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On My Way to the Bar In Tucson . . .

On my Way to the Bar in Tucson . . . Originally, I started out to write just a little blurb about my hotel for tripadvisor.com. It all began, though, while I was at the airport waiting to board my flight to Tucson, where I'm taking the July bar exam. (Unfortunately, Arizona doesn't just let you waltz right in and start practicing law, even if you're licensed in another state. Nope. Have to take the whole, entire bar exam again. Two. Days.). Anyway, what started out as a little "customer review" blurb for a travel web site turned into for me, at least, a strange, surreal day of one little bizarre thing after another. I suppose you have to keep in mind the context: I'm seriously sleep-deprived (for about 2 months now) and not feeling in the same hemisphere as prepared for this bar exam thing, so all of the little things combined to make for a day of little adventures for me. And seriously, you just can't make some of this stuff up! Con: No complimentary hotel shuttle, as per Travelocity.com. $25 for taxi one way from airport to hotel. Called Travelocity RE: their customer satisfaction guarantee. Wonder what the weather in India is like this time of year? Other than canceling my reservation, Miss India could do nothing but give me an email address to send my issue to. At least, I think that's what she said. That, or did I want the chicken tandoori or vindaloo? (Note: I really didn't expect them to do anything at that point -- I just wanted to see how helpful they actually would try to be. Answer: they really couldn't care less.) Pro: Cab driver, Kal, was a very nice, chatty fellow. Had an uneventful, but entertaining cab ride from the airport to the hotel. Kal's very passionate about global warming and against too much government control. He also doesn't think the U.S. should just go around invading other countries. As he put it, we (meaning the U.S.) think we can go into any country we want for any reason. Kal: "If we want their oil, we'll take their oil. We have no respect for their rights or their land. Hey! That's our oil under your sand and we're taking our oil!" I laughed so hard I think Coke (the cola) came out my nose. Funny guy, that one. I promised to call him to take me back to the airport on Thursday. Pro: Arrived early at the hotel (11am), but Michael at the front desk was very friendly and had no problem with letting me do an early check-in. I verified that my room was non-smoking, but did not ask about king bed. Assigned room on 9th floor. Con: Room booked was Deluxe, which was supposed to be large corner room. The room I got is pretty small, and has two double beds. No complimentary bottled water (says all rooms have it on the hotels web site). Pro/Con: Signs on 9th floor advertising happy hour in lounge Mon thru Fri. Hotel's web site describes one of the special features of the Presidio Level as a complimentary evening happy hour with free drinks/appetizers (along with free continental breakfast). Before asking whether I was in correct room class, I asked restaurant hostess (twice -- she forgot the first time) which floor or floors were the Presidio Level. She checked, and said the 9th floor. I suspected, correctly, that Michael upgraded me on room level, but room seems smaller in size than advertised Deluxe. Presidio Level rooms are also supposed to have plush bath robes and an extra row of pillows on the bed. I have neither. I'm going to verify with housekeeping (if they ever get here -- see #10) whether this room should have a robe. I'm not going to get surprised by a $120 charge on my credit card statement in a couple of months for a bath robe they think I stole. I'm still trying to decide whether to request the bigger Deluxe room I booked or just stay here. Right now, I just really want a nap, but as soon as I doze off, housekeeping will knock. Con: Restaurant ordering / potato / server / timeliness problems. Was thinking I wanted to order the cod. (The cod was prepared with a potato-cheese crust). All of the entrees come with Chefs choice of potato and vegetables. Asked what kind of side potato came with the cod. "Will the "Waiter" looked at the menu, read the cod description and said he thought it must be some kind of cheesy potato mixture. I told him I meant what kind of SIDE potato, pointing to the bold print (see above). I have no idea how this confused him, but he said the New York steak usually came with a baked potato, but he'd check and make sure, and off he went. He came back and said that the steak did come with a baked potato, but they were out of the steak. Note, the word steak never passed my lips, nor did my finger go anywhere near it on the menu. I patiently (really!) explained that I didn't want steak, I was asking about the cod. Told him I wanted the cod, with a baked potato with butter and sour cream. He was all happy to take care of that. Few minutes later, back comes Will. He informs me it'll take 18 minutes to fix the cod but, "They have started!" At least he gave me a free iced tea, as I had to wait 25 minutes for my food. When it came out, there were fries. I told the girl who brought it that there was supposed to be a baked potato. She didn't think they had any (baked potatoes), but she'd check. Never saw her again. Will came back and told me that the New York steak (no idea where he came up with the whole steak thing or why he was obsessed with it) always came with a baked potato, but they didn't serve the steak anymore, so they didn't have baked potatoes anymore. Apparently, there is some sort of downtown zoning ordinance in Tucson against serving baked potatoes in a restaurant unless the restaurant also serves specified cuts of beef. I gave up and just went with the fries. Looked at the bill when I was done. The bill was $4 more than the menu price on the cod. (Premium charge for fries?) Took it up to the hostess and asked for a menu to verify. Pointed it out to her. She took it to Will (no idea why this was), then to someone in the back, who told her to get back out there and fix it. She punched and pecked and poked and prodded but she just couldnt figure out how to get $4 off the bill because, and I'm not kidding, there's no button for that. 20 minutes later, we got it worked out (see #6). Note about Will the Waiter: nice enough fellow, but I think he must have done WAY too much of the happy drugs back in the 60s/70s. Pro: Restaurant hostess fixed overcharge difference (price in computer was $4 more than menu price) by giving me employee discount, so my meal ended up being about $4 less than the menu price. Pro: Wireless Internet access is free. I think. Con: Guest services guy (Tom) who set up my access code spelled my code wrong (he gave me Parker123 (my middle name and -- hey! numbers!), but spelled it in the system as Paker123), so I kept getting an invalid code error. Called him back, and he was supposed to check and call me back in 5 minutes. About 40 minutes later, having heard nothing, I called him back. He had no clue, so connected me with LodgeNet tech support (Craig), who figured out the spelling error. Problem fixed. I think. Con: Went into small bathroom and noticed there were NO wash cloths and NO bath mat. Towels looking a little on the yellow side (think they're supposed to be white). Called housekeeping and requested 2 wash cloths and 1 bath mat about an hour-and-a-half ago. Still waiting. I've been in Tucson a grand total 4 hours and 25 minutes. Part Two Okay. Chrissie has heard most of this. But now I've become sort of wrapped up in my own story, wondering what will happen next and how it will all turn out in the end. For convenience sake (my own), I've copied and pasted the emails between Chrissie and myself as of the last document I sent. Since then, I did leave my hotel room with the intention of looking at the hotel's restaurant menu again to see if there was something I thought I could eat that they might not screw up, or if there was some place very close that I could reach on foot (I didn't rent a car, remember) and that I could get to without (a) getting lost or (b) getting murdered or otherwise criminalized. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Here are the Victoria / Chrissie chronicles (our email addresses have been deleted to protect us, not because we are innocent, but because I can do it: From: Chrissie Sent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 4:57 PMTo: VictoriaSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . . OMG! I'm sorry but the whole thing is just plain funny! From: VictoriaSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:12 PMTo: ChrissieSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . . I know it will be funny a month from now. It is a little now, only because I know it will be later. If that makes sense. By way of update . . . the housekeeping manager finally came by. She spoke very good English, thank God! I am, after all, on the Presidio Level. (I'm certain I'll be giving Michael-the-front-desk-guy a thousand thanks at that complimentary happy hour on Wednesday after I'm done with the exam). And, I AM supposed to have a luxurious, plush bath robe. I told housekeeping lady I didn't need one right away -- I brought my own -- but that I just wanted her to know that there wasn't one in my closet so that I didn't get charged. She left, and eventually came back with my wash cloths and bath mat. Maybe their bath linens are supposed to be that color. Another Pro that I inadvertently left off: the bath amenities are ones I actually really like. They're Bath and Body Works . . . the lotion is the Cool Citrus Basil, which is my favorite of theirs. And the shampoo, conditioner, and soaps all smell really good. I so need a nap. From: ChrissieSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:22 PMTo: VictoriaSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . . well now there ya go.....none of that was negative....except that it sounded like you weren't actually gonna nap.... From: VictoriaSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:29 PMTo: ChrissieSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . . Well, I was getting ready to take a nap. I put on a pair of yoga pants, took out my contacts, and closed the curtains most of the way. Then I started to feel a little hungry again. I also forgot to mention that the cod I ordered was about a 4 oz. portion, the last ¼ of which was, I don't know, gristle? Inedible. So, I'm trying to decide whether to just take my damn nap, or try to scope out some place that delivers for later, or take my chances at the hotel restaurant again later (after nap) on something besides the cod. I know I'll laugh about this later. Much later. From: ChrissieSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:31 PMTo: VictoriaSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . . LOL! Definitely find a place that delivers! From: VictoriaSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:35 PMTo: ChrissieSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . . Oh, but THINK of the potential for a continuation of my adventures in Tucson if I go back downstairs! It's almost TOO tempting . . . Besides, by now, the bar will be open. It'll just get funnier after a couple margaritas. This must be why people blog! INSERT BREAK HERE That means this part of the emails between Chrissie and me are done. We did text message on our phones, but I can't put that in there, so I'll just have to type the gist of it. Actually, the text messaging was the gist, so I can type the long hand. Hah. So, I put my jeans back on, put my contacts back in, fluffed up my hair, put on lip gloss, pulled in the fangs, put on the shoes and I was ready to go. I punched the down button and an elevator -- actually two -- opened almost immediately. I should have been suspicious. I strolled right into one and pressed the Lobby button. All went smoothly. For two floors. My elevator and I stopped on the 7th floor, and a couple of kids of Hispanic origin got in. Hell, they were Mexican. I knew there had to be parents around, so I waited. Patiently, I thought. (I'LL NEVER BLINK!) (Ask Brian, or watch the comedian/ventriloquist Jeff Dunham ("cousin Jeff") and that thought will make sense . . . maybe). Anyway, by now, I don't remember in what order and by what age group they happily trickled into what, by now, in legal terms had become my elevator by adverse possession just by the sheer time it took them all to get in. By the time the doors finally closed, there were 13 Mexicans in my elevator. That sounds like the makings of a song. But I did a head count. There were 4 adults and 9 children under the age of (I'm estimating here) 12. I don't speak much Spanish anymore (lack of practice -- 15 college credit hours of Spanish and now all I can say is Where's the bathroom?;, Another margarita, please.; and Thank you, very much. And a couple curse words. But it seemed like there were 4 or 5 different conversations going on in Spanish among these 13 people, including one little boy who was talking to himself in the elevator mirror. My head was near to exploding. These are pretty small elevators compared to the elevators in the chain hotels, and I was squashed into the back corner. After the day I'd had, I was petrified the thing was going to get stuck between floors and I'd end up digging my own brain out with the stylus from my iPaq. Luckily, though, the elevator made it to the lobby. Not surprisingly, I was THE ONLY person who was getting off on the lobby level. The rest of them were going to the LL level, which I presume is the parking access. I had to salsa/limbo my way out of there. I headed for the lounge. Side note here: If you want to get all politically correct on my ass, save it. I. DON'T. CARE. Having said that, I can't resist. First of all, if you think it's politically incorrect to call someone who is apparently from Mexico, well, Mexican, then your logic dumbfounds me and your reasoning probably would, too. Second, if those folks were vacationing, good for them. I don't care that they speak Spanish just like I wouldn't care that vacationing Italians were speaking Italian, Brazilians speaking Portuguese, etc. The point of that whole little story above wasn't about those people and their origins / nationality. It was ABOUT ME. If you haven't figured that out by now, just stop reading. This whole thing is just a running documentation of my perception of how surreal my day has been in my own head. And I really thought the elevator thing was kind of funny. But, hey, maybe you just had to be there. Also, for the record, I do believe that if you want to live and work in this country, you should learn English. I'm not justifying myself on that point. Finally, I would have written something if 13 rich, snooty old white women had piled their perfumed and liposucked tails in on top of me; same for 13 long-haired Come to Jesus 70s throw-backs; same for 13 drunk fraternity / sorority kids; 13 of just about anybody was fair game. Exceptions might have been a blind man with 13 seeing-eye dogs, because I love dogs and blind people are generally pretty tolerant if you dont patronize them. Okay, done with that. Moving on. I stopped by the lounge to fortify myself with a glass of wine and, as I said way back when, see if I could find something on the menu I could eat that they wouldn't poison me with. (Forgive me for dangling my preposition). This was the best time I've had all day. Granted, I wouldn't have been horribly surprised if some radical faction of some obscure something-or-other had run in here with a real bomb threat (did I mention there's some sort of National Guard thing at the hotel going on?), but I actually was able to just sit there and do absolutely nothing for a while. I texted (is that a word?) back and forth with Chrissie about the elevator thing . . . it was just so funny at the time and in the context of the day. At the end of all of this, I decided I just didn't want to go anywhere. All I wanted was mimosas and a bath. So I put in an order for some (hotel) pasta and told "Leigh Ann-the-bartender' (we'll call her LA from now on). Apparently, in Tucson, mimosas are a concept drink. What I ended up doing was just ordering a bottle of champagne (just Moet, don't have a cow -- you know who you are) and a pitcher of OJ. LA got the bottle of Moet and put it in a nice silver cooler that I'm trying to figure out how to put into my suitcase, and filled a pitcher full of OJ. She put champagne glasses on the side in the cooler. It looked very nice. She called over "Doug-the-old-security-guy" to have him help carry up the stuff when I was ready to go. He asked if I just got married. I thought this was funny, as I'd been sitting there for a LONG time ALONE. If I'd just gotten married, I hadn't done a very good job. My pasta is done, my champagne is on ice, my OJ is in the pitcher and I'm ready to go. My bill is really cheap. I figure out LA hasn't charged me for about half of what I owe. Karma. I had to tell her and wait for her (my ice is melting) to fix the tab. I left a huge tip. She was a sweet gal. On the way out of the bar, a beautiful black woman with very short hair that I only wish I could wear (the hair, not the woman), says, "Ooohhh, making mimosas." I'm thinking, thank you! Someone else knows what this concoction is! I tell her, "yes, ma'am I am. And I plan to enjoy every single one of them." She tells me to toast to her and I tell her I'll be toasting to everybody. Naturally, I say all this in a very thick Southern drawl (comes natural to me in certain states, and I don't just mean Arkansas), and I mean every word. Doug gets the liquids up to my room without even sloshing a droplet of condensation off the champagne bucket, all the while carrying on polite and entertaining conversation worthy of the finest Southern gentleman. They don't make that model anymore. Pity. What a fella. He gets it into my room and, naturally, there's not a single solid space to put it on (I dangled again). I smush my computer over, and he puts the stuff down and even compliments my computer. He's not overdoing it at all. He asks if I'm here on business and I tell him I'm here for the bar. Exam. He says . . . Oh, we know all about you people. He said it with -- not kidding -- a twinkling charm that they definitely don't make anymore -- that it wasn't at all offensive as it might sound in the text of it. I tipped him when he was leaving and he looked a little bit surprised (as I intended) and said it wasn't necessary. I told him if I thought it was necessary, I wouldn't really want so much to do it. That seemed to satisfy him a whole lot. He's going to pray for me to do well on the bar exam. I told him a direct line would be very helpful. Now, how's that for a day in the life? Oh, just when I think I'm done. I'm flipping through the TV stations, trying to force-feed myself the now-cold fettuccini alfredo that I had ordered earlier. Watch a little of this, a little of that. I'm a sucker for the ends of movies, so I always watch the last 15 to 20 minutes of movies I really like. The hotel has some cable stations, and I'm doing that usual thing. They even have the usual hotel information channel. I'm reading the things that are on the lunch buffets on various days. It starts to repeat, so I flip the channel. The next station is the city view. It's completely black. THERE IS NOTHING THERE. I thought we'd been bombed. (Young Child in Cold War Syndrome). Of course, it doesn't occur to me to think, Go look out the window and see the pretty city lights you saw earlier. (Mimosas kicking in). It also doesn't occur to me to think that, well, I AM STILL HERE. No. What do I do? I flip through a few more channels to make sure they are still there, then go back to city view. It's still black. The entire world around me could evaporate but, hey, I've still got Friends reruns. Time to take my bubble bath. Oh, no. Still not done. Well, I took my bubble bath, tried to relax and just blank out my mind. Don't laugh -- it's harder for me than you might think. I finish my bath, get all lotiony and smelly-goody like we girls like to do, and put on the stuff I'm going to sleep in. Now, here's where I have to digress for a second. Remember Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)? Of course you do. Now, remember toward the beginning of the movie, they show Linda Hamilton dressed in a white tank top and a pair of loose gray sweatpants, doing pull ups in her cell in the kooky house? Yep, you probably remember that, too. That whole movie made very good use of Linda Hamilton's absolutely fantastic shoulders and biceps -- so much that I remember people making it topics of conversation, and magazines writing articles about those body parts. I admit, I was pretty impressed myself. To the point where I decided that I had to have my own Linda Hamilton shoulders and biceps (I mean my own body parts, not trying to hack hers off for my collection . . . I'm not THAT psycho . . . shut up). Anyway, I was already in pretty damn good shape back then, so it wasn't a really great stretch to kick it up a notch and get an outstanding built and cut upper body. So, after seeing the movie, and deciding to work on that goal, the first thing I did in pursuit of said goal was, naturally, to go out and buy some white tank tops and a couple pair of loose gray sweat pants. But I did work even harder and, in just a couple of months, I had my very own honest-to-goodness Linda Hamilton shoulders and biceps. Now, fast forward to 15 years later. Or is it more like 437 years later? Whatever. So, after my bath, I dressed in . . . wait for it . . . a white tank top and a pair of loose gray sweatpants (these days they're called yoga pants or, and I swear I'm not making this up either {according to J. Crew -- resort pants }). Now, as is part of my nightly ritual, I'm standing at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth, then flossing. (Yep, I'm a flosser). I finish, look in the mirror at myself, just reflecting back on what a hoot of a day it's been. (Get it? Mirror . . . reflecting? Never mind.) Now, really, nothing THAT outrageous has happened, I'm thinking. It's just that I'm in a particular sort of mood because I have this bar exam coming up that I'm not really feeling prepared for (dangling). I'm sleep-deprived from 2 months of severely insufficient rest. The words "proper" and "nutrition" aren't even on a nodding acquaintance with each other in my world lately. If the city view channel is blank, does that mean Tucson is gone? Did my plane to Tucson cross a rift in the space-time continuum and will the return flight take me to another alternate reality? If I were forced to choose between Hugh Laurie and Josh Lucas, which one would I pick? Should I start a blog on MySpace.com? Does "Tom" really exist on MySpace? Ah, the important questions in life. As I ponder these things, I lean backward with my arms stretched out over my head and my back arched (hey! mind out of gutter!) to try and get in a good loooong stretch. I make the haunting mistake of glancing in the mirror in the middle of this stretch. Now, keep in mind that I no longer have the completely fantastic Linda Hamilton shoulders and biceps, but I am well aware of this and this is not the absurdly silly / mildly exasperating sight that greets me in the mirror. As I stretch backward, my white tank top is pulled tightly over the waistband of my gray sweatpants which, in the middle of my long stretch, have dropped rather lower than they normally sit (around belly button level). The tie-band of the sweatpants which I tied in a knot once and has since become permanent is, to put it in medical terms, a little ways above the pubic bone. So, with the tank top stretched across that knot in the sweatpants, my private parts-area looks like a 13-year-old boy getting a lap dance from Carmen Electra. I GIVE UP. Where the hell is my Ambien? I'm going to bed. In my dreams, I get to have Hugh Laurie AND Josh Lucas. HAH! P.S. Tomorrow is another day. I just can't decide if I want it to be a normal one so that I can be a reasonable facsimile of a productive human being, or a weird one just for the potential future entertainment value. Assuming I survive tomorrow, that is. Nighty-noodle.

The Thing About Guilt . . .

I bleach my teeth. That's my big guilty secret of the moment. Now, I'm not Catholic, though I understand Catholics bear a heavy burden of guilt for many things. My best friend in high school was Catholic. My ex-husband was Catholic. He didn't seem to practice, that I could tell. But I do understand the concept. I was raised Southern Baptist -- yep, church and all -- which has an inordinate amount of guilt of its own. Just ask my sister. But, that's another story. Or, blog, these days. My high school boyfriend (BF) was a couple of years older than me, which was a difficult thing to justify to my mother in its own right. Hell, having a real "go on a car-date" boyfriend at just-turned-sixteen was enough to send her into spasms. The fact that he was 19 and drove a Mustang GT . . . well, let's just say that it took a lot of honesty, care, adoration, and charm to bring her around. It helped that he really liked me a lot, too. (Ask me about the time BF, me, Mandy, and Ira got stuck in the mud in the GT out at the river . . . it really is a good story!) Anyway, back to the point . . . BF's dad was a deacon at the Baptist church that I started to attend once we began to date in earnest. You see, his father was much like my mother in their aspirations that their children walk the straight-and-narrow and end up as decent human beings. His father adored me; my mother adored him. Our parents adored each other. We all still do. But, this made for an unbearable sexual tension between my boyfriend and I, the likes of which, I believe, was the origination of the Big Bang Theory. This went on for, well, quite a while. Oh, how we suffered! Now, years later . . . my big guilty secret is bleaching my teeth. I just happened to think of my high school guilt while I was filling those little trays. But, there are SO many more stories . . . Well, I need to get some sleep now. You can message me or leave comments if you want the rest of the story. I never said I wasn't a tease. And I never said I didn't put out in the end . . . I'M SO WRONG ON SO MANY LEVELS!

S'Mores and The Seven Deadly Sins

I dreamed of S'mores last night. It was not erotic, or even remotely sexual. I've lost some of you here. It was simply a dream of some of my friends and I -- friends from various stages of my life -- sitting around a fire near my childhood home on the Mississippi River -- making good, old-fashioned s'mores. When I woke up, I desperately tried to remember what we were talking about around that fire. I tried to remember who all was even there. I just couldn't do it. What I woke up with was an overwhelming craving for a s'more. It was not even 6 o'clock in the morning. Now, everybody has dreams like this. We feel there must be some deep, significant and emotional meaning to our dreams. I think there is something to this. Dreams are a way of letting our minds run wild in a way that we usually don't dare do in our waking hours. These meanings can be inherent in figuring out keys to our psyches. Sometimes, they just mean we really want a s'more. I consider myself a reasonably disciplined person. A little more disciplined than some, a little less than others. So, I fought the s'more urge for more than 12 hours. Then, I caved. And, I decided to have my s'more. Now, when I make a s'more -- at least at home (as opposed to the traditional "campfire" s'more) -- I like it a particular way. Don't get offended . . . I still make them with Graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate. But, I use really good chocolate and I toast the marshmallows over the fire on the gas-top stove. This last is for practical reasons -- I simply don't want to get fined for making a campfire in my "ugh" suburban neighborhood. And I have my s'more with a glass of white wine. Well, any girl who dreams of s'mores by the river, makes them in the kitchen, and has them with white wine . . . she starts thinking. Very few people can follow my train of thought, with the exception of my sister and a couple of very close friends (and I suspect Deborah will get there . . .). But, I'm standing at the stove, toasting my two marshmallows, and I start thinking of the Seven Deadly Sins. For those of you who aren't up on your biblical readings (ok, me), or are too lazy to Google them (ok, did this for you), those are: Envy; Sloth; Gluttony; Wrath; Pride; Lust; Greed. I admit, I'm guilty of more than a couple of these. Luckily, gluttony isn't one of them. I mention this with Pride, as I limited myself to only one s'more. And -- that's one small, normal s'more -- not one plate-sized, whole chocolate bar, marshmallow-bag s'more. Although, my restraint may be in some part due to the fact(s) that I (1) used really rich chocolate; and (2) again with the Pride thing, somehow managed to lose 10 pounds since the end of June, when my profile picture was taken. (Bar exam stress, I suspect). Anyway, back on point. As I'm licking the last droplets of melting chocolate off my fingers -- all women understand this -- the spasm of an idea that was caressing my brain during the marshmallow roast drop kicks itself into a real thought. To hell with those Seven Deadly Sins. I am perfectly capable of dreaming up, creating, and implementing my own list of sins. The Seven Deadlies aren't a bad jumping off point; although I don't particularly care for the "deadly" part. Lust, for instance, I'm all for. I think it can be a perfectly fine sin. Frustrating, maybe, but it's really not even that sinful if you put it in the proper context. Shopping, to some, is considered a sin. Apparently, thinking, in some circles, is sinful. Actually eating on the first date . . . I won't go there. Some are judgment calls. Wrath, greed, sloth, envy; not my personal favorites -- but we're human and humans are suseptible to these things. Not, I believe, because they are sins. They are emotions. (OK, not sloth. I say this as I'm wearing men's boxer/briefs that come 3-in-a-pack because I haven't had time to do laundry.) Hypocrisy, I think, is a sin. Unless I say otherwise. But, you get the idea. We are human. We are individual. As such, we pick our sins, if not our emotions. Tonight, I picked s'mores. And I felt positively sinful.

S'Mores and The Seven Deadly Sins

I dreamed of S'mores last night. It was not erotic, or even remotely sexual. I've lost some of you here. It was simply a dream of some of my friends and I -- friends from various stages of my life -- sitting around a fire near my childhood home on the Mississippi River -- making good, old-fashioned s'mores. When I woke up, I desperately tried to remember what we were talking about around that fire. I tried to remember who all was even there. I just couldn't do it. What I woke up with was an overwhelming craving for a s'more. It was not even 6 o'clock in the morning. Now, everybody has dreams like this. We feel there must be some deep, significant and emotional meaning to our dreams. I think there is something to this. Dreams are a way of letting our minds run wild in a way that we usually don't dare do in our waking hours. These meanings can be inherent in figuring out keys to our psyches. Sometimes, they just mean we really want a s'more. I consider myself a reasonably disciplined person. A little more disciplined than some, a little less than others. So, I fought the s'more urge for more than 12 hours. Then, I caved. And, I decided to have my s'more. Now, when I make a s'more -- at least at home (as opposed to the traditional "campfire" s'more) -- I like it a particular way. Don't get offended . . . I still make them with Graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate. But, I use really good chocolate and I toast the marshmallows over the fire on the gas-top stove. This last is for practical reasons -- I simply don't want to get fined for making a campfire in my "ugh" suburban neighborhood. And I have my s'more with a glass of white wine. Well, any girl who dreams of s'mores by the river, makes them in the kitchen, and has them with white wine . . . she starts thinking. Very few people can follow my train of thought, with the exception of my sister and a couple of very close friends (and I suspect Deborah will get there . . .). But, I'm standing at the stove, toasting my two marshmallows, and I start thinking of the Seven Deadly Sins. For those of you who aren't up on your biblical readings (ok, me), or are too lazy to Google them (ok, did this for you), those are: Envy; Sloth; Gluttony; Wrath; Pride; Lust; Greed. I admit, I'm guilty of more than a couple of these. Luckily, gluttony isn't one of them. I mention this with Pride, as I limited myself to only one s'more. And -- that's one small, normal s'more -- not one plate-sized, whole chocolate bar, marshmallow-bag s'more. Although, my restraint may be in some part due to the fact(s) that I (1) used really rich chocolate; and (2) again with the Pride thing, somehow managed to lose 10 pounds since the end of June, when my profile picture was taken. (Bar exam stress, I suspect). Anyway, back on point. As I'm licking the last droplets of melting chocolate off my fingers -- all women understand this -- the spasm of an idea that was caressing my brain during the marshmallow roast drop kicks itself into a real thought. To hell with those Seven Deadly Sins. I am perfectly capable of dreaming up, creating, and implementing my own list of sins. The Seven Deadlies aren't a bad jumping off point; although I don't particularly care for the "deadly" part. Lust, for instance, I'm all for. I think it can be a perfectly fine sin. Frustrating, maybe, but it's really not even that sinful if you put it in the proper context. Shopping, to some, is considered a sin. Apparently, thinking, in some circles, is sinful. Actually eating on the first date . . . I won't go there. Some are judgment calls. Wrath, greed, sloth, envy; not my personal favorites -- but we're human and humans are suseptible to these things. Not, I believe, because they are sins. They are emotions. (OK, not sloth. I say this as I'm wearing men's boxer/briefs that come 3-in-a-pack because I haven't had time to do laundry.) Hypocrisy, I think, is a sin. Unless I say otherwise. But, you get the idea. We are human. We are individual. As such, we pick our sins, if not our emotions. Tonight, I picked s'mores. And I felt positively sinful.

The Great Repression and Wolf Surfing

Someone said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. What's the road back paved with? The ashes of hearts that burn with the kind of love that even death can't extinguish? That sounds nauseatingly romantic. (I just made that up, so don't bother Googling for movie references). It also sounds like something my sister would have airbrushed onto a T-shirt. She's an incurable romantic. I've tried giving her shots for it (medicine and whiskey; the first had no effect, and the second made her worse). Still, I wish I could believe it. I also wish I could believe that mythical road was so well pounded with foot traffic that even someone like me couldn't miss it even if there were 27 forks in the road. You see, I'm in a state of romantic abstinence. Although, I suppose that is something of a misnomer, as the definition of abstinence indicates that it is voluntary. Perhaps we should just call it an involuntary leave of absence from a state of the heart that I'm not certain I've ever actually visited in the first place. There are people who are willing to give their heart and soul on a silver platter to another person, if they feel -- feel -- it's right. I'll use my sister again, as an example. (Sorry, honey, but you know you're always fair game . . .). I not only admire, but exalt, people that can do this. I am not sure I am capable of it. What does it take for a person to open herself / himself to another and take that leap of faith? Somethings, I feel to the very depth of the soul that I believe that I possess; to the heart I believe I am capable of having beat within my chest. Giving those into the care of another, well, that's a whole different matter. I consider myself a risk-taker. (Sometimes). I've done a lot of things that most people would not only cringe at, but probably freak the hell out at. I'm still here. Sometimes, I get past the velvet rope; sometimes, I don't. But, I give it shot. When I die, though, will getting into the VIP area really matter? I have surfed on top of a moving car (fast) while wearing a wolf mask . . . I did it standing up on that car, on a city street, at 35 mph. I was not drunk, on drugs, or anything else . . . I was just letting loose. And it felt . . . well - - - think of something that felt so beautiful and freeing to you, that doesn't involve sex or drugs, and you might just come close to free-surfing on top of a fast moving car while wearing a wolf mask. I've had a gorgeous woman throw a crystal glass at me in the bar of a very nice restaurant because she thought her boyfriend was flirting with me. She had very bad aim, thank God. Her boyfriend paid the tab for my friend and I. The bar manager comp'ed us drinks for the next night. I was extremely flattered at the end, although a little confounded because I have never considered myself the kind of girl that another girl throws good glassware over. My friend who was with me, bless her heart, tried to tell me otherwise. I have lots of these "wild and free" memories. These are the fabulous and fun memories we try to think about when we're not feeling so great about ourselves. Maybe it's a bad hair day. Maybe it's a bad day at work. Maybe we just found out the boyfriend/husband has another girlfriend. Or boyfriend. . . I'm sure we all have a memory or two or twelve like this. I hope so. Sometimes, we just need a little extra thing to focus on that's good in ourselves that gets us through the day, or hour or next five minutes. As girls, we have the other kind of stories, too. The "bummer" stories. These are the ones we pull out in the event of the GFID. (If you're a guy, or if you've never been "called up, GFID = Girl Friend In Distress). This could be any number of things. I won't go into detail, but in general, these are the stories we use to make ourselves look so hideous and pitiful that, by comparison, the GFID can't help but feel like the most amazing gal in the room. Just as she is supposed to. This is just being a good friend -- the kind of friend your friend wants and needs to have by her side. So, those are the things we talk about. Oh, yes, we are quite notorious for our ability to hold up not only one end, but sometimes, both ends, of a conversation. But, what about all the things we repress? We're nice. We are supposed to be. If we're from the South, we're bred to be nice to the point of repression. We're taught, generally from birth, to value other people's feelings and needs and wants above our own. The Southern woman's Great Repression. But, never mistake our ingrained sense of good manners as a sign of weakness. When Sherman marched through Atlanta, he may have burned the city, but I'll be damned if he burned the spirit. Unfortunately -- or perhaps, fortunately, the Southern woman's nature to accommodate survived. In fact, we can accommodate you to death. We can wear you down with our ability to survive what you throw at us, and dare you to give us more. We will smile while you are doing it. Hell, we'll serve you iced sweet tea while you are doing it. But, I double-dog-dare you to drink that tea while surfing on top of a car at 35-mph on a city street while wearing a full-head wolf mask. Or to love another person with your whole heart and soul. Some things just cannot be repressed. Have a nice day, y'all.

One Tin Soldier Rides Away . . .

One Tin Soldier Rides Away . . . War is hell. War. Hell. Those are naturally juxtaposed, without the "is" as filler; yet someone thought we civilians needed that little two letter word to connect the dots. Or, maybe we just needed some tiny little verb-wanna-be to separate two hideous compatriots. Are we really that blind? Maybe someone just has a rotten, misplaced sense of irony. Personally, I find it ironic that the quote is attributed to General William Tecumseh Sherman. He burned Atlanta. You can probably guess what I think of him and his . . . irony. They send them home to us, if God willing, they send them home at all, with a pat on the back and a "Thanks, buddy." Hell, who am I kidding? I doubt they even get that much. If they're really, really lucky, they come home with all of the parts of their bodies that they left with. At least, the parts we can see. The parts they see when they look in the mirror. What everyone thinks of as "whole." What does that even mean?You can send a kid to some God-forsaken piece of dirt and sand that no one but newscasters and generals can pronounce, and slap labels on it like "duty," and "protect your country," and "fight the evil-doers." (This last one is one of my personal favorites). But, for now at least, I won't jump on that 80-story tall soap box to rage against the near-ingenious smoke-and-mirrors act that got us mucked and mired in that sandpit. And I will never belittle those people that put on those uniforms and go over there and suck down that sand, regardless of how they feel about the reasons they are required to do it. Those people, at least, I can respect. For now, I just want to try and wrap my head around the aftermath. That's a lie. What I really want is to unwrap my head from it. But, I live a lot in my head -- it's where I am and have always been most comfortable and now it's a seething mass of contradictions that I'm trying to somehow resolve by expunging onto paper. Well, what passes for paper in the electronic world. The fact is, I am -- consider myself to be -- a head person rather than a heart person. So, I am having a great difficulty, still, trying to get these two units of myself to come to some sort of truce, even an uneasy one. The expression "butting heads" would not be appropriate, for obvious, even ironic reasons. My head and my heart are determined, however, to keep colliding until I either get whatever is causing the basic controversy out of my system; or until the two collide so harshly that they just shatter each other or meld into one unit. Is that even possible? To get to here, you have to back track to what got me here in my own head. That takes us back to my night with my kid soldier who had just found out he had lost his friend in Iraq. Sorry, but I'm just not going to sum it up for you. See "The Dash" blog. Moving on . . . First, I ask myself, was this random? I once was a big believer in God and an orderly universe. I don't know at what point my faith started to waiver, and I'm not here to discuss that now. I'd like to still believe in some sort of order or reason or purpose. Put your faith in what you will; allow me to find my own. I may have lost my place, but I have done this before and I suspect I will do it again. Whatever it is that guides the fools and the faithless will find me and put me right. So, was my being at this place with this kid, at this time, random? I don't think so. I never said I didn't believe in random at all, though. There are people who always want to shake me silly and kick my ass. Randomly, of course.For what it's worth . . . I'm just glad they care enough to want to do either, for whatever reason. My point, and I do have one, is that they send some of these kids back to us without any provision for the aftermath. Either for the kids or the families. Some can, or do, or manage, to deal better than others. Whatever that means. What we get back sometimes are tin soldiers. They look fine. They sound fine. They look just as they did when they left. They might be missing a limb. Or two. Does that diminish our love? God, I hope not. But, that's the outside. We get them back, if we are very lucky. Our brave and beautiful soldiers . . . and they are alive. And they are wandering aimlessly down some mythical yellow brick road, searching for a Wizard to give them their heart back. I managed to for one, because I had been through my own personal war that was just enough to help one young man get through one small battle. Whether it will be enough in the long run . . . that I can't answer. I won't presume to walk in his combat boots. He can't walk in my heels. But we were soul mates for a few hours. In those few hours, though, I learned something.I'm a tin soldier.I've worked so hard for so long to make myself a head person, not a heart person, that I am one of those people that has been shell-shocked, in a manner of speaking, that it took a big, brave man in uniform to make me realize that there is no shame in having a heart.It might even be ok to open that heart someday. Hell, I did open that heart.And, it wasn't made of tin, then.

One Soldier at A Time -- The Dash

Saturday, July 29, 2006 One Soldier at a Time - The Dash - Thanks Mandy! Warning -- Sappy -- But God Bless Our Troops and Our Friends! One of my closest friends -- since the 4th grade!! -- sent me an email a while back with a poem by someone named Linda Ellis. The poem, as emailed, was a video attachment. I admit, I am rather cynical and jaded, but it seems I do have a heart buried somewhere under that crafted cynicism. I was touched. If you read the entire correspondence between Mandy and myself, including the terribly sappy poem, you might see why even someone as steel-hearted as me could have a chink in the old armor. -------------------------------------------------------- From: mandy Sent: Wednesday, July 26, 2006 2:50 PMTo: mandySubject: FW: The Dash I read of a man who stood to speakat the funeral of his friend.He referred to the dates on her tombstonefrom the beginning...to the end.He noted that first came the date of her birthand spoke of the second with tears,but he said that what mattered most of allwas the dash between those years.For that dash represents all the timethat she spent alive on earth,and now only those who loved herknow what that little line is worth.For it matters not, how much we own;the cars, the house, the cash.What matters is how we live and loveand how we spend our dash.So think about this long and hard,are there things you'd like to change?For you never know how much time is left.(You could be at "dash mid-range.")If we could just slow down enoughto consider what's true and real,and always try to understandthe way other people feel.And...be less quick to anger,and show appreciation moreand love the people in our liveslike we've never loved before.If we treat each other with respect,and more often wear a smile,remembering that this special dashmight only last a little while.So, when your eulogy is being readwith your life's actions to rehash...would you be pleased with the things they have to sayabout how you spent your dash?...Linda Ellis ----------------------------------------------------- From: Victoria Sent: Friday, July 28, 2006 2:01 AMTo: 'mandy'Subject: RE: The Dash Movie Thanks for sending this to me. I just now had a chance to really look at it. I was in Tucson this past week for the bar exam. That turned out to be a little insignificant to me, though. In my hotel, we had a LOT of National Guard people that had been called up, first to take care of the border problems in southern Arizona. Eventually, they'll go to Iraq. Anyway, I got there Saturday so I could get settled in (the exam was Tuesday and Wednesday). I was down in the bar having dinner and studying on pretty much every night to make sure I would actually try to eat and to keep myself awake. I seemed to somehow adopt this little Army kid -- well, he adopted me. (D. is his name). And, he's technically not a kid -- he's 24, but he's just SO young and seemed a little lonely and out of place. He's from a small town in Wisconsin (population 305!), and really hasn't been anywhere. So Tucson, and especially Nogales, which is the bordertown to Mexico (where the illegals make the run for the border, and I don't mean Taco Bell) is a WHOLE different world for him. So I adopted him as my kid brother and we hung out each evening, and lunchtime when we could, and talked and swapped stories, and just bonded in general. This is a longer story than I can help, but I'm getting there -- eventually. So, after the first day, D. has just become, at 6 plus-foot tall, 190-lb, my kid. We're sitting there in the bar the other night, after I'm trying to make myself eat (combination of tiredness and apathy at law by this time . . .). A couple of his older guys come over to just hang out (by older, I mean in their 40s. Have you ever noticed that career military guys just seem to age about 10 years faster than other men? I've thought that for a long time . . . but, I digress). So, anyway, his boss, I believe, is a Sergeant of some sort and a man I've never seen sober. He comes over to our little happy group and announces that they've identified a guy that had been killed by "what they believe to be friendly fire" either earlier that day or the day before. Now, my kid is from a small Wisconsin town. But, apparently the entire state of Wisconsin only has about 4,000 actual population if you exclude the college students. And D. seems to be at least acquainted with all of the regulars. Anyway, it turns out that D., my kid, actually knows the guy that was killed. And, to put it in the Sergeant's not so delicate terms, the truck they were riding in was hit by a mortar or RPG or some kind of ugly war thing you hear about on CNN but don't have to process because, frankly, we don't get hit by them, and was completely shredded. At this point, I'd had two glasses of wine and some soup, was exhausted, and I couldn't help it, I just started shedding very quiet tears just thinking of someone like my kid over there. D. was sitting right across the table from me and he took my hand. I told him it was nothing, it was just that damned salt off of his margarita. The other older guys (two that were very kind) were trying to make sure I was ok, but sometimes kindness just makes it worse, if that makes sense. I was ok. Really. You know me. Just a bit after that, it really hit D., my kid. He just went so suddenly from happy and laid back to withdrawn and silent. He told us he was going up to his room to drink a bottle of tequila and he'd be back. I did not take this as a good sign, even though I knew he'd been hitting the tequila pretty heavily since he arrived in Tucson. I didn't want to ask his superiors to go up there (it's still the Army, I don't care what they say about their new sensitivity crap). I ended up pulling rank on one of the even younger guys who is a friend of D's (B. is also a very sweet young man) to go check on him. He did, and came back and said that he (meaning D.) was downing the tequila like a sailor, but he didn't seem like he was about to pass out for the night. (I told him to use specific words with me if anyone else was around -- I'm sure you get it. He is a quick guy and knew exactly what I meant and followed it to the letter). Sure enough, D. was back downstairs in just a couple of minutes. He was still in a funk. His older bosses went over and tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't talk. I gave him a brief breathing time. Then I went over and sat down with him. I don't really remember what I said, but it was in the form of a really hard emotional kick in the ass. I managed to get through to him, and he broke down and started crying in my arms. He was shaking and crying and talking and just letting go. I just held him, kissed his nearly bald little military head, and told him it was going to be okay, I was right there. It was okay to be angry, and hurt, and to just need someone to lean on sometimes. There was just nothing wrong with crying because your friend died and anyone who said otherwise was a dumbass. It went on for just a little while, but then it seemed to work it out of him. I don't remember when I'd felt so relieved. Afterward, he went to the bathroom (bladder the size of a walnut, that kid). Three of those older guys came up and were thanking me for getting through to him. All I could tell them was if they didn't back off me, and if they made me cry, I would kick every single one of their asses. They laughed at me, as they were supposed to do. They got the message. I didn't do for them. I did it for D. But, I guess, D. being all of us in a way, I did for all of us. So they were welcome. But, still, if they tried to make me cry, I would SO take them down. Well, everything ended for the night just fine. B, D's friend, (at my command -- should've been an officer . . .hehehe) tucked D safely into bed, took away the tequila bottle, and reported back to me that D was in bed and asleep and without access to liquor. I was satisfied that my work for the evening was done. Of course, it was daylight by then . . . So, aside from the fact that I got a grand total of 55 minutes of sleep before my exam the following day, I think I handled that situation pretty well. But, you know what, if it came down to me passing another stupid state bar exam (that I can always take again), and helping out a lonely young soldier who's far from home . . . hell, far from anything AT ALL familiar and who could be sent on to Iraq, literally, anytime now . . . if I could spend a few hours giving that boy some just plain, simple human comfort . . . I'd a whole LOT rather have something like that in there on MY DASH than, hey, "she passed another freaking bar exam." But anyway, thanks for having the patience for getting though that story. I just thought you should know that sending that email when you did, even though I didn't get a chance to read it right away, was impeccable timing on your part. I may have screwed up an exam, but that means nothing if I had some effect on helping that boy's life. THAT'S dash material, I think! Thanks for reminding me of that. THAT IS A DASH FOR YOU! ------------------------------------------------------------------- OMG, that is heart wrenching. You should be very proud of the dash you made that day; and you're right -- no bar exam can match what you accomplished that evening. May you continue to add more dash marks to your life and the life of others. I definitely feel a sense of priority and warmness from reading this. Dash on, dandymandy