave me a piece of news about Agnes Imregh, the Vice President of Marketing, whom we both had worked for.

To say this woman was “interesting” would be far too mild a word. She had flaming red hair, occasionally painted her fingernails green, and owned a Mooney airplane, a Harley Davidson motorcycle, and a SUV. Lest you think she was a tomboy sort of woman, she also purchased a $10,000 black sequined Armani evening gown, owned leather jackets that you would have licked her stylish leather boots to own, and sunglasses to match each and every outfit. She was outspoken, had definite opinions about most everything, and was the only person I have ever known who ran meetings on time. No one was ever late for her meetings. If you know anything about high tech and meetings, this in and of itself would make you respect her. If you were late once for her meetings, you would never be late again. She held the meeting until you showed up. Tapping her foot. Not a good sign when a woman, especially one in authority, taps her well-shod foot. She sent people to hunt the offender down. All the while that foot was tapping. Her arms were crossed. No one said a word. I saw this happen. Excuses were not tolerated. Promptness was expected. Tap, tap, tap went the foot. But you know, that person was never late to any of her meetings again. Agnes made her point.

Agnes Imregh flew her airplane to New York this past weekend to celebrate her 57th birthday with her family. She flew back to Boston on Monday and something went wrong with the plane. She crashed in the forest and died.

I was thinking about Agnes this morning on my way to work. Traffic was piling up on the street and police cars were lined up with their lights whirling around. Another fender bender, I thought, annoyed with the delay. As I drove by the accident, paramedics were on their knees, their rubber gloved fists rhythmically punching on a man’s chest. I hope they saved him.

Limited Budget. It doesn’t seem such a hardship any more.

Love and Revenge

Isabella Murdock gripped the wheel of her Dodge SUV as if it held the last tenuous strings of sanity in her life. Her deep green eyes filled with determination as she scanned the tree-studded land around her expecting to see his car pop out from behind some bush and into her driveway. Jesse Harrison’s car.

Run! Her mind screamed. His betrayal clutched at her heart as she tried to blink away the stream of tears overflowing down her cheeks. She bit down on her lower lip trying hard to hold her colliding emotions in check.

Her palms were slick with sweat and almost slipped off the wheel as she slammed the car in reverse, turning too hard and forcing the SUV away from the driveway in an arc’d path of barely controlled panic. Dirt and rocks spewed in the air as she overshot the side of the pavement and bounced into her carefully planted garden of summer flowers, crushing colorful bobbing heads and stems under the studded tires. Bella jammed the car into drive and momentarily heard her wheels spinning on the loosened soil. She panicked and tromped down on the gas pedal, pushing it to the floor and adding too much power. The SUV jumped back onto the pavement landing so hard her head whacked the ceiling. She didn’t care.

Her only focus was to escape this place, this life, and this man. She didn’t know where Jesse was, maybe just around the corner, or maybe he wasn’t coming at all. She wasn’t waiting around for the bastard. Screw Jesse Harrison and his lies.

Why? She fought back a sob that threatened to push her over the edge and tried to focus on the beauty of the setting sun streaking brilliant ribbons of oranges and reds across the sky; the strength of the colors matching her emotions. How could she have misjudged him so completely? Fool! Her mind yelled back, Damned Fool she added. She might have been a fool once, but no more. Not ever again would she let a man like Jesse into her life.

To hell with Jesse and the rest of them. Was she still a fool for running away like some weak little girl afraid to meet her enemy head on? Who cares, she decided. It was time to take care of herself, and if that meant running away from the cruelty of people around her—well, so be it. Bitter anger surged through her and she held onto it like a sorcerer’s protective shield of magic.

Bella raced down the country road adding miles between her and the small white house with crushed summer flowers and crushed dreams of Jesse. His name brought a new feeling of pain. This was the man she had considered a friend, a man she respected, admired, and then loved. How far can one woman miscalculate the depths of a man’s soul? Pretty darned far she berated herself.

Bella rolled down her window and took a deep calming breath of warm summer air. She flexed one damp hand off the wheel, rubbed it on her Levis, and then felt around inside her purse for her cell phone. Her finger started to punch the button for the number of the airline when the phone trilled an incoming call. Her heart thudded against her chest at the unexpected sound. She looked at the number lit on the display. Jesse.

“Sorry, you son of a bitch,” she yelled out loud into the empty car. “The good times are rolling to another state.” The phone abruptly fell silent. “Good” she said, but she didn’t feel good. She wished she could hear Jesse’s deep voice again, telling her everything would be okay, telling her it was one great big mistake. Maybe it was just a nightmare that would end when she opened her eyes. Bella’s chest squeezed in pain. The real nightmare had begun just a few hours earlier when she opened her eyes for the first time in her life and saw everything with absolute clarity.

She punched in the number to the airline and checked on the next available flight to Colorado. The exit sign for the San Francisco airport came into view. Bella checked her rearview mirror as she swung onto the freeway, expecting, dreading, and hoping to see Jesse’s car following close behind.

Instead, her eyes caught the faint reflection of twin spirals of smoke rising from a distant fire in the parched summer hills. It reminded her of candles on a birthday cake, blown out in a whoosh of wish-filled air. A buried memory of her sixteenth birthday popped into Bella’s mind and carried her back to a childhood house when her life was filled with possibilities.

Oh my...don't you wish I'd finish my book so you could find out if Bella and Jesse make it to a happily ever after?

Life’s Little Sign Posts

Have you ever had one of those days where everything seems to go wrong? Little things just pile one on top of the other. And you think to yourself that if you had only paid attention to the little Sign that precluded the misadventurous day, you would have gone directly back to bed and avoided the whole mess altogether so that you could start fresh the next day.

On Thursday I noticed—midday—that my socks didn’t match. Had I realized that this was the first in a growing line of clothing issues, I would have taken the next day off work and stayed in bed. But of course as a skeptical person, this “posh and drivel” about warning Signs eluded me.

On Friday, my socks seemed to match when I left home, but I noticed after getting to work that they in fact did not. Similar, but not exact. At least they were the same color, if not the same pattern. The right sock kept bunching around my ankle in annoying wrinkles. And although they were both complete socks in the morning, they acquired holes in both toes by lunch time. I know this because I was wearing peep toe shoes. And if you think no one looks at your socks, try wearing peep toe shoes with your toes peeping out of your socks. You’ll find that a lot of people in fact do notice your feet.

I also realized that the trousers I was wearing had two spots on one leg. Oh right. These were the pants I meant to take to the cleaners, but forgot. If you think no one notices small spots on your pants, try wearing pants with spots. You’ll find that a lot of people notice your pants. The same people who notice your holey socks.

It was dark when I got dressed.

And my knee started hurting for no known reason. And my new shoes rubbed a hole in my toe (but not the toe that was poking through the sock).

See what I mean about Signs? I should have taken the cosmic hint on Thursday and stayed home.

My husband had a friend who was given a Sign, but chose to ignore it. The results were far worse than my clothing issues. I hope you use this story as an example of why you should not ignore the small Signs in life.

Hal wanted a camper. He wanted it more than anything else. He finally found an ad for a used camper that fit the bill. He and my husband went to look at said camper, which was located in a run down trailer park.

The camper was in pretty good shape, but looked as if it had not been used for some time. The old guy showed them this and that, passed a lot of gas (with no shame about it), and then told them that his wife had died in it one morning several years ago while cooking him some bacon and eggs at their campsite.

Signs. You can feel the dark cloud of it creeping along your spine, worrying at your brain that this event shouldn’t be taken lightly. On the way home they made jokes about the camper probably being haunted. You shouldn’t joke about the Signs.

The men decided a camping trip was in order to make full use of this wonderful camper.

Do you feel the first trembling of fear? Don’t you want to reach into your computer and drag those two fools back from the brink of disaster? Too late my friend. They did not heed the Sign.

With camper and boat in tow, they left with happy thoughts of a whole week of camping and dreams of catching a zillion trout. Since the primitive camping area was on the west side of the lake opposite the blacktop and dirt boat launching ramp, they immediately proceeded across the dam to see if their favorite spot was available. Since it was a Monday, the place was practically deserted and their spot was indeed available. They pulled off the logging road, shut off the old red Ford’s engine, whipped out the folding chairs, Hal got a beer, my husband Sid got an iced tea, and they sat down to contemplate their next move.

After spending some time congratulating themselves for being fine fellows who are smart enough to go camping in the first place, they decided that it was time to head back across the dam to the boat ramp to launch the boat. So, leaving their two folding chairs to mark their spot, they headed out for the boat launch.

As the boat, trailer, truck, camper, and Hal went whizzing past Sid, he happened to glance at the stern of the boat and realized that the plug was still out. He yelled at Hal and waved his arms. Hal stopped the boat about a foot shy of the water avoiding the probability of the boat sinking to the bottom of the lake.

Once in the water, Sid started the boat motor and commenced to cross the lake. Hal drove the truck and trailer back to their campsite where he could get another beer and climb down the rocks to the water’s edge so that Sid would know where to park the boat.

Unfortunately, when Hal hit the campsite he noticed that oddly enough, there were no camp chairs where camp chairs ought to be. Who would do such a thing? They recalled that as they were heading for the boat ramp they had seen a man and a woman coming in on a motorcycle.
My husband fumed as he sat on a hard firewood stump. Hal sat on the tailgate of his truck fiddling with his camera that would no longer take pictures for some unknown reason.

Oh the Signs. They were mounting like age spots on a sunbather.

Sid’s behind couldn’t take sitting on the hard stump any longer and he jumped up marching off to go in search of his chair with Hal beside him.

They found the chairs in the campsite of the motorcyclists. The woman assured them that they were just looking after them until the owners showed up as they didn’t want anyone to steal the wonderful chairs. What kindly people they were.

Sid and Hal finally got back to camp, stowed the chairs in the camper (which they locked), and took to the high seas for some fishing.

Sid thought they were moving sort of slow, to which Hal noted that they had been dragging the anchor for a quarter of a mile.

Sid cast his line for some serious fishing, but unfortunately cast the front half of his fishing rod into the lake. Hal didn’t laugh, but Sid thought that pretending not to laugh was a lot worse than actually laughing out loud.

The Signs were practically slapping them upside the head to be noticed, which they didn't, so had to incur some further mishaps.

The camper had an electric water pump. A very nice feature unless you are so enamored of your new camper’s feature that you overuse the nice feature. Get my drift?

Now that they were completely out of water, they were forced to go to the picnic facility on the opposite side of the lake. They found a faucet with threads, but Hal’s hose was only four feet long. The only way to get the camper close enough to the building was to drive up over the concrete walkway, which if caught by the ranger, might mean expulsion from this great camping adventure. Fortunately, they were able to fill the water tank without notice.

The booty from this trip was one small fish that happened to run into Hal’s lure.

Now you’d think this would be the end of the story, but you’d be wrong. As I said before, these two men did not pay attention to the Signs. Hal did not unload his camper and let it sit for a month to let the Bad Cosmic Signs dissipate. Oh no. He kept the camper on the truck and drove the truck to town.

He forced the Sign into The Holy Big One.

Sid called Hal a few days after the Great Camping Adventure and asked if he had purchased a longer hose for water shortage situations. Hal said no as he did not have the camper any longer. Now what on earth could Hal have done with his beloved camper?

He had driven downtown one afternoon as he needed to stop at Grand Auto. The parking lot was full, so he drove around to the street in back of the store and was just about to pass a Grand Auto semi truck that was parked at the curb. He caught the right front corner of the camper on the left rear corner of the semi trailer and in his words, “The damn thing jumped out of the back of the truck, landed upright on the street and disintegrated.”

I trust that when small things start happening to you, you will remember this story and keep the vision of holy socks and a shattered camper in the middle of the street in your memory when you call work to tell them you won’t be in.