relationships...it's all about reciprocation

Yesterday was spent doing errands. First was a furniture store where, according to the Sunday ads, I could find some great deals on some fabulous items. Nothing impressed me all that much, however. Then it was off to Wal-Mart, where I was hoping to find a decent phone that actually allowed me to hear the people that were calling me. Then I headed to the grocery store to grab some food for the week. And it was at about this time that I realized the horrible truth about my entire afternoon. I happened to glance down and realized that my fly was down.

I discretely positioned the bag of potato chips that I was holding, and quickly zipped up. Then sped to a different aisle, head down in shame. Three different stores, mobs of people, and me with my fly down the whole time...luckily it was an underwear day.

And you see, this is just another reason I need a woman in my life. Strangers won't come up to you and try to help spare your dignity by pulling you aside and saying, 'hey buddy, zip that thing up, would ya?' No, they let you wander around, oblivious to the fact that you look like an ass.

You need someone whose dignity is tied more closely to your own. Someone that will give you a once over to make sure that everything is in place. No globs of shaving cream behind your ear. No toilet paper stuck to the heel of your shoe. And definitely that your fly isn't hovering at half mast or, in my case, much further down than half mast. And she could have told me right then, 'Dear, you might just want to zip up before we head out.'

And, in return, I could have given her a once over and perhaps have caught a tiny oversight that might have caused her some embarrassment by mentioning, 'hey honey, it appears that your left breast has popped out of your halter top...you may want to slip that baby back into place.'

Either way, you really need someone looking out for you.

higher learning

It's that time of year again...yellow buses have reappeared around the neighborhood, Target is stocking insane amounts of lined notebook paper, and the kids around the block have less spring in their step. In the spirit of the season, though, I can't help but think back to my freshman year as an undergraduate.

Yes, those carefree years...classes only two or three times a day, staying up until five in the morning and rolling out of bed, in a half comatose state, at 7:58 for your eight o'clock class, and the Sunday night condition of the dorm bathrooms, puke crusting over the rim of the sinks, beer bottles plugging up each of the five toilets, and broken glass covering the tile (our janitorial staff wouldn't work over the weekends, for some odd reason).

I also remember the fun times trying to schedule classes as a freshman in college. In high school, it was pretty much a given as to what your classes were going to be. You HAD to take a math class...so your choices were Trig or Pre-Calc. You HAD to take an English class. You could choose between Creative Writing or Literature. In college, your choices were much less restricted, which led to some very interesting course loads. Granted, you were given an Undergraduate Advisor, but if yours was anything like mine, then throwing darts at the list of courses being offered for the term would have been just as helpful.

I'm quite positive that my undergrad advisor was working on commission, he got a cut of his advisee's tuition for every additional year past four that he kept them in college. His advice to me was, "Hey, you've got lots of time, just take whatever looks cool!" His great advice pretty much electived me out in my Freshman year of college. To an 18 year old freshman, advanced math and science does not look very enticing. On the other hand, Intro to Pop Culture, described as 'a critical review of television and pop culture', 20th Century Film Studies, and Short Stories, which by my way of thinking would be a whole lot less reading than actual novels, all sounded very 'educational'. My advisor also encouraged me to follow my instincts and take a sociology class called 'Water'. To this day, I'm not real certain as to what the point of this class was...except to say that we talked a lot about water.

The worst class, though, of his 'take whatever looks groovy, man' philosophy of class selection was the one and only art class I took during college, Introduction to Drawing.

Now, I've always enjoyed drawing. Most of my notebooks in high school contained many pictures of my different teachers. As it turned out, though, this was not the collegiate idea of 'art'.

For the first half of the semester, we drew boxes. At the start of every class, the professor would toss out three or four cardboard boxes, and we would draw them for the next 90 minutes. We were allowed to miss two classes before our grade would drop by a full letter. I missed my allotted two during the 'box drawing' portion of the class. Then one day, out of the blue, a lady walked in, dropped her robe, and we graduated from boxes to nudes. Quite a jump. And take it from me, there's not a whole lot of similarity between boxes and naked women.

Now had these women been Playmate quality girls, you can bet that this would have been my first of several art classes while in school. Unfortunately, the women we drew were 'Elephant Girl', 'The Chick with the Hairy Pits', and 'Anorexic Annie'. I'm sure that they went by much more normal names such as Brittany and Jennifer in their 'real' lives, but this is how I knew each of them. Which was all well and fine, until the day 'Old Professor Guy' walked in, took his pocket protector out, dropped his briefcase, and removed all of his clothes.

Some people say that the human body is a beautiful thing. I strongly disagree. And as this old man struck a basketball pose, feet wide apart, knees slightly bent, his back to me, I realized just how cruel a thing gravity really is. I know that the women of the world experience the whole 'saggy boobs' thing as the years pass by and gravity takes hold. But as I looked at this old guy who was facing away from me and saw these tiny little balls dangling between his knees, I realized that guys aren't exempt from gravity either. I also realized, as I skipped the other art class that week in favor of lunch with a friend, thus missing the final class with old dangly balls as the model, that I just lowered my grade in art. I ended up with a 'C' in art class, which was a small price to pay, really. Because I learned an even more important lesson from the whole experience.

To never, ever, take another art class again.

how to create a mass murderer

On the radio the other morning, I heard a local radio host interviewing two members of PETA. Now, I have nothing against animals...in all actuality, I like animals quite a bit. They're cuddly, faithful companions, and provide a sympathetic ear when you've had a bad day...they may not actually be listening, but at least they don't interrupt in the middle of your complaining. I could easily see myself as a member of PETA if it weren't for one little problem. I tend to find our little friends to be very tasty.

Not all of them, mind you. I have no real desire to dine on dog or to cook any cats. But as for those pigs, cows, and chickens...well, I'd rather have them on my plate then as a pet.

Hearing this radio interview reminded me of Norma, who was an assistant teacher that worked with me several years ago while teaching in a pre-k classroom. She mentioned to me one day that she thought it was terrible that I would do things like swat flies while the kids were in the room. Apparently, she felt that the unsanitary conditions caused by the fly as it crawled all over Ashley's vanilla wafer cookie was much more acceptable than the violence of swatting at the fly.

"You know," she told me, "if the children see you killing flies, they're going to come to believe that killing things is okay, and then before you know it they will be out on the streets killing people. All living things on the Earth are part of God's plan, and you should respect all life."

A few things here. First off, I don't care how young a kid is, if they don't understand the basic differences between bugs and humans, I think fearing that someday they may kill someone should be the least of our worries. Secondly, the way I see it, God gave those bugs a whole world full of swamps, trees, grass, and all that other nature crap to fly and buzz around in. That's a whole lot of space for something the size of a bug. Now if these little critters decide to come indoors and invade the little space that I happen to be in at the moment, then I figure that they get what they get. And if that happens to be a newspaper aimed at splattering their insides all over the front page of the sports section, then so be it. But try as I may to explain this to Norma, she just didn't seem to get it...insisting that I was creating a blood thirsty gang of three and four year olds that were destined to become serial killers.

And after her frequent lecture series on the dangers of killing bugs, I was ready to strangle her. So in a sense, I guess she was right. Killing bugs can turn you into a murderer.

welcome to your monday

Mondays always stink, and I rarely find anything redeeming about them. I hate the fact that you need to set the alarm again for 6 am. I hate the fact that you have to drag yourself through five whole days until the weekend. Everything is just a little more sucky on a Monday. The weather. The traffic. And even pastries. Especially when they're all over your car.

Thousands of years ago some kid discovered that chickens lay eggs. This same kid probably found that a chicken egg makes an ideal projectile. And when that first kid saw the wonderful splat that this egg made on impact, an outlet for little prehistoric hoodlums was born. Huts made of sticks, bear skin loin cloths hung out to dry, and even finely crafted spears probably all met with runny egg innards. A tradition which has carried over until modern times.

But this morning, when I headed out to my car, was it egg I saw all over the place? No. I found cherry pie. Some damn little hooligans bought a whole freaking cherry pie, and threw it at my car. Eggs would have pissed me off, but a whole pie pretty much sent me into ballistic seizures. And my mood was set for the day...a mood which caused every little thing to really piss me off. The way every idiot was driving on the road. The way Carolyn was slurping her coffee in the cube next to mine. And the fact that my toe still hurts from where I kicked my frigging tire in a fit of rage.

I don't know what the precedence is, but I just don't think it's a good sign for how the week is going to play out when it starts off with a drive by pieing.

I'm preparing for the worst.

there's always a hidden cost

In leafing through the Sunday ads, I stumbled upon a computer desk. The little snack table that has been home to my computer for a while now is getting pretty old, so I figured that it was time to indulge and get something that actually resembles something that a computer should be sitting upon.

The sale price was a mere $32, which fell right within my price range...so I headed off, preparing to have the whole shebang set up by mid afternoon. I got there and found two of the desks left, so I strolled on over, bent down and prepared to lift the box and carry it to the counter.

Okay, so in retrospect it was a stupid move...but really, it's a desk! We're talking, at most, maybe three sheets of wood...and it's not even real wood, it's that particle board stuff with the fancy laminate maple finish...and judging from the size of the cardboard box, I really didn't think that they could package too much weight into something that small. So I bent, heaved, and that's about the time that my back went kablooey...which I'm pretty sure is the exact medical term for what my back did. Apparently they started filling particle board with lead, or something, because while I'm not real sure what 'particle' is, I didn't imagine that it would weigh about the same as a compact car.

Leaving the box stranded on the floor, I hobbled over to grab a shopping cart and, with the help of a nice Office Max employee, got the damn desk into the cart and out to the car.

So my agenda of typing this on my brand-spanking-new desk also went by the wayside. The desk is still in my trunk. The computer is still on the teetering little snack table. And while I'm sure the medical community would scoff at my prescription for back pain, the three aspirin and glass of wine have done quite nicely in easing my discomfort.

But while the desk only cost $32, I'm sure I'll be paying a whole lot more tomorrow morning for buying this desk in the first place.

what's in a name?

A drive through any neighborhood will acquaint you with the more popular real estate agents of the area simply from glancing upon their names in big letters beneath the 'For Sale' sign in front of the houses that are on the market. One of the big names in real estate where I live is Irv Wiener. Irv's name can be found in the front yard of many houses that are up for sale.

Now family lineage aside, I can't help but wonder why Irv hasn't changed his name. Honestly, if my name was going to be displayed around town, I don't know if the last name 'Wiener' would command the type of respect that I would hope to achieve. Granted, Irv comes from a long line of Wieners...his father was a Wiener, his father's father was a Wiener before that...but at some point, wouldn't somebody on one of those family tree branches think, 'hey, there must be a better last name out there.'

I know a guy who's last name just happens to be Uhrmacher. He was searching for a job a few years back and just couldn't land an interview to save his life. I tried explaining that perhaps interviewers were hesitant to call someone whose last name they couldn't pronounce. Honestly, do you really think Tom Cruise would have been as big a star if his name were Tom Uhrmacher? I think not. So I suggested that he change his name from Uhrmacher to Steel. 'Mark Steel has a much better ring to it...one that employers would surely be willing to pay the big bucks for', I tried to explain. But to no avail. And, to my credit, he still isn't making big money, where as had he changed his name like I recommended, he may have been making millions of dollars.

True, he may have remained a low paid slob, but I like to think of this example of further proof that I have all the answers. People just refuse to see the fact that I'm always right.

Even more confusing with the whole name issue is with women. Women actually have a chance to change their name into something much cooler than it already is...and I strongly oppose marrying into a lower name class. Would Julia Roberts marry Irv Wiener? I don't know Irv personally, but I doubt that no matter how nice the guy is, Julia would never go for it...who would pay full ticket price to see Julia Wiener star in a movie? Not me...I'd go and see the Meg Ryan flick instead.

And I don't condone the whole hyphen thing either. It's pointless and creates a whole lot of extra writing on mailing addresses and subscription forms. Besides, someday when your hyphenated kid marries another hyphenated kid, you end up with something like John and Julie Blue-Green-Lake-Waters. And who wants to be sharing an office with Gregory Goffa-Cures-Elfin-D'Arse? Not me.

I went to school with a girl named Hayley Harrison, and while she was a cute enough girl, I absolutely loved her name. What could be better than telling people that you are dating someone named 'Hayley Harrison'? Bragging rights alone are worth any personality deficiencies that she may have. Believe me, the guy dating Emma Buntson is not going to be able to compete in the 'I'm dating a girl with a hot name' contest.

The easy solution to all of this is that upon marriage, you should choose the person with the better last name and stick with that one. I later found out that Hayley Harrison married some guy with the last name of 'Pudkowski'. My fantasies of Hayley are now forever ruined. And in a worst case scenario where both last names suck, I say let the happy couple create a brand new last name. Rick and Sue Bartleby become Rick and Sue Vegas...and now they actually become the posh couple to hang around with.

As for me, I'm thinking that I just may change my name to Mel Gibson. Not very original, I know, but I'm thinking that it may increase my appeal to women...at least until they actually meet me.

recognition for a job well done

Doris is the office manager at my place of employment. She's a nice lady who takes a lot of pride in her job. She moved her way up through the ranks and has been there for quite some time. She's well liked by the folks that work there and has become sort of like a mother figure to everyone.

Naturally, you'd assume that someone as kind, hardworking, and loyal as Doris would be rewarded for her years of service. This is what she got.

It started this past Saturday. One of Doris' friends, who was an ex-employee of the company and had worked there with Doris, noticed something on the internet while searching through some job openings on one of those employment sites. She gave Doris a call and told her to check out a certain listing that she ran across. So Doris proceeded to surf on over to the site. And what she found was a listing for a job opening at our company. The job opening that our boss was accepting applications for just happened to be Doris' job. Which all would have made perfect sense if Doris had resigned.

But she hadn't.

So Doris found out that for all her years at the company, and all the effort and hard work that she put in, she was being replaced. And rather than being told by our boss that this was in the works, she found out by stumbling across the opening for her job on the internet.

To her credit, she printed out the ad, stapled it to her letter of resignation, and slapped it down upon the Old Twit's desk Monday morning. And that old twit boss of ours just sat behind her desk, slowly read through both sheets of paper, then spun around in her chair and began working on her computer, ignoring Doris for the rest of the day. Doris was offered no explanation, apology, or plea to reconsider quitting...not that she would kept her job at that point.

And as I sat at my desk today and watched the procession of applicants walk in to interview for Doris' job, I realized that our boss is really much too evil to simply be labeled 'Old Twit'. She may very possibly be Satan, or at least Satan's senile and slightly psychotic sister. Either way, I need to find a way out of hell fast.

and now for our feature presentation

I can understand the concept of niche markets, I really can. With big corporations like Wal-Mart snagging the majority of American consumers in today's world, the only real way to start up your own business is to find a niche market. Logically, this makes perfect sense. Yet I truly don't know how these places are able to stay in business.

Seriously now, I could start my own store that sells a dairy substitute, sugar-free, kosher chocolate bar. And while I'm sure that there are some lactose intolerant Jews who are currently dieting but would still enjoy the occasional candy bar, I really can't imagine doing enough business to actually make any money.

This being said, I ventured out this past weekend to one of those 'second run' movie theaters. You save a few bucks by seeing movies that are currently ending their life in the theaters and preparing for reincarnation on DVD. Like most second run theaters, the place was a dump. The actual theater was about the size of your average family's garage. There were five rows of seats, all heading downhill from the screen...sort of like stadium seating in reverse...and the entire theater staff consisted of one lady. She took your money, ripped your ticket, and then sold you some popcorn. Talk about multi-tasking! The oddest part though, came after the tickets were purchased and we were waiting for her to rip them so that we could buy some popcorn. Sitting on the counter, in a big Tupperware container, was a large mound of rice.

Being that rice isn't typically found in a movie theater, I thought that perhaps somebody was planning on getting married there...though I quickly came to my senses and realized where I was. NOBODY in their right mind, no matter how much of a movie buff you are, would get married in this place. It was around this time I realized that about half of the theaters were showing some very odd films. Kyun! Ho Gaya Na was playing in theater one, and coming soon was the very popular Mujhse Shaadi Karogi. As I scratched my head in bewilderment I saw a little Hindu kid approach the counter and buy a little paper boat full of rice. The multi-tasking movie lady pulled out a second container and scooped some slimy looking green stuff on top for him. Then he skipped back into theater one.

It finally dawned on me that this particular cheap-o theater was catering to our Indian friends...and I didn't even realize that there was a large Hindu population in this part of the city, let alone any demand at all for Indian movies. And how the owner stays in business (there were three people watching the Indian flick...you couldn't expect me not to peek in the theater, could you?) is beyond me. Now, not to sound insensitive to other cultures, because they are certainly entitled to watch any kind of movies that they want, we decided on more American fare, namely The Terminal, with Tom Hanks.

And while I sat in row three (out of five), with my head tilted up and a crick quickly forming in my neck, the faint scent of curry wafting through the air, and a lone spring about ready to burst from the flimsy padding of my theater chair and straight into my spinal cord, I couldn't help think that next time I was going to splurge on the extra three bucks and go to one of those Super-Cinema theaters where the popcorn is fresh, the seats are more comfy, and I can pronounce the names of all the main features.

that's what friends are for

I'm a firm believer that we choose our friends because they fill some sort of need that we have, whether that be because they make us a better person, expand our horizons in some sense, or help us redefine who we are.

This being said, my friend Randy told me the other week that he was granted a second interview at a school district in the area. He's a teacher that I was friends with while living in Maryland.

Now landing a job in this area of Pennsylvania is extremely difficult. The public schools here pay a butt load of money...so getting a job in one is much like getting into the mafia. You either get in because you're family or because someone owes you a huge favor.

Randy falls into the category of 'neither', but yet he was given the chance to teach a mock lesson in his second interview for a high school Social Studies teacher position. I got a call from him this past weekend as he tried to come up with a lesson to teach, much like comedians try to arrange a killer set when they know that network television executives are going to be sitting in the audience.

"I'm supposed to teach a 20 minute lesson, and I have no idea what I'm going to do and all my overheads are still in Maryland" he told me.

As he told me this, I was left thinking, 'Overheads? He's got to be kidding'. So I said, "Overheads? You've got to be kidding? You get a second interview and you're planning on bringing in overheads? You may as well just lecture, write on a blackboard and prepare to wake them all up when you're done, and I don't think this is the type of lesson that's going to end up impressing them enough to hire you. You've been teaching for six years! Surely you can think of one killer lesson that you can teach for 20 minutes?!"

Randy's response to this was, "no". But then he had a brainstorm. "Maybe I'll teach a lesson on how to write a paragraph."

"I thought you were applying for a Social Studies position?" I said.

"Yeah, but you know, these schools are all about reading and writing and stuff."

I told him, "Call me crazy, but I think that they probably want you to teach something in your subject area. Well, don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll think of something"

He should have worried.

I called him the other day to see how his second interview went and he told me, "well, I couldn't think of anything to teach, so I called them up and asked to reschedule the interview."

"So when are you going now?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm not going. They told me that they wouldn't reschedule it, so I didn't bother showing up."

"You mean you just blew it off?"

"Well, yeah," Randy told me, "I mean, I couldn't think of a lesson to teach. What was I supposed to do?"

And I'm sure that in some parallel universe, this logic makes perfect sense. But it points out very clearly why Randy is a buddy of mine. Compared to him, I look like an incredibly ambitious and driven person...which makes all my loafing, laziness, and procrastinating seem insignificant. Because no matter how much of a slug I am, I can always say, "hey, I know this guy that couldn't even get himself together enough to show up for his job interview!"

So while my friends may not actually 'make' me a better person, at least they help me sustain the illusion that I am. And hey, isn't that what friends are for?

somebody still owes me a wish!

Everyone has a childhood nemesis, whether this was the kid in your pre-school class that would always try to sneak off with your last Oreo cookie during snack time, or that Great Aunt that reeked of moth balls and just had to give you one of those hugs that required the jaws of life to escape from. My nemesis, however, was my bike.

It was this monstrous purple thing, and we just didn't get along. Every tree, shrub and curb in the neighborhood was imprinted with one of my various body parts. I could literally hit a leaf in the street and this would be enough to throw me straight off of that purple bike and into the neighbor's flowerbed.

Now you need to understand that for a little kid growing up in the seventies, the epitome of coolness was Evel Knevel and the Fonz. Both of whom rode bikes. My lack of skill, however, forced me early on to accept the fact that I just wasn't destined for 'coolness'. Though, this isn't completely my fault. I tried to accomplish stunts of daring, ones that would have greatly impressed the legendary Mr. Knevel himself. I constructed my own bike ramp out of an old piece of plywood and a brick, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't convince my kid brother or sister to lay down in front of it so that I could soar off the ramp and jump right over top of them. Even at two and three years old, they were well aware of my bicycling skills. And try as I might, I just couldn't find where my parents hid the matches...so my plan of catching something on fire...such as half of our backyard...and riding through it never materialized either. This led to the realization that I was going to have to achieve 'coolness' in some other form.

So I turned to music. I had a mini-idolization thing going on with Paul McCartney, and I considered him quite cool. So I decided that I'd play the guitar. The problem was, while I played the tennis racket extremely good when pretending to be Paul, my expertise didn't translate very well to a real guitar.

So then I tried sports. Gary Carter and George Brett were two of my favorite ball players, so baseball it was. I'd just have to become a great athlete. And while I did good enough with a whiffle bat in my backyard, I soon found that real baseballs were pretty hard and hurt quite a bit when they missed your glove and hit you instead.

I took to wishing for talent, but that never worked either. I'd pick up my grandma's old acoustic guitar, close my eyes and wish that I could play just like one of the Beatles...preferably Paul or John, but I was even willing to bargain down to George. It didn't work. So I'd put the guitar down for about 10 seconds, pick it back up and make the same wish again. Nothing. Same thing with baseball. I'd stand at the plate, close my eyes tight and make a wish for a whopper of a home run, then swing...only to spin around a couple times, fall down on home plate and realize that the ball was still on the tee. The next at bat's wish would bring about the same results.

The problem was, all this being good stuff took too much work, and what I really wanted to be was a prodigy. I didn't want to practice the guitar...I just wanted to play it! And forget the hours of practice to get good at a sport, where was my natural talent?! In school, we were always reading about some kid who could do amazing things in those Scholastic Newspapers...13 year olds who were considered great artists! Seven year old gymnasts who were destined for the Olympics! Five year old chess champions! I couldn't help but feel that I was gypped. Clearly my 'natural talent gene' got lost somewhere.

Well, through the years, I've learned that nothing gets accomplished without hard work and practice. With that said, I'm off to Monster.com to find me a high paying job that I love. One click on the little 'Apply Now' button is all it takes...of course, before I click it, you can guarantee that I'll close my eyes and make a wish.

the sweet smell of vacation

Some strange phenomenon happened last week while at the beach that left quite a stink. Apparently, somewhere not far off the Atlantic coast, the temperature of the ocean water dropped suddenly by about 20 degrees. The result of this was that the fish, being displeased with this boycott of warmth, decided that they would prove some type of point by dying. So, floating on the ocean for as far as the eye could see, literally thousands of dead fish could be seen drifting along with the waves. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before these same dead fish on the water washed onto the shore.

So the one day of pleasant weather we had was spent with an overpowering scent of dead, rotting fish. Sunscreen was forsaken for gas masks and smudges of Vasoline placed upon the upper lip, right under the nose.

One thing these dead, stinking fish lying up and down the shore did provide, however, was a noted difference between little boys and little girls. For the most part, almost every boy under the age of ten had a great fascination with these rotting corpses. They'd poke and prod these fish with shovels and shells, displaying great pride when one of them would be able to dislodge an eye. They would strut along the beach, gladly displaying this eye upon their shovel to anyone passing by.

The little girls, on the other hand, all pretty much had the same reaction to these treasures that the boys would proudly present to them, which was to run off in the opposite direction screaming at the top of their lungs. Dead fish aside, these differences were evident in other ways too.

The boys would inevitably be out in the ocean on their little boogie boards, charging the waves, getting wiped out, and would go back out for more, complete with scraped faces after being dragged across the ocean floor and deposited somewhere along the shore. Girls rarely ventured out for this type of excitement. Rather, they would usually stay near the shore either jumping over those waves that were small enough, or running away from those that were over their knees.

I noticed a little girl, about four years old, sitting near her father carefully constructing a few little sandcastles. I watched, thinking to myself that this was a perfect example of the more timid nature of girls. I figured that she was probably imagining herself as a princess ruling over her tiny little kingdom.

It was at about this time that the little girl stood up and yelled, "HEY DAD! I'M GONNA CRUSH THE WORLD!" And she proceeded to stomp on every castle that she made...complete with sound effects...after which she raised her fists in the air, struck a little muscle-man pose, and paraded around the remains of her kingdom. She then took her older brother's boogie board, charged out toward the sea, and laid down on her stomach waiting for the next wave to shoot her back up the beach.

So I'm left thinking that this girl is going to be running the country someday...well, either that or she'll be some type of criminal mastermind...but either way, we could definitely use a few more world-crushing women walking around.

confessions from a vacation

The week at the beach was fairly pleasant...okay, this isn't exactly true. The weather wasn't great. Hurricane Alex left little reminders in the form of rainy weather and rough seas, and the temperature was less than warm. But still, you simply have to marvel at the wonders of the ocean.

You go to the beach, stare at the ocean, and you are literally looking at the birthplace for all life on Earth. I'm not going to get into the whole creationist viewpoints here. Frankly, the thought of one half of the population stemming from the rib of the other half sounds sketchy to me. And the thought that we were created from mud, well, I just don't buy it. Besides everyone knows that men were made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

To think that hundreds of millions of years ago, the first little creatures made their way out of the ocean and onto dry land, having evolved enough to breathe air rather than water, is quite a feat in and of itself. The thought that these would someday further evolve to become us, is mind boggling. So lying on the beach, staring at the waves crashing onto the shore, I couldn't help but wonder what these ancient forefathers, in the form of tiny amphibious looking slime, would think of what they began and would someday become. And as I watched the spectacle of human shapes pass before me on the beach, I became pretty certain that these tiny sea creatures would have high-tailed it straight back into that ocean and right back under the rock from which they came.

Had they been able to gaze into the future, this is what they would have seen strutting and strolling along the Ocean City shores this week (on those days suitable for strutting and strolling, that is, which wasn't many); grown men in Speedos, complete with jelly-like guts pouring out from the waistband. Back hair so thick that tiny woodland creatures could very possibly be taking up residence there. Pink bald heads glistening in the sun. Women wearing two piece bathing suits when, in reality, they should have been wearing closer to five piece bathing suits, with upper thighs that more closely resembled pillow cases filled with cottage cheese rather than 'actual' thighs. Forget the double chins, we're looking at double and sometimes triple stomachs bounding down the beach. Yes, sadly, it was a true flab fiesta on the shores of Ocean City.

Granted, Ocean City has become a 'family' beach. What this means is that those beautiful bronze babes you see on the MTV spring break specials in Fort Lauderdale will most assuredly be absent. A 'family' beach means that the extent of eye-candy, both in the form of females and males...for those ladies who enjoy to munch on eye-candy every now and again...is limited to 13 year old junior high kids and the mothers (or fathers) of 13 year old junior high kids. Neither group interests me in the least, the 13 year olds for obvious reasons and their moms because flab-control is usually not practiced. Occasionally, you'll run across a mom of a 2 year old who still looks pretty damn good, but being a mom, there is usually a 'dad' close behind, so these women really aren't on the market and, therefore, aren't worth too much imagination space.

So as a 'family' beach, you get what you get. Along with the 'family' aspect, you can assume that I, too, went with 'family'...and you'd be correct. Now, I like my folks and my siblings. No problems there. And had it just been them, I could have endured the week...it's the beach for God's sake, I can endure pretty much anything while at the beach. However, my sister's husband and my brother's wife had to come along. "I can't not invite them!" was the reasoning of my mom.

So here's how the week played out. You had my folks, which is two, my sister and brother-in-law, also two, my brother and sister-in-law, again, two, and my two younger twin brothers. And then, me. The eternal fifth wheel, now playing this role on the homestead as well as in a club near you...look for my shows at both 7 and again at 11.

The weather, which was forecasted as being partly crappy with a chance of severe suckage upon our arrival on Saturday, meant that much time was spent indoors. The result of this is that I had to listen to conversations such as, "well, it did rain once in Mexico during our honeymoon, but when we went two weeks ago for our other vacation, the weather was great!" from my brother, and, "you two lovebirds better hurry up and have a baby, because me and my sweetie-pie want to have one but we're going to wait for you two!", from my sister. The result of these conversations led me straight out of the room. To the bathroom (which you can run off to only so often, otherwise people wonder what you're doing in there...and faking the stomach flu doesn't work out too well when your plan is heaps of alcohol and sea food for dinner). Running to the car to look for some 'mysteriously' missing items (such as a baseball cap, Nerf football, loose change, or that old oil change receipt to see what the policy is on getting your windshield washer fluid topped off...which got me many strange stares from my sister-in-law). Or to braving a walk on the shore in mildly hurricane-ish winds and a biting chill in the air, which I resorted to only as a last ditch effort to get away from my flesh and blood and their chosen spouses.

I have no desire to listen to them talk about any marriage or coupling related issues. I'm single. These type of conversations do a remarkable job of pointing out just how 'single' and alone I am. No honeymoons, children, or regularly scheduled sex is on my daily planner for the near future...or perhaps ever, for that matter. Not that I mind being single, but the whole 'alone-ness' of it was overly crammed into my head this week. Which then leads to the thought that I'm a failure in the most basic aspect of being human. People need each other. Physical and emotional contact. Someone to support and be supported by. Someone to talk to, come home to, and wake up to. I never found this. As I get older, I've started to think that this just isn't written in the stars for me at all. And because of this, I've failed. Failed to attract one person. And this vacation spelled that out in big neon letters for me all week. Truthfully, by the second day there, I was really in need of a vacation from my vacation.

Next year, I'm planning on taking my 'family' vacation alone.