What's in a name?

When I was in grade school, there was a kid in my class called Tamany Brooks. In a sea of Michaels, Christophers and Davids, Tamany's name really stuck out. Tamany was a child of the times, he wore his hair in a sort of 'white kid afro', sported a sweater vest & corduroy slacks. Beyond the name, Tamany was a normal joe. I had never met a 'Tamany' before (nor have I since), but didn't think to ask him about it. Nobody, from what I can recall, teased him about his name either. 

In American history class some years later, our teacher briefly touched on the importance of an NYC political organization called Tammany Hall. Maybe Tamany's parents had been political? Maybe a great-great-grandfather had been a founding member of Tammany Hall? Whatever the case, the kid had an interesting name. 

In non-news news: I read on the interwebs today that some woman claimed her daughter had been openly mocked by an airport employee because of the child's name. Before reading further, I thought, Oh, how awful. And then I discovered what the girl's name is. Are you ready for it? It's Abcde. Yep, that's the first five letters of the alphabet. I first read it as 'Abode', then I really looked. Oh, well, I can sort of see why people might make a comment. Obviously, I would have done so out of ear range of the poorly named child. 

In certain countries, it's against the law to saddle your child with a ridiculous name. Here in the states, we can, apparently, give a child a snippet of the alphabet and call it a name and that's kosher. I think that's unfortunate.

Trump's Forest Management Plan for California

Melania, hard at work.

“I was watching the firemen the other day and they were raking areas, they were raking areas where the fire was right over there,” he complained. “And they’re raking trees, little trees like this that are not trees, little bushes that you could see are totally dry. Weeds. And they’re raking them, they’re on fire.  That should have been all raked out. You wouldn’t have the fires.”  

-The Donald in conversation with Chris Wallace of Fox 'News' 

Ranty-pants & hazy air

Look. I'm not proud, but I felt compelled. At least I didn't shoot up a pizza parlour thinking HRC were running a kiddie porn ring of its basement or some such crap. So, I just learned this the hard way: You can't call Ann Coulter (USA's version of Katie Hopkins) a 'cunt' on Twitter. For my efforts, I've been temporarily barred from using the site. Maybe I could have gotten away with 'twat', but I went for the moniker I thought most appropriate. She's a CU next Tuesday. -should have written that, but I thought it too cutesy.

Coulter seems to delight in being hateful. She's anti-immigrant, pro-guns, and anti-women's choice. Nothing she stands for I support. Coulter, along with trump, decided to kick us while we're down saying that CA. is too concerned with 'getting illegals driving licenses' to be properly overseeing our gas and electric company. Before being probably forced to express sympathy for those whose lives have been upended by the wildfires here in CA., idiot trump criticized us for not 'maintaining our forests'. And he, of course, then threatened to withhold federal aid.

A) Most forested areas in CA are under federal jurisdiction; B) Butte Co., where the No. Cal. fires have ravaged entire towns, is a majority Trump-supporting area. Way to go, fucker. You're dumping on folk who voted for you.

We're experiencing yet again 'the worst wildfire season' ever in CA. The air quality here in SF is really bad. It's hazy and there's a persistent smell of campfire throughout the house. (All windows are closed.) Folk are encouraged to stay indoors, or wear masks if going outside. I was out yesterday for a spell and my eyes started to burn ever so slightly. That wasn't pleasant.

On Thursday, *Sutro Tower was mostly visible. By Friday, all I could see was this:

View from my stoop. 

*if you couldn't tell, Sutro Tower is red and white.

God told him to?

When I first started my bar gig at an Italian restaurant in Hell's Kitchen, there were some glaring omissions to the bar set-up. There was no simple syrup (sugar water) and there was no fresh citrus of any kind. Even the most generic of cocktails, the Lemon Drop, calls for both fresh citrus and simple syrup. This particular bar instead would use sugar packets (like the kind you use for coffee) and Sweet and Sour, a generic, lemon-flavored product for such a drink.

I made simple syrup in the restaurant kitchen and put it in an old break bottle (emptied out booze bottle) with a partially torn off label, so folk wouldn't mistake it for alcohol, and put it in the well in place of the Sweet and Sour bottle. I brought up an apron-load of citrus (easy pickin' in the walk-in) from the basement at the start of my shifts. Apparently, no other bartender had gone down into the bowels of the restaurant. The stairs leading down to the basement were treacherous and there was a rumor of rats. After hearing from the owner that my s.s. should be in a different container, so as not to rankle the inspection folk, I brought in a label-free bottle that used to house incredibly fine scotch that the husband and I recently polished off, and poured the sugar water into it. For six months, this arrangement worked well.

Then one day I came into work, and found, to my dismay, that the simple syrup I used to make drinks with like this one--

Mojito

was gone.  I looked around a bit for the missing bottle before I started to squawk about it to my co-workers.

"The Monday night bartender took it home," said the busser, David. "He did what?!?!" I said louder than was absolutely necessary.  David was like, "I didn't know. I thought maybe he had talked to you, and you told him it was okay to take it." After hearing from David, I phoned Edmond, my sticky-fingered co-worker, and left a WTF? message on his machine. He returned my call and left a message that was some tripe about "well, I heard you quit, and no one here uses simple syrup, and I liked the bottle, so I took it." I had quit, but was still working for the next two weeks, so I was NOT DONE with using simple syrup yet.

Edmond, around my age, and sorta decent-looking, had worked at the restaurant full-time as a bartender up until a few months before I was hired on. Edmond was also the guy who, having come back on a "fill in" basis, trained me. He'd quit, he said, because he wanted to focus on some "at home" job that I was only vaguely interested in hearing about at that time.

As I became settled in to my new digs, I began hearing about the real reason Ed didn't work at the restaurant anymore. Edmond, having found God seven years' prior in a really serious way, was told by God to "stop serving people alcoholic beverages." This bit of info. could be substantiated by a handful of people at the restaurant. God told him to stop, so he quit tending bar. (Although he's now back two days weekly serving drinks to those in need, so did he have to ask God for permission first in order to do so?) Oh, and, did God tell him to pinch my bottle, too?  I should ask him that tomorrow when I go into the restaurant to retrieve it. If he'd just asked to have it, then I would have given him the bottle, but it was the principle of the matter.

Two sides of the same, tired coin: DIY/Bespoke

I remember my time living in London mostly fondly, but if I'd had a penny for every time that I ran across either of the above listed terms emblazoned across a storefront, headline, photo caption or bus shelter ad, then I would have had a shed-load of worthless coins and an even more sour attitude than usual.

I don't remember hand-built furniture being referred to as "bespoke", but now it's being termed as such:
http://www.thesofaandchair.co.uk/bespoke?n=n&linkfrom=bespoke_furniture&gclid=CNfJxqHdkqkCFUEb4QodPGjjkg
If those are an example of "bespoke" living room pieces, then, um, no thanks.

Would that then mean oil paintings really are just bespoke pictures and stand-up comedy is just bespoke language?

Time was when the term "bespoke" only referred to tailored clothing. And, if I'm correct, it really only referred to fancy, men's suits and such. Back in the 70s, I don't think that I could get away with saying our mom made us kids "bespoke" clothing.  We'd needed something decent and yet affordable to wear to elementary school, and that was that.

I remember my older sister had Mom make her a pair of wide-legged red pants with the Coca-Cola logo recurring all over them. They were ridiculous.  But, hey kids of the 8th grade, don't laugh, those pants are bespoke!

Bespoke coffee

Bespoke mustache

Bespoke gin

And as for DIY, don't use this term if you can't back it up. I noticed that a lot of hardware/electrical supply stores in London have "DIY" written across their awnings. Well, that was the hook to get me into the store as I had some American lamps that I wanted to re-wire.

Lured by DIY storefront signage, I had gone into a one-off hardware and appliance shop to inquire if they had electrical cords, plugs and such for re-wiring foreign lamps. "No, we don't have anything like that. Check B&Q (UK's Home Depot)." I thought: Okay, I guess I'll help you run yourself out business. Or, here's a better idea, stock items that actually pertain to the DIY bit on your signage. (And, no, light bulbs don't count. -neither do screws or nails.)

When my Dad changed the oil on his car, was that DIY?  No, it was a guy changing the oil on his car, as most people did back when I was a kid.

Don't let's label what was and for many of us still is standard behavior as something more than it is, and let's also remember that most of what we pay someone else to do for us we used to do ourselves!

DIY fruit and veg

DIY Hairsalon

DIY lunch

The few, the proud....

the North Americans working at Selfridge's in Oxford Street were a unique bunch. There were only a select few of us in the induction room, but we were, by far, the most talkative, sort of, 'go-getters' of the lot. When I say, 'go-getter', I really mean 'chatty Kathy-types'. The Selfridge founder was an American businessman by the name of Harry Gordon Selfridge, so I guess it only seemed right that I apply to work there. That and I had no other job prospects at the time.  

I recall the induction (what we here would probably call a 'training') as being more of an indoctrination and for almost 7 hours we were treated to information on how Selfridge's Co. became the money-making monolith it is today and how to keep it that way.  It sure fostered my commitment to the 'team' to learn that I, at six quid an hour, would be helping to ensure Selfridge's earns somewhere in the range of one billion pounds that financial year.  Ugh.

Interestingly, the induction leader failed to mention that HG Selfridge, after having lost his fortunes from both the crash of '29 and due to his free-spending ways, died in dire straits in 1947. 

Harry Gordon 'There's no fun like work'. Selfridge

During induction, I had been fortunate enough to sit next to a lovely man from Manchester who had just spent three years in Salt Lake City, Utah before moving to London for work. He and his American partner intended to move back to SLC as soon as they were able. Knowing a little bit about Utah, I would think that being out and proud in Salt Lake would not work too well. The Mancunian found Mormons to be 'very accepting' people. I sure hope he's right. And, he told me, that there are lots of gay Mormons dotting the landscape of Utah. Safety in numbers. 

Walking down to the employee locker rooms (where the wait-list for an employee locker was four months) after induction in a herd of other employees, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a few nattily dressed young men (presumably from the men's finery dept., or whatever it's called). One was telling the others of a particularly thick-headed customer that he had been dealing with during his shift. The employee telling the story slipped into an accent that could have passed for American. Then, by way of making an excuse for the customer's denseness, he went on to say that the guy was from the states. Yes, that explains it all doesn't it?

I like to think that I did ole Harry Gordon proud when I reached out, tapped this employee on the shoulder and said in my Californian best, 'Nice American accent!'  His friends fell out laughing while he mumbled something to the effect of: Oh, the shame!

SF Women's March

Snippets from yesterday's Women's March in San Francisco---

Exiting at Civic Center

En route to the UN Plaza

Our public transportation system, Bay Area Rapid Transport aka BART, never sees ridership like this. Any readers of this blog from around here can attest to that fact.

We got on BART at Glen Park. Our station wasn't too crowded, but the train sure was! All I could see was a blur of pink pussy hats on riders as BART pulled into the station. It was kind of exciting.

Crossing the street to get to the rally. -wall of people.

Rally-goers stood between the Asian Art Museum & the Main Branch Library. It was close quarters.

Woman above got a bit 'shove-y' in her quest to take photos. Fortunately, there weren't so many like her to be found yesterday. Most of us were just taking snaps with our mobile phones. It was all very civilized. -elbows to ourselves.

Some men at the march made better doors than windows. We finally got past them.

Initially, we couldn't see the stage & could barely hear the speakers. Eventually, however, we were able to make our way closer to the stage. A painter & Mills College professor called Hung Liu spoke. Her words were powerful. She spoke of the cultural revolution and its effect on her family, and, more specifically, her childhood & young adulthood. I found myself crying by the end of her speech. The other speakers, bless them, had passion, but not the same punch.

Piece by Hung Liu

City Hall lit pink for the Women's March

After two hours of listening to speakers & live music, we were ready to march. When I say 'we', I mean everyone else. I had stupidly not dressed for the elements I was pretty soaked after the rally. The hubs & I dragged our wet tails to the bus & went home.

Folk are readying themselves to march

Wet, muddy, and raring to go!

The Gorton's Fisherman aka the Hubs

Procession of marchers slowly wending their way toward Market Street

I have to say that I wish I had taken more picture of all the excellent signage folk had made for the march. One that made me chuckle was this: If my vagina could shoot bullets, then it would need regulation.

One clever woman had made a rather menacing sign of a vagina with pointy teeth. I think her slogan was: Try to grab this, Trump!

There was a drawing of a poo emoji with Trump's likeness as its face. That's always a good one.

There were just so many great slogans & drawings. I hope to see some enterprising person compile all the Women's March placards & sell it as a coffee table book. Heck, I'd buy it!

Discovery

S. comes to the counter and takes out his phone. He starts scrolling and sighing. I ask him if he were all right. -tells me his daughter had just sent his wife an ugly email. S. quotes: 'I don't appreciate your shoving your politics down my throat!'

I like S. He's a sexist old git, but I like him. His wife is sharp as a tack & really nice. I figure that the daughter must be a jerk. I tell S. I'm sorry. Then he starts to rant about his daughter being 'stupid'. I think he's being harsh, even though, I assume, she must be a Trump supporter. Then S. says, way too loudly, 'I mean who in their right mind would be vote for Clinton?! Everything that comes out of her mouth is LIE!' I tell him that I, for one, will vote for her. S. walks out the front door muttering crap about 'nasty women'.

S., it turns out, is the one who's stupid.

Trae Crowder

I'm happy to say that I found the genius that is Trae Crowder, the 'liberal redneck', over at Sparrow Tree Journal, a charming and thoughtful blog run by a woman called Jennifer.

Listening to Trae today has brought me out of the funk I've been in since hearing about the recent mass shooting at a gay club in Orlando, Fl. -dude is funny & no slouch.

Trae, a stand-up for the past 7 years, or so, seems dedicated to subverting the stereotype of 'redneck' & he's doing a brilliant job of it. In Tennessee, he is seemingly surrounded by lots of close-minded individuals--many of them his Facebook 'friends'--whom he skewers in his comedy to the delight of his fans.

Trae messes with the idea that Southerners are one homogenous group. He's not what you'd expect, and that's the hook. Contrary to what some Southerners might think, Trae is not a Northerner in disguise. He's from a small town in rural Tennessee. He's a red state, country boy with a mind that he's not afraid to use. Trae's mission is not just to show fellow Southerners & Northerners that there are those south of the Mason-Dixon line who are both atheist and liberal, but to also show those Southerners who are more aligned with Trae's beliefs that they are not alone.

To those who wish America were a religious state: 'Oh, honey, bless your heart...' 'I recommend you try Saudi Arabia...' Blunt thoughts on Trump: 'Fuck Donald Trump with a prickly pear.' 'He's full of shit & a hypocrite.'

You'll want to be at a safe distance when Trae gets his 'red back up'. ;)

Smoking Bag

Susan Sarandon came to the cinema where I was working in Manhattan and watched a matinee. She was barely recognizable in her all-black garb of high-top sneakers, tight leggings, a waist-length cape, and floofy knit cap that covered her hair. As she was leaving, I happened to be standing in the back of the theater waiting for the house lights to go up. We made eye contact as she passed then said to her Tim Robbins look-a-like possible-beau, "My bag is smoking." Why was her bag smoking? Did she forget to extinguish a partially smoked joint before exiting the theater? Did she mean that her bag was hot to the touch because she'd been using it as a cushion through the long foreign film that we'd screened that afternoon?  Alas, I'll never know.

I was in the lobby as she and her man made their way outside. I noticed that his jeans weren't pulled all the way up in that annoyingly "hip" sort of way usually associated with boys the age of Susan's own sons. Why, I thought, would she be sleeping with some dude who can't properly cover his backside with denim? 

With an eyeful of the young man's BVDs, I thought: dammit, Janet, please get a clue!

Don't judge a Google card by its cover.

His already curt demeanor became even more abrupt after I had handed him my Google card as method of payment.  He turned the card over in his hand, looking at the logo for a few seconds longer than necessary, saying absolutely nothing more to me.  Bag of goodies set for me on the counter, cashier-dude turned away to busy himself with something new.  I left the shop thinking, Was he exceptionally short with me because he thinks I'm some Mission-gentrifying Google employee ruining 'his' neighborhood, and, by extension, the City?  For the record, I am neither.

Would the neighborhood I am supposedly helping to gentrify also be the very same neighborhood where my grandparents lived on Sanchez and 15th in a crowded apartment with my great-aunt and her family until they were able to afford a place of their own--in the city they were all born and raised in Bernal Heights?  Would that be the city to which my great-grandparents came from other countries and worked in as carpenters, firemen, postmen, municipal railway operators and bottlers?  Would that also be the city in which my great-great-grandfather worked as a carpenter, helping to build it a-new after it had been mostly destroyed by the earthquake-related fires of 1906?  That city?  Would it also be the city in which my parents were raised and from which I was priced out back in the 1990s?

If that's what he thought, then he's a dumb-ass.

Grandpa, Great-Grandma, Grand Uncle--SF, ca. 1930

'Got privilege?'

Seen on HWY 101: a white woman driving a Prius while talking into her mobile phone.  Driving with a phone glued to one's ear is illegal in the state of California & her behavior would seem to demonstrate that she knows that her very own bumper sticker applies directly to her.

Yes, it would seem that you do!           

It's my choice, thanks.

Someone I went to high school with wrote recently on Facebook about how some women should be 'allowed' to have abortions whereas other women should be 'denied' them.  This person also mentioned how abortion should not be used as a 'quick fix', an expression that has been for decades to describe how women supposedly choose to terminate a pregnancy as if they were deciding to 'henna over' the grey in their hair or choosing to repair a broken window with a bit of cardboard.  Abortions should not be a 'free for all', he wrote, as if women would be going in for the procedure on a regular basis after repeatedly having loads of unprotected sex.  Why use pesky prophylactics when one could just go through the 'easy-peasy' process of a dilation and curettage?  Right, ladies?

Here's the response I posted to my Facebook 'friend':

I'm going to have to refute what you've said about abortions, unfortunately. No woman ever uses abortion as a 'quick fix'. Having an abortion is not akin to stitching a patch over a hole in a pair of jeans, or re-attaching the handle of a broken coffee mug with a bit of glue. There will be no abortion 'free for all' because deciding to have an abortion is not an easy decision to make. To be very frank, I had an abortion at the age of 40. At the time, I felt I was neither financially able nor emotionally prepared to raise a child. Would you have denied me the ability to choose to terminate the unwanted pregnancy as I had not conceived through rape?

That's a filibuster, buster!  Wendy Davis in the Texas Senate.

The guy's response to me was something along the lines of 'I didn't mean you couldn't (have bodily autonomy), I meant those other women...blah, blah, blah.'  Shortly thereafter, homie blocked me on social media.  I guess he couldn't take having his narrow-minded view on women's reproductive rights challenged.  -better to ignore me than to deal with what I wrote.

Tips

In 2011, I worked in an upscale cocktail bar in London.  I slung tasty concoctions, opened bottles of craft beer, fancy champagne and wine and served food to those both sitting at my bar and at tables.  As with many London establishments, the bar automatically added a gratuity of 12.5% to all bills.  Apparently, the gratuity was 'optional' to pay, but as it was already included in the bill, it didn't appear to be optional and folk had to take the extra step of subtracting the tip from the main portion of the bill if they did not want to leave anything additional.  I found it cringe-worthy to have a tip added to all transactions regardless of effort employed.  Yes, I did only earn 6 pounds an hour, but it still felt weird to have someone leave me 12.5% more for opening a bottle of St. Mungo.  Some customers tipped a fiver for a bottle of champagne opened and served.  Yet others (I'm thinking specifically of the 10-top hen do of Welsh girls that ordered multiple cocktail rounds and food) left nothing additional.  Customers never 'owed' me a tip and I was grateful to anyone who gave.  'Thank you very much' was the usual response to customers' generosity.  I have always focused on the end-of-the-night tip earnings and not stewed over each table's tip contributions.  As most of us in the biz might say, 'it all evens out in the end'.

The fact that someone back in the States decided not to tip their waiter is not news; it happens all the time.  That the customer in question then had to justify her no tip stance with a wee note on the credit card slip was another matter entirely.  'I give God 10%.  Why do you get 18?' she wrote.  My question to her would be: why do you feel the need to justify your stinginess with a question?

We who are familiar with restaurant dining in the USA know the cultural rules.  If one goes out to eat, then one, generally, leaves a tip.  If one never tips, regardless of quality of service, then, I'd suggest, that person wasn't 'playing by the rules', culturally speaking, and should not eat out.

'New hometown'

Over the past few weeks I've read in various different publications the expression 'new hometown'.  The latest example featured someone who'd moved to a new city and within one month was referring to it as, you guessed it, her 'new hometown'.  Like with the confusing, new use of 'bespoke' to now mean anything hand-made, I'm a bit perplexed at how to understand the joining of 'new' with 'hometown'.  Sure, I've read 'adopted hometown' which I've taken to mean 'the place in which one now lives and considers home, but not the place where one is originally from'.  That makes sense.  Of course, there is also that interesting breed of folk who, for whatever reason, were moved around a ton by their parents when they were growing up.  They may claim multiple 'hometowns', or even, 'home regions/countries'.  I think, however, that the majority of us aren't 'army brats' or children of diplomats and didn't have (what I see as) the privilege of experiencing a variety of different cultures/places during childhood.

Maybe most young folk today have moved around quite a bit since being born, and I just sound like a crotchety, old crab-ass here, but, when I was a kid, I lived, with the exception of a few years, in the same town until I turned 18 and moved away from home.  Even then, I only moved about 35 miles away.  We're not talking about a massive uprooting.

I recall meeting a fellow 'Californian' while working at a Farmers' Market a few months back.  -turns out the guy was actually from Ohio.

Our exchange went something like this--
Me: (upon hearing his American accent) where you from?
Dude: California.
Me: Oh, really?  Me, too.  Where are you from (in CA.)?
Dude: San Francisco.
Me: Cool.  I'm from Pacifica.  You know, it's just south of city on HWY 1.
Dude: (blank look on his face) Oh, cool.

The above exchange alone should, sort of, tell the reader that this dude was not from San Francisco.  At that point in the convo I figured he was from a small town somewhere in the Central Valley, or up by the Oregon border or what-not.  I teased him a bit about not knowing Bay Area geography and he fessed up to having moved to SF from Ohio and living there for about six years before moving to Zurich.  I'll wager he probably referred to SF as his 'new hometown'.   

Ohio, with its very pronounced seasons, and, I would imagine, different architecture based on the fact that it doesn't suffer from earthquakes, is very, very different from coastal California.

We are shaped by our environments.  I have to say that, compared to an Ohio teen, I had it pretty easy all year 'round.  -no snow-shoveling.  -no intense summer heat waves.  -no giant insects.  Of course, I didn't appreciate how good I had it until I left.  I remember my first 'white' Winter when I was living in Germany.  I went outside to 'experience' snow, took my first step, and promptly fell on my ass.  I didn't even know how to walk in the stuff! 

Since leaving the home-turf in 2009 for places both snowy and foreign, I can now say I know how to successfully walk in snow.  I wouldn't say, however, that the town in which I have been living for 7 months, Zurich, is my 'new hometown'.  And it would certainly take years for me to even consider Zurich my 'adopted hometown', if at all.

Minor annoyances...

I've been living in ZH since July and have compiled a wee list of things that bug me.

They are, in no particular order of importance, as follows:

*kitchen rubbish bins are tiny and lid free, so they both fill up and stink quickly.

Image borrowed from a Japanese blogger, I wonder if she is also annoyed by the rubbish situation here?

*recycling is off-site like back in the 70s in California, so you must schlep your stuff up the street/down the street and/or to the store where they accept plastic bottles, but only TWO types of plastic bottles.  The rest of the plastic is thrown out.  A couple of giant yogurt containers from the Turkish market in a half full 35 liter bag and it's all over.


*no screens on any windows.  There are roaches living in the bush outside the kitchen window that then come in and crawl around every time I leave the window open.

*puffy pretzels (yes, I know this isn't Germany, but I just wish that one could also find a pretzel here with 'skinny arms', if you know what I mean)

Fun photo, but no seeds on my pretzel, thanks!

*pedestrians in the bike lanes/not looking where they are walking.  I've already run into one man who seemingly popped out of a hedge and into the road in front of me and was nearly felled by tram tracks as I tried to avoid riding into the slew of folk crossing at all points over the road and through the bike lane.

The brash response to this short list could be: if you don't like it here, then go home!

I do like it here very much save for a few little 'bumps in the road'.  I've actually had chats with natives who also are neither keen on the lid-less rubbish bins nor the lack of window screens (I think the one guy has allergies, or something, and wound up ordering screens off the internet), so I feel a bit less like an a-hole about making a fuss.

PS: you should see my 'list of annoyances' regarding my home country! :D

75 going on 25...

When I first met M. she came off as gregarious, friendly, chatty and very self-assured.  I had come to her place of work to drop off my CV.

When I began working with her some few weeks later, I found her to be bossy, controlling and tiring to be around.

M. is 75 years young.  She wears thick, gold chains around her neck and heavy, low-hanging baubles in her ears.  She has a face full of make-up and a whiff of perfume on her person.  Normally, I wouldn't mind these things too much, but we are working with food not serving cheap cocktails to crusty custies at some ratty casino in Reno.  Moreover, I am not fond of perfumed folk behind a food counter.  Mmmm, a chunk of cheese and Chanel No. 5 pair well, don't they?

M. likes things the way she likes 'em and there's hardly room for discussion.  'Do it this way', she'll say.  'No.  That's wrong.  Do it like this.'  Then she'll slowly and with great effort expended on her part show me the 'right' way to {insert some mind-numbingly simple task here}.

The greatest problem about this scenario is that she isn't my boss.  She isn't anyone's boss, but rather the MOTHER of the boss.  When I tell her that I won't be doing it her way (usually because her way is bass-akwards and time-wasting or just plain tacky), and instead be doing the way the boss wants it done, then I'm challenged.  'But I'm telling you to do it this way!' she'll cry.  My response is what one would guess.  I tell her that I'm doing it the way the boss wants it to be done and the boss is the one that pays me.  That sort of talk is usually met with a foot stomp and an eye roll.

M. is really 75 going on 25 going on 15.

Americans, the simpletons of British prose.

"How are we going to keep this up for 10 years?" I hissed.

"Ten years?" He looked stricken.

"Her cousin still believes in Santa Claus and he's 13!"

Her cousin is American.

The above snippet and many more like it remind of why I sometimes bristle when reading British publications.  It's a cheap joke to fall back on 'the Americans are dim-wits' schtick in one's writing.

Apparently, not only do we not carry passports, and, therefore, are likely to confuse Austria with Australia, but we are also terribly gullible to the point that a pubescent boy living somewhere in America still believes in Santa.  I was thirteen once, and, let me tell you, I knew things well beyond whether or not Father Christmas existed.  If at the age of 13 this kid still believes in Santa, then his problem isn't the fact that he's American. Maybe this thirteen-year-old-going-on-three might be suffering from some form of  '-ism'.  (At this point I would concede that we are an 'over diagnosed' society.)  Or, more to the point, he might be suffering from parents who infantilise him.  That, of course, could happen anywhere.

Well-meaning words, but what comes of them?

"Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."  Yeah, you can start by doing instead of asking what you could do for the bereaved, and not wait for that person to tell you.  Who feels comfortable even under less upsetting circumstances asking a friend to cook dinner for them, run errands, or clean the frickin' bathroom? Add to the mix the death of a loved one & reaching out for help could feel near impossible.  This is all very easy for me to say as I sit thousands of miles away typing fitfully into my laptop.  What am I doing to lend a hand?  Nada.

I have one really bad-ass friend who, when very incapacitated a few years back, was able to reach out to her friends and say, "Look, I need help with keeping my apartment tidy, I'd also really love for prepared food items to be brought over to my place, and I may need help in getting to appointments now & again."  I really respect that she was able to ask for what she needed.  She is exceptional that way.  The rest of us, when confronted with trauma, would probably tend to fold into ourselves, and not ask for help at all.  May we all be proactive in helping those in need of a little extra support!

A unicorn wearing a garland of four-leaf clovers...

would have been more easily spotted than my ex attending a wedding.  He had such a phobia of weddings that, in our (I think) two-ish years dating, he dodged every invite he could.  It was fine if he wanted to disappoint and flake on his own friends, but the shit hit the fan when he decided that he couldn't--as if it were a fuckin' medical issue--"I'm lacto-ovo-nuptial-gluten-soya intolerant!"--attend my dear, old, college friend's wedding.  Boo hoo.  Here's a hankie.

I remember saying to him, "dude, it's not like WE'RE getting married.  It's just an opportunity to dress up, eat, drink, and be merry with some of my good friends."  It were as if he thought he'd catch "wedding cooties" of off 'em, or something, and just couldn't bring himself to be my +1.

Shortly thereafter, I was -1, if you catch my drift.

Flash-forward about a year, and, unbelievably, we're "friends".  He'd met someone with whom he was "head-over-heels".  I was happy for him, if, however, feeling wee pangs of "why wasn't it me?"  Around the time of finding his lady love, his friends began to get hitched.  So, now, instead of agonizing over why he couldn't go to weddings, he was agonizing over what gift to buy, when to buy it, what to wear to the wedding, and so on.  I bore the brunt of much of his wedding angst, and tried to be as helpful as I could.  I wondered if his new girlfriend was getting any of this shit.  I seriously doubted it.

Six years and many different types of social media outlets later, I find myself attempting to wade into the Google+ pool.  For the fuck of it, I thought I'd see if the ex were, too, trolling those waters.  He is.

The Unknown Groomsmen.

 Not only has he been a guest at weddings, but, lo these many years later, I see that he's actually been IN a wedding.  He's come along way, baby.  -wonder if he brought his girlfriend.  -least she didn't have to pick out something for him to wear.