pre-dinner conversations to whet the appetite

I was having dinner with Pam this weekend at one of those trendy restaurants. As we sat sipping our wine, I noticed that a birthday was underway near the bar. Shots were being poured all around, so I suspected that this was a birthday of the 21st variety.

"I've never been a huge shot fan," I told Pam who was browsing through the entree portion of her menu, "but I'd really like to find a good shot that you light on fire before drinking."

"Why on Earth would you want to drink that?" she asked.

"Because you have two of mankind’s greatest inventions, fire and alcohol, packed into one little shot glass. It's like those old Reese's Peanut Butter Cups commercials where one guy dropped his chocolate into someone else's peanut butter and an incredibly tasty snack food was born," I reasoned.

"How would you even drink something like that? The alcohol would all burn off."

"You're supposed to drink it while it's still blazing away," I told her.

"That’s ridiculous!" she said. "Besides, your nose hair would probably catch on fire the minute you tipped the glass back. It would look like a smoldering Brillo pad stuffed up your nose!"

“If your nose hair is so long that a flaming shot is going to create a brushfire,” I responded, “then it's probably a sign that you should have trimmed up there long ago”.

A few minutes after this, I excused myself to the bathroom. Worried that Pam was perhaps trying to tell me that I had an excessive amount of nose hair, I did a thorough examination of my nostril area. Thumbing my nose at my reflection, I carefully checked to make sure no stray wisps were evident.

Satisfied that I had my nose hair growth under control, I did a quick hand wash and headed back to our table...but made a mental note that, if I ever did try a flaming shot of alcohol, I would definitely trim prior to downing the concoction. Because while I don't have a flowing mane cascading out of my nostrils, I'd still rather be safe than sorry. Besides, who wants to spend an evening with the smell of burnt hair lingering up your nose.

overpriced bottled water

I left work this afternoon to find that over an inch of snow had fallen throughout the day. The fact that my office contains no windows eliminates all weather related knowledge from seeping into my consciousness. I knew, before I had even turned the key in the ignition to begin the windshield defrosting process, that this would be a very long, slow ride home.

To make matters all the more unpleasant, I’ve been fighting a cold since last weekend, and as I inched along in traffic, my sniffles turned stuffy, and soon my nose was rendered useless. Luckily, I had thought to bring along some DayQuil pills that I had tossed in the console that morning. And as I sat amidst the sea of red glowing tail lights, I ripped open the packet and popped the pill into my mouth.

To the eye, the pill seemed very small. Once swallowed, however, this pill that looked so tiny suddenly grew to the size of a grape and quickly lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed a few more times, but the stubborn pill, which now felt more like a golf ball than a grape, refused to budge.

As I sat there, not being able to breathe out of my nose and now being unable to breathe too well out of my mouth, I realized that some type of beverage was desperately needed to coax the pill down. With nothing to drink in the car, and being stuck in the middle of the expressway with no 7-11 nearby, I rolled down my window, scraped off a few inches of snow from my roof, and quickly began sucking down the snowball that I had made.

Unfortunately, I found that several inches of snow on your car only equate to a few drops of water once melted inside your mouth. And a few drops were not nearly enough to get this tennis ball sized pill out of my throat. Unsure of what to do next, I happened to notice that the red headed lady in the car next to me was drinking some bottled water.

Normally, a red headed, middle aged woman drinking bottled water would not register high on my second glance list. But at this moment, with a bowling ball sized DayQuil wedged in my throat, that half empty bottle of water she was drinking was the best thing I had ever seen.

Still at a standstill on the highway, I opened my door and knocked on her window.

Her response was much the same as anyone’s would be when someone knocks on their car window in the middle of the road. She looked startled, then suspicious, but finally opened her passenger side window a fraction of an inch.

“This will probably sound like a very odd request,” I croaked, “but I have a DayQuil pill stuck in my throat and would really appreciate it if you’d give me that bottle of water you’re drinking for a dollar.”

She shrugged, rolled down her window a few more inches…enough to take my dollar and hand me the bottle…then quickly rolled it right back up.

I got back in my car and vigorously wiped off the mouth of the bottle, because even though I was suffocating, I refused to die with this lady’s germs floating around in my dead body.

Once I was certain that the last of her germs had been rubbed off, I took several gulps. The pill washed down, my near death experience was over, and…according to the promise on the medication package…my nose would be working again in less than 10 minutes.

Breathing easy, I started realizing how stupid I had been…because, I probably could have talked that lady down to fifty cents had I really tried.

the reason

I work across the hall from a lady named Bettie Jo. Bettie is in her mid-thirties and has been with the company for 15 years. Granted, she knows her job well, but this is where my praise for her ends. She’s one of those people who are not very intelligent yet feel they know everything. She also loves to complain…about the weather, her kids, her extremely wide hips, and how she ‘always has to do everything around here!’

She works as our Delinquent Accounts Manager and takes over the billing process from me for clients whose bills become past due by over 30 days. Bettie Jo spends a large part of her day in her friend’s office right next to hers. “Can I tell you something…?” I’ll hear from where I sit behind my desk, certain that a 30 minute story is about to ensue.

Often these stories involve her husband, who she calls on the phone several times each day. I know exactly when she’s talking to him because she’ll say, “you’re such an ass!” or “I can’t stand you!” or “don’t be an idiot!” followed by the sound of a telephone being slammed down.

My current position in the billing department has made me the fourth person to hold this job in the past 16 months. And it now appears that Bettie Jo has decided that a new and improved fifth person should resume my post behind my desk.

Bettie Jo is good friends with my supervisor, which is unfortunate for me. She emails my boss with the same frequency that the kindergarten tattletale would run up to the teacher's desk with new information regarding her classmates. Billy was coloring outside the lines, or Sally ate a cracker that fell on the floor.

In the past week, I’ve had to meet with my boss twice; once because Bettie Jo ‘overheard’ me tell a client that the billing process begins on the 15th of each month, when it should have been clear to anyone with a brain that the billing process does NOT begin on the 15th of each month, because those months that have five weeks in them have two billing cycles. And once because I was incorrectly putting the payment due date in the lower right hand corner when it clearly should have been written in BOTH the upper left hand corner and again in the lower right hand corner.

The higher-ups have been wondering why they have such a hard time keeping someone in my current position. And while I’m really no smarter than the next person, I think that the answer is quite obvious.

It’s Bettie Jo.

some things are tastier than others

For Christmas, my boss gave me a $10 gift card to one of the many malls that populate the city. And, as any mall shopper knows, ten dollars is only enough to purchase a cup of coffee and a cookie. This is exactly what I was buying yesterday when I ventured out.

As I was waiting in line to order my dinner plate-sized cookie and large coffee from a Mrs. Field’s store in the food court, I noticed two mothers, both with young children, seated at a nearby table. The moms were involved in conversation, their kids, both of which looked to be about two, were sitting in booster seats beside them.

The dark haired mother's boy was busy eating the remains of a hot dog, a meal which had left most of the ketchup smeared around his mouth and trailing up his cheek. The blond haired mother's boy was busy digging through her purse which was wedged in between them. His mom, deeply involved in what was surely a juicy tidbit of gossip, was only peripherally aware that her son was digging through her purse. After some searching, he pulled out what looked to be a white, sugar coated pretzel stick, stuck it in his mouth and started sucking.

Unfamiliar with the store that sold sugar coated pretzel sticks, I scanned the food court to see where this delicacy could be purchased. But not finding any store that fit this description, I returned my attention to the task of waiting in line. Shortly after, though, I heard a muffled mini-shriek from the blond mother at the sugar coated pretzel boy’s table. She said, in one of those loud-hushed tones that mothers use so well, "Travis! Put that back in mommy’s purse! You shouldn't be sucking on that!"

And it dawned on me that little Travis wasn't sucking on a pretzel at all. What he had pulled out of his mom's purse was a tampon.

Maybe, thinking that underneath the plastic wrapper some wonderful sugar confection would be found, Travis decided that further exploration was in order. I, on the other hand, with many more years of dessert knowledge than Travis had, turned back around, certain that my chocolate chip cookie would be more satisfying than a soggy tampon.

without a trace

Our inventory clerk, Lori, has suddenly vanished into thin air. She left no message, letter, or email to explain her disappearance. She simply stopped showing up for work, without even a kiss or wave goodbye.

As people around the office began scrambling to fill the void and seal the cracks that were left behind, it started becoming clear that Lori hasn’t placed any inventory orders for well over a month...which means that our company's 'just in time' inventory system has now turned into a 'not in time' system, and is headed for a 'don't bet your life on receiving your orders anytime in the near future' system.

With no supplies in stock, we are soon going to have many unhappy clients sending me many unhappy emails regarding their bill for items that they never received. And, as is the motto of stellar employees such as myself, 'when the going gets tough, the tough get going’...the 'get going' part meaning that this is the time when I would normally start using my vacation days.

Unfortunately, I haven't earned enough days yet to ride out the storm...thus, I'm stuck in the middle of it. Lori's position needs filled quickly.

The receptionist, Sondra, mentioned to me that she would much prefer doing inventory rather than answering the phones.

"Why don't you talk to the President and ask him about moving up in the company," I told her.

Sondra rolled her eyes at me and said, "every job in this place is just as crappy as the next one...you know that. The only 'moving up' I'd be doing is moving from my desk on the ground floor and into Lori's office upstairs."

She's right, of course. But still, I've always wondered how it would be at the top. Even if the top is only one flight up.

a sure sign that the holidays are over

Pam got herself a pet kitten last week. This was part of her ‘new year’s resolution’ plan to create a more ‘homey’ home. And, naturally, homes without pets simply aren’t homey. “Besides,” she told me, “I read somewhere that it was good to have at least two heartbeats in your house.”

When I asked where she read this, she just sort of coughed and mumbled ‘Cosmo’. “But it makes a lot of sense,” she told me…though she failed to list the reasons why this heartbeat theory makes any sense. However, even after only two months of dating, I know better than to mention this.

Last night, as I was about to head off to bed, I got a frantic call from Pam. “OH MY GOD!” was the first thing she said when I picked up the phone. “You have to come over here, NOW! It’s my cat, Frisk…I don’t know what to do! Please hurry!”

And this was about the time that she screamed and dropped the phone. So I put some shoes on and headed out to my car. As I rushed over, images of her kitten, high on cat nip and holding a knife to her throat, crossed through my mind.

The first thing you notice when entering Pam’s apartment is her Christmas tree…which is still up even weeks after the actual holiday has come and gone. “I like to keep the holiday feeling around as long as possible,” she told me when I asked about it last weekend. And this tree, which is now more of a “Martin Luther King Jr. Day” tree than it is a “Christmas” tree, was still standing tall.

“Pam, just calm down and tell me what’s wrong,” I said as I was being grabbed through the open doorway and into her apartment.

“The cat,” she told me in a wavering voice, “just look at the cat!”

So I looked at the cat. And the cat looked back at me. And I crouched down and gave her a scratch behind the ears.

“She’s a very cute little kitten, Pam.” I said, still not sure what I was supposed to be looking at but feeling that this was a safe response.

“Not that end,” she said, “the other end. You know, spin Frisk around!”

So I spun Frisk around and was greeted with a strand of tinsel sticking out of Frisk’s rear end.

“I sort of thought that she might have been eating some of the tinsel off of the lower branches of the tree, but I wasn’t sure,” Pam told me.

“Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt now,” I said as I walked into the kitchen to grab a paper towel.

I came back, grabbed the end of the tinsel with the paper towel and pulled. To be honest, I was secretly hoping that there would be a popping noise as I yanked the tinsel from Frisk’s butt, much like those little party poppers that they used to sell. Unfortunately, no ‘popping’ sound, or any other festivities for that matter, ensued.

As I headed back to the kitchen to dispose of the towel and tinsel, I told her, “you realize, this gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘Sparkle Season’.”

“The Season is more than welcome to ‘Sparkle’ all it wants,” she replied, “but there will be no more sparkling from my cat’s ass! From this day on, I am declaring this a non-tinsel zone. And the tree is coming down tomorrow!”

The holidays are now officially over. Of course, depending on how many tinsel strands Frisk ate, they may be making a brief reappearance in another day or two.

my life of crime

Coffee is my one true vice. I live for that morning cup of coffee. And the second cup later in the morning. And the four other cups later in the day. And while Starbucks remains my favorite of all the coffee pushers, once that initial cup is drained, I'm forced to survive on the swill that is offered at work for the remainder of the day.

Partially because I enjoy my coffee sweet, and partially to kill the taste, I use quite a bit of sugar in the coffee at work. Though, in an attempt at a healthier, more fit me...especially since my dearly departed step counting odometer taught me that I barely move throughout the day...I simply cannot justify the caloric intake from the massive amount of sugar used in my coffee.

Thus, I turn to artificial sweeteners.

Unfortunately, the only artificial sweetener available at my place of employment is Sweet 'N Low. The fact that Sweet 'N Low warns, on the side of each little packet, that it 'may cause cancer in rats' is encouragement enough for me to find alternative artificial sweetening means.

So, once again, I turn to Starbucks. While I love their coffee, I realize that it is overpriced. Therefore, in true economic spirit, I partake freely in their assortment of artificial sweeteners on the coffee preparation counter, all the tiny blue, pink and yellow packets forming a rainbow of sugary sweetness.

Though, perhaps because most of the donut shops in the area have gone out of business, the local police amass at Starbucks early every morning. And because of the cops, who sit strategically close to the sweetening station, my sugar smuggling has become a tricky affair.

As I place my coffee cup down to doctor it up, I carefully align the 'half and half' containers and the 'whole milk' containers to form a barrier around the sweetener bins. With quick glances toward the police sitting close by, I stuff my left coat pocket full of blue packets while stirring with my right hand...the stirring an obvious diversionary tactic.

Once my pocket is full, I quickly cap the coffee, slink out the front door, and cast glances over my shoulder all the way to my car. So far, my black market, underground sweetener ring has flourished. But I fear that one day the whole operation will cave in around me when a sweetener S.W.A.T. team encircles the Starbucks and I'll be hand cuffed in midstir.

Newspaper headlines will reveal every little sordid detail of my illegal doings, and my mother will most likely die of humiliation. But, worse yet, I probably won't even be allowed to take my last cup of Starbucks coffee with me in the police car as I'm driven to the station.

finding the perfect gift

I’ve been dating a girl named Pam for about two months, and the hardest part of any new relationship is the first Christmas gift. This is an incredibly painstaking and delicate process, because gift implications are critical at this stage.

Two months into a relationship, the gift of jewelry sends a message that I don’t want sent. Jewelry implies a promise of ‘commitment’, and this isn’t an offer that I’m willing to extend at the two month mark. Likewise, gifts of chocolate imply that I really don’t care if she starts a regimen of massive eating. This is also a message that I don’t want to send.

So I had the dilemma of trying to find that perfect gift. One that says ‘I like you, and possibly, maybe, might be considering a future beyond two months with you’ but that doesn’t say ‘marry me’. And after careful consideration, and much searching, I felt that I had found the ideal gift for Pam…one that she would not only enjoy, but would also show that I care for her…but not in a marriage caring kind of way.

I bought her a Lava Bun foot warmer.

She’s constantly telling me that I keep my bedroom too cold and that, if I continue to maintain this current temperature, I’m going to have very little chance of actually getting her into the bed.

I’ve tried to explain that by slightly reducing the temperature, I increase the snuggling factor and promote a cozy warmth that can only be achieved under mountainous amounts of blankets. She tells me, however, that the only snuggling which will occur under the arctic conditions of my sleeping quarters will be taking place with penguins.

Thus, I felt that the Lava Buns were the perfect gift. She would get toasty warmth, and I would get her into bed.

She opened her gift and gave me a very skeptical look. Granted, the Lava Bun foot warmer is not all that exciting at first glance, especially considering that it resembles a beige-ish looking worm stuffed full of rice.

But I told her that this would truly be a gift that she would come to love and, after much convincing, I finally persuaded her to try it out. She climbed into my bed while I followed the directions on the Lava Buns which instructed me to microwave them for two minutes and then place under the covers at the foot of the bed.

About one minute into the microwave process, the distinct smell of oatmeal began to fill the kitchen. And, while I’m sure that Lava Buns aren’t filled with oatmeal, they are most definitely filled with some sort of oatmeal smelling substance.

I strode into the bedroom, Lava Buns held out before me, and amidst the lingering scent of oatmeal, Pam gave me a sourly look.

“You’ve got a lot of work to do come Valentine’s Day,” she told me.

Which means that my plan of getting her a matching seat warmer set probably isn’t going to be a good idea.

good advice from my radio

As I sat in traffic this morning on my way to work, a commercial on the radio caught my attention. "Are you tired of your job?" it asked.

I nodded my head in agreement, impressed that my radio knew me so well.

"Are you sick of your boss?"

"Yes," I said aloud.

"Is it time to start a business of your own? With no one to answer to and no one looking over your shoulder?"

"Yes," I shouted inside my empty car, holding up a fist as a display of solidarity that my radio and I shared.

"If you answered 'yes' to any of these questions," my radio told me, "then it's time to join a multi-billion dollar industry...the 'work-at-home' industry."

Still nodding in agreement, I thought to myself, 'Gee, I didn't even know my home was hiring…because, had I known, surely I would have sent myself a resume long ago.'

The thought was abruptly cut off, however, when 'real' testimonials from 'real' people...people that my radio told me were 'just like myself'...began. Heather, from Miami, loved the job because she got to work with her friends. Steve loved the job because he could set his own hours. Martin loved the job because he was making more money and doing less work.

These were all things that would easily lead me to love a job as well.

My radio instructed me to visit a website which would help me begin my new, fruitful career as an at-home professional. Sitting in my car, inching along the highway, I didn't have a pen nearby to jot the site down. So I repeated, then re-repeated, the site to myself. Again and again, over and over. A mantra which would lead to my self-sufficiency, far away from idiot bosses and mindless work.

Though, shortly after the commercial ended, I realized that nothing had been said regarding what the actual job was in this multi-billion dollar work-at-home industry.

Of course, no matter what the job entailed, needless to say it would be done while sitting on my couch and watching television.

resolutions

I have no resolve when it comes to resolutions. I have tried them in the past, only to find that resolutions take actual work...work which I have no will power to do, resolutions or not. And with no resolve, no will power, and no firm commitment toward the completion of things I resolved to accomplish, it takes about a week until the whole ‘new me for a new year’ idea goes up in smoke.

Therefore, this year, rather than making resolutions, I instead have decided to make new year wishes. Wishes take much less work…and with no work involved, I won’t so easily give up on them.

So, this year I have compiled a list of wishes that I’d like to see occur during the 2006 year. I’d like a new, higher paying job, that I actually enjoy, and I’d like Sarah Michelle Gellar to finally realize that I'm the man she should have married...not that Freddie Prinze Jr. guy.

I’d like to be taller, darker, and more handsome. I’d like my eyes to suddenly revert back to their 20/20 vision so that I can I can toss out my contacts, and I’d like a new, sporty little car. Knowing full well what women think of men who drive sporty little cars, I’d also like another couple inches of penis length too.

I want a checkbook that is always balanced, I want a bathroom that cleans itself, and I’d like to discover that I’m secretly the love child of Paul McCartney, who, upon finding out that he has neglected me for so long, sets up a trust fund in my name.

And, in the event that these things don’t happen, I simply wish that I could be happy with who I am and be able to accept my life for what it is.

Though, a better job would still be nice.